Isabella had been prepared to die the villain.
She had been prepared to be hated as she fought, to see the anger and resentment in the eyes of her children. It had taken nearly two years to build that shell, to come to an understanding that she may not be perceived as a savior. To her, that was okay; if she was able to save just one, to keep just one of her children from being put in the line of fire, dying with the knowledge of her progeny hating her was bearable.
It burned a pit in her stomach the first few months that she sat at the head as Grandmother; with Sarah's "passing", everything seemed to fall on her shoulders. Keeping track of the Grace Fields children as they operated their new plantations, observing how their temporary Mom's were interacting with them. More than once she had to bite her tongue to keep her own biases from escaping, took everything in her power not to let small quips slip out; "Angelica is allergic to this bath soap, use another" or "Bernard is afraid of the dark, he needs his rabbit". No, the attachment had to stay dormant, had to be kept silent. This was her new position. Overseeing Moms and Sisters, ensuring that everything was operating as smoothly as possible. Their disapproval didn't go unnoticed, and it was only a matter of time before she caught wind of them trying to remove her from her newly placed position.
When the proposition of rebelling was introduced, it was surprising to see the amount of support there was from the caretakers. Some were more stubborn than others, believing fully that Mom's were safe as long as they kept deliveries frequent and let no children escape. The four she met with that day though, they understood very quickly what would happen should they allow this world to continue. They saw flashes of their own flesh and blood being eaten, remembering the children they had willingly sacrificed. Guilt was Isabella's greatest weapon and she intended to use it to her own advantage. "Your children," she began, crossing her hands neatly beside her teacup as she observed the four women before her, "were being raised by myself at Plant 3." Her head cocked thoughtfully, as if she was having a conversation about the weather, nearly nonchalant. "Your biological children, that is." Her violet gaze turned to Matilda, horror apparent across her youthful features. The table fell silent, all four women watching her, all waiting for the others to speak. A soft smile, an even softer laugh; one holding sorrow, resignation almost. "I guess you wouldn't have known that though. I guess you don't have access to those records as Mom's."
A gulp broke the silence among the Moms, and Matilda was the first to speak; Isabella could see the tension in her chest, the way a vein bulged along her forearm. The quick movement to touch her stomach, to feel what was once there. Movements like that wouldn't escape her notice. Her hand extended across the table, offering it to Matilda who simply glared. "I don't believe you," she muttered softly. "He would have been shipped off by now, if he hasn't already died." She didn't take the extended hand, though Isabella left it on the table, open palmed. "He grew out of being sickly, though he dressed warm even in the summer," Isabella began, her eyes narrowing slightly. They had to hear this. To know that their flesh and blood, the ones they had sacrificed like she had her own had names and personalities. Ones she fostered and developed. They would share her pain, see her side of this seemingly losing battle. "We called him Norman, and he may be one of the most intelligent young men my farm has ever seen. He was one of the ringleaders of the initial escape, one who stayed behind to make sure his siblings were able to succeed". Tears began to well in the younger Mom's eyes, followed by a sharp intake of breath. "Is he...is he still-" A sharp chuckle silenced her, Isabella couldn't help it. "Yes. Under a different name, I believe, but he is still alive and well."
Matilda's shoulders seemed to sag with relief, though she kept her hand placed upon her now flat stomach, cradling the phantom bump. Jessica was harder to crack; she held anger in her gaze, not defiance. Anger that was misplaced, that bubbled up due to their plan being foiled or that she was being told what she did not want to hear. She was standing now, one hand on the mug and the other flat against the white table cloth. "Stop lying," her voice was beginning to climb, cracking slightly, as if she didn't believe her own statement. Slim fingers were white as she clutched her cup in a claw-like grasp, and Isabella prepared herself to dodge a potential projectile. "Sit down," the newly placed Grandmother chided to her subordinate, tone sharper than she intended. "Yours is called Gilda. She was being prepped to become a Sister, alongside another one of my perfect scores. She is shy but brave; she lost her glasses more times than I could count. We can't use contacts like you have, not with the littles." A crash and the cup was exploding against the wall. "I don't want to hear this!" Jessica yelled at her, fists balled tight against her sides, breath coming out ragged. "You will listen. Sit down and shut up." The sharpness was enough to make Jessica pause, fighting the instinct to defend herself though trained to be silent.
"Scarlet, your two boys have turned into such strong men. One went with Gilda, his name is Don. The other...he has your eyes, your demeanor. He was four when he found out about the farm and keeps their secrets even though the high-quality children have long since escaped. His name is Phil; he made his first 230 on the tests just last month. Of the remaining children on Plantation 3, he will likely last the longest." Scarlet was openly crying at this point, her hand clutching Matilda's, shoulders shaking softly as she allowed herself to weep. Good. They needed to know that their children were more than cattle, that they could see the good in themselves through the sons and daughters they weren't able to meet. Sienna was the last, and the fire in her eyes held an unmistakable familiarity. Isabella knew who her progeny was without even looking at the files, though it didn't hurt to just ensure it. No, the curls, the fire in her gaze was unmistakable. "Your daughter's", a flinch at the title, so subtle that it would have escaped the gaze of any other caretaker, though she continued "name is Emma, and she is going to change the world. She led the escape after Norman stepped back. According to intel, she has done...so much for them."
There was a pregnant pause, once filled with heavy breathing and soft weeping. It was at this point that Isabella reached below the table to retrieve the paperwork; proof of her claims. Each of the Mothers had a packet sealed within a manila envelope slid across the table to them. Within it, their proof of breeding, their child's weight and length at birth, their most recent scores. "Why...why would you do this?" Sienna's voice was steady, so akin to the voice she had heard for nearly 8 years. Even the dialect was similar, the way the words seemed to hold their intensity. "It's simple, really: We've been pointing the knife at the wrong opponent. In order to destroy the farms, to ensure that no more Moms or Sisters will be forced to betray one another, we need to stand together." Her hand extended, though it wasn't Sienna who reached to shake it. Matilda's grip was firm despite the weakness in her eyes, the red rimming them. "I'm in. On one condition."
Ah. Here it was, the boon that Isabella predicted would be the case. She itched to reach into her breast pocket for what she was sure the young woman would ask for, to jump the gun. Patience was necessary though, and she cocked an eyebrow in response. "We need collateral. Proof that you won't destroy us, that we aren't just pawns in your little game." As if on cue, she produced the neatly folded note, it's edges worn and soft. "Of course. It is only fair." Snatching it from her hands, the Moms crowded to gaze at its contents. It took them a few moments to recognize what exactly it was. She wasn't absolved from the sins that she bore, though. It would be hypocritical to chide these women without giving something in return: her son. Her first-born boy, the one she had personally guarded for nearly 9 years. She had held onto the note for months though, reading those same words every single night: "Dear Mom…"
The note slipped into Jessica's pocket, and a pang of regret burned deep in Isabella's stomach as she watched it disappear. Tonight she wouldn't see those words, would fall asleep with an emptiness. However...she knew they understood her now. They carried a mother's burden, not one of just simply a Mom. Their children were alive and fighting every day of their lives for a better world, one where they wouldn't be broodmares, where they wouldn't be chained to beds through painful labor, where they could one day feel soft baby's skin against their chest as they took their first breaths. All she had ever wanted was that feeling with her own son, despite burying it underneath a conditioned sense of duty. To feed him, to keep him cuddled close to her heart. Hearing her song that day was both horrifying and a relief; he knew why they were on the farm, knew his fate. And yet she was still able to be there for him all these years without even knowing it.
Dreams came in flashes that night, vignettes of a life she didn't know that she wanted, of a world she had only seen in pictures.
Images of a small boy with a shock of black hair mewling for food, and she was able to feed him, to kiss his forehead as he nursed and smell the newness of him.
A little boy, rousing her from her sleep to help chase away his own nightmare. He was taller at this point, the hair wild, a surprisingly stern expression across his little face. She could feel his little heart beating rapidly as he crawled under the covers with her and snuggled into her side; safe, cocooned.
Her hair unbound and plastered down her back as the rain poured around them, and gods, she was laughing, laughing as they spun in circles and chased each other through the puddles. His rain jacket was long forgotten as she rushed after him, scooping up the soaked boy and planting small kisses across his cheeks as he giggled and protested.
A picture, being stuck onto the fridge as he puffed his chest out in pride, serious expression hiding the traces of doubt in his ability. It was them, her long dark hair in scribbles. Their stick hands were clasped in the picture, crayon writing a barely legible "I love Mom". He seemed so proud of it.
The two of them in a kitchen with blue walls, painted with murals of the two of them and a bright son. They were humming together, bent over the table as they painstakingly cut out cookies in the shape of stockings. "He'll only eat the ones we leave out, right?" He asked tentatively, eying the tinseled Evergreen tree that stood tall in the living room. "Yes, baby. If you're good, he'll leave you lots to eat!" His smile was so unrestrained, and she matched it, the mirror of the boy sitting beside her.
An older boy rushing past with a backpack between his shoulder blades, a yellow bus like she had seen in photographs growing up with the words "SCHOOL" emblazoned upon the sides. He was always so serious, though the fear in his eyes was one that she could see through so clearly. A girl with curly orange hair waved to her through the window, a boy with a pale blazer grinning as he boarded the bus.
Three children sitting in a cozy living room, the smell of a pot roast she was making filling the home. A fireplace is lit as they sit and play chess in the living room, giggling and chatting with so much adoration in their voices that it made her chest swell. They greeted her with bright eyes when she approached them, and her boy instinctively scooted closer as she sat cross legged on the floor with them to watch.
When she awoke, the hollowness in her chest seemed to just...disappear. Everything had been so vivid, so real; it was a life she could never have, one she would never get to experience aside from when she closed her eyes. It was a life that she would make sure they could have for themselves one day. A life where their children were unmarred by black ink, where they could hold their children, where they could love freely. One where they could dance in the rain and bake cookies, never to worry about another species consuming them.
A world she would be willing to die for to create.
She had been prepared to die.
As soon as the Ratri's had arrived, had come to harvest and kill the children, she knew that this would be the end of her. Death hadn't scared her for many years, now wouldn't be an exception. It almost felt peaceful in a macabre sort of way; no more fear of what was to come, no more pain in seeing moms and sisters and children consumed. It was arrogant to ignore that this was a coward's way out; her death would not be in vain, the fight would remain.
Nothing could keep her from reacting as soon as the demon had set its eyes upon her Emma- no, Sienna's Emma, the daughter she swore to see to the new world. It was instinct that caused her to bolt towards the commotion, adrenaline that allowed her body to move with a speed that she did not know she possessed. The fear in Emma's eyes was so vivid, so harsh, so unlike her. She will never feel that fear again, Isabella swore to herself as she threw the young girl out of the way of the towering figure, pushing her out of the reach of long talons.
Isabella didn't feel the claws impale her right away. It wasn't the hot, excruciating pain that she had felt during childbirth or during training. It was a dull ache at first, a foreign object penetrating her ribcage. A spurt of her own blood spatter across her throat as it escaped from her chest, and when she went to speak, the taste of metal danced across her tongue. She knew this demon well, after nearly a decade of bringing children to him to slaughter, he knew her better. His taunts filled the air, and his chuckle caused the nails to twitch, opening the wounds even wider. The pain was beginning to blossom, though she suppressed it, eyes wild. "You can't sit and act like a mother now, Isabella. It's truly pathetic". Their voices were so alien, so unsettling, so infuriating. The scream that escaped her was nearly animalistic, and it took great effort to form a sentence. "I won't let you lay a finger on the children".
It was a blur after that. An even larger demon shoving her assailant back, the blade-like talons slipping out of her with a sickening, wet sound. Her body hit the packed earth hard as it struggled against the greater demon, it's own wet sound of death as it was killed at the hands of one of its own. The fall was enough to knock the wind out of her and a low gurgle escaped her throat as blood stained the collar of her shirt. It was so cold, like she had stepped into a freezer, and her back felt wet with a fluid unlike water. Violet eyes darted to and fro, seeking out the children, trying to find them. She didn't need to; she felt their hands as quickly as she had fallen, gathering around her. Small fingers ripping off portions of shirts to try and patch the wounds, screams of fear. It wouldn't make a difference. There was so much blood pooling underneath her, staining their little hands red. They didn't need to see this, they needed to run, to save themselves. But they didn't.
"Mom, please, hang in there!" She heard familiar voices breathe out. It was Emma, though Gilda and Don frantically called out to her through the ringing in her own ears. A tilt upward and she saw the young girl clearly for the first time in months. Her hair was longer, curlier than it had been, those green eyes pooling with tears. A croak left her throat as she tried to reach them. It hurt so much to speak, to force the words out. "Emma...are you okay? Is anybody hurt?". The young girl shook her head feverishly, blood that was not her own staining her cheeks. "Mom, please, you're going to be okay." She wasn't though. And that was okay.
"I'm sorry," Isabella whispered, reaching to grasp Emma's hand. It was so much rougher than it had been when she left. The hands of a worker, of somebody who lived off the land. The hands of a survivor and fighter. She absentmindedly stroked the callouses, dizzy, though the pain was fading into a numbness. An unfamiliar child, maybe one of the other escapees, continued to put pressure on the wound in her abdomen although it was beginning to be less consistent. They must know what is happening, she thought. "Come here," she whispered, waving her wrist to draw them closer. Her children, the ones she raised, began to curl into her form. So much warmer than the frigid feeling she was experiencing, their bodies pressed close to her. Emma's hand rested on her cheek, and she leaned into the touch. "We love you...so much, Mom. We forgive you," a gulp, tears flowing freely, "I forgive you."
A chorus of sobs filled the air, though they were beginning to sound more distant. Gilda's glasses were long gone, hazel eyes red rimmed. "Please don't go, Mom. We love you so much, please, just stay." I can't. I want to more than anything, but I can't. She wanted to say, but it was too difficult, her mind beginning to feel heavy with sleep. "I love all of you…"
One thing. She wanted one last thing before she allowed her body to rest, to drift off. That shock of black hair wasn't apparent at first when she first called his name, her vision fuzzy and unfocused, though she recognized it right away when her son approached. His eyes were darker than her own, though his features were like looking into a mirror. He knelt beside her head, rough hands stroking the wisps of hair that had escaped her tightly woven bun. As a boy, Isabella had rarely seen her son cry. It had unnerved her initially, though she soon grew to see it as a sign of his strength, his ability to remain rational. Those dark eyes were not dry though as he lifted her head to cradle it in his lap. "Ray-", she began, coughing raggedly as more red fluid trailed down her chin. "I'm so sorry. I...I don't want to leave you. I never wanted to leave you." She shakily reached to place her hand against his cheek, finding stability in his form. Her thumb traced small shapes against the skin as she continued, voice cracking. "I need you to take care of them, okay? Can you do that for me?"
He was shaking his head now, warm tears streaming onto her hand. "Mama, please don't go. I need you…" You don't. I need you. The smile she gave was soft, tired, though she didn't protest. It was too hard to continue speaking, though not to hum, not too difficult to hum his song. It wasn't the quality she had hoped it would be, more an off-kilter bubbling as fluid was beginning to feel her lungs. The recognition across his face was comforting, and he closed his eyes as he joined her, soft enough to only be heard in the space between them. A mother and her son. A mother and her son together, the way they should have been. Sleep was so inviting now, sleep that would bring visions of the little boy giggling in the rain, a little boy tugging at her skirt to be picked up. She invited those dreams and they overtook her.
Isabella had been prepared to die the villain, though nothing could have prepared her to die loved so unconditionally by all of her children.