MOTHER
“’Once this war is over and everything is safe’ what? You will bury yourself in your own self-pity? Look at yourself. Look at who you are talking to. To your own mother, who defected from the life she knew, and betrayed an entire kingdom for the sake of her child, that you are going to end it all over a situation you can fix, but have been consciously delaying? Are you serious? Listen to yourself– how foolish you are being,”
Anger festers in her chest, yet it does not show itself on the sage’s visage, nor in the way she conducts herself, for even if he has wounded her in a way that will take some time to mend, the boy before her is still the most important person in her life– someone that the mother loves with all her heart, and would give up her life for in a heartbeat. Had he not been, then her reaction would not be so intense or dragged out– the figurative knives that embody her child’s neglectful and hurtful behaviour would not have lodged themselves so deep into her soul, and tormented the woman for what now feels like an eternity. Naeva cannot ever recall being in a spat with Robin like this before, and so, with such a lack of experience in this situation, she finds herself unsure of how to control her emotions, and so every part of the sage proceeds to fight against one another– something which presents itself in the way she stalks over to the boy in a manner that would seem annoyed, but instead places a single hand on one of his shoulders quite gently, though her tone is still so lifeless and serious, leaving no room for jests or any way but her own.
“You think I am going to inflict some sort of punishment on you? You have hurt me beyond belief, but I will not harm my own child. If anything, I will take it out on myself, and I would be lying if I said that I would not do so the next moment I get to myself,”
The mother’s free hand then moves to rest against the side of her son’s features, for the female deems that grasping onto his chin might come off as too aggressive, and she does not trust herself to not accidentally execute such an action with too much force. Once again, Naeva finds herself burying her emotions for the sake of fixing his own– a concept that is so familiar to the woman that it comes almost as naturally as breathing. Perhaps the sage has said things that she truly does not mean, but instead came out in an attempt to hurt him, like most people might do in such a heated situation– the statement about him not being the same boy she knew being a primary example, for never would the widow even think that in any other state of mind–, however such a realisation does not click into her mind as of the moment, and why should it?
“Look at me, Robin. For one second, stop wallowing in your own, selfish emotions, and look at the person whose heart you have destroyed. I do not want to hear excuses, or about Henry, or to be guilt-tripped– I want to know if you truly care; if you still have any love in your heart for your own mother. If this was your last chance to say something to me before I wound up dead, what would you tell me? Do not take this question lightly– I cannot promise that it is a hypothetical situation.”
The sound of his mother’s footsteps find Robin’s eyes torn from the ground and fixed firmly back on her, and upon realizing her approach, he finds himself pressing back against the wall in an attempt to maintain some distance. He can’t remember if he’s ever been in trouble with his mother before. He doesn’t know how she disciplined him if he was ever an unruly child-- Once upon a time, he would have imagined something as benign as explaining to him why whatever he had done had been wrong, but now... He’s not so certain. Indeed, the tactician’s gaze is one of fear, a silent bracing himself for not only a verbal reprimand but a physical one as well.
The hand to his cheek is met as though it had been a slap, and the hand on his shoulder despite his knowledge that his mother’s touch is actually quite gentle for someone so utterly furious, it feels like a vice grip. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t want to be touched. But he says nothing, endures it as best as he can until a rolling wave of nausea forces his voice and a hand is pressed to his stomach as a deep, shaky breath is taken. Eyes scrunch up in a genuine pain, but he forces them open and speaks.
“...Mother, may I... Have a little space? Please? I’ve been feeling rather ill since all of this came to a close, and I don’t wish to... Should I actually be, I’d... Rather not... Do that all over you.”
His request made, he’s quick to continue-- As that was not the answer to his mother’s question, and the last thing he wants is for her to think his ‘last words’ to her are a meaningless request to move. Another twinge of his stomach. He winces. “To answer your question, though, I would... Want to tell you how sorry I am. And that I do love you, very much. You’ve sacrificed so very much for my sake. You’ve sacrificed everything, in fact. I’m... Sorry that I haven’t appreciated that as I should have, and I’m sorry that I can’t remember any of it either. Despite not knowing how to act sometimes, I am truly glad that you came back into my life, and... I... Want to make this right.”
But with this kind of talk, it feels as though you don’t want me to. It feels as though you’ve given up on me.
Those words go unspoken, hinted at only by a renewed wetness of the boy’s eyes.