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This wasn’t the first time you’d had Mother Miranda sobbing in your arms. She’d threatened long ago, when you’d first started working as her maid, to make worm food out of you should you tell anyone of her breakdowns— and so, you never did. Since then, it’d become a regular thing, you holding her and her crying until she had nothing left to give.
This time, the two of you were sitting on the floor of her lab. Miranda had her face buried in the crook of your neck, her tears wetting your skin. Not that you minded it much; it was always hard to see her so broken. You just held her tight, one hand on the back of her head, the other soothing up and down her back.
There was a certain black substance all over the floor to your right, seemingly alive. The jar which had contained it originally was broken atop it, shards of glass everywhere.
And the impetus for Miranda's current breakdown? The shattering of that very jar. Apparently, it’d reminded her that no matter how hard she tried, something would always keep her from getting her daughter back.
“Eva…” the priestess wept. “I’m sorry, my sweet girl. I’m so sorry…”
Her words sent a painful twinge of sorrow throughout your chest. They were a blatant reminder that, in spite of being the Black God’s prophet, Miranda was still human; somewhere in there, deep down, she still had a shred of humanity.
“Shh, shh,” you rested your chin on Miranda’s head, stroking her hair. “You’re all right. It isn’t your fault.”
The priestess exhaled a pained sob against your neck. “It is my fault,” she said, her voice weak. “I’m not trying hard enough for her.”
At that, you closed your eyes and drew in a deep breath. No matter how horrible Miranda was, even to you, it was devastating to see a mother grieving her child like this. You pressed a gentle kiss to the top of the priestess’s head; the two of you were only physically affectionate in times like these. She needed you more than she wanted you, really. Needed the comfort.
But you were unable to provide that in full right then, unsure of what to say. If you said you were sorry, she didn’t need your pity. If you tried to talk things through with her, she’d simply shut you down.
And so, you just continued to hold onto Miranda, rubbing her back, hushing her and reassuring her. It was all you could do. The priestess cried for another good ten to fifteen minutes, her sobs occasionally interrupted by a weak “I’m sorry,” or the muttering of her late daughter’s name. She did eventually quiet, though, and just allowed herself to be held. You consoled her one final time before pulling back a bit— well, attempting to pull back.
Before you really had a chance to speak or move much, the priestess began pressing her lips to your neck, firmly, repeatedly. This had happened before, and each time it did, you dealt with it.
You dealt with it, in spite of your constant want to let Miranda keep going.
“Miranda…” you said quietly, your breath catching in your throat. Perhaps you could just sit still a while longer— but no. You placed your hands on the priestess’s shoulders, pushing her away. “We can’t, it’s- You’re hurting. You don’t really want this.”
Though, your words did little to deter Miranda; her want to be seen and felt was simply too great, and her clouded sense of judgment went unrecognized. She reached up to cup your cheeks, her own still stained with tears.
“Don’t be like that…” she muttered, leaning in so that her lips ghosted over yours. “I need you.”
Then, without missing a beat— or giving you a chance to speak— Miranda’s lips were on yours. They quickly migrated to your jaw, where she planted a trail of kisses up to your ear.
Again, you said Miranda’s name. Only this time, it’d come out a little whinier than you would’ve liked.
“What?” the priestess hummed into your ear. Her hand was on the back of your head now, and you could feel the smile on her lips.
“We’ve talked about this,” you replied, your tone even and your hands frozen at your sides. “You’re not thinking clearly, Mother Miranda.”
“‘Not thinking clearly,’” the other woman echoed softly. “Really?”
She again pressed her smiling lips to your jaw, grazing her teeth along your flesh in a way that sent pleasant tingles up your spine. God, she was absolutely intoxicating, and near impossible to resist, too.
But only near. Not just.
“Stop.”
And the priestess finally froze. She pulled back to look at you with a tense jaw and hardened expression. Not a word passed her lips, but you knew that your rejection had hurt her, at least in the moment.
“I’m sorry. It just— wouldn’t be right,” you practically whispered, holding Miranda’s gaze. An uncomfortable few seconds passed, and then you said, “I should be tending to dinner. I apologize, again.”
With that, you stood, extending your hand in a chaste manner for Miranda. She got up without your help. Her makeup was running down her cheeks still, and she made no effort to wipe it as the two of you went your separate ways.
The priestess was upset, and you’d let her be. It would only be a matter of time before she was her usual, apathetic self again, and you reminded yourself that what you’d done was right. Miranda didn’t want you in that way, and never had. At least not enough for it to mean anything. She was only acting on her vulnerability, seeking comfort and a distraction from the pain which she was forced to endure every day.
And that was it.
But despite this, despite the fact that Miranda’s care for you was so little, you knew that when she needed to be held, when she needed someone to cry on— you’d always be there for her, no matter what.
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