“It wasn’t the name I chose, no. But it suits you.” As if this poor girl needs reassurance from an absent mother. Mother hardly seems too strong a term, really. After all, she’d done more mothering to poor Alanna… The thought catches in her throat, vague images of the life she could have led with all four of her children. This is no time for imagination, though. “You’re owed an apology.” Gentle firmness, the true touch of a mother. Caoimhe wields it skillfully. “I may’ve had no choice but to leave then, but you deserved better than the nothing I gave you in the years following.” That wee thing wrapped in a blanket. Fast asleep and dreaming as her mother handed her off. Dreaming of what, Caoimhe had wondered then, during her last moments with her daughter? Surely finer things than what she was being given. Caoimhe had not worn the crown well, but her daughter might have. If she’d been given the chance. The mention of a century or two ago, well, that forces some pause. Temporal things tend to, these days. After all, a century ago in her memory is nearly four hundred years ago at present. Fickle. And cruel, it seems, to have deprived this poor thing of even more time. “Suppose I didn’t perform that duty all that well, in the end.” A joke in poor taste, more likely than not, but Caoimhe can only hope to ease the tension in the air. It’s a futile attempt, as it arguably should be, especially after the girl’s tentative question.
“It was the hope.” Caoimhe manages, though it doesn’t feel honest. Not entirely. No, she’d gone and moved on, hadn’t she? Hoping for the best for that wean in the Otherlands, of course, but she’d had her own family to tend to in this realm. She’d failed them both. “I-I never knew when it would be safe enough to go back to the fae realm. Suppose I eventually stopped wondering.” How disgraceful. What sort of mother is she? “So I do owe you apologies, Lilavati. I certainly do. I failed on my promise, even to myself. And I’m quite sorry for it.” She listens quietly at the description of life with Aru, though she finds it doesn’t console her, not really. Not as she might have hoped, if she had the right to hope. “You were surprised by that?” Her head shakes. “The Aru that I recall would not have hesitated to let you call her mother, no matter if she’d told you her true identity from the day you were old enough to understand. It was why I chose her – she was kind, nurturing. Even to me, grown as I was.” A princess distraught by her own power, the strangling confines of regulations. But look now at what freedom has wrought. Suddenly weary, Caoimhe lowers herself to sit on a nearby rock beside the river, lest she fade away. “How long have you been here, Lilavati?” The name is truly something to say, so stinging and sweet all at once. “What brought you here from the Otherlands?” Does she have a right to fear for her daughter? To yearn for her safety? Doubtful. But she can hope.
Longing buds on her tongue, and dies there, too. It matters little what her name was meant to be, doesn’t it? The want to know, and the want to move forward, grapples for a victor on her face. It ends in a draw and a sigh. “Thank you, I... do not imagine it is easy to hear that I did not keep the one you gave me.” What would Lily do in her shoes? Handle it less gracefully, she thinks, perhaps cry, and there’s some relief in knowing her eyes are only slightly misty at this unexpected reunion. Worsening at the gentleness in her mother’s voice, motherly as it is, and she ducks her chin for a moment to gather herself. Her attempt at a joke makes Lily laugh. “I do not know what to say, I did not expect thi.” It’s hard to remain impassive when she’s looking up to her mother’s eyes for the first time and noticing the similarities between them with every passing moment. Still, she hasn’t gotten where she is by letting words fall from her lips without comment, her fingers dragging through her hair with a sigh. Even their hair is the same: dark, and thick, and curly. It’s somehow the thing she will remember most later when she’s brushing her own hair.
Lily knows the answer and her lips quiver before her mother finishes telling her. She can feel it in her bones, as she did when Aru first told her the truth and the age of this secret, knowing such a time would not have passed if her mother were returning. “Oh,” she says, shaking, hands balling at her sides. Stop betraying me, she thinks, forcing the wave of pain down and away, her fingers straightening at her side. She won’t feel it and she won’t show it, she can pretend that the small child in her isn’t flickering out. “I guess I did not know how to handle the revelation, it sounded like a far-fetched fantasy. For a time, I thought I had done something wrong to be told this. Either she was lying, and she did not want me, or it was true.” She latches onto the questions her mother asks, hesitating before she settles on the rock beside her. “I made friends with a man imprisoned in the Queen’s court. I told him stories, and he told me about this world. I did not have much left for me in the Otherlands so when he returned here a year ago, I followed. I thought I would find purpose here.” Has she, though? It feels as though she’s found answers, certainly, but she doesn’t yet know if they were worth it. Her fingers are clasped in her lap, her notebook long discarded. “How long ago did you die? Was it... was it a great time ago?” she asks quietly and then just as swiftly shakes her head. Her eyes dart up to her mother’s, searching her gaze as she hurriedly continues. “No, never mind, I cannot imagine that is a pleasant memory and we have lost so much time already, we should not dwell on things we cannot change. I am not good at these types of surprises.”
