Six months after they had arrived in the village.
"COUGH. COUGH." The sound echoed through the room, a discordant note in the symphony of life. Meteria's once melodic laughter had now transformed into the harsh refrain of a cough that refused to relent. The air seemed to carry the weight of her struggle, her gasps for breath punctuating the silence. A handkerchief, once pristine white, bore the cruel stains of her ailment—splinters of crimson against the canvas of her vulnerability.
"Momma, are you okay?" Bell's voice, tinged with genuine concern, sliced through the room. His eyes, wide with worry, met his mother's gaze—a gaze that carried within it the weight of a secret too heavy to bear.
"Momma, do you want tea? Gramma said that would help your throat." Alice asks her eyes pleading for something, anything to do to help her mom.
"I'm fine, my dear. But tea would be wonderful" The words, a gentle murmur, were a melody of reassurance that painted over a canvas of struggle. Meteria's lips curved into a faint smile, a mask woven with care to shield her children from the truth that lurked in the shadows. Her voice, once unwavering, now held the tremor of vulnerability.
"Okay. I go make it right away mommy, just hold on. It will make you feel better soon." Alice says as takes off running for the kitchen to make tea.
"I am just a little tired. A little rest and some tea will surely help." The words were a thread of fiction, woven to shield Bell and Alice from the harsh reality that threatened to unravel. Bell's gaze held a mixture of skepticism and worry—a reflection of his love for his mother and his desire to protect her.
1 Year after they had arrived in the village
As Meteria's health declined, Hera became her constant companion and caretaker. Every act of tending to Meteria's needs was an act of love, a heartbreaking testament to Hera's devotion to staying by her beloved daughter's side. Hera had always doted on Meteria and would have done virtually anything for her.
Hera's days were now spent in an almost unbroken vigil by Meteria's side. She fed her helped feed, bathed her, and helped her with every essential task, even when Meteria could still manage some on her own. The weight of seeing her beloved daughter gradually succumb to illness was a burden Hera bore, but it chipped away at her heart each day.
Bell and Alice, keenly observant of the subtle changes, couldn't help but notice the painful truth that the adults tried so hard to shield them from. The signs of Meteria's deteriorating health were increasingly evident. As they noticed the things that the adults tried to keep hidden.
Meteria's health continued to decline, each day bringing new and agonizing challenges for her and her family.
The fits that wracked her fragile body had intensified, the convulsions more violent and unforgiving. They left her gasping for air, fighting a battle against an invisible enemy.
Her breathing had become a rasping, labored struggle, as if her lungs were betraying her, withholding the precious oxygen she so desperately needed. The rhythm of her life was now marked by these breaths, erratic and strained.
The coughing had become a relentless and constant companion. It clawed at her throat, tormenting her with its ceaseless persistence. It was as if her body were determined to expel the illness within her, no matter the cost.
Each coughing fit brought forth another horrifying sight: blood. It stained her sheets, once pristine and white, now marred by the crimson testament to her suffering. The red flecks scattered like a macabre confetti, a stark reminder of the relentless torment she endured.
The once vibrant world beyond their home had faded into a mere whisper of memory. For Meteria, her world had contracted to the confines of her bed, a prison of illness that left her utterly dependent on the care and love of her family.
The walls of their home, which had once seemed so familiar, now enclosed her like a cocoon, a sanctuary of fragility where her family gathered to offer their unwavering support. She was no longer able to leave the house and Hera wouldn't leave her side.
Outside, the world moved on, oblivious to the suffering within their home. The laughter of children at play, the songs of birds in the trees, and the hum of village life carried on without her. Meteria's existence had become a still, quiet world of dimmed hopes and fading memories, a world where every day was a battle against the relentless advance of her illness.
The weight of their family's well-being now rested squarely on Bell and Alice's young shoulders. With Meteria's health deteriorating and Hera's tireless care, the siblings had to step up to manage the household chores. Zeus, meanwhile, toiled outdoors, preparing the family garden, and occasionally venturing into town, in the hopes of finding a traveler, villager, or merchant, who might bring back some sweets to ease Meteria's suffering.
"Today, Bell, we have to tackle the laundry," Alice said, her voice soft but tinged with worry. She tried to mask her concern, but the lines of fear etched in her expression were hard to hide.
Bell nodded, determination in his eyes. "Alright, let's get started."
As they began their tasks, Bell couldn't help but steal glances at his mother. Her once-vibrant spirit had withered, and her once-rosy complexion had faded to a pale, fragile hue. It was as if she were slowly vanishing, evaporating into the illness that held her captive.
He wrestled with a torrent of emotions, feeling powerless in the face of his mother's suffering. The desire to help warred with the helplessness that gripped him. He yearned to be a source of strength for her, but the harsh reality of her condition weighed heavily on his young heart.
"I hope mama gets better," Alice whispered, her voice trembling with sadness and fear.
Bell hugged his sister close, feeling her trembling form pressed against him. He couldn't offer the words that would reassure her, but he could hold her, letting their shared embrace convey the depth of their love and concern for their ailing mother.
18 Months After moving to the village
As the days passed, Bell and Alice noticed that their mother was spending less and less time outside of her bedroom. She had grown weak and could barely get out of bed. When asked why, she'd only say something along those lines: 'I'm just tired. Don't worry sweetie. I will get better soon. Momma loves you and is going to stay with you as long as she can."
One day, Alice heard voices coming from their mother's room. She crept closer and listened.
"It's time to let her go," Zeus said.
"We can't just give up on her! Hermes Said that he had a branch of the Holy Tree. I am sure that will help." Hera spoke with a sense of urgency. "Damn that wretched elf. I can't believe she would send a letter like that. If only…."
Alice's heart sank and she ran away before she could hear more. Her mother was going to die. She ran back to her room and cried. She didn't want to face reality. She wanted to stay in denial. But she couldn't hide from the truth forever.
As the days passed, Alice grew more and more withdrawn. She barely spoke to anyone, even her brother. She blamed herself for her mother's illness. She wished she could have done more to help. She wished she could have saved her. Even if her mind told her there was nothing she could do, her heart was begging her to do something anything to help her mom.
Several days later Hermes arrives with a branch of an Elven Holy Tree.
Hermes stepped into the house; his usually cheerful countenance overshadowed by the gravity of the situation. He knew he was late, but the deteriorating state of public order outside Orario had proved to be a formidable obstacle. Despite the delay, he carried with him something of utmost importance.
"I am sorry. I am so late," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "Public order outside Orario has declined more than I thought it would. But I managed to get it."
Hera's face, etched with worry, brightened at the sight of Hermes. She wasted no time and practically seized him by the arm. "Thank goodness you're here, Hermes. Come with me immediately."
Without further ado, Hera led Hermes to Meteria's room, a place that had become the epicenter of their shared concern. Inside, Meteria lay, her pallor even more pronounced against the white sheets. The room was hushed, the weight of the situation pressing down on them all.
Hermes extended the branch towards Meteria. "Here you go, Meteria," he said, a hint of relief in his voice. "I am glad that I made it."
Meteria's weak smile was both grateful and sorrowful as she accepted the branch. "Thank you, Lord Hermes. I appreciate your generosity. I know how difficult it is to get one of these in the best of times. But I can't take it."
Hera's heart sank, and her voice trembled with emotion. "What do you mean? This could save you!" She was devastated at the thought of losing one of her last remaining children.
The room felt heavy with the weight of the conversation, like the air itself had thickened in response to Meteria's words.
"My illness has progressed too much," Meteria confessed, her voice frail and filled with a resigned sorrow. "The branch will only buy me a few weeks or a month or two at most."
Hera's eyes welled up with tears as she grasped the severity of the situation. "But...but...still... I know your illness has progressed, but this has always helped you recover."
A faint, wistful smile crossed Meteria's lips. "I know," she whispered. "But I have already made my decision. I need to focus on my family. Even if it does push it off, it will only be a few weeks or months at most. I need to think about Alice and Bell."
The sense of love and selflessness in Meteria's voice was palpable as she continued, her gaze locked onto Hera. "Lady Hera, I have a request of you. Please use this for Alice. She has the same sickness. I failed as a mother once; I couldn't give my child a healthy body... I don't want to fail again by taking away something that could save her life. I am choosing my daughter over myself."
Tears streamed down Hera's cheeks, mingling with her heartache as she struggled to find words. "You are not a failure of a mother, Meteria," she said, her voice quivering with emotion. "You have showered those children with every ounce of affection possible. Never think of yourself as a failure again. They are both wonderful children."
Hera takes a breath to steady herself before she nodded, her resolve clear. "I understand. I'll make sure Alice gets this. Don't worry about her, Meteria. We will take care of her and Bell."
In the quiet room, there was a sense of finality hanging in the air, heavy and bittersweet like the fading notes of a melancholic melody.
Meteria's smile, though fragile, held a warmth that lit up the dim space. "Thank you, Lady Hera," she whispered, her voice filled with gratitude and acceptance. "I will assume that this is goodbye, Lord Hermes. I doubt I will live long enough to see you again. Thank you for everything."
Hermes, his godly countenance tinged with sorrow, bowed his head slightly. "I am sorry that I could not do more for Meteria," he admitted, his voice touched with genuine regret. "It was a pleasure meeting you. You truly are too kind of a soul for this world. I will pray that Hades gives you peaceful rest. If Bell or Alice ever need anything, send them to me, and I will do what I can to help."
Tears glistened in Hermes' eyes as he embraced Meteria gently, a god's farewell to a humble soul. He held her for a moment, cherishing this final connection, this fleeting moment of humanity.
Materia chuckled weakly, a trace of her former spirit shining through even in this solemn moment. "Oh, my, to have a God pray for me. I am lucky," she whispered. "Thank you for your offer. Just don't teach Bell to be a peeper," she added, her tone playful despite the circumstances, as she returned Hermes' embrace, her frail form a testament to her enduring strength.
"Haha, I can't promise that, as it is a man's rrrrrrrromance after all," Hermes chuckled, his words light and playful.
But Hera's response was a swift and rage filled. Her voice rumbled like distant thunder, and her gaze turned fierce and cold as she locked onto Hermes. "Fool, if you try to corrupt my precious grandson, I will smite you myself. The depths of Tartarus will be a vacation in comparison to what I will do to you."
Hermes, feeling the weight of Hera's anger, laughed nervously, his brow damp with sweat. He quickly patted Meteria on the back and made a hasty exit. "Hahaha, it was a joke, Hera, I promise. Well, I don't want that, so I had best leave."
As the door closed behind Hermes and Hera, Meteria was left with her thoughts, a somber blanket enveloping her heart. She knew she had made the right decision, but it still hurt. Her children, her beloved sister - they would all be left behind, and she couldn't bear the thought of not being there for them.
Unfortunately for them, unbeknownst to anyone, a set of little ears, just behind the door, overheard the conversation.
Flashback to when Hermes arrived.
Alice had witnessed Hermes, or as he had asked to be called, Uncle Hermes, arriving. She had sprinted to the house but didn't quite make it before Hera pulled him inside. She stood there, concealed from view, her small form quivering with curiosity and anxiety. Upon reaching the house, she could discern voices emanating from her mother's room. Alice opted to wait instead of barging in, allowing her to eavesdrop on the discussions inside.
As the words drifted through the air and into her ears, Alice's eyes widened, her petite body froze as she listened with rapt attention. The gravity of their conversation weighed on her like an immovable boulder, and immediately, she began to blame herself. Guilt coursed through her veins, a toxic poison that consumed her from the inside out.
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she remained hidden, unable to budge. She felt like a helpless spectator in her own life, watching as the world she knew crumbled around her. Her young mind grappled with the situation, unable to shake the belief that somehow, her presence had caused her mother's suffering.
Alice's thoughts spiraled into an ever-darkening abyss. She clutched her chest, her heart pounding as she wrestled with guilt and fear. The room around her seemed to close in, shadows growing longer and more menacing, mirroring the turmoil in her young mind.
Her breaths grew shallow, her wide eyes filled with unshed tears. She pressed her ear closer to the door, straining to catch a glimmer of hope or reassurance in her mother's voice.
Within her young heart, a maelstrom of emotions raged. She felt the crushing weight of responsibility, a burden she couldn't possibly understand but was determined to bear. Her thoughts circled back to the times when she had inadvertently hindered her mother's treatment. She believed she had somehow contributed to her mother's worsening condition, and a sense of guilt weighed heavily on her fragile shoulders.
As the conversation persisted, Alice's inner world grew increasingly turbulent. Her small fingers clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms. She yearned to burst into the room, to express her remorse and explain that she hadn't intended to exacerbate matters. But the fear of disappointing her family further kept her rooted in place, hidden behind the door, ensnared in her self-imposed isolation.
Each word spoken by her mother fueled her inner torment. She wished she could turn back time, undo any perceived mistakes, and make her mother better. In her young mind, she had a child's understanding of cause and effect, believing her presence had somehow triggered her mother's decline. She felt responsible for her mother's suffering.
As the weight of guilt and sadness bore down on her, Alice's thoughts spiraled into darker territory. She envisioned a future where her mother's illness continued to worsen because of her, a future where her brother had to care for her, and where the entire family's happiness crumbled.
Tears welled up in Alice's eyes, blurring her view of the door. She bit down on her lower lip, fighting to keep her sobs silent. She didn't want her family to hear her crying. She didn't want to be a burden.
In her young heart, she had already determined that she needed to make amends, to somehow find a way to heal her mother, even if it meant taking matters into her own hands. The guilt that had taken root in her mind now twisted and grew like a gnarled vine, threatening to strangle her with sorrow and self-blame.
In her young mind, she began to construct a narrative where her existence was a burden, a hindrance to her family's happiness. She felt like an intruder in her own life, a source of pain for the people she loved most. She believed that if she hadn't been born, her mother wouldn't have needed to make this heartbreaking choice.
Alice's thoughts spiraled into an ever-darker abyss. She contemplated ways to rectify her supposed mistake, even if it meant leaving her family to spare them further pain. The weight of her perceived responsibility bore down on her, threatening to extinguish the innocence of her childhood.
Upon hearing Hermes announce his departure, Alice's world crumbled into a myriad of shattered pieces. With eyes brimming with unshed tears, she bolted from the scene, her tiny feet propelling her swiftly through the familiar corridors of her home. Her heart pounded in her chest like a terrified bird seeking escape from its cage.
She didn't want anyone, especially her family, to witness her in this state. She needed to hide, to bury herself in the confines of her room where the walls would shield her from the pain that had just been thrust upon her.
As she reached her room, she slammed the door shut behind her with a resonating thud. The sound reverberated in the ensuing silence. Her room, once a sanctuary of comfort and solace, now felt like a prison, confining her with the tormenting thoughts that swirled within her mind.
Alice threw herself onto her bed, her petite frame shaking with sobs. Tears soaked her pillow as she buried her face in it, muffling her cries. She felt lost, adrift in a sea of emotions too vast for her young heart to comprehend.
Guilt's insidious voice gnawed at her, an unrelenting beast that whispered in her ear, telling her that she was to blame for her mother's suffering. She didn't want to be the reason her family was in pain. She didn't want to be a burden. If she wasn't here, then her mama would have taken the branch and been able to live a little longer. If she wasn't here, then her brother would have a mother for longer. If she wasn't here Grandma Hera would still have her beloved daughter.
In the isolation of her room, Alice's inner turmoil raged on, a tempest of conflicting emotions threatening to consume her. She silently cried herself to sleep. She didn't even notice when Bell came to check on her or that he noticed that she had been crying. Bell gently took one of the blankets from his bed and placed it over Alice. Being careful not to wake her from her, Bell pulled the blanket to cover her, so that she wouldn't catch a cold. Alice stirs slightly: "Bro..."
"You are welcome, Sis. I am always gonna be there for you. We are family." Bell whispered tenderly, his voice carrying the weight of his devotion. He carefully tucked the blanket around Alice, making sure she felt safe and warm before turning towards his own bed. The dim room seemed to echo his unspoken thoughts, a cocoon of shared love and unwavering support.
The next morning
Bell's eyes flickered open abruptly, his heart still gripped by the remnants of a haunting dream. In that nightmarish vision, he had awakened to a world where his mother had slipped away, leaving an aching void, and Alice had vanished into the shadows of uncertainty. He couldn't discern whether it was merely a dream or an ominous premonition.
Bolting upright, Bell rushed to his sister's bedside. Alice lay there, awake but lost in contemplation, her gaze unfocused.
"Hey, Bell. Did you sleep okay?" Alice inquired, her eyes not quite meeting his.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Bell replied with a heavy sigh, his unease lingering like a shroud.
Alice nodded, a silent understanding passing between them. She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of her bed, patting the space next to her. Bell settled beside her, and Alice enveloped him in a comforting embrace.
"It's going to be okay, Bell. We're going to get through this together," she whispered softly, her words infused with sincerity.
Bell leaned into her warmth, closing his eyes as if shutting out the harsh reality that loomed ahead. Fear clawed at his heart, the uncertainty of their future a heavy burden. But he knew he had to be strong, not just for himself but for Alice.
"I'm scared," he admitted, tears trickling down his cheeks. "I don't know if I can do this without her."
Alice's hold tightened around him, her silent support offering more solace than words ever could. There were no easy answers, no magical solutions. They simply clung to each other, two siblings facing an uncertain tomorrow. The world around them seemed to have lost its luster, a precious something slipping through their fingers, though they couldn't quite grasp what it was.
Several weeks later
Materia's fragile form convulsed in the throes of a violent coughing fit, each spasm wracking her frail body. She lay in bed, one trembling hand clutching her chest, the other splayed out beside her. Gasping for air between each bout of hacking, her eyes had taken on a bloodshot hue, and her pallid face glistened with a thin sheen of sweat.
A chorus of concerned voices pierced the air, the urgent cries of her beloved children drawing them to her side. They rushed to her bedside, their young faces etched with worry, their voices a symphony of care and concern.
"Mama," they chimed in unison, their expressions a mixture of fear and love. "What do you need, Mama?" Alice's voice trembled with anxiety. "Can I get you some water?" Bell's concern mirrored his sister's.
Meteria mustered a weak smile as she struggled to catch her breath. "No, my darlings," she managed between raspy breaths. "I'm fine, truly. Just a little cough."
"But Mama, you don't look fine!" Bell protested, his brow furrowed with worry, his eyes pleading for reassurance.
Meteria met their gazes with a soft, tender expression. "I know, but appearances can be deceiving. Sometimes, a cough is just a cough."
Alice's voice quivered with doubt. "But, Mama—"
"Please, my loves," Meteria interrupted gently, her eyes filled with love for her children. "Go play with your each other outside."
The twins exchanged glances; their concern still etched on their young faces. Reluctantly, they began to step away from the bedside, casting lingering, worried glances back at their mother until they reached the door.
Once outside, away from Meteria's weakening form, Bell and Alice couldn't hold back their tears any longer. They stood there, little shoulders heaving, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. The weight of their worry bore heavily on their young hearts as they walked away, their tears flowing like a silent river of anguish.
That Same Evening
The night draped itself over Bell and Alice as they sat side by side on the porch of their home, gazing up at the vast expanse of stars that adorned the dark canvas of the sky. A soft breeze rustled through the trees, and the distant chirping of crickets created a symphony of nature around them. In the quietude of the evening, their mother's bedroom window emitted a warm, reassuring glow.
Alice reached out, her small fingers intertwining with Bell's, seeking comfort in their shared bond. She turned her gaze toward him, her eyes filled with uncertainty and worry.
"What do you think it means that our mama is sick?" she asked, her voice laced with concern. "Do you think she's going to be okay?"
Bell's response was a gentle, soothing whisper against the backdrop of the night. "I don't know," he admitted, his grip on Alice's hand offering silent reassurance. He lifted his eyes to the heavens, contemplating the stars as if they held the answers. "But I know that we have to keep praying for her and being there for her."
Alice nodded, her voice trembling as she voiced her deepest fears. "And I'm scared that she might leave us like Papa did."
Bell met his sister's gaze, the weight of shared apprehension passing between them. He nodded in understanding, his voice carrying a note of resolve. "Me too. But we can't lose hope, Alice. Mama wouldn't want us to give up."
With a heavy sigh, Alice leaned against Bell's shoulder, finding solace in his presence. Together, they continued to watch the stars twinkle overhead, their flickering lights a source of both comfort and uncertainty, their hearts heavy with the weight of powerlessness in the face of their mother's illness.
Two Years After moving to the Village (Bell and Alice are Age 5)
The early morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft, gentle glow across Bell and Alice as they stood in front of their mother's bedroom door. The air was cool and hushed, as if the world outside held its breath in anticipation. With tentative, worried expressions, the siblings exchanged glances before Bell raised his small fist and knocked.
No response came from within, only the silence that hung heavily in the air. Swallowing their trepidation, they shared another glance and then, without a word, turned the doorknob and let themselves into the room. What they found was a sight that had sadly become all too familiar in recent months.
Their mother, Meteria, lay in bed, the lines of pain etched across her face as she was gripped by another bout of harsh, wracking coughs. Gasping for breath, she clutched her chest with one frail hand, her body trembling with the effort to expel the relentless torment. It was a heart-wrenching sight, one that Bell and Alice had witnessed far too often. Each time they hoped it would be the last, but it never was.
Alice couldn't hold back her tears as she rushed to her mother's side. Her voice cracked with anguish as she spoke. "Mama..."
Bell walked over to the bed and knelt beside it. His voice trembled with the weight of his concern. "Mama, can we get you anything?" he asked, his eyes filled with a mixture of love and helplessness.
As they sat by their mother's bedside, their young minds grappled with the enormity of the situation. They had encountered death before, but it had never been so intimate, so cruelly present in their lives. Witnessing Meteria's decline left them bewildered, as if life itself were playing a cruel trick on their innocence. The woman who had always been their steadfast anchor, their source of love and comfort, was now fading away before their eyes, and with each passing day, they were drawn closer to the inevitable end of her light.
"No, just go back to what you were doing," Meteria whispered, her voice fragile as spun glass.
"But Mama, you don't look fine!" Bell's words quivered with fear, his cheeks stained by the tracks of tears.
"I know that doesn't mean I'm not okay," she replied, summoning a faint, reassuring smile that barely concealed the pain etched across her face. Her gaze shifted between her children, filled with a deep, unfaltering love.
"MAMA, what is wrong? Please tell us what we can do to help," Alice pleaded, her voice tinged with desperation as she reached out for her mother.
Meteria's frail form was wracked by another fierce bout of coughing, her body curled in on itself as she gasped for precious breath. Her handkerchief, once pristine white, now bore the cruel stains of her battle. Each hacking cough felt like a relentless assault on her weakened frame, and yet, she refused to yield.
The room bore witness to her valiant struggle. The pale, morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a feeble glow on Meteria's withered form. The air seemed to hold its breath, as if the world itself paused to acknowledge her fight.
Bell and Alice watched, their hearts heavy, as their mother clung to life with every fiber of her being. Her spirit remained unbroken, but with each passing day, they saw the cruel truth unfurl before them. The strength that had once defined her, the pillar of their family, was gradually waning. It was not Meteria's will but her body that now betrayed her. She was ensnared in the relentless grip of her illness, trapped in a web of pain and despair.
"Please. Please don't go. Don't leave us, momma," Bell pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. Alice nodded in agreement, tears streaming down her face. She knew that she had to be strong for her brother, but the thought of losing their mother was too much to bear.
"Is there anything we can get you? We have water, medicine, and food. Whatever you need, we will get it for you. Tell us what we can do to make you feel better" Alice pleads.
"Yeha. What can we do mamma? We would do anything for you mama." Bell
"Thank you both. If you want to go, bring Grampa and Gramma here. Maybe they can help me." Meteria smiles weakly at her children.
"Okay, we will go get them. Please stay here and rest. Don't go anywhere, ok?" Bell says his voice trembling.
Bell takes off running to get his Grampa Zeus and Gramma Hera who are outside in the yard.. Alice stays with her mama, holding her hand and praying for her to get better.
Outside
Zeus and Hera strolled around the family garden, the warm sun casting dappled shadows through the leaves of the trees. The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the distant hum of bees. It was a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere inside the house.
Suddenly, Bell came sprinting towards them, his eyes wide with urgency and tears streaming down his cheeks. "GRAMMA. GAMPA! Come quickly," he cried out, his voice quivering with emotion.
Both Zeus and Hera rushed over, concern etched on their faces. Zeus knelt down to Bell's level, his voice filled with a mix of worry and anticipation. "Bell, what's wrong?"
"It's... mamma," Bell choked on his words, his shoulders trembling with sobs. "She... isn't getting better. She asked to see both of you."
Hera's hand went to her mouth in shock, and Zeus's gaze hardened as he absorbed the gravity of the situation. They had known this moment was inevitable, but the reality of it was still a heavy blow.
"Come on, Bell," Zeus said, his voice steady and resolute despite the turmoil in his heart. "Let's go see your mother."
Back inside the house:
Zeus and Hera rushed to Meteria's room, their footsteps echoing the urgency of the moment. The air inside the room felt heavy, weighed down by the impending farewell.
Hera, her voice quivering with emotion, approached Meteria's bedside. "How are you feeling, Meteria?" she managed to say, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Meteria, her frail form nestled amidst the sheets, met Hera's gaze. Tears welled up in her eyes as she tried to find the right words. "I'm sorry, Lady Hera," she whispered, her voice barely more than a fragile breath. "I don't think I can last anymore."
Zeus, standing beside his wife, fought to keep his voice steady. "It's okay, child," he reassured her, though the pain in his eyes was evident. "We are all here for you. We will take care of you."
Alice, tears streaming down her face, couldn't contain her sorrow. "Mama, what do you mean? You can't leave us yet," she sobbed, her voice filled with desperation.
Materia's heart ached for her children. She extended her trembling hand to gently stroke Alice's hair. "I'm sorry, Alice," she whispered, her tears flowing freely now. "But I am not getting better. I can feel it. I am dying. I most likely won't survive the night."
Bell, his own tears blurring his vision, cried out in anguish. "NO! Please don't say that Mama. You have to fight it!" His voice quivered with a mixture of fear and denial, the weight of impending loss pressing down on him like a crushing wave.
Materia's apology hung in the air, heavy with sorrow and regret. Her children's tears mirrored her own, a collective display of love and anguish.
"I'm so sorry, my children. I'm sorry that I'll never be able to hold you again after this. And I'm sorry that it came to this world sick, Alice. I'm a failure as a mother. Please, forgive me!" Materia's voice quivered, and fresh tears flowed from her eyes as she poured her heart out to them. But as she spoke, a transformation occurred within her, a shift from self-blame to an overwhelming sense of peace, a serenity that surpassed mortal understanding.
"Mama, it's not your fault," Alice choked through her sobs, her grip on her mother tightening as if to anchor her in this world. "You can't blame yourself. You gave us everything we needed. You are our hero. We will always love and remember you. But please don't go."
Zeus and Hera stood nearby; their faces etched with profound grief. They had witnessed this heart-wrenching scene before, knowing that it was only a matter of time before Materia would join their other lost loved ones in the afterlife.
Materia, summoning the last reserves of her strength, smiled at her children. Her trembling hand caressed their hair, a final touch of a mother's love. "I'm sorry, my adorable children," she whispered, her voice a mere whisper in the room's heavy silence. "I wish I could stay with you for longer, but it seems that my time has come. Promise me that you'll look out for each other and that you'll keep your hearts open to love."
She continued, her words raspy and weak but filled with tenderness. "The world can be a cruel place, but it can also hold great beauty. Remember that. Goodbye, my sweet children. I love you both so much. Never forget how loved you are, even after I'm gone. I don't know how your life will be without me in it anymore, but I know that you are strong and brave. Remember me always, and I will always watch over you. I pray that you'll live a happy life, that one day you'll get the chance to see your auntie before she too passes from this world. Just know that no matter what, I'll always watch over you from above."
Bringing Bell and Alice close to her, she pressed a loving kiss to each of their foreheads, as if trying to transfer all the love in her heart to them. Her eyelids finally closed, and her breathing grew faint. Materia had clung to life with an unwavering tenacity, her spirit refusing to yield, all for the sake of her children. For years, she had fought her illness, especially after their father's tragic death, clinging ever more desperately to life, trying to shield her children from further pain and loss. Her will hadn't faltered; it was her fragile body that could hold on no longer.
Her will was an unyielding force, desperately trying to command her weakening body to perform the simple act of breathing. But her body, worn and frail, refused to obey any longer.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, she finally surrendered to the inevitable. Her once vibrant eyes, now dulled by pain and weariness, closed gently, and she slipped into a peaceful slumber. Each breath grew slower, labored, a symphony of struggle that filled the room. The stillness was broken only by the sound of her raspy breaths, until they, too, grew faint.
Then, in the quiet of that room, there was only silence. An emptiness descended, accompanied by an ache of pain entwined with profound sadness, as her chest ceased its rise and fall.
"MAMMMAAAAAAA!" Bell and Alice's wails pierced the silence, their young voices carrying the weight of unimaginable loss. Their small hands clung to the lifeless ones that still held theirs tightly. They held onto her, their tears flowing unchecked, as their world crumbled around them.
Hera, consumed by inconsolable grief, leaned heavily on Zeus for support. The weight of their shared sorrow was palpable, their hearts aching for the pain their grandchildren were enduring.
Bell and Alice's hearts, once whole, now shattered into a million pieces. Alice enveloped her brother in a tight embrace, their shared grief a bridge that drew them closer together. They had lost the one person who had loved them unconditionally, who had given them hope for the future.
Standing by their mother's bedside, their small forms cast long shadows in the dimming light, and they knew that their lives would never be the same. They had been blessed by the grace and beauty of her love, and they understood that her memory would be their guiding light in the dark days ahead.
"Goodbye, momma," Alice whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. Her words hung in the air, a final farewell to the woman who had been their anchor in their turbulent lives.
Their world had shifted irreversibly, a kaleidoscope of emotions swirling within them. They understood, in the depths of their hearts, that life would never be the same again. It was a realization that weighed heavily on their young shoulders, but they were determined to honor their mother's memory.
In the wake of that profound loss, they made a solemn vow, a pledge that echoed in the chambers of their souls. They would carry forward her legacy, a torch of compassion and kindness. Their purpose became clear: to look out for each other and protect their family from anyone that would hurt them.
And so, with that unspoken promise etched into their hearts, Meteria passed away. She found her final resting place in the village cemetery, a serene spot beneath the open sky. Her plot, adorned with a simple stone slab, stood as a beacon of remembrance, surrounded by a sea of flowers and softly flickering candles.
Each day, without fail, Bell and Alice would make their pilgrimage to her grave. They sat by her side, as if she were still there with them, sharing the details of their lives, the trials and triumphs, the joys, and sorrows. They believed in their hearts that she was listening, that her spirit lingered in their lives, an invisible presence that would forever guide them.
But the days that followed Meteria's passing were a storm of grief and sorrow. Bell and Alice were engulfed by the abyss of their mother's absence, their hearts heavy with the weight of loss. They rarely ventured beyond the threshold of their home, seeking solace in the familiar walls that held the echoes of her laughter and love. Their grandparents, Zeusand Hera, offered their support and comfort, yet the pain of their mother's absence remained an unrelenting ache in their hearts.