There were flowers. Sunlight shone on them through the glass, gently stroking the plants. Deft hands tended and cut, with equal tenderness.

  Outside it was still winter, and the cold reigned, but in the Lady’s garden it was always summer, or at least spring.

  Socia observed a master at work. Her delicate fingers in the dirt, how she pruned the growth to shape it.

  She was not of It, but It was all around her. It clung to her, wrapped around her so tight, Socia wondered.

  How does she even move?

  But she did, with grace and precision, she shaped It.

  And made her garden bloom.

  All under her father’s light.

  His gaze.

  “Are you going to stand there all day, my Socia,” her Lady said.

  “I know I can be captivating,” her Lady said.

  She found herself next to her. A hand pruner in her hands, and her Lady behind her, and the growth before her. With words of encouragement, clear instructions, and careful hands which touched her, guided her, she was set to task.

  Did she know that I know?

  Many flowers and plants did she cut and prune. The diseased parts set aside to be burned and thrown away.

  Erased.

  The healthy parts, unmarred by black spots, were put in a pot, so it could offer the garden sustenance once it had properly rotted.

  Reused.

  “Isn’t it beautiful. Our work… Your work, my Socia,” her Lady said.

  And it was beautiful, like walking within a living painting of green and a multitude of other colors. Arranged into this beauty, by their hands, and tools.

  Shaped.

  Her Lady had saved her most beloved plants for last. Their color, a tint of copper.

  Brass.

  Socia hadn’t talked about her supplication to the Primeval, her counsel with the three-in-one, the revelations she had unearthed.

  She turned her head and saw her there, shades on.

  She doesn’t wish to look upon him.

  As her Lady once again prodded her hand into an alignment, from where Socia could make the most excellent and cleanest cut.

  She trapped her Lady’s hand against her wrist.

  “I know,” Socia said.

  “You shouldn’t visit her in the winter. She is always in a foul mood then,” her Lady said.

  “If you had visited in the spring the Maiden might have taken you shopping.”

  Her Lady’s hand shook, so little, Socia almost didn’t catch it, but she was Socia.

  “I know,” Socia said.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Her entrapment of her hand became a grip shared.

  “Should I tell you everything. Should I share all with you, my Socia,” her Lady said.

  “Do you share everything with me? Do you not have any secrets?” her Lady said.

  My letters to my mother.

  Did she know.

  “I do not demand to know all your secrets,” her Lady said.

  “Or your deepest thoughts.”

  “Only that you remain, my Socia.”

  The grip became an embrace, and Socia to it did yield and allowed herself to be held.

  “But ask, if you wish to know something, and I will share it with you, if it is within my power,” her Lady said.

  Socia’s gaze fell on the brass rose while her touch was with her Lady.

  “Is your father… the Ambition? Is he the Sun?” Socia said.

  “Yes, my Socia. He is,” her Lady said.

  The rose healthy, they had pruned it very well.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  “Is your mother the Moon? Is the Bride the Moon?” Socia said.

  From her lips the words fell with greater haste, eager as she was to dine on truth shared as their bodies swayed in harmony with one another.

  “Yes,” her Lady said.

  “Did you ever talk with one another?” Socia said.

  What did I just ask?

  The sway stopped. Ceased. The rose was still there.

  “Yes,” her Lady said.

  “It was a long time ago. When I was young,” her Lady said.

  “I don’t remember much.”

  “Only her voice and touch.”

  Her Lady’s face found her hair, as if she sought to breathe her in.

  “And what she called me.”

  It was such a fine rose.

  “My little flower bud.”

  “My little rose bloom.”

  “My Rose.”

  She began to sway again, and Socia with her.

  “Thank you for holding me in the night,” her Lady said.

  “When I felt so alone.”

  A rose embraced her from behind, one shaped by uncaring and absent hands in an environment offering no sustenance, no love, while another grew in the fertile soil in front of Socia, one which had been handled with love by caring and present hands.

  As one should handle.

  A Rose.

  “Again,” her Lady said.

  Socia got up, dusted herself off and settled into a stance.

  Her Lady struck, and Socia blocked, her bones rattled but didn’t break, unlike the sound which arrived with a crack.

  Like thunder.

  Yet her stance held, and the ground remained undisturbed, she didn’t even sink an inch into it.

  Again.

  Her Lady’s attacks were a whirlwind of arms, a storm of fists, a cascade of blows.

  Her forearms throbbed, even her palms burned from deflections.

  Bones cracked, skin torn.

  And then a kick to her stomach sent her flying.

  Her feet put a stop to her involuntary flight, broke her trajectory.

  But she gasped for air and couldn’t breathe.

  Her Lady’s gaze fell on her, but no blows landed anymore.

  Only a finger wagged.

  “It isn’t enough, my Socia,” her Lady said.

  “You are Above It, do you not feel it?”

  “You see it in me.”

  She could.

  She saw.

  The silver sun, the star within her, a divine fire.

  “Attack me,” her Lady said.

  Socia struck like the wind, with such speed, the air cracked behind her.

  Her Lady wasn’t there. A palm steered her blow aside, and Socia almost fell.

  Fists, open palm, elbows, knees and kicks, a wave of attacks to overwhelm her Lady. Combinations, both trained and improvised, to fool her defenses. All foiled by steps, and slaps, and eyes heavy with disappointment.

  “Attack me,” her Lady said.

  Trip her, get a hold, throw her, but to no avail. Her Lady escaped, slipped away, and offered no opportunities to use leverage.

  But Socia could not escape, nor slip away, her Lady’s hips below hers, an arm caught and she flew and landed on the ground on her back.

  The ground was her Lady’s fist.

  And it nearly broke her back.

  “Do not cling to what you were,” Her Lady said.

  “You are not It.”

  “Anymore.”

  “Tell me what you are,” her Lady said

  Socia sprang up from the ground in a single, fluid flip.

  “I am your Socia,” Socia said.

  “And,” her Lady said.

  “I was a goddess of travel in the beginning.” Socia said.

  In the sky her Lady’s father shone upon them. The sand beneath her feet, the river close by, the wind rustling leaves. She could feel It.

  “I am Socia. I am journey with meaning.”

  “I am the hunt for truth.”

  Tendrils coiling. Webs binding. Threads connecting. Her eyes could not unsee It.

  All fed by the Sun.

  His rays fueled them, filled them with life.

  “Your father is the source of all.” Socia said.

  Her Lady tilted her head.

  “Is he?” she said.

  “Look at me,” her Lady said.

  A heart of silver, a fire without end. It made her glow; it flowed within her veins.

  And then.

  Fool of a woman she was.

  It seeped into the sand below, deep into the ground, and made things grow. She could feel it in the Stone.

  To every island in the seas, she had brought life.

  Her garden thrived.

  Roses grew.

  She was wrapped by the It, not as an enemy to be constrained, but as a source of nourishment. It was not a hindrance to her, but a partner in a dance.

  “You see beyond It. Good, my Socia,” her Lady said.

  “You see me,” her Lady said.

  “You feel me.”

  “But what about yourself?”

  “Why can’t you see yourself?”

  “Feel yourself?”

  “Like I see you.”

  “Like I feel you.”

  “My Socia.”

  Socia dusted herself off again.

  Took a stance.

  I don’t know.

  I just feel.

  Lesser.

  Socia was in the garden, only the moon and the stars gave light, but it was enough for her.

  Wasn’t she Socia?

  The dark didn’t bother her, only the depths of her thoughts. Her lingering sense of inadequacy.

  Of failure.

  The Scion beast had almost killed her. She would have died.

  If not for her.

  The lily, an argent thing, lay rooted in the pot before her.

  Her fingers felt the dirt, her eyes saw everything.

  The soil dry, the plant thirsty, yearning for life.

  She poured water on the soil which drank it eagerly, she quenched its thirst, until water pooled beneath the pot.

  It was enough.

  But the plant foolishly yearned for more than had been given.

  Like a rose, one must handle a lily with care, but one shouldn’t spoil it.

  “Forgive me,” her Lady said.

  Socia knew she had entered a few moments ago, she could feel It, feel her through It.

  “There is nothing to forgive, my Lady,” Socia said, and turned her attention to another lily.

  “Your failure is my fault. Forgive me for not seeing it before,” her Lady said.

  Water flowed. The soil received. The lily drank.

  “I am less than you. Always was. Always will be,” Socia said.

  Socia put the watering can away and faced her Lady.

  “Only in power,” her Lady said.

  Socia’s eyes narrowed.

  “Then why train?” Socia said.

  “I can never be like you.”

  “I can never be your…”

  “Equal.”

  I will always be lesser.

  “So, you can see what I cannot see,” her Lady said.

  “But if you do not wish to train.”

  “We will not.”

  “My Socia.”

  Socia snapped and smashed the pot at hand on the ground.

  Broken pieces and soil, and among it, a lily.

  “I will always be less,” Socia said.

  “As will I,” her Lady said.

  She remained poised, a statue, her gaze averted to the lily on the floor.

  “I will always be my father’s lesser.”

  “A pebble on the beach.”

  “And my children who I fed with my breast, only to have them torn away.”

  “They will remain my lesser.”

  “Apart from me.”

  “In my father’s hierarchy.”

  Her gaze returned, her eyes wide.

  “Tell me Socia. Is your mother your lesser?” she said.

  “Have you read my letters?” Socia said.

  Her Lady’s head jerked ever so slightly.

  “No. I would not do that,” her Lady said.

  “You think I would?”

  In her Lady’s mask a little crack.

  I’m a piece of shit.

  “No,” Socia said.

  Her Lady’s lips parted.

  “Forgive me Socia. I asked you the wrong question.”

  “Do not ask what you are.”

  “But who are you?”

  Who am I?

  Am I not your Socia? My father’s daughter? My mother’s…

  Lily.

  Socia crouched and took the lily into her hands.

  It still lived, but it was bruised.

  Damaged.

  By careless hands.

  Her own.

  Her lips parted, her gaze remained with the lily.

  “I am myself.”

  In her eyes broken petals reflected.

  “I am Lily.”

  Lightning made the dark flee.

  And the lily, live.