Work Text:
Sinfully Scrumptious
The itsy, bitsy Spider crawled up the waterspout
Down came the rain and washed the Spider out
Out came the sun—
Mara Sov held her breath for the umpteenth time today as she twiddled with the silk ribbon she had been rubbing between thumb and forefinger. The royal blue decoration was tied around a medium-sized pouch several shades lighter. The material was something called "satin"—or at least that was what Petra called it. Exhaling through her nostrils, the Queen cast aside the acrimonious shackles that her guest labored to ensnare her in. These constant sessions of pestering were designed by them to exhaust her patience and test the boundaries of fortitude.
Her deceitful resident was probing for the possible chinks in regal porcelain-blue armor. Mara had soldered her emotional weaknesses many ages ago, becoming numb to the nuances of comfort. This was neither the first nor last time in which opposing forces would exert their efforts in dismantling the walls she erected. Taunting and goading with the malicious hope to crumble her in a moment of weakness. Petty skirmishes against her practiced composure were not an unmaking, but simply a trial for the strengthening of wills. Even despite her current prolonged exposure, Mara would not allow her circumstances to bully her into submission.
If anything, she would present herself paradoxical like an irresistible force, the immovable object to the Trickster’s unstoppable nature. Stalemates. Wars of attrition. Whatever it took, the Awoken Queen was patient enough to endure and make sweeping plays into the future. Projecting with a soft voice, void of emotion, Mara inquired, "Witch, why are you crooning?"
And the Witch, never skipped a beat.
—and dried up all the rain
And the itsy, bitsy spider went up the spout again
"Witch?" she repeated.
Progressively crescendoing into a recapitulation of the same rhyme, the Osmium royal all but screamed the childish poetry in her native tongue. The pitch was borne of shrill octaves much too piercing for creatures unrelated to her genus. Perhaps the Hive found these vocal intonations an angelic ecstasy, but Mara was not so enamored. Though the litany of operatic torture was not audible to the physical ear, the aria was plainly experienced in the psyche. The immense pressure of her guest's presence was enough to split the lobes of neural tissue clear in half, but Mara was no commoner to the ways of chaotic hegemony.
THE ITSY, BITSY SPIDER CRAWLED UP THE WATERSPOUT
DOWN CAME THE RAIN AND WASHED THE SPIDER OUT
OUT CAME THE SUN--
Unwilling to admit and succumb to the truth of it, Mara folded her arms, hugging tightly to the bag of sanity she held dear. A searing thunderbolt of pain zapped through her head as it tapered off into the base of her skull and she closed her starlit eyes. It was all she could do to prevent her knees from buckling under the weight of malevolent principality. Though she could withstand the onslaught of skullduggery in the daylight, the constant nattering often took its toll as nightfall arrived. By then, the hag seemed to grow more aware, insistent, and much…much…stronger.
A husky chortle brushed against Mara’s mind as she squinted at the globe in front of her with tremendous and blurry effort.
Mara…
“What?” the Queen inquired, her voice just above a whisper.
Mara…
“Yes?”
Mara…Mara…Mara…Mara-Mara-Mara-Mara—
Holding her head between her hands, she whispered, “What do you require?”
Say my name—say it! Say it! Say it! Say it!
“Do you think me plain?” Mara rounded, patience waning. Stalking toward the furthest suite in her regal chambers, where the unwanted tenant presided, she pushed aside Techeun after Techeun that had come to stand in her way. Bounding down the small, circular steps, Mara walked up to the crystalline prison which suspended the Witch indefinitely. Bordering the lands of desperation and lunacy, she wanted nothing more than to splinter the hag into a million pieces. To scatter the Trickster’s remains in the cosmic winds and into the event horizon of a black hole where spacetime was deformed and all mass was compacted within its unforgiving maw. “Do you think me a foolish cur? The power of spoken word shall not be uttered recklessly, lest it should impale the speaker upon a double-edged sword!”
On the contrary, my scheming-Sister. You are the one I devote my most special attention toward.
“How admirable,” the Queen mocked. “Again, as I have said before, we are nothing comparable.”
The Witch chuckled, her amusement like the blade of a knife. Are you so sure? Perhaps it is time to stoop down on your level.
Movement in the periphery of Mara’s vision caught her attention as a scaled-down version of her guest’s visage came walking out from behind the chrysalis. Unnaturally long nails as sharp as razors, scratched against her own prison cell. Though this was nothing less than next-level, banshee-like harassment, Mara cringed as she imagined the drawn out scratching meant to send her body into a shiver of revulsion.
The Trickster circled round about Mara, sizing her up as the ravenous Ahamkara once did with her people. Long claws artfully flipped locks of snow powder hair, eventually trailing down into fur mantle, and pausing just above a handmade parcel. Tugging at piece of ribbon between two pincered nails, the hag’s skeletal mandibles clacked with a chitter of amusement. How darling, has the scheming-Sister brought tea-time morsels as tribute? Mara remained quiet, eyeing the adversary with potent scorn. Pulling her bony hook of a hand away, the hag waggled her digits before tap-tap-tapping the royal signet just above the Queen’s breastplate.
Shall I assume a more palatable-to-you form for this little—as the Humans say—shindig? Who shall I metamorphose into? Crow? Petra? Your late mother? Osiris? Your…self? At the mention of the last, the chitinous liar grotesquely deconstructed, making a show of terrible shapes until she became the spitting image of Mara Sov. It is quite to my immediate displeasure to assume such a ghastly figure, for you are a pitiable thing. Nonetheless, you shall have to do.
Mara’s blood was beyond boiling despite the emotionless mask transfixed to her groomed countenance. Hugging tightly to the bag in her arms, she walked through the shadow of her nemesis-self, waving a hand as if warding off terrible aromas of rot. “You waste my time, hag!”
The Queen’s mirror-image walked alongside her until it was suddenly skipping and pirouetting between the Techeuns caught in a huddle of confusion. Say what you ought but know that you are only running from yourself.
“Shut-up!” Mara barked, her voice echoing off the walls. Surprised with herself, the Queen held the back of her hand to her mouth. Just as the Trickster’s shadow evaporated with a delightfully ominous grin, the Techeuns which she had roughed up earlier were rendered stupefied by such outrage from their Monarch.
Footsteps from the gateway broke their attention as all eyes cast themselves to the Queen’s Wrath. Petra ran to Mara’s side and with great care, took her hand and lead her to a nearby seat. “Food and drink, now!” the warrior commanded. “Can’t you see she’s in great need of sustenance?”
While the Techeuns scurried off to fulfill their bidding, Petra turned to Mara. Her icy-blue eye conveyed a deeply reserved concern as she said, “Sedia sent for me…again. Tell me, my Liege, why is this happening?”
Mara rolled her eyes, “Spare me your pity, Petra. You understand why for I have repeated it sundry times. Sav—the hag—tries me in a circadian rhythm, examining every inch of the boundary like a cunning Ahamkara until it absconds from its cage. Even while you are deaf to her colloquies, this does not mean that the Witch remains silent.”
Petra frowned for defeat filled her chest, knowing that she could not ease the burden. Unbeknownst to Mara, she too had been entreated to these ploys full of temptation but not to the degree in which it assailed her Queenship. Perhaps, it was the cycle of endless looping throughout the Dreaming City which had prepared her for a time such as this. Petra became well versed in the art of resistance, not succumbing to the whispers in the dark which sought to usher her into devourment. Instead of informing Mara of this, she remained silent.
Moments later, the Techeuns set up a table with delicate snacks and plenty of drinks—copious amounts of herbal tonics were provided than food. Normally, Mara would have been angered by this, but she found it rather amusing though her current expression said otherwise. Suddenly remembering the pouch in her arms, the Queen untied it, and peered within.
“The Guardian paid you a visit I see?” Petra chanced, hoping to change subjects. Not willing to speak of the cookies she received, lest it should incense Mara’s already fragile state, she asked, “What is it?”
Extracting a partly crumbling tart from the pouch, the Queen took a bite. It was crunchy, sweet, and full of goop that had been heavily spiced. Unable to truly remember what the flavor was, Mara said nothing, content with not appearing ludicrously forgetful of human culture.
“Try it,” she offered after a moment.
Petra gaped, “I—I cannot. This is your gift.” Not taking no for an answer, Mara extended her hand and proceeded to waggle the dessert in front of her warrior. The Queen’s Wrath, now obligated to share a bite, took the pastry and tried it. Sighing in pure delight, she said, “I have not tasted this in years! I have nearly forgotten it.” Mara’s delicate brow arched in unspoken question, now piqued in curiosity. “Cayde used to bring me these—said it was a forbidden fruit before the Golden Age.” She chuckled, “Though I think he meant it something like a joke. The inside of the tart is filled with slices of Apple and the filling is mixed with cinnamon spice. Very delicious!”
Ah, it is an apple, Mara remembered. Quite sinfully, scrumptious.
Petra offered the remainder of the pastry to Mara, but the Queen waved it away. “For this slice of wholesome remembrance, I bequeath to you the remainder of that meager sample. However, the rest of what this pouch has to offer is mine.” The Awoken warrior smiled and found herself obliged as she enjoyed her portion, happily contemplating on the dearly departed.
The Queen smirked despite her harrowing troubles; Petra’s expression was well worth the burden. “Upon your next return, bring back as many… apples… as you can possibly carry.”
“Yes, my Liege.”