Theudifara: The Adventurer's Ambition is to Become the Empress

Month 1, early summer.

The storm clung to the valley like a fever. Rain hissed through the roof cracks for three days, and Mom's new smile—all teeth and hollow eyes—made even the sunlight feel wrong. Fleda refused to eat unless I sat close enough to share breath. "...Yeah. She's still Mom," I whispered one night, clutching the cold, icy locket. "Just… sick."

We carved rules into the hearthstone with a kitchen knife:

Don't touch Mom's belly.

Hide sharp things after sunset.

If her eyes go black, run to Uncle Theo's.

But rules didn't stop her from stealing things, including Fleda's starflower garland.

"Found it," I said, kneeling by the loose floorboard near the hearth. The hiding spot reeked of rot—a nest of chicken bones, Fleda's frayed garland, and Mom's wedding circlet glinting under mold.

"Mine," Mom rasped, hunched in the corner. Her swollen belly brushed the floorboards as she crawled closer.

Fleda sniffled. "But those were for the Solstice Dance—"

"We'll weave better ones," I lied, pulling her back. Mom's fingers twitched like spider legs.

Later, Fleda braided a new garland from nettles. "It's ugly," she muttered.

"Good," I said. "Ugly keeps bad spirits away."

Month 3, late summer.

As the weeks dragged on, the summer sun began to shine more brightly, but it felt like a cruel joke. Mom's belly grew, and with it, her erratic behavior. She started hoarding food—vegetables from the garden, eggs from the hens, even the last of our cheese. "It's for the baby," she insisted, her hollow smile stretching wider.

"Mom, we need to eat too!" Fleda pleaded one evening, her voice breaking.

"No." she snapped. An endless pit filled her eyes again. "You don't know anything."

Fleda clutched my arm tightly. "Sis, let's just go to Uncle Theo's," she whispered, fear etched on her face.

"...Okay."

That night at Uncle Theo's, I found Fleda scratching marks into her cornhusk doll: 144 days till winter.

"What happens then?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Mom stops being scary?"

I stirred honey into her chamomile tea. "I hope so."

Month 6, early autumn.

Mom started craving raw earth.

"Nightshade roots," she slurred, digging fingers into the garden soil. Her nails tore through carrot tops, leaving gashes in the earth.

"We don't eat them uncooked!" I snapped, prying her hands free. Her skin felt wrong—cold and doughy, like uncooked bread.

Fleda hovered by the compost. "Should we call—?"

"No." I guided Mom to the willow chair. "Sit. Now." To my shock, she obeyed, staring blankly as I tied her wrists with dishrags.

We decided to fed Mom turnip mash. She spat it out, laughing—a wet, gurgling sound. Fleda giggled nervously. "That's gross!"

For a heartbeat, Mom's eyes flickered warm. Then she coughed up a beetle.

Month 9, mid-winter.

The frost came, and with it, a calm. Mom stopped stealing. Stopped clawing at the earth. Stopped speaking altogether. Her belly swelled round and heavy beneath her woolen smock, but her eyes—once sharp as hawthorn thorns—now drifted like smoke. Some mornings, she'd stare at Fleda and me as though we were strangers. The good thing is, Mom now isn't as violent as she used to be. So, we treated her as if she never had a breakdown in the first place. Time heals, they say.

"It's me, Mom. Adele," I'd say, tapping my locket she always told me to take care of. She'd blink, her trembling left hand reaching for it, only to freeze midair as if the gesture hurt.

Fleda noticed the shaking first. "Your arm," she whispered one evening as Mom struggled to lift her teacup. Chamomile sloshed onto the table, the cup rattling like a trapped moth.

"Adele..." Mom mumbled, but her words slurred, thick as spoiled honey. When she tried to stand, her legs buckled. I caught her elbow, her skin felt papery and cold.

"Let's get you to bed," I said, guiding her to the woven reed mat by the hearth. She shuffled, her steps tiny and uncertain, left arm jerking at her side. Fleda trailed behind, clutching Mom's discarded shawl.

Month 9, Week 2.

She forgot my name today.

"Who…?" Mom squinted at me, her good hand patting my cheek. The left one trembled in her lap, fingers curled like dead leaves.

"Adele," I said, swallowing the ache in my throat. "Your daughter."

Her brow furrowed. "I have a daughter?"

Fleda burst into tears.

Month 9, Week 4.

Mom wet the bed last night.

"Don't look," I told Fleda, stripping the soiled linens. But Mom wailed—a raw, guttural sound—as I tried to clean her.

"Shame… shame…" she sobbed, her shaking hands covering her face.

Fleda brought lavender oil. "Remember? You taught me to make salves when I burned my hand."

Mom blinked, confused. "Did I?"

Fleda's smile wavered. "Yeah. You said lavender mends everything."

Mom didn't answer. She never would.

***

Time had a funny way of sanding down sharp edges. The shadows that once clung to our walls like starving wolves had retreated, leaving behind a fragile normalcy. Ten moons had waxed and waned since Mom returned—ten moons of learning to breathe around the ghost she'd become.

She wasn't the mother who'd swung me onto her shoulders to pick apples, nor the hollow-eyed demon who'd hit us with blazing red poker. This new Mom existed in the in-between: quiet as snowfall, her hands trembling as she traced patterns only she could see. Dr. Ecgric called it hollowbone fever—a rare sickness that hollowed out memories and muscle alike. To me, it looked like watching someone drown in slow motion.

The fire crackled as I nudged another pea pod toward Fleda. Her small hands worked deftly, but her eyes kept flickering to the corner where Mom sat, her trembling fingers tracing invisible shapes on the armrest.

"Stop staring," I muttered, tossing a shelled pea into the bowl. "You'll summon the Hollowbone Hag."

Fleda's nose scrunched. "That's not even a real story."

"Says the girl who hid under the blankets during Granny Wen's bone-owl tales."

"I was fourteen," she hissed, lobbing a pea husk at me. It missed and landed in Mom's lap. We both froze.

Mom didn't react. Her clouded eyes stayed fixed on the window, where a sparrow pecked at frost-edged glass.

"See?" Fleda whispered, her bravado crumbling. "She's not even—"

The porch door slammed before she could finish.

"Delivery for the fiercest housekeepers in Ercangaud!" Uncle Theo's voice boomed through the room, cheeks ruddy from the cold. He dropped an armload of firewood with a thud and brandished a cloth bundle. "Special commission from the forge. Guess who's been hammering away all week?"

Fleda perked up instantly. "Fram made something?"

Uncle Theo winked. "Sharp as ever, sprout. Though if you ask me, the boy's better at swordplay than sentimental—"

Fleda snatched the package, nearly toppling the pea bowl. The cloth fell away to reveal an iron rattle, its surface etched with vines and tiny stars.

"Stars," she breathed, turning it in the firelight. "Like Mom's old brooch."

Uncle Theo's grin faltered for a heartbeat. "Aye. Fram said you mentioned she liked constellations."

I stiffened. Mom hadn't worn that brooch since the night she'd thrown it into the well.

"It's… practical," I said quickly. "Iron's sturdy. Won't break when the baby chucks it at walls."

Fleda shot me a glare. "It's perfect. Tell Fram I said so."

"Tell him yourself," Uncle Theo chuckled. "He's been moping by the smithy all week, waiting for your approval."

Fleda's ears turned pink. "I don't mope."

"Could've fooled me," I said, nudging the rattle's clapper. It chimed softly—a sound too delicate for iron. "Remember when Fram 'accidentally' forged his initials into your shovel?"

"That was one time!"

Uncle Theo barked a laugh. "Boy's smitten as a spring calf. But don't let it—"

A wet thud cut him off. We turned to find Mom's teacup upside down on the floor, liquid seeping into the cracks. Her hand still hovered mid-air, trembling.

"I've got it," I said, too quickly, lunging for a rag.

Uncle Theo crouched beside Mom, his voice softening. "Melinda? Let's get you cleaned up, eh?"

She didn't resist as he guided her soiled sleeve away from the spill. Her eyes stayed vacant.

Fleda gripped the rattle tighter. "Does Fram know about… about how she…"

"Knows enough," Uncle Theo said, avoiding her gaze. He patted Mom's shoulder—a gesture that might've been comforting if she'd flinched—if, she'd noticed. "Says he's making moons and comets next, if he can source the brass."

"Comets?" Fleda's voice wavered. "Mom used to say they carried lost souls."

The room chilled. Mom's lips moved silently, tracing some half-remembered lullaby.

Uncle Theo cleared his throat. "Well! These peas won't shell themselves." He tossed a pod at Fleda, hitting her forehead.

"Hey!"

"Eyes sharp, Ermenfleda Ercangaud! What if that'd been a goblin's eyeball?"

She giggled despite herself, the sound loosening the knot in my chest. As their mock battle escalated—peas flying, Uncle Theo's exaggerated oaths—I watched Mom's fingers twitch toward the rattle.

For a heartbeat, her pinky brushed the etched stars.

Then the moment passed, and she was gone again.

***

The scream tore through the house like a blade through parchment.

Fleda jolted upright, her knee slamming into mine. "Was that—?"

"Stay here," I ordered, already scrambling for the door.

She grabbed my wrist, nails biting flesh. "Don't leave me!"

Beyond the threshold, lantern light slashed the hallway. Aunt Isla's voice barked orders—"Boil more rags! Ecgric, hold her legs!"—while Mom's guttural moans vibrated through the floorboards.

"You're hurting me," I hissed, prying Fleda's fingers loose.

Her chin trembled. "What if she—?"

"She won't." The lie tasted bitter. "Come on."

We huddled by the hearth, knees knocking. Fleda clutched Mom's tattered shawl—the one she'd salvaged from the burn pile—as Dr. Ecgric's muffled curses drifted through the wall.

"Is… is blood supposed to smell like that?" Fleda whispered, gagging as copper-tinged steam wafted from the birthing room.

"Probably." I fed another log to the fire, sparks stinging my eyes. "Remember when Old Gudrun's cow calved? The barn reeked for weeks."

"This isn't a cow!"

"Shh!" I glanced at the closed door. "You want Mom to hear?"

Fleda drew the shawl over her head. "She's not Mom right now."

The next scream proved her right—a feral, scraping sound that sent Fleda scrambling into my lap. We sat fused together, counting ceiling cracks until dawn bleached the windows gray.

Then—

A wail. High, clear, alive.

Fleda froze. "Is that…?"

The door creaked open. Aunt Isla stood silhouetted, sweat-drenched hair sticking to her neck. In her arms squirmed a bundle wrapped in linens thinner than our winter cloaks.

"Meet your brother," she rasped.

We inched forward. Mom lay motionless on the bloodied sheets, her chest rising in shallow hitches. Dr. Ecgric pressed a damp cloth to her forehead, his spectacles fogged with exhaustion.

"Will she…?" I couldn't finish.

"Sleeping draught," he grunted. "Best not to move her yet."

Aunt Isla knelt, offering the bundle. "Support his neck, Adele."

The weight was terrifying—lighter than a bread loaf, yet heavier than every harvest combined. Fleda peered over my arm, her breath hitching.

"He's… purple."

"All newborns are," Aunt Isla said. "You were worse—looked like a plucked crow."

Fleda scowled but leaned closer. "Why's his nose all squished?"

"Your head crushed it coming out."

"Liar!"

A weak rasp cut through their bickering. "Mine."

Mom's hand twitched toward us, fingers curling like a dying spider. The baby whimpered, sensing the tension.

"Easy now," Dr. Ecgric warned as I edged closer. "Don't jostle her."

Mom's clouded eyes found the bundle. A tear tracked through the sweat on her cheek. "Mine," she repeated, the word fraying at the edges.

Fleda stiffened. "Does she… recognize him?"

"Enough." Aunt Isla pried the baby from my arms and settled him against Mom's chest. "Let her hold what's left of herself."

We watched in silence as Mom's trembling fingers brushed the baby's cheek. For a heartbeat, her lips curved—a ghost of the smile she'd worn teaching me to braid rye stalks.

Then her hand fell slack.

"Manfred," Fleda blurted.

Dr. Ecgric raised a brow. "Eh?"

"His name. It means 'wise man' in Granny Wen's stories."

I studied the baby's crumpled face—the furrowed brow, the mouth already questing for a breast that might never nourish him. "Fits a warrior."

"Warrior?" Fleda snorted. "He's uglier than Fram's dog."

Aunt Isla swatted her shoulder. "Give him a week. Babies improve with air."

"Unlike some," Dr. Ecgric muttered, earning a pea husk to the ear.

As their laughter filled the room, I slipped my pinky into Manfred's fist. His grip surprised me—fierce, primal, alive.

Mom's breath hitched in sleep.

Fleda leaned her head on my shoulder. "We'll teach him to throw axes, right?"

"Better than farming."

"And… and how to make honey cakes?"

"You'll teach him that."

She hesitated. "What if she—"

"We'll be enough."

The lie felt lighter this time.

***