#sept2025

The last rays of rich, sweet sun alight on you, dancing through green leaves to dapple warmth across your front. You breathe in deep. Magic, sharp and alluring, dances in the air, drawing you along the path like a hand on your back. 

Your heart sings as the entrance comes into view—scarcely a crack in the mountainside, nearly lost among flowering vines. Mellow blossoms hang upon the vines in soft pink; and as you slip beneath a section of them into the passage, their sweetness seeps into every pore. 

Plucking one, you tuck it behind your ear for safe keeping. 

Darkness clings to every surface in the cave passage. You follow the path by way of the stone walls, finding the proper turns based on sharpness or shape in the rock beneath your palm, until the distant sound of water reaches your ears. 

A pleased coo sounds from your chest. Wispy lavender seeps from the bundle there. 

"I know," you whisper fondly, "almost there." 

From afar, little waves echo, calling to you like a siren song. They grow quieter the closer you come, until you step over the threshold and find them near-silent, as if holding their breath at your entrance. The moon pool is just as you remember—and even more beautiful than in your dreams; the water glowing as the stars begin to appear above, where the cave roof has weathered away. 

Near the back of the cave is a bench-like ledge carved into the black stone. You unwrap the bundle from your chest and lower it onto the bench with great care. 

You're fiddling with the fabric of your garment when you feel it—eyes.

"Sun scarcely below the horizon and here you are." A voice drawls, "Some might call you eager." 

Delight pulses through your chest. You peer over your shoulder. 

And there she is. 

Her head is barely above the water, which is running down her pale skin in rivulets, wild hair clinging to the bare flesh of her shoulders. The corner of her mouth is pulled up in amusement, revealing a hint of sharp canine. 

You raise a brow, "If I'm eager, what does that make you?" 

Her smirk widens. Dark eyes trail down your form as you finally face her, hesitating notably around your middle. 

"Impatient." 

Something in your chest melts. You draw closer, standing on the rocky edge of the pool, taking her in. Her sharp eyes trail over the space—searching. 

"Would you like to meet your daughter?" You ask, soft. 

That brings those dark eyes back to you; you can see the blue ring around the edge this close, and watch as it grows just a touch larger. Her hands twitch beneath the water. 

"No, I came to admire rock formations." She deadpans, with little conviction.

You roll your eyes and trail back to the stone ledge where your bundle of joy waits, a little fist stuffed in her mouth. She smiles upon seeing you. 

You lift her familiar weight into your arms and she curls into your warmth, utterly, completely sure of her place—so like her Mother in that way. Eager noises leave her as she gets a glimpse of the water. 

Agatha's catching breath is almost lost beneath the sound of the pool. 

A sturdy rock ledge sits just below the surface of the water at an edge, and you carefully step down onto it. Agatha watches from the other end of the space. And when you lower yourself and your daughter to sit within the water, you blink—Agatha appearing before you in a heartbeat. 

"Violet," you murmur, turning her to face the other woman, "say hi to Mama." 

When the water laps at Violet's appendages, little purple scales become visible on her skin, darkness clinging to the very tips of her fingers. She blinks at the new face watching her, unsure for only a moment before she coos.

Black-stained hands come from beneath the water to reach for her. They hesitate. 

"She's yours. Hold her." You assure. 

Lavender mist oozes from Violet's palms. 

"Oh of that I have no doubt," Agatha says, impossibly smug as she pulls Violet near, "only my daughter would cast so early." 

"You don't think I could have contributed to that?" 

"Her gifts are my color, dear." 

You sigh, but drop it. 

Careful hands trace over every inch of your daughter—from her little feet that have grown webbed upon contact with the water, to the nose that matches her Mama's. And like she's pleased by the reverence, she allows the slow discovery. Every inch her Mother's daughter. 

A sharp-nailed finger traces a soft cheek. A real, disbelieving smile pulls at Agatha's lips; so like the day you told her the news. 

The words leave you on instinct, "No spell, no incantation." 

"Made entirely from scratch." 

And when Agatha's eyes meet your own, they're almost entirely blue—the darkness driven back by the emotion in her chest. You smile. Unable to bear the distance any longer, you lean forward and steal a slow kiss, ever mindful of her canines. 

You don't try to place a name to the emotion in her eyes when she gazes at you after, but if you had to it'd be awe. 

Violet splashes, whining. 

"You can let her go, she's a very good swimmer. And we've been practicing with her breathing." 

Her eyes never once leave Violet, but she does let her go. Violet sinks before her little arms and legs kick into gear. She moves slowly but confidently beneath the surface, exploring the rock and coral within her reach. 

Small fish dart from her path. Some of the larger ones move near, drawn in by the purple vines pulsing beneath her skin. 

A finger traces the matching marks where they meander around your middle, coalescing into an abstract design in the center of your stomach. You watch her travel the length, light, claiming, and you remember how they'd glow when you were still carrying Violet—how she'd reach back to her Mama, even then. 

Violet surfaces and travels in circles. When she ventures a bit too close to the cave exit, Agatha clicks low in her throat—warning. Violet's eyes light up in interest and she swims back, bumping Agatha affectionately, hazarding a click of her own. 

That awed look is turned on your daughter. 

"It's rude to speak amongst yourselves when you know I can't understand." Pouting, you give the two your best disappointed look. 

"Poor angel, are you feeling left out?" Agatha coos, falsely saccharine, before looking back to your daughter, "We'll teach you, won't we, darling?" 

Violet clicks in what you guess is agreement. 

Sadness sours the joy in your chest. When you take in their mutual delight, your heart squeezes, and you swallow down the sudden lump in your throat. 

"You say that like we have time," you trace shapes on the back of her hand, "as if we can see one another at any opportunity."

You look up through the hole in the cave roof, taking in the looming Violet Moon above your heads—the one thing that allows you to see your lover, for your baby to see her Mama. Tears burn hot behind your eyes. 

Of course you knew it'd be an issue when you fell pregnant, but you'd been so happy, then, shoving these issues away until you had to deal with them. Now you do, and see no way through; you have no desire to separate Agatha and Violet, but can't bear to live without your daughter, either. 

"How lucky you are that I came prepared." 

Agatha smirks. 

"The last time you said something like that, I ended up carrying your child." 

"You never complained. In fact, there was very loud begging for—" 

"Agatha." 

Her laugh is just shy of a cackle. A braided necklace is lifted from her neck and held out to you. 

The weaving is intricate, strong. The braid has been woven through the hole of a shell, which has been carved with care into the image of three women—the Triple Goddess. You trace a finger over it. 

"I don't understand how this is meant to change things." 

A roll of her eyes, "Put it on, angel." 

When you hesitate, she plucks it from your hands and slips it around your neck. 

The change is… slow. Near unnoticeable.

Rather than push against you, the water seems to glide past you, and you blink as a sharpness comes to your vision. When you move, your legs feel impossibly heavy—and you gasp as a scaled tail where your legs should be. 

Violet swims near, bumping your tail. 

You stare with wide eyes, taking in the change in your appearance and how pleased Agatha looks with herself. 

"But Violet—she has legs." You whisper.

"All children like her begin bipedal." Agatha waves a hand, sounding almost proud. 

Even delighted as you are, you can't stop staring, terrified. You've only ever known a life above the surface—are you capable of adapting? Do you want to? 

Violet whines, picking up on your distress. 

Agatha runs a gentle hand down your tail—and gods it feels amazing—before cradling the baby in an arm, nuzzling their noses as she purrs low in her throat. Violet settles. 

"Agatha, I—" 

"What does that world have that trumps this?" She asks, smooth and coaxing, "That matters more than what we've created?" 

You don't have to stare at Violet to know she matters more than anything in the world; the moment she came into existence, her laugh was your music, her tiny, twitching hands your anchor. There is nothing you won't do for her. 

You know Agatha senses it, and she presses, "If they find out what she is, they'll condemn her, and you. Below the surface she's a miracle." 

But she knows the surface—knows unaltered sun and sand between her toes and flowers. Is it cruel to take her from it while she can still live within it, unknown, or more cruel to deny her a world in which she could fare better?

Pulling the flower from behind your ear, you fiddle with it. 

Beyond love, at its core, Motherhood is sacrifice; you know this. You gave up much when she made her existence known—and you've given up even more since. 

A part of you asks, what is one more thing? 

The other part cries, but it is all we have!

Every part of you aches to snatch Violet and go back to the home you know, but you don't—because the surface isn't all you have; you have Violet. 

Violet, who lived behind your heart, shifting every organ so she could grow. Violet, who brought with her slow, glowing magic that took up residence beneath your skin, forever altering you. And despite how she continues to change you, she is the constant that matters more than anything. 

You set the flower aside. 

Slowly, you slide from the ledge, fully into the water. You sink before instinct kicks in—your tail moving to keep you above. 

Meeting Agatha's eyes, you murmur, "And what of me?" 

A hand comes to rest at the small of your back, pulling you through the water until no space exists between where you meet. Her fingers toy with your scales in a way that feels horribly, blissfully intimate. 

Blue eyes trace over you in long, worshipful glances, like one looks at a piece of art so beautiful they can hardly fathom it. And the hand on your back trails upward until it meets the soft skin of your cheek, light, as if she's afraid of marring you should she press too hard. 

"You are divine." Agatha whispers. 

You smile, and you kiss her—adoring, ravenous—until both of you sink enough to submerge the gills on the back of your neck, so you can continue to kiss. It's not until a small, sleepy hand tangles in your hair that you pull back. 

Violet is curled like an angel in the crook of Agatha's arm—one hand clutching a fistful of your hair, the other clutching a fistful of Agatha's. Her little eyes flutter open every now and again, but it's a losing battle as sleep rapidly overtakes her. 

You press your lips to her cheek. 

"Mama will still be here when you wake." You assure. 

And that is all she needs. 

The two of you watch her, taking in every rise and fall of her chest, and how she curls even closer in sleep. She's perfect. She's yours.

"Look at what we made."

Agatha's breath catches, before she smirks, "More like what I made—your genes didn't even put up a fight."

"Not true," you sputter, "she has my cheekbones!"

"The cheekbones you can barely see beneath the baby fat?"

"They'll become more prominent with age!"

"Believe what you must."

You grumble and throw up your hands. She's right—Violet is the spitting image of her; if not for the fact that you carried her for nine months, you could hardly tell by looks alone that she was yours. 

Damn your lover and her annoyingly powerful genes.

"Fine," you concede, "Violet looks like you, but that just means the next one has to look like me."