Queen of Lemuria

The marketplace of Altherra buzzed with life, a symphony of sights, sounds, and smells. Merchants called out their wares, their voices cutting through the clink of coins and the laughter of children darting through the crowd. The aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the tang of cured meats and the earthy scent of herbs, creating a heady mix that lingered in the air.

A young woman of about 22 wove through the bustling throng with practiced ease, her woven basket swaying gently at her side. She wore a simple gown that brushed her ankles, its faded blue fabric cinched at the waist with a frayed sash, and a straw hat over her mass of brown hair to shield her from the scorching sun. The villagers greeted her with nods and smiles, their warmth a testament to the quiet respect they held for her. Though she was not of noble blood, she carried herself with a dignity that belied her humble origins. She was a daughter of the village, her kindness and quiet strength earning her the love of those around her.

She made her way to a familiar stall, where an older woman with a weathered face and graying hair was arranging bundles of rosemary and sage. Stopping at Bertha's herb stall, she exchanged pleasantries with the older woman, whose weathered hands spoke of decades spent tending to the land.

"Good morning, Bertha," she greeted.

The woman looked up, her sharp eyes softening at the sight of her. "Ah, if it isn't young Aphira. What brings you here today?"

"I'm in need of a few herbs. Mother's run out of thyme and mint, and I could use a little rosemary for tea," she said, her fingers grazing over the bundles of dried herbs.

Bertha smiled knowingly. "They're their usual prices, but the mint is five coppers now."

She tilted her head, feigning contemplation. "I'll give you three coppers for the mint." Her fingers brushed the vibrant green leaves.

Bertha tilted her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "Three? Aphira, you know as well as I do that this mint is worth at least four. It's the freshest batch I've had all season."

She raised an eyebrow, her tone teasing. "Fresh or not, Bertha, you and I both know these leaves don't fetch much these days because of their abundance."

Bertha chuckled, the sound warm and unguarded. "A sharp tongue, as always. Fine, three it is—but only because you're my best customer." She leaned forward, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, "And because I know you'll be back next week with another list."

She grinned, slipping the coins into Bertha's calloused hand. "You've caught me. I wouldn't trust anyone else with my herbs."

Bertha placed the mint and a few sprigs of rosemary into her basket with practiced ease, her movements deft despite her years. "Flattery will only get you so far, girl. But it does make my mornings more interesting."

Her smile softened. "Thank you, Bertha. And don't forget to set aside some sage for me next time. We're running low at home."

"I'll have it ready," Bertha assured, giving her a pointed look. "But you better not shortchange me again, or I'll double my price just to teach you a lesson."

She laughed, the sound light as she adjusted her basket. "Deal."

With a final wave, she turned, her heart a little lighter as she melted back into the lively hum of the marketplace.

As she tucked the herbs into her basket, a sudden cry shattered the rhythm of the marketplace.

"Help! Someone help!"

Her heart leapt into her throat as she turned toward the sound. A woman stood in the center of the square, clutching a small, trembling boy to her chest. His face was flushed with fever, his body limp in her arms. Without hesitation, she pushed through the gathering crowd, her focus narrowing to the child.

The mother's voice cracked with desperation. "Please, someone help him! He won't wake up!"

She knelt beside them, her voice calm but firm. "Let me see him."

The boy's skin burned under her touch, his shallow breaths rattling in his chest. She worked swiftly. From her basket, she pulled sprigs of mint and thyme, crushing them between her fingers to release their healing oils. Mixing the herbs with a splash of water from a villager's flask, she prepared a simple remedy.

"Hold him steady," she instructed, her tone brooking no argument.

The boy's lips parted weakly as she administered the mixture. Moments stretched into eternity as the fever's grip loosened, his breathing evening out. When his eyes fluttered open, a collective sigh of relief rippled through the crowd.

"Thank you," the mother whispered, her gratitude evident in her tear-streaked face. The woman reached into her pouch and brought out some coins.

"Here, as payment for your service."

"No need. Use the money to buy some herbs for your son in case the fever rises again. I don't accept money for my service."

"Miss, you can accept it as payment for your herbs we used."

She smiled warmly at her. "It's nothing." She took the woman's outstretched hand in hers and covered it. "Just take good care of your son. Seeing him well again will make me much happier than a few coins."

"Thank you, miss."

A noise arose from a stall at the far end of the market. Apparently, a boy had decided to take advantage of the situation and started stealing from people.

With the crowd's attention shifting elsewhere, Aphira quietly withdrew, her footsteps carrying her toward the temple of Euphrata. The structure loomed ahead, a timeless sanctuary carved from stone, its tall arches and etched symbols bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun. Dedicated to the low goddess of healing and compassion, the temple stood as a testament to the legend that Euphrata once walked among mortals, mending broken bodies and soothing weary souls. Though the goddess's presence was long gone, her memory lingered in the murmured prayers of the faithful and the soft glow of candles that never ceased to burn.

Inside, the air was thick with reverence, the faint scent of burning incense curling around her like a cloak. Aphira approached the altar, the flickering candlelight dancing across the serene features of Euphrata's statue. The goddess's marble face, covered with a veil, etched with eternal calm, seemed to meet Aphira's gaze, as if listening. Lowering herself to her knees, Aphira clasped her hands together, her whispered words carried only by the silence. It wasn't gratitude she offered but a plea—a quiet cry for guidance she wasn't certain would be answered.

The soft shuffle of footsteps pulled her from her thoughts. She didn't need to look to know who approached.

************************************************

"How is your mother, Aphira?" she asked, her voice gentle but steady, carrying the weight of a question she already knew the answer to.

"Not better," I replied, my words hollow. The tightness in my throat made every syllable feel like a jagged stone scraping its way out. "She's not getting better." My voice cracked, and I felt the first prick of tears burning at the corners of my eyes. I clenched my jaw, trying to push the emotion down, but it spilled over, thickening my voice with pain.

The priestess sighed, her expression soft with practiced compassion. "It's just fate, Aphira," she said quietly. "There's nothing you can do about it."

Her words struck me like a slap, cold and dismissive, though I knew she didn't mean them that way. My hands trembled as I released the altar and stepped back, the weight of my helplessness pressing down on me like an iron shackle. "I healed someone else today," I said, my voice trembling with desperation. "A boy—he'd been burning with fever . I used nothing more than mint and thyme. Mint and thyme!" My words spilled out like a torrent, my anger and frustration bubbling to the surface. "By minutes, his fever broke. He smiled at his mother like nothing had ever been wrong. Why can't it work with her? Why does everything I do fail her?"

The priestess turned to me fully now, her gaze steady but filled with an unreadable emotion. "There are some things we can't understand, Aphira," she said softly. "Healing is a gift, but even the greatest gifts have limits."

Her words were meant to console, but they ignited something sharp and fiery in me instead. "That's not good enough!" I snapped, my voice rising in the stillness of the temple. The echoes of my outburst bounced back at me, mocking the futility of my rage. "She's my mother! How can you stand there and tell me it's just her fate to suffer and die? To wither away while I watch, powerless to save her?"

The priestess stepped closer, her robes brushing softly against the stone floor. She reached out, placing a hand on my shoulder. The gesture was meant to be reassuring, but it only made the storm inside me rage harder. "I get your pain," she said, her voice calm and unwavering. "But this is destiny, Aphira. You've done all you can, and sometimes, that's all the world allows."

"Destiny?" The word spilled from my lips, thick with bitterness. I pulled away from her touch, my hands balling into fists at my sides. "If this is destiny, then it's cruel. If this is fate, then it's heartless." My voice dropped, trembling as tears blurred my vision. "I can't accept that. I won't accept that."

The priestess's eyes softened, and for a moment, her composure cracked. I saw something there—pain, perhaps, or regret—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. "It isn't about what's fair," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Fate rarely is. Sometimes, we are simply meant to endure."

Her words washed over me, but they didn't soothe. They felt like cold water on a wound, sharp and shocking. "I'm tired of enduring," I said, my voice shaking with the force of everything I felt. "I'm tired of watching her slip away, tired of being told to just accept it. How can you ask me to sit here, day after day, and do nothing? To let her die as if her life—my life—isn't worth fighting for?"

The priestess's hand hovered for a moment before falling back to her side. "I don't ask you to do nothing, child," she said softly. "You've given her comfort, love, and strength. Those are the most powerful gifts anyone can offer."

"But it's not enough!" The words burst out of me, loud and raw. My tears flowed freely now, hot trails streaking down my cheeks as the weight of my helplessness crashed over me. "None of it is enough. If I have these gifts, why can't they save her? What's the point of being able to heal others if I can't save the one person who matters most?"

The priestess sighed deeply, her gaze distant, as though searching for words that could pierce through my pain. "The world is full of questions like that, Aphira," she said finally. "Questions without answers. Perhaps her journey is meant to guide yours. Perhaps there's a reason beyond what we can see now."

Her words felt hollow, like a weak bridge over a chasm of despair. I turned away from her, unable to bear the quiet acceptance in her eyes. The ache in my chest was too heavy, too loud, too consuming.

"I don't care about reasons," I said, my voice quiet but fierce. "If fate thinks it can take her from me, then I'll fight it. I'll fight until I have nothing left to give."

The priestess watched me in silence, her expression unreadable. When she finally spoke, her words were slow, deliberate. "Sometimes, Aphira, fighting the impossible is what teaches us who we truly are."

"I need to go," I said, my tone softer now. "My mother is waiting for me."

The priestess inclined her head, stepping back. "Go, then. Tell your mother that I will come later this week."

Without responding, I stepped into the cool evening, the crisp wind biting at my skin.

The village stretched out before me, its narrow streets lined with modest homes and lanterns flickering in the growing darkness. My mother's house was small but sturdy, a refuge in a life full of uncertain.

The path to my mother's house was familiar, lined with wildflowers that swayed in the gentle breeze. The modest cottage stood at the edge of the village, its thatched roof weathered but sturdy. Yet as I approached, an unease settled over me. The door, which I had locked that morning, was slightly ajar.

My pulse quickened as I stepped inside, my senses on high alert. Everything appeared untouched, but a low murmur reached my ears—a voice, deep and unmistakably male, coming from my mother's room. Gripping the handle of a broom, I crept forward, my heart pounding in my chest.

Pushing the door open, I froze. My mother lay on the bed, smiling faintly, her frail form propped up by pillows. Beside her stood a man Aphira had not seen in months.

"Lugal…" I breathed, the broom slipping from me.