#mathani

Another dusting of flour to stop it sticking.

Another push and pull, to work the gluten.

Tuck it into a ball and drop it in the bowl.

Cover it with a cloth and let it take its place in the line of bowls similar, but no two quite the same.

It never worked right if the bowl wasn’t hand carved, you know.  The cloth hand woven.  The dough worked with bare hands.  It never came out quite right.

The flour worked its way up to her elbows through the day, adding an even lighter tone to her greying fur.  The braid that hung over her shoulder received the same treatment, and her apron was beyond a mess.

The same as every day.

She would change the menu occasionally, basing it on what ingredients seemed freshest at the other stands.  She would wander the Bluff in short moments of freedom as some rose and others baked, trading that which she had finished before for spices and eggs and whatever else she might need.

She hardly spoke to the other vendors, most of them used to her near-silent presence and simply gathering a basket for her when they saw her figure from the corner of their eyes.  She kept her head down, her chin nearly tucked into her chest, her dusty fingers twisting the tail of her braid whenever she did have to offer more than a word.

They appreciated the business, of course, but any of them would have traded her for any other baker in the world were they given the chance.  Well, that was how the whispers went, but none had ever had bread with such a crisp crust, so tender in the middle.  If they could keep the bread and lose the baker, they’d really be pleased.

But what was it about her?  What about a plain brown cow made their stomachs churn into knots and their hair stand on end?  It wasn’t as if she were a threat - rumor had it that she was widowed in the Cataclysm, but Mu’sha help us all, who wasn’t harmed in some way when the world split open?  No, there had to be something else.

Mathani could hear bits and pieces of this, of course.  Some snippets of conversation before they realized she was near, some said right in front of her because that one fruit vendor absolutely insisted that she must be deaf.  Some bits of information plucked directly from their minds, too busy with the hustle and bustle and gossip to notice the foreign presence in their thoughts.  It was too easy, really.

She craved a challenge.

This day was just as every other.  Just after dusk she pulled the heavy tarp over her little stand, twisting her hair in her fingers as she timidly walked to the elevators.  She watched her hooves as she walked, the little puffs of dust rising from the packed clay with each of her steps.  Her day skirts clung close to her legs in a way that could hardly be described as anything but matronly.  She’d be out soon enough.

She made her way into the hills, as always.

Beneath the cover of ancient pines, as always.

Into an exceptionally thick part of the woods, covered entirely in shadow as if the night had opened up into the void itself.

As always.

She carefully, methodically untied her apron.  Slid the fraying linen dress from her shoulders.  Shivered as she stood there a moment in her soft slip, brushing away a bit of residual flour.  Gently tugged a heavier set of robes from her satchel and wrapped the silken cloth around her slender form.  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes as she released it, slowly, tilting her head back as if to let the sun shine on her face, but in the very last place the sun would wish to be.

She gingerly lifted the hood sewn into her burgundy robes, letting it rest gently against the low curve of her modest horns.  The plain cow was far less plain, straightening her back and widening her stance.  

It was exhausting being a baker when all that truly felt right was this.

Reaching into the shadows.  Feeling them.  Taking control of them.  Shaping them to her will.  Her instructor should be more than pleased with her progress, whenever the hell he decided to show up again.

She could do so much more than make it into a damned orb, now.  Whatever his nonsense had been about a greater toll on her than physical exhaustion was clearly exactly that - nonsense.  She hadn’t felt this alive in years.  So powerful.  In control.  Having control over something in her life besides bread.  But never enough control to stop…

Wait.  She’d been having the dreams again.  Surely that wasn’t what he meant - was it?  Gods, she’d almost forgotten what they looked like and then suddenly they were there every time she closed her eyes again.  Her heart pounded in her chest, her breaths became ragged and shallow.

She really had nearly forgotten their faces.

How could she forget their faces?

What kind of monster was she?

No.  No!  This must have been his doing.  He was fucking with her head.  If she could plant a seed of fear in a stranger, the least he could do would be to make her remember…things.

That dirty, no-good, tacky son of a pig!  Surely it was him.  No one else would do this to her…no one else even knew that this was something that could be done.

She dropped to her knees, falling forward and catching herself with her hands.  One, two, three droplets stained the ground, and it took her more than a moment to realize that tears were falling from her eyes.  She felt as if her heart were physically being wrenched from her chest, her lungs squeezed so tight that she couldn’t even attempt to breathe.

It was the one time she said no.

Oh, how they begged to come along.  They loved to see the trading camps, to visit the cities, to pick out little treats to take home, and always an extra for their father.  He had never even liked sweets, but gods, the way he smiled when they procured the little candies and pastries wrapped in bits of paper (and usually stuck to whatever else was in their pockets).  He ate each one like it was the finest dish in all the Earthmother’s creation…

He was the finest father in all the Earthmother’s creation.

If he had died any other way, she would’ve been sure that it was because she didn’t deserve him.  She hadn’t deserved him.  But deserving or not, he was stolen from her.  They were stolen from her.  Deathwing hadn’t even given them an easy end.  She would’ve made him pay for that, had she been given the option.

But she wasn’t.

He was long dead, as were her mate and children.  Her daughter’s screams echoed in her ears again, for the first time outside of a dream in years.  She’d packed all of these feelings away as little more than motivation, and what fucking good had that done?

She sat back on her haunches, the tears falling freely as she opened her eyes and found nothing before her but darkness.

Well, there was nothing behind her but darkness, either.  It ruled her life, at first against her will, and now she embraced it so freely.

But she hadn’t given her all.  She held their faces in her heart, taking up space that was meant to be devoted to the shadows.

She had to let them go.

She had let them go.

She let them go.

She let the rage, the pain, the bitterness go.

She was a vessel.

Mathani was simply the mask she wore to bide her time.