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It started as a low hum, a mummer, a whisper. Moksha blinked it out of existence, glancing around to see if anyone else was there. There was no one around. Moksha knew that much, holding the candle up to the stairway, it was the middle of the night. Momma was long asleep. Moksha always wanted to know more, but there was never enough time in the day to read. She spent most of the time helping Ma run the library. He pushed his nose back into the book.
The voices had become a frequent buzz. Every once in and while pointing to a book. That told stories of the past, of old gods and grand battles. But they never changed volume, and never were entirely decipherable. Then came the time at the river. It was a holiday. Something about the river. People were packed all up and down the shore, selling whatever. It reminded them of The Shinning Lantern Market, or at least all the stories they had heard about it. Momma was always too busy to go. Momma had looked away for mere seconds. Moksha was at the edge of the water, hooves parting the water underneath him. Momma had called. Moksha hadn’t heard. The water called out, seemingly arms extended, welcoming.
“Moksha! What are you doing!? The river is rushing you could be swept away!” Ma had picked her up by her armpits, swinging her away from the ice-cold water. Momma kneeled in front of them.
Moksha pointed to the river, “It was speaking.”
Momma looked between the river and Moksha before she hissed, “No it wasn’t, stop lying we're going home.” Momma stood up, grabbing Moksha’s hand. Moksha looked back to the river, a watery hand waved goodbye, Moksha waved back.
The voices only grew. Soon, Moksha could no longer tell the difference. All of the voices, real and the ones that now gossiped and demanded things. Sometimes, Moksha hid in the back of the library, shaking and trembling, hands of their ears begging the voices to go away. The few times Momma had found him, she had yelled, telling him to knock it off. Momma had called them a liar. This time was bad, they couldn’t tell how much time had passed because all of Moksha’s bones felt locked as they cried, heads in between their knees. He rocked himself back and forth. Momma wouldn't rock her in times like these.
Like a shock of cold water, a hand was placed on his forehead, The voices paused for a moment, before whispering praises, cooing almost. Moksha looked up. The local Msyruth priest stared back, a crooked smile on ref face. Kneeling they looked each other eye to eye. Momma always said they were too busy to go to church. No matter how pretty the stained glass was. Ree spoke but no words came out, but by then Moksha had already gotten good at reading lips, “There you are.” There was a crinkle to ref eyes as ree reached out to hold Moksha’s face. Moksha could only stare back in confusion. “Do you know who I am?” Moksha opened and closed their mouth, trying to recall ref name. “It Yaropolk, Yaropolk Lebedev. I run the Msyruth church in town. I’ve never seen you before, what's your name dear?” Again Moksha couldn’t speak, maybe it was the adrenaline running off her like it was trying to escape. “Ah, don’t worry dear. Moksha is it?” They nodded back. Ref face turned to a frown, “You look exhausted child, rest. Don’t worry I am right here.” It was almost as if Ree had snapped ref fingers because her eyes felt like lead, her body not too far behind. He relaxed, his body finally unfurling. And with a final breath, they were pulled under.
From then on Moksha waited for reef to come and visit again, face pressed to the glass. But just like every other priest, ree was busy more times than not. It was a cool winter's day. Moksha had their face pressed to the tinted purple glass, looking out to see if Yaropolk was going to stop by. Ree had never told Momma, and Moksha returned the favor. It was no shock Momma didn’t like the church. The door chimed one final time as it three pm. Momma had said they were closing the library early today, which was unusual. They never closed early. But maybe Momma had a surprise.
A surprise she had.
Moksha felt a presence behind him, he peeled away from the cool window, looking up at Momma. The voices kicked up. Moksha had to watch her talk, “How long has that priest been visiting?”
Moksha felt her heart stop beating. “What do you mean? What priest?” Momma bared her sharp teeth punching the wall next to the window, causing it to shatter. Moksha fell back with a yelp, the voices roared, but Moksha couldn’t pick out what they were saying. Now on their back, they looked up again, Moksha spoke but didn’t hear their own voice, “Many people come in here a day momma.” He hoped it was a good lie at least.
Disgust painted her face like someone had taken a paintbrush and smeared the emotion across her face, “I can’t believe I raised a lair.” The glass dung into her hands as she clawed at the floor, clambering to crawl away. Mother was much taller and much, much faster. She caught their braids, pulling them back to make Moksha look at her again, “What did I say about lying Moksha?” Moksha swore there was smoke coming out her nose.
“You told me not to,” Between the pull on his scalp and the glass digging into his knees and hands, tears prickled at his eyes.
“So not only are you a liar, but you also go against what I tell you to do. How could I raise such a bastard child? I’ve only told you what's best for you. That dirty rotten priest can do nothing but cause you pain!” She hissed through her sharp teeth. She picked up a long piece of glass, Moksha watched it glimmer in the fading sun. “I’ll teach you to never ever lie to me again!”
Moksha only saw flashes. The sting of their tongue being pulled far out of their mouth. The swinging motion. Then, the taste of blood, the feeling of the earth shake as momma walked away, the glass in her hand no longer shining in her hand.
And for once, the voices spoke in unison. They cried out for water. No matter how much Moksha coughed or spat, the taste of blood never washed away. With a heave and cloudy vision, Moksha pushed themself up, wobbling. She stumbled, landing against bookcases, hoping they didn't fall over and disturb Momma again. Moksha stumbled up the spiral staircase to the attic, his body not feeling like his own. There on her bed sat a bowl, low and wide, with some design on it that was too intricate for Moksha to see. Moksha didn’t recognize the bowl, but the voices did. It felt as if they were somehow searing their skin, commanding them to drink. Shakily, Moksha lifted the bowl, the water running down the sides of their mouth as they searched for relief. The blood-water mix was nauseating. Moksha screwed her eyes shut, trying to focus and remember how to drink water. Something was different, but before he could figure it out, his mind gave out. Did the bowl shatter? It looked old. Moksha would hate to break someone's nice old bowl.
Moksha blinked awake, eyes stinging with the evening light. The ground poked at every bone. Shakily, just as a newborn foal, she stood. He tried to feel around his mouth, yet no feeling was there. Leaning on their bedside table, their legs still trembling, they looked around. The last bits of sunlight catch on the bowl, shining back the sun's pink rays across her room. The bowl is decorated in deep blues, bright pinks, and silver. The mosaic tiles depict the moon rising over a deep sea while something from the deep reaches up. Moksha lets her legs give out, crawling over to the bowl. He studies his own savior, or he hopes so. A couple of drops of water gleams in the bowl. They slide their hands under each side of the bowl, the mosaic tiles weigh down their arms. It's a war to bring the bowl to her parched lips, but the water feels ice cool, it feels as if the water heals every aliment in her body.
For no longer than a second, his vision splits. On a boat, the waves causing it to rock, Moksha looks up. There a sea serpent rises above the ways, adorned in blue, silver, and pink scales. The mist makes the almost pitch-black night sky feel even cooler. Only the moon's gentle glow provides light, there are no twinkling stars.
With a gasp, Mokshas comes back to their room, chest heaving, blinking. Nevertheless, the image of the sea serpent is printed into her vision. In all his fears, he almost calls out to his mother, yet pauses, turning away the thought. Instead, Moksha looks out the window, the rope still hanging in the wind. Quietly, Moksha climbs out. The gusts of wind rattle their bones down to the marrow. Her hooves create the smallest cloud of dust as she pushes off the last bit of the wall. Moksha was never allowed to leave often. This world seemed so unfamiliar as he enters it now. The streets were never completely quiet but they did fall to a murmur. Moksha pushes their back to the wall, glancing down the ally to the open street, listening. No one makes a sound. So, for the first time, Moksha makes a run for it. That night, he does anything he wants. She visits the stalls of the Shinning Lantern Market, a glow with trinkets, adults sharing whispers, sometimes someone in a nice dress in arms in link with someone else as they look at jewelry, but from their vantage point, they just watch. Moksha spends the night in drinking every sensation she can get her tiny hands on.
Years pass by, It has long since become Moksha's routine. Mother was always a morning person. Moksha smirks in his hooded cape, looking down at the people passing by the street below, cigarette smoke fleeing into the air. They kick their legs, watching as people called out to love ones, giving hugs. The sight leaves a bitter taste in his throat as he retreats further into his hood. She's not mad at them, or jealous really. He just doesn't understand why they are like that while mother and him are not. Is it something they did? Moksha turns over, flopping out on the roof, she tries to count the stars instead.
Then darkness goes over the moon, before Moksha can figure out what kind of cloud would cover the moon that much, they jank at the claps of their cape. Moksha gasps grabbing the attacker's hand as he flails about. “Moksha? Is that you?” Moksha relaxes, going slack. The face of Yaropolk now replaced the moon. Moksha watches as ref hand shakes as ree reaches up to the buttons Moksha sewed on, they kept the hood up around her horns. But now, here they are, eye to eye. Then Moksha's head is on ref shoulder, surrounded by ref arms. Yaropolk shakes, “I was so worried about you. I came back to visit and your mother, wait no I shouldn’t-”
Moksha holds on for dear life. Their head spun and wobbled as they tried to remember the last time someone had held them so tightly. Maybe dad did when he was still around? Moksha could feel reef talking, but couldn’t hear anything over his own screaming thoughts to not cry. She wasn't a baby anymore, she didn't need to cry. Yaropolk pulled them back to face to face, cradling their face in ref hands, “They told me a thief was, was- Moksha what happened to you?” Yaropolk looked straight at them. It was like someone had snapped their fingers. Moksha entwines her fingers that still cradle her face with ref and wails. No sound accompanied it. There was no sound like lightning flashing through a storm like they’d seen so many others do, but still, he wailed. Moksha leaning forward, collapsing into ref lap. By god, it had been so lonely for so long.
In addition to Mokshas nightly escapes to people watch, sneaking into the church every so often to have tea with Yaropolk became a part of the routine. There were some nights Moksha would show up without warning and Yarpolk would already have a teacup full of Moksha's current favorite waiting for them. Sometimes they didn't talk, sometimes Yaropolk told stories to Moksha, and sometimes they’d read together. It was peaceful for a while. A steady rhythm that they had grown so accustomed to.
That was until the voices became a crashing violent wave that grabbed at his ankles. It was a good evening too. She had gotten done with all her work early, by then curled up by candlelight, nose deep in a book Yaropolk had loaned her. The voices came like an arrow straight through their skull. Their screams were so loud, nails dragging at wood, leaving the splitters to pierce his eardrums. Any air that was swirling in their lungs left like an erupting volcano as they collapsed to the ground, gagging, coughing. No, no, he needs to leave, now. Moksha fumbled for the window, slamming up the glass, feeling it shatter around them. Moksha barely got a good grip on the rope as she climbed down, hands surely covered in rope burns. Wait, did mother hear that? Moksha looked back, stumbling into the street. Moksha needed to get far far away and now. Moksha tripped through the darken ally ways, Moksha didn't really care where they were going now, the voices were like raindrops on metal roofs and they were growing louder. Moksha pushed on a door, but by now there was a darkness encircling her vision. Moksha sunk to their knees as their head snapped back. The voices screeched as he saw the moon for the last time, his arms moved somehow, a sharp pain, and then,
Nothing.
Moksha tries to open their eyes, but for some reason, they feel taped closed. She tries to groan at the feeling, reaching out for something. Someone's hands cover theirs. They kiss his hands gently then his forehead. She tries to flick her ears but no feelings come. They reach up for their eyes, their fingertips meet bandages. Confusion bubbles up even more as he tries to whine out. The hands pull her hands away as they pull Moksha closer. Moksha feels as the body shakes apart, somebody's crying. Why are they crying? Why can’t he hear it? A headache floods over their mind, robbing them of consciousness before they can get an answer.
Once again, she is sturred from her slumber. The blankets fall way side as he sits up. Their bed has never felt this comfortable. She rubs at her eyes, squinting. It takes a couple of times but he blinks away the spots. Blue. Blue hues of the sun shining through stained glass coat the room. The sun's rays dance across the room like waves. The Library never had stained glass like this. There was only one place that this. Moksha wasn’t home. Moksha was at the church. Moksha didn’t go home. Mothers going-
Moksha threw off the sheets, their adrenaline beat against their lungs walls causing their breath to hitch. Mother was going to know Moksha was a liar again. The floor was cold, like plunging her hooves into a swirling river. He looked to one of the clear, bubbly pieces of glass, the sun was maybe an hour or two before sunset, Yarpolk shouldn’t be up that early. Maybe she could get out of here before- there ree was, standing in the doorway, holding a tray of something. The look of grief, of agony, made Moksha sit back down.
Something was wrong. Something was very very wrong.
Yarpolk seemed to approach like a ghost, like the way fabric moved in the wind. Moksha didn’t hear as the tray was set on the side table. Yaropolk moved Moksha's legs back onto the bed, then draped the blankets back over his lap. Yaropolk didn’t look at Moksha for a while as ree sat there at the end of the bed. Only looking at the intertwined hands in ref lap. Moksha didn’t say anything either. Not that they really could anyways. So instead, Moksha looked at the blue hues again. There was a heaviness to the room Moksha couldn’t shake. It felt like they were at the bottom of an ocean together. Sounded like it too.
Then Yaropolk looked at them again. Moksha couldn’t bear to look at that whirlpool that swam around in ref eyes. Moksha would probably get pulled under into those emotions if he looked any longer. Moksha curled in on herself. But, Yaropolk caught them, pulling them in, cradling them. Moksha was seventy-three, Moksha didn’t need to be cradled, Moksha was a big person now. His skin felt like fire, angry at his own weakness, but yet, deep in his bone marrow he felt safe. Something had happened. Something so bad must have happened to take away Yaropolks happiness. And Moksha was terrified of it. Softly, Yaropolk pressed ref forehead to Mokshas. Moksha could see their own reflection in ref eyes.
Yaropolk’s whole body moved with ref breath before he began signing, hands pressed to ref chest, “It was late when you came in that evening. You were never really out that late. I was just up to grab more tea for myself when I dropped that tea cup. You were so still in the center.” Ree began to shake, “The moon cradled you perfectly. Do you, remember anything?”
Moksha shook their head before replying, “Just the moon, and pain. Like a needle.”
Yaropolk closed ref eyes again as ree took another deep breath, “Moksha sweetheart, you ripped off your own ears.” Moksha wanted to hit reef. Moksha wants to scream, call reef a liar. But Yaropolk never lies. Moksha held her hands against her head, feeling through the corkscrews. The skin left behind felt rough and dry. They let their eyes go back to Yaropolks. He tried to look for answers in reef. Moksha let himself go limp into Yaropolks open arms. Yaropolk didn’t say anything as ree rocked Moksha. Maybe ree could tell it was too much right now.
Yaropolk paused, “I hate to ask anything else of you now Moksha but,” Moksha’s eyebrows furrowed together, “What happened to your tongue?”
Fear tore through Moksha, but before he could get out an answer, his body succumbed to the exhaustion that was lurking just out of sight.
Moksha didn’t go home after that. Yaropolk never let Momma in. She would pound on the glass. The both of them would just sit there and drink tea whenever it happened, only watching her shadow against the glass. She couldn’t see in and they couldn’t see out. Eventually, momma stopped trying. Even better, Moksha got their own room, decorated in deep blue and silver. A deep navy blue and some highlights of deep pink. Moksha liked the colors a lot. They felt safe. Moksha grew to learn why. A god had long since been watching over them. Mysruth. Mysruth didn’t mean to hurt Moksha, even admitting that to Moksha itself. Mysruth apologized for the misfortunes that befell him. Those boat rides in the afterlife is where they met. The Sea serpent god coiled itself around that boat. Its voice like a fog, hollow and haunting but somehow playful. Sometimes it would whisper them secrets. A conversation just between the two of them.
When The sickles returned to their resting place in the central church, it was no surprise that Yaropolk urged Moksha to go. More accurately, dragged Moksha there. Moksha at the age of eighty-five had begun to council people. But now Moksha was here, young for their age at one hundred and five. The streets of Yllvellion were bustling more than usual. Alive with whispers and gossip. Who would be the next high priest? So many had come from far and wide. Mostly scholars or priests aching to be chosen by Mysruth only to pull back with a yelp as ice shot up their arms.
Yaropolk had spent the entire previous day on Mokshas hair. Taking ref time to massage in the oils and conditioner, styling their hair into countless twists. Even taking Moksha to a tailor a week prior to get a custom outfit for the day. Adorned in long billowing sleeves, a skirt that flowed like ocean waves that layered on each other, and a corset vest with a ribbon tied around her waist. Moksha giggled at ref excitement as he spun. Even the morning of Yaropolk barely let Moksha do anything for themself, acting more like a handmaid than a parent. Yaropolk’s hope and excitement were infectious. For Mysruths sake! Ree could barely keep still the entire carriage ride to the Central church. It was huge, the rushing water flowing forever, the body of the church reaching into the sky, and the stained glass seemed to paint the ground for miles. A hum of voices began to speak in tandem with Yaropolk’s excitement. When the carriage had arrived, Yaropolk hopped out in the flurry insisting ree open the door for Moksha and help her down. Moksha could only smile as he place his hand on top of ref hand, “After you”.
Yaropolk ran ahead a few feet, making Moksha stop, raising an eyebrow. Yaropolk leaned dramatically to one side before holding out refs fingers like a frame, before hopping back up straight with a thumbs up and a smile. “Remember, hold your head up high.” Then Ree held Moksha's face in ref hands, “I don’t care what happens. You will always be my pride and joy, remember that too.”
Moksha huffed a smile, nodding. They hooked arms, starting the climb to the church. The water swam around their hooves as passersby watched. Out of the corner of their eye, they watched as some drew or oogled at them. It was no surprise they caught eyes, Moksha standing at nine foot seven. But Moksha knew better and kept his eyes forward. Nobody else mattered now. Just them, Yaropolk, and the sickles. No audience member could stray her vision. Hundreds of eyes watched as they cleared the way. The person before the retreated with ice up to their elbows as someone whispered to them, rubbing their arm. It was like all went still. Moksha looked to Yaropolk, who only looked back with pure love and excitement. Carefully, Yaropolk drew away from Moksha, letting them wander up the podium themselves. Moksha paused before the two deep blue and silver chained together sickles. He took a deep breath as he bowed trying to command his beating heart to slow before it burst out from his chest. With shaky hands, she reached out. Their hands encircled the worn leather handles. No pain came. His eyes shot open as he pulled the sickles from the stand. They breathed a sigh of relief as they turned to Yaropolk, all stress unwinding like a dropped ball of yarn. Yaropolk embraced her with all the force of a tidal wave, almost knocking the sickles out of her hands and tumbling backward. Moksha felt as the tears rolled down their face, smiling, feeling Yaropolks own tears as ree pressed ref hands to their back signing, “I’m so proud of you.”