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Her daughter comes into the world screaming, lungs made for battle cries. A future for her shines in Indra’s tear-burned eyes. Pudgy arms one day made strong, toes now curling in on themselves one day carrying her far distances. And that voice, which will no doubt make her next months’ nights sleepless, will one day command crowds. Indra sees all this even as her entire body burns and throbs in an unfamiliar type of pain, one stitched with a strange yearning and aching tiredness.
“Let me hold her,” she says to the healer, who has been busying herself with pricking the baby’s finger to see the blood well red, and seeing that none of her limbs are twisted with disfigurement. Even exhaustion is not enough to keep the command from her voice. The woman swaddles the baby quickly, and places her in Indra’s arms.
She is not practiced in holding infants, as she was raised without siblings and had chosen the sword as an occupation at an early age. Motherhood had come as a surprise to her, although not an entirely unpleasant one. The child had kicked strong in her womb and she had been confident in the survival of them both. Now she holds the girl awkwardly in her arms, the babe who weighs near nothing, and for the first time in her life perhaps, feels woefully unprepared.
“So fragile,” she murmurs in wonder at the small thing that had spent months growing inside her. She reaches out a single finger to brush against her cheek, she’s broken bones with a single finger before, she must be very careful. Her skin is brown like her own, but soft rather than hardy, like a field just after rainfall instead of one turned in preparation for planting. Cheeks unmarred by scars or ink.
“We all start out like that,” the midwife says. “But she’s a healthy girl, and one day she’ll be as strong as you or I.”
Indra imagines her grown again, a woman she hasn’t yet met, the two of them standing together, leading together. She might not hold strength yet, but she will. And Indra will protect her in the meantime.
“Yes,” Indra agrees as her daughter looks up at her with wide wondrous eyes, also brown like the earth. “Her name is Gaia."
Her mother comes into the room quietly, as if with deflated lungs. Gaia tips her chin up, and keeps her arms at her side.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” she says, an awkward distance between them. Indra is waiting for her to offer her arm for the warrior’s handshake, but she won’t. After today she will be a fleimkepa, not a second who abandoned the way. Those days are behind her. They are not, however, behind her mother, whose eyes flash with anger for a moment, the same argument they’ve been having for years carved, like many other marks, onto her face.
But today, it seems, it will not be revisited.
“I’m your mother,” she says, as if that’s an explanation. She hasn’t felt much like a mother in recent memory. Indra looks to where the ink and the needle sit, perched on a table before the altar. “I wasn’t going to let that bald man be the one to etch your skin.”
Something warm wants to blossom in Gaia’s chest, but she douses it in cold water. Hope has made her a fool too often for her to fall prey yet again to her mother’s inconsistent affections. Maybe later, in her own time, she’ll warm her hands over that ember.
For now, her mother is still present, looking like a blemish here. Failing to pray or even bow her head in reverence. The candlelight is harsh rather than warm on her face. Nevertheless they both sit and Gaia presents her bare shoulder.
“There’s an example on the-”
“I know how it is supposed to look.”
Her mother pinches the needle between her fingers and wets it with the ink. Gaia’s skin is washed and sterilized, but that doesn’t make the first stab any less painful. Despite the bite she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t want to learn any more ways in which she could lose her mother’s respect. Gaia closes her eyes as the sting runs in a circle along her skin.
An image presents itself before her mind’s eye, a different set of circumstances where her mother did this service without begrudgement, perhaps even with pride. Tears well in her eyes, pain from the needle prick, but also from a wanting. One that might tug on her shoulder for the rest of her life.
“It’s done,” Indra says, many minutes later. Gaia’s eyes are dry when they open. She doesn’t inspect her mother’s work, confident in her steady hand.
“Thank you, Mother,” she says, rising slowly and then turning her back so she doesn’t have to witness her quick exit. Instead there’s a warm palm on her sore shoulder.
“Some things are more important,” she says, and for a moment Gaia thinks it is yet another dig on the religion both of them supposedly share, but a glance over her shoulder reveals something different. The soft glow of her mother’s kindness beneath the strong set of her jaw and her held shoulders. Gaia nods, and her mother squeezes her shoulder, and again, she doesn’t flinch.
“I hope you’ll pray with us later, mother,” she says, because she does hope it. And she was taught at a young age that speaking your desires makes it far more likely for them to come to fruition. “I’m leading the invocation.”
“Maybe,” Indra says, but later, Gaia spots her. One of many in the crowd.