Don’t Take Life Too Seriously; You Might not Like What You Have to Do

We adjourned back to the inn, and a rather mid-tier inn at that, considering present company, to ponder our options. Sistilla looked as anxious as a defendant awaiting a verdict—most uncharacteristic—but I couldn’t say I’d blame her. Such things would be considered cruel and unusual back in the States. Still, better than being marched through the street as in other fictitious religions.

What a day. Now that I had time to collect my thoughts, a gloom settled over me. Back in the auto-carriage, I had Amillia to distract me, but now that she had tuckered herself out, my mind could run wild. Was I really…

I heard, then saw, Sistilla, who had seated herself on the bed, start hyperventilating with what looked like the beginnings of a panic attack.

I covered the few strides to her bed in a heartbeat. “Sistilla! Look at me!” She looked up. “Breath in for four... hold four... exhale four... hold four...” She followed my prompting, and I breathed along with her for several cycles.

“I… I think I’m okay now,” she said with a sheen of sweat on her forehead. I guess those therapy sessions paid off, if not in the way I intended.

“Just focus on your breathing.” I wiped the sweat away with a kerchief produced from my coat pocket—no gentleman would be caught without one. It was unusual for me to be so nurturing, but I felt inclined to try to be proactive. “Let’s consider our options,” I said, intending to regain some of her agency. Rummaging around, I found a stack of paper and took a sheet to the desk. “Okay, what is option number one?”

“She should just keep the curse!” Amillia stated firmly. Clearly, she was not happy with the idea of her sister debasing herself.

“Yes indeed. You should always consider the do-nothing option.” Amillia frowned at me. “I don’t mean that as a bad thing. Sometimes, it’s better to walk away.” She nodded, lips a resolute, stiff line. No doubt about what side she fell onto. I grabbed the pen on the desk—dip pens were the norm, such as this one, but you could find fountain pens here and there—and narrated as I wrote, “Live with the curse.” I looked over at the two sisters. “Okay, what are the pros of this option?”

“Pros?” Amillia asked.

“Reasons for,” Sistilla answered, looking to have calmed.

“Oh! She won’t have to be naked in front of strangers!”

“Maintain dignity,” I narrated, pens scratching out the words. “What else?” When no other pros were forthcoming, I added, “Save time.”

“Okay, how about cons now?” Amillia was about to ask, but Sistilla beat her to it.

“Reason against.”

“Hmm...” Amillia furrowed her brow. “Nope, can’t think of any.”

“Well, I can.” And Sistilla began rattling them off. “Children fear me. Can’t cook, can’t clean—”

“You can’t clean?” I paused in my writing.

“Not things related to running a home, like polishing furniture, or washing dishes...”

“…Really?”

“Yeah... if I try polishing, things don’t come clean, or something happens to make it dirtier. Or if I try to wash a dish, it will break...” she looked away forlorn.

“I see... But someone in your position would never need to do those things, anyway.”

“That’s not the point!” She snapped, causing my tail to go rigid.

“Okay. Okay,” I held my hand up to placate. “Still, the big one looks like the ‘children fearing you’ issue.”

“Yes... I won’t be able to raise my own children...”

“Well, that might not be entirely true. To what age does this curse affect children?”

“Hmm...” She rubbed her chin, rocking back on the bed. “I’m not sure.” I could see Amillia racking her brain, trying to contribute something useful but coming up short. But speaking of Amillia…

“The curse doesn’t seem to affect Amillia.” Amillia was still a child if I ever saw one. “Maybe the curse doesn’t affect family members.”

“Why wouldn’t it affect family members?” A good point; this would be the most deleterious.

“Maybe to be merciful...”

“I am not a child!” Amillia shouted, having just realized the implication.

“…No, she wouldn’t be that merciful,” she said with a rueful smile. “Amillia’s outburst just reminded me. Right after the statue incident, Amillia became very unruly around me and was a real terror.” Well, this was news to me.

I looked over to Amillia. “Is this true? Were you really mean to your sister before?”

“I wasn’t mean! Sistilla was the one who was mean and scary.” Amillia crossed her arms. “Until I was seven.”

“Seven? You remember when she stopped being scary?” Forgive me if I didn’t quite trust the memory of a ten-year-old.

“Yep! She stopped being mean on my seventh birthday. I remember because it’s an important birthday.” I looked over at Sistilla.

“Yeah, that seems about right,” Sistilla affirmed.

“Well... then I guess we can put a hard time frame on this.” And wrote, “children until seven,” next to the proper bullet point. “Okay, I know you want the full ‘homemaker experience,’ but outside of the children issue, there shouldn’t be much of an effect on your life. And luckily, you are engaged to a prince, so you should have no shortage of childcare assistance.”

“Childcare assistance...” She seemed unfamiliar with the phrasing. “But what about cooking!” Sistilla pushed the point.

“You really won’t let that go, will you?” Her locked-in expression confirmed this. “Well, maybe you are looking at this in the wrong way.” She raised an eyebrow. “Just hear me out. You can create powerful poisons out of any edible substance that you yourself are immune to.” One reason Sistilla was so oblivious to the hazardous nature of her cooking was that it didn’t affect her when she tasted it. “It could be a tremendous boon in your line of—Eeek!” I dove out of the way of a boot that came thundering through the air and crashing into the chair, upending it. Did she just throw a piece of footwear at me? What am I? The 43rd president? And damn... She had a hell of an arm on her.

“I’m just saying that some people would consider it—” I started as I stood back up.

“I’ve got another boot!” Sistilla interrupted with a threat. My ears sagged.

“I was just saying...” I muttered. I took my seat back at the desk, feeling more dour, and let myself entertain other possible manifestations. “So those are the ones we know about, but there could also be other effects.”

“Like what?” Amillia said.

“Hmm, like things she hasn’t done yet. For instance, it could affect her fertility.” This got Sistilla’s attention, her head snapping forward like a dog hearing a firework.

“What!?” Her eyes went wide with fear. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so terrified.

“Well, it would make sense. It’s in the same vein as children fearing you.” Sistilla pulled herself into a ball and started rocking. “But... that is pure speculation.” I tried to offer some consolation.

“What is fertility?” Another innocent question from Amillia, who stood with a finger held to her open mouth. Still rocking, Sistillia was in no shape to answer.

“It’s where babies come from,” I said, thinking it a good enough answer.

“No, they don’t! They come from vaginas! That’s the area between a girl’s legs, just so you know. Since you don’t have one.” I stared sidelong and dumbstruck. Apparently, they are very progressive in their sex-ED here.

“Yeah... that too.”

“Still don’t know how they get in there though...” she said with a contemplative chin grip. I guess not that progressive.

“Anyhow...” I said. Sistilla was still rocking. “Okay, so the next option we have is to go through with the trial, which, upon completion, will ameliorate the aforementioned issue.” I tried to emphasize the last few words, hoping they would pull Sistilla out of her stupor.

“Stop using big words!” Amillia protested.

“Big words?”

“Ame... Amel... Amal...”

“Ameliorate?” I offered.

“That one!”

“Maybe you should pay more attention to Baafa,” I said with a taunting smile. Amillia gave the complementary sour frown. At some point, Sistilla snapped out of her fetal position and gave a weak laugh at our antics before becoming serious.

“Yes, humbling myself before Lilaquith is an option, and if I do, then all that will go away.” For the first time, she seemed to consider it.

“Yes, that is the promise. So the pro of this is dispelling the curse.” I wrote this down. “Now what are the cons?”

“Sistilla would have to stand around naked in a smelly temple!” Smelly temple? It seems her opinion of the whole sect was rather fickle.

“Alright.” I dictated, “No dignity.” That was the main one. “What else?”

“I’m not too worried about dignity,” Sistilla said, arms still wrapped around her. “But it would be so embarrassing. I don’t know if I would ever stop being embarrassed...”

“Okay, well, let’s see. What kind of people visit the temple? If I remember correctly, few men were visiting other than myself.”

“Yes, but we were only there for a short time, and then returned after operating hours...”

“True, but I still think men would be a distinct minority. Not to mention, the kind that would frequent such a temple would be strong family men, more than likely.”

“I don’t particularly want to strut around in front of a bunch of women either!” she raised her voice, but at least she had reanimated. “And what happens when word gets out? There is no telling how long it could take, and men can be...” she trailed off.

“Fair point.” I should be clear: I wasn’t advocating for this option. “Men can be downright thirsty... especially if they get wind of who you are.” Men do like novelty. That sent a shiver down Sistilla.

“And we haven’t even talked about the social ramifications! If Father finds out...” She shuddered.

“Surely it won’t be that bad.” If anything, he seemed overly indulgent with what he let his daughters get away with.

“You have never seen our father truly angry.”

“You argue with him all the time.” Just a couple of days ago, in fact.

“While Father doesn’t approve of guild work, it is considered respectable for nobles to participate. Those dinner table spats are just father-daughter bonding.” She sat on the edge of the bed now, hand gripping the sides of the mattress.

“That’s bonding!?”

“Yeah, compared to before I met Prince Orland, when I refused to even entertain the idea of marriage.” She turned her head away with a rueful smile and chuckled. “Hehe, actually, that is how this whole thing started.” I tilted my head. “He dragged me all the way here to the capital and ultimately to the temple of Lilaquith. Before we were to meet my husband-to-be, Father gave a pompous lecture about how I would present myself properly and all that, and I reaffirmed my stance to never marry him, and do all in my power to ensure a mutual resentment for the arrangement.” She smiled. “I felt pretty smug about telling off my father. I almost broke out laughing as his face got redder and redder. That was until he slapped me across the face. Right in the freaking temple!” She clenched her fist. “Well, I couldn’t let that stand! I wrenched back and hawked a bloody loogie right at the foot of Lilaquith’s statue, and stormed out!”

She took a deep breath and propped a bent leg on the bed. “Ironically, it was just after that I fell in love with Prince Orland.” She said as she got that far-off look again. “He was so... not what I was expecting. If only we had visited Lilaquith temple afterwards, none of this would have happened.” She hung her head.

“Well, maybe we could find another way.” I stood up, abandoning my notes. She cast a skeptical glance my way. “It’s not as though Lilaquith prescribed a penance. This ‘humbling yourself’ nonsense was all from the Head Priestess, Cel, and honestly, she seems to have a few screws loose.”

“What would you suggest then?” she said, giving me her attention.

“There has to be some other service you could offer. Perhaps some quest you could undertake? You are good at quests, right?”

“Sure, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, undertaking some kind of task seems a rotting Pit more useful a service than debasing yourself!” I exclaimed. “Surely, deities have tasks they need completed that they can’t do themselves.”

“Why would a goddess need the help of a mortal?”

“She can’t even clean her own temple!” I threw up my hand. Strange that I would get so worked up over an entity whose existence I still doubted. It seemed even the notion of a powerful being not pulling their weight infuriated me.

“I’m pretty sure she could clean her own temple if she wanted to,” she said with a sidelong smirk.

“Really? Then why doesn’t she?”

“Well… because she is a goddess. It is beneath her.” I’m sure this is the textbook answer to all such questions.

“Then it looks like she will need people to quest on tasks that are ‘beneath’ her.” Sistilla looked thoughtful.

“Yeah, you’re really good at that stuff, Sistilla!” Amillia put in her two cents.

“Maybe that could work...” For the first time since those absurd words left Cel’s mouth, Sistilla relaxed. “Maybe we should all get some sleep.”

“Probably a good idea; it’s getting late.” I made my way out; Sistilla had arranged for separate rooms. My room was right next to hers, and Amillia was on the opposite side; I would be able to hear anything major that happened. This was good, but also the reason I couldn’t sleep. Would it happen tonight? They did not specify, so I had to believe it could happen at any time.

A pang of guilt coursed through me. Was I trying to ease my conscience by pretending I cared? Well... I did care, but everything has a cost, and what else could I do? This was my best chance. Perhaps some part of me objected, thinking I should do something to prevent the machinations of the mirror. But I could do nothing… Well, except for coming forward with the intel. But that would raise questions. Where did you get this information? Why didn’t you come forward sooner? How long have you known about this mirror? And more on besides. Best-case scenario, they’d deem me willfully negligent; at worst, an accomplice. Either way, it would be bad for me, and almost certainly I would lose the lion’s share of my freedom to roam. And for what? To aid two people who are at least complicit in my enslavement?

Maybe you could argue that Amillia was too young to really understand what was going on. But I say it doesn’t take much empathetic development to understand the natural desire for freedom, and this argument certainly wouldn’t apply to Sistilla.

Maybe you would argue they are just a product of their time. Poppycock! Tell it to John Brown! Also, a product of his time. And let’s not forget that their father is practically an abolitionist, at least regarding humans—a sentiment not extended to the rest of the sapient species. No, I was in good standing with my decision. Nobody would condemn me for it back home. Still, no matter how many times I told myself that, no matter how sound my logic or just my argument, I couldn’t dislodge the knife in my chest.