I have risen from the dead! Sorry for the hiatus, pals! It's been a struggle...Summer homework should be illegal ;) There is some cuteness in this chapter, some character/relationship development, and, as per my (annoyingly slow) style, subtle plot developments...But the plot will be picking up soon, so I hope y'all are ready!

Questions:

[Did] the revolt fail? And is Tamar Solomon's future mother or something?: Hahaha, sadly, no. I'm not that good at creating plots XD This story doesn't go into canon. Well...Technically, towards the end it does, but not until then.

Catharsis

By Gold Sparrow

Chapter 15: Perfection

It's twilight.

Two of the suns of Alma Torran, Suyo and Urano, have bow their heads to the horizon, closing their eyes for the night. Only the third, smallest sun, Giano, lays awake, resting it's small face on the hills to the north. The orange and red light illuminating the world fades slowly, and warns of the coming darkness of night. The wise and the weary have retreated into their homes, preparing for sleep, while the species enslaved by the Gunuds shake of their headaches and return to their dens.

A manticore lays in the tall grass of the plains, wheezing heavily in and out. He does not have the strength to burrow underground, his left front paw aching too badly to do so. Instead, he curls up and gently whimpers, a small call for his brothers and sisters to come help him. But he's alone, and is condemned to spend the winter night in the cold. He watches Giano with half-lidded eyes, wondering if he's going to die. If so, he wishes he could at least see his mother again. She had been so upset since his father died, and if he was to go too, without even a goodbye…

He closes his eyes, resigning to the headache building up in his cranium. He tries licking his paw, but it tastes of blood and dirt and he quickly grows sick of the taste. The worst part of it all is that he has no idea how he injured himself. The Gunud is like a terrible dream that you forget the moment the magic stops. He loses track of time and reason...And considering how badly his stomach hurts, he must've been working for days this time.

His father died of overwork, too. At least now he'll be able to see his father again...

But it isn't fair. It isn't fair at all, and he doesn't want to die. He has a family, his mother and his siblings...Not to mention that there is this manticore, this beautiful female, that he's thinking of marrying. He wants children. He wants to watch the humans' fireworks in the summer during their annual festival. He wants to keep watching Giano burn the horizon with its red gaze.

"I don't wanna…" He's sobbing now, pressing his muzzle more firmly into the ground. "I don't wanna die..."

"No one does." His eyes snap open. That his language. That's his family-!

But when he shifts his face to the side, he does not see a manticore.

He sees a child.

A human child.

She picks her way through the sea of grass, parting the stalks with her small hands. Slung across her back, a wand is strapped tightly, a simple wooden thing that bears the mark of the Orthodox Church. She looks up at him, her expression blank and her eyes a burning blue. His eyes widen. He breathes quicker, eyes darting to the dirt. If he works fast, he can possibly dig his way down and into one of the Manticore tunnels- but if he's not quick enough, the magician will be able to kill him before his head dips beneath the dirt.

"What's your name?" He pauses. He looks back at the human, narrowing his eyes in scrutiny. Did she just ask his name?

He says nothing. She stares.

"I'm Bathsheba." She tells him, standing before him now. Bathsheba studies his body, as if looking for something. She notices his paw, and her mouth forms an 'o'. "That doesn't look good...The cut became infected, hm?"

"...Why are you here, human?" He growls at her, but the pain from his paw leaks into his voice. He wants to wince at his own weakness.

"I've come to heal you." She says simply, walking closer. The girl kneels by his palm, looking down at it with a considerate expression.

"..." He keeps watching her, confused. She came to heal him? That's not possible. Magicians only visit injured slaves to kill them- to prevent unnecessary use of supplies, time, and, of course, to continue production. A realization slams into him, and he bitterly scoffs at his own naivete. "Leave me, human. You only wish to heal me so I can keep working, right?"

Bathsheba looks up at him. In her face, he does not see scorn or apathy.

Rather, her blankness turns to something he didn't expect.

Sorrow.

He would rear back, if he didn't feel so hopelessly exhausted. Her eyes, blue as the sky, show much so much sadness and sympathy, as if she understands what it's like to be controlled by the magic of the Gunuds as well. Her little lips turn downwards, a frown not of pity, but resignation, as though she had accepted that he would be cold to her before she even came to meet him. Then there is the matter of her hands, which are so tiny and frail, resting on the pads of his paw. Slowly she moves his paw onto her lap, where it takes up the whole space, his claws as big as her torso. She looks up at him and answers in a soft voice,

"No. It's because no one wants to die."

For a moment, he thinks that he's dreaming.

Bathsheba takes her wand off and holds it above his palm, green light emitting from the top. She moves her wand up and down the nasty cut on his paw. As she does so, he feels immense relief flood through his body. All the pain that was bothering him fades away as a burst of energy fills his bones. The winter's cold no longer bites into his skin, being replaced by an odd warmth that emits from the child.

When she finishes, she gently traces where the injury had been, feeling around for anything she may had missed. Giano finally closes his eye, the world turning light blue and gray. Even the grass around them appears like muddy snow now, not the green it had been earlier.

Bathsheba stands, and smiles very gently at him.

"Do you have any other injuries?"

Except for his hunger, nothing else pains him anymore. Cautiously he lifts himself up, testing his palm.

The girl turns away.

"Uh, Jiro." The magician pauses, before turning back to him. He looks down at his previously wounded paw. "My name's Jiro."

Bathsheba smiles wider at him.

"That's a good name."

"The Manticores are a proud and hardworking race. They are herbivores, and build underground cities with their paws, which contain sharp claws used to dig against hard earth. I have studied them extensively during my research, and through much analysis I have formed a schedule which best accommodates their skills. If you please, I highly suggest that we implement this schedule as soon as possible, so that production increases. The act of overworking this species has caused an increase death rate that outweighs the birth rate; if we do not begin to shape the work hours of this species and many more, there will soon be a sharp decrease in production levels, which will cause major public backlash. And we certainly don't want that, now do we?"

-Letter to the Overseer of the Manticore Gunud, written by Professor Bathsheba of the University of Trignon, Species Studies Chief Scientist. [Letter also contains research on the Manticores and a detailed labor schedule.]

(For the longest time, Bathsheba always considered her work to be her pride.)

Tamar is…

"Beautiful."

So, so beautiful.

"Innocent."

As innocent as a freshly bloomed tulip in spring, opening her pale eyes for the world to admire.

"Sweet."

Sweeter than honey and chocolate, her small, squishy face wrinkling as she gurgles up at her mother with seriousness. Bathsheba smiles widely and lowers her face to the girl, cooing right back. She presses kisses to the child's forehead and cheeks, making the baby let out happy little murmurs of love.

"So…"

Bathsheba holds her newborn close to her chest, gently rocking back and forth with the infant in her arms.

"So…"

"You are gorgeous, Tamar," Bathsheba whispers. "You are special. And I love you."

"So perfect."

She closes her eyes, pressing her forehead to her daughter's. In the darkness and the warmth of the child, she feels a thousand fluttering wings across her cheeks and down her arms. The voices sing to her a lullaby from long ago, a melody meant now for her daughter. They echo one another in choruses of unexplainable wonder, praising the birth of Bathsheba's Tamar.

Slowly, Bathsheba hums with them, rocking her child as the tears fall down her cheeks. There is no one else whom Bath has ever loved more.

"I wanted a son."

Bath looks up at David, her face blank. She does not seem angry-

Slap.

The feeling of skin on skin sounds bad, but it hurts worse. David's face snaps to the side, facing the window looking out to the city beyond the palace. His wife gave birth in their bedroom, unable to move from the bed. Now, the child only hours old, she still finds the strength to slap her husband with surprisingly fast reflexes. David raises a hand to his cheek, slowly turning back toward Bathsheba. He rubs the place where her palm made the most solid impact, blinking away the remnants of shock.

"I-"

"Shut up." Bathsheba stops him, her voice cold and direct. It's not loud, and yet it fills the room. Tamar, the small babe, still sleeps soundly in her mother's arms. There is silence for a minute. David doesn't know why he's keeping quiet, his eyes locked onto the steely, unchanging glare Bathsheba levels onto him. She speaks again. "You asked for a child. You never asked for a son. You asked for a child. And I gave you a child. I do not care if you decide to go searching for a son with another woman. But don't you dare tell me that my Tamar is anything less than perfect, David."

He stares at her.

It's true. He did not say that he wanted a son. He thought she'd understand that that is what he wanted, a boy, but now that simple err seems unimaginably stupid. He should've known better than to leave such an important aspect in the hands of fate, especially since he's long since acknowledged and admired Bathsheba's resilience against the scripted play of God. Until he knew her, he was unimaginably lonely. The hollowness of the world hit him over and over, the course of fate drilling into him a permanent apathy to others. He thought with his whole heart that he had every step of fate ingrained in his head.

Then he first laid eyes on Bathsheba. As he watched her, and saw her break and bend fate to her will, he grew fascinated. She is an anomaly, a rule-breaker, in a world where God dictates all. Now, she has corrupted the one part of fate he desperately wanted to come true. There is reason, which bites at his stomach and pounds in his temple, and then there is anger, which, with burning hands, ties knots in his jaw. But there is something else too. Something that overcomes the others, something cool and calming that eases his tense shoulders and brings a smile to his lips.

Relief?

David throws everything else to the wind.

He lurches forward, grasping Bathsheba's face. With her cheeks in his palms, it's easy for him to press his lips against hers. She jolts back, her free hand grabbing at his as if to pull him off, but with Tamar in her arms, there is no way she can do such a thing. David kisses her, and he kisses her hard, without restraint or hesitance. He pulls back just as roughly as he leaned in, a sly smile crossing over his lips. Her own lips look bruised and dazed, her normally cool and cold eyes alarmed.

"You're right, my dear," He croons. "I should be more grateful."

I find myself wishing my little Tamar will never grow up.

She has my hair and eyes, yet her mother's beauty. But somehow, she does not look like either of us. Her gentleness seems to know no bounds, and it's been like that since the day my wife brought her into this world. Just a tiny little thing, she hardly cries, and if she wants me, she'll wiggle back and forth in her mother's arms, eyes never leaving mine and hand outstretched in a pitiful call for attention. When I cradle her, the world feels whole. She disappears into my arms, a tiny treasure only I can see, and gurgles out her sweet melody of innocence.

I think I love her. But for a man who hasn't felt love in centuries, I cannot be truly sure. When I asked Bathsheba, she held my face in her hands and told me that even if I didn't, there was no way she'd ever let me forget the perfect child she gave me. I will not forget her. My Tamar is perfection in it's greatest, most ultimate form. She puts Illah to shame with her delicacy and naive giggle, her tender age and all-knowing eyes seeping into my soul. I can never forget her. Bathsheba, I can never forget that child now that I've met her. It's Illah's curse, I'm aware. I thought that Bathsheba's coldness and affections was what I desired most, a temptation placed beside me by a cruel and calculating God. But now I see that was just the first piece of the pain. To curb my plans, he's destroying his own fate by placing a child I cannot help but love into my arms.

He gave me a daughter so sweet that I cannot help but wish her eternal happiness. If I were to become God, I feel it would only be right to give this to my Tamar.

Tamar is my dearest child.

But you see, I truly hate myself for it.

David sits alone in his workshop, a month after the birth of his daughter.

A portrait faces him, propped up on an easel. Upon it is a familiar face, a face that he's needed to visit time after time just to remember. But for some reason, today, it is painful to trace the lines of the face, study the beauty the woman painted possesses. He cannot lift his eyes up to meet hers, even though he used to hungrily devour her features.

Perhaps it's the guilt.

But he thinks it's the self-loathing.

He can stay here for too long, he knows, as his poor Bath is still recovering from childbirth and little Tamar requires his attention before she slumbers. Not to mention the idea of sleep is very inviting- Tamar likes waking early and won't stop crying until one of her parents put her to sleep again ("Bath…She wants her mommy…" "Put your daughter back to sleep or enjoy the floor.").

The memory makes him grin, but an unwavering grey gaze makes it falter.

"Hello…" He says, looking to the ceiling. He's addressing the painted lady, but cannot look at her. "Do you hate me? I…Never meant for this. A wife and a daughter...I find myself with a headache some days."

He smiles bitterly, his hands fisting.

"I-" His throat constricts. He cannot speak, his own pride keeping him from opening his mouth and confessing his sins. For a moment, it is though he is a younger man again, only just seeing Ill Illah for the first time. The clear memory of the way he fell to the floor as a warm, white tentacle wrapped around him is ingrained into his head. But this time, it is Abigail, not Illah, that he is weak before.

"Abigail, I fear she has grown too close," David closes his eyes, trying to keep her image out of his sight. But it's always there, always watching. "I fear that I've found myself vying for her attention like a lovesick boy. And her baby is so precious, Abigail."

David opens his eyes, sighing. His hands loosen their tension, and he finally looks at her. It's just a painting, but he knows this woman so, so well. Her painstakingly recreated appearance that took him so long to make, that he learned to paint for. He soaks in her soft blond curls, her slight smile, her nonjudgemental eyes. He wishes that her gaze was as piercing as he thought it felt.

"I fear, Abigail, that I have made a place in my heart for Bathsheba and Tamar."

"Tamar turned five today. I love her so dearly."

-Arba's personal diary

Arba loves Tamar so dearly.

She watches, with fascination, the steady rise and fall of the five year old's chest. She reaches forward with gentle hands, stroking the girl's long black hair and smooth pink cheeks, a smile spreading across her face. Just moments ago the child had been crying, a nightmare having had awoken her from slumber. Arba remembers the soft knocking on her door, and her own surprise when she saw the young mistress standing in the doorway shyly. Tamar had explained that father had just gotten home from a trip, and he must be so tired, and she doesn't want to bother him since he nearly fell asleep earlier when they were playing…And mother, too, was working so hard today, and-

Arba had taken the child's hand as she was blabbering and lead her back to her bedroom. She set the girl into her bed and pulled the covers up her to chin, tucking the covers underneath the girl's body so that she was swaddled as if she was a baby again. Then Arba told her stories. Little stories, the ones about the prince and the manticore and the Elder who fell in love with a pauper, a story not unlike Tamar's own parents'...The Princess had listened for a while until her limbs seemed to grow heavy, and her eyelids closed slowly.

Tamar is sleeping now, but Arba doesn't leave. She stays, watching the child's eyelids flicker with dreams. She means to go, but keeps thinking 'just one more minute'. There's something too perfect about being there, about the warmth of the room and the way Tamar breathes so quietly. She's entranced by the innocence of it all. As much as it hurts, Arba has found that she loves Bathsheba's Tamar. It's hard not to; Tamar radiates light and joy. Arba has never seen the child throw a fit when she doesn't get what she wants; has never seen her cry over spilled milk; has never seen her frown in disgust at other people.

Arba has never seen nor met such a perfect child before. Whenever the conversation turns to Tamar, there is no one in the Palace who doesn't smile. Even the imposing Elders are flustered when the Princess skips up to them and ask them innocent questions like, 'what's your favorite color?'.

Well…

Arba frowns.

Almost everyone.

There is one Elder who doesn't seem to…Enjoy the presence of the Princess. The only time he isn't scowling at Tamar is when David is looking; then he transforms his face into a pleasant expression. Arba's sure that she's just imagining it...After all, Bathsheba has told her that Elder Joab is merely a man with a bitter-looking face, and to not worry about it. Still, Arba can't shake the feeling that Joab doesn't like the princess, nor her mother. Bathsheba shrugs it off whenever Arba brings it up, and Arba should too; her mistress is much more wise than she.

Arba should shrug it off.

But once, just once...She knows Bathsheba's face went white when Joab knelt down and smiled coldly at Tamar. And she saw how Bathsheba had quickly ushered Tamar away from Joab after that. And she caught David frowning deeply from the sidelines, his eyes flickering between the Elder and his daughter. Which means that something is going on that she's not aware of. She may just be a simple servant, but she isn't blind, and can sense the tension between the Queen and the Elder. Arba fists her hands, quietly raising from the stool set by Tamar's bed.

She looks down at the Princess, and makes a vow.

I will not let anyone harm you, Tamar. I will never let anyone harm you.

OOOOHHOOOHOhhhhhh Hi guys.

How'd ya like the chapter? I know I promised fluff, but unfortunately I mixed up events from next chapter with events in this chapter...Oops XD. I'm starting school soon, which sucks a lot -.- I will try to keep a steady pace for my writing, but I'm enrolled in a lot of advanced classes this year, which may set me back a bit. Not that I'm not already a late updater... :P

Arba: Arba, darling, keep being you. You are perfect. And you are so cute and motherly ohmygodwhycan'tyoubehapppppyyyyy?

David & Tamar: Okie dokie, so here is a little explanation about David's and Tamar's relationship: David sees Tamar as an example of Bathsheba's ability to break fate, which, tbh, is completely true. The reason why he feels relieved after being slapped by Bath (Bath slapped some sense into him LOL) was because, in a way, Bath giving birth to Tamar is yet another show of his wife's ability to break the fate that made him so lonely in the first place. Even though he was angry, it made him feel good to know that, with Bath around, he won't be alone. That's frankly one of the primary reasons he's always been so attracted and attached to her. And, well, even evil people gotta love Tamar XD

Abigail: The mysterious, painted lady's identity has been revealed! Who is Abigail? What is her purpose? Why does she mean so much to David, to the point that he's obsessed with her? SO MANY QUESTIONSSSSS.

Got any questions or suggestions? Something wrong about the chapter? Grammatical errors, something you didn't like? PM me or leave it in the reviews, I will reply and see what I can do to make the story better/clearer for y'all to understand. ILY MY DARLING READERS!

BYE~~~~~~~