Inspired by "In my Arms" by Plumb and the video "The Sufferer's Final Sermon"
This is a special update in honor of All Saint's Day. Suffy deserves it. And I can't believe it's already been a year since I dedicated a chapter of "Unconditional" to him.
Also, there's a reason I didn't use the words Dolorosa, Disciple, Psiionic or Sufferer/Signless. If it's hard to understand who I'm referring to at any given point then please let me know and I will try to clarify. However I will NOT be adding names. I wanted to write about the Sufferer and Dolorosa, but I thought I could also use this as an opportunity to practice a different style of writing. I can follow my logic but sometimes it takes an outsider's point of view. I WILL accept criticisms and I WILL make clarifications if necessary.
I do not own Sadstuck i mean Homestuck. :'(
"Mother!"
The cries of the child echoed through her ears, her mind, her heart. Innocent, pure, happy, it deafened the noise of the crowd around her. The jeers, the demands for red blood to be spilt across the stage faded away. Visions of a time and place that seemed so far gone began to superimpose themselves over her sight. The poised arrow, the constricting chains, even the cruel, sadistically manic grin on the face of the highblood presiding over the execution disappeared, no, changed into a lush green field under the morning sun.
"Mother," her child called again, rushing over, stumbling over the terrain when he stepped on his still too large cloak. She was by his side immediately, checking for injuries. There wasn't a single drop of his beautiful blood. From the smile on his face she needn't have worried so. "Mother, I found this in the forest," he explained, offering her a flower.
It was a tiny thing, much like the child she held in the circle of her arms. It was a deep violet, reminding her almost sickeningly of the man who would sentence her and her child to death should they ever be found. "The color is so pretty. You like colors, don't you, mother? But we don't have this color in our hive," he held it up higher, wanting her to take it.
Her heart stirred. Her son had no fears of the world outside of the forest. Had no idea of what the color represented for his mother; hatred, elitism, corruption. But she hadn't the heart to tell her son, not yet. "No, we don't have that color in our hive. Thank you, son, for thinking of me," she replied, gathering him closer and delivering a kiss onto his mess of black hair. She could not lie to him, could not tell him she liked the color. But her son responded eagerly to the affection by cuddling into the loving embrace. For that beautiful moment he was none the wiser to his mother's pain.
Her vision shifted again, bringing a new memory into focus. Her child was only a sweep older, yet she could already see the despair and the resignation shining in his still dark eyes. "Mother, what is a lowblood?" he asked, already seeming to know the answer. A sharp sliver of pain wriggled its way into her heart. She had known since the day of his hatching that she could not keep him hidden from the truth of their world forever. A young troll often felt wanderlust, and a need to expand their horizons. That her son had ventured into a city had come as little surprise. Her only feelings were of relief that he had returned home safely.
She settled onto the grass, and in a moment he was by her side, looking up at her expectantly. "My darling, each troll has a blood color which determines his or her place in the social hierarchy. Lowblood is an insult for those whose blood places them on the lower rungs of the hierarchy," she explained.
The child frowned. "Where are we on the hierarchy, mother? What color is our blood?"
Jade eyes closed briefly, wishing she could have postponed this day just a little longer, just a few more days before she would have to begin letting her beloved son go. "My blood is jade like my eyes, so I'm near the middle of the hierarchy. However, you are different, my son."
"How?" her child inquired, confusion clear on his face.
The breeze that occasionally graced them blew an errant lock of hair into her son's face. Gently, she brushed it aside. "My son, I told you once before that young grubs are generally raised by a lusus."
He nodded eagerly, beaming up at her with a loving smile. "Yes. And you told me that you fell in love with me at first sight and decided to raise me yourself," he continued the story.
She nodded, trying to smile at her beloved son but failing. "There is more to the story, more than I ever wanted to tell you. But you were special, my love, and I expect you will become a great troll one day. You deserve to hear the truth."
At the woman's somber tone, the boy's smile fell. He moved closer to her and placed his slender arms around her waist. She placed one hand around his shoulders, regretting the formation of a culture that was out of her control yet she felt personally responsible for. "Your blood is candy red, my son. It is a color that does not exist on the hemospectrum. No lusus would have taken you in and raised you." At this the child gasped, hugging her more tightly, burying his face into her side. It was just as well because she couldn't bear to continue watching his face as she inflicted this pain on him.
"But I could not bear to watch you wither away and die. I stole you from the breeding cavern, abandoning my duties as a caretaker of the mothergrub, the true mother of all trolls. I brought you here so that I could raise you in safety. I took you away from the drones and the highbloods who would punish you simply for being hatched."
He nuzzled into her further, and she squeezed his shoulder consolingly. Yet when he looked up she did not see the teary eyes she had expected. What she saw both broke her heart and filled her with hope; a feeling that would become all too familiar over the course of her life. "You are my true mother. You love me even though I am a mutant. Perhaps, someday, the highbloods will learn to accept me as well." There was a deep love shining in his eyes as he gazed up at the woman. It was a struggle to keep her own eyes dry as she pulled him into a proper embrace, holding him close to her heart.
It wasn't for almost a sweep that the older woman had learned that her son had not learned the word from the city, but in a dream. This had troubled her greatly at first. It could indicate that he had psychic powers more common amongst the lower castes. But as time went on he began to explain to her that they were not visions of what was happening. Rather, they were memories of what already had been. They were dreams of a world long past, where those of all colors were equals, where the disabled were cared for, where grubs knew their heritage.
It was far more promising than an unclear vision of the future. It was proof that peace had once been the norm. And it gave the mother and son hope that things could be returned to their proper state.
His first sermon, his first sharing of his beautiful vision with someone other than his mother was to a single, poor ochre blood. The pair had wandered into the city hoping to share the red blood's vision. The ochre blood, tired and bruised from a fight with a teal blood, had been extremely reluctant at first and turned them away. But as the mother and son returned, time and again, speaking passionately to anyone passing through that alley, the ochre was always there. One day the psychic was the one to approach the pair.
The mother sat on a small box. It was an empty, unused produce crate that her son had specifically appropriated and cleaned for her comfort in the small alleyway. He stood to her left, preaching to a group of lowbloods numbering at only 10. At first, the group was interested, stirred by his call for freedom from oppression. But at the call for a peaceful revolution, for equality instead of a true coup d'etat, nine left, disinterested in anything but revenge. The only one who remained was the ochre.
He approached the mutant, ignoring his mother, who in turn remained seated while the males spoke. "Why do you bother? I mean, you've had maybe two trolls who were willing to listen for more than a minute," the slightly older troll commented.
Her son smiled warmly. He was completely unfazed by the other man's deep set frown. "I try for the sake of those two trolls. And I try for the sake of all the trolls who have no interest in my message as well. For I truly believe in a world where we can all be brothers and sisters, regardless of blood color. Our colors may make us unique, may play a part in who we become, it does not necessarily make us become better than anyone else; that is up to us. And even if they have given up hope of our civilization realizing this truth, I have not," he stated calmly, in no rush.
The other troll stood for a few moments, then smiled. "You're stubborn, but honest. You aren't like some of the two-faced preachers I've seen around here before. Maybe this time something will get done."
With that, the two shook hands. As the previously quiet mother stood, her son pulled his first follower into an embrace. She felt a small wave of pride and hope wash over her as she in turn offered a greeting to their new ally. But even more than that, she felt joy, not at having a better chance at rescuing their world, but that her son had made his first, and truest, friend.
The next time she experienced such joy was due to the lovely olive blood. Their newest ally, the ochre, began to gather up trolls who would be more inclined to listen to the mutant's message. The young olive had happened to be among those numbers. At every sermon, she would sit near the front, carefully watching. The young mother did not pay it much mind at first. She attributed the high level of attention to curiosity.
However, as time went on, the jade blood realized it was something more. The olive blood's sharp eyes, reminiscent of a feline, would always soften when she gazed upon the red blood. And it was not long before the glances were being returned. Sometimes, after the others had left, the young woman would linger. The ochre would escort the older jade home. They both wished to be considerate of her son's desire to explore the budding flushed romance.
It was not long before the she was approached by her son, the young woman in tow. "Mother, this is my love," he said, introducing the young woman.
At first the mother was shocked at the lack of the typical label for a flushed partner. But then she smiled as her heart swelled at the pure joy in her son's eyes. It was with great contentment that she took the girl into her arms. It was all too clear that her son had avoided the label intentionally. He was trying to convey to true depth of the relationship which defied all convention. It was reminiscent of the relation between mother and son in that sense. "It is good to meet you, my dear," she said, stepping back and taking the smaller hands in her own. The girl smiled happily, pleased at being so readily accepted in spite of her obviously unusual relationship with the young man.
"I'm happy to meet you as well, ma'am. I've heard so many wonderful things about you. I'm honored, really," she added almost sheepishly, glancing at her lover.
For a short time, the lives of the four were peaceful. Her son preached of the love and kindness he had always carried in his heart, shared his vision of a world filled with equality and peace. A world where children were safe and adults were friends, where even he and the man who would later sentence him to death were companions, allies instead of enemies. A world free of the stigma of blood, where a rainbow was beautiful instead of a reminder of the separation of the colors that should rightfully bleed into one. More and more people began to support the ideas that they had once been too scared to hope for.
But they could not hide forever when so much was at stake. It was always at the height of success when the fall was hardest. They were ambushed, betrayed by a rust blood who had informed the highbloods of their meeting place. The crowd was the largest yet, making for a veritable sea of blood when the drones began their slaughter.
The ochre, being a powerful psychic, was taken away to be used on the ship of the Empress. Whether that was a mercy, saving him from having to see the execution of his closest friend, or the greatest cruelty, the jade could not say. The mother and her new daughter were thrown into a prison. Her son was taken away for questioning and torture. It was days before either woman saw him again. He was dragged back to the cell across from theirs, his back a bloody mess of red flesh.
It sickened and infuriated the mother. In those last few weeks she had seen the light, the hope, the ever present love fade from his eyes as they sat in opposing cells, waiting for his sentence to be carried out. But never, never had it gone out entirely gone out, never completely left his eyes. In the jail he had continued to preach and share with inmates and jailers alike. It was to no avail, but he had no intention of giving up his hopes and dreams for his friends and family and the generations that had yet to be hatched.
When the drones brought the shackles, the family knew it was time. He had reached through the bars, reached through the space separating them to clasp the hands of the two women he cared for most. The drones had ripped them apart. He was taken out first out to be prepared for the execution. The women were escorted out shortly after and told to stand on the sidelines as the spectacle began.
Reality came back to her in the form of a familiar, well-loved voice breaking through the haze of her memories. She listened closely to those last words. They would be his final sermon and his final legacy. Through the final screamed curse, through the sickening squelch of the arrow buried in her dear son's chest, through the deafening silence surrounding his dying body and the roaring cheers of the sick-minded crowd, he gave her one final look. Through that look she heard loud and clear, "I love you, Mother."
Her heart shattered. Grief made her wild and angry. Even when hunger from the jail had left her body weak, her heart raged against the servant of the still grinning yet utterly silent highblood. The olive blood, her son's lover, screamed, and the two women raced forward. The executor halted the olive blood by grabbing her arm and throwing her to the ground. The mother watched over her shoulder her son's lover was handed his bloody clothes and told to run. There would be repercussions for the blue blood to be sure. Yet that was none of the mother's concern.
She collapsed upon reaching her son, kneeling before him as the drones released his shackles. His body, still not completely stiff and cold, slumped down. She placed his head in her lap and wept bitterly at the injustice of the world as his beautiful blood seeped into her dress.
His life was over, but there was still plenty of pain and tears and heartbreaks in store for his fellow mutants, his fellow lowbloods, his fellow trolls, his fellow beings. But it was as he had said in his final sermon; he may be gone, but the ideals he held dear even in his rage and heartbreak would never die. "I love you as well, my dear son," she whispered, placing a final kiss on his forehead.
Someone tugged on her arm, and she looked up to see a teal blood. The young woman quickly flashed a pendant. It was the sign of her beloved son. While the neophyte would be unable to do anything to help her, it was a brief show of solidarity, proof that all was not in vain.
The grieving mother allowed herself to be led from the execution block. As she left, she whispered, "Rest in peace, my son, for your suffering is at an end."