Act 3. A Mother Scorned Forgives Not

Act 3. Prologue

The light pitter-patter on foliage and dry earth competes with the soft whisper of rustling leaves as his story concludes. The wind sighs as it moves through the open windows, inviting a cool breeze from the dimming green sky outside. The dark clouds loom from afar.

“Your stories are thematic…like the quiet calm before a terrible storm,” the tall young woman says. She curls his long, red hair between her fingers. “I miss those rascals. Greed especially. I was closest to him more than any of them. We both like to read and discuss…silly stuff. I enjoy gossiping with Lust and Envy. They’re like sisters to me.” She withdraws her hand.

She picks up a fork and twirls it between her fingers. “I wonder if Gluttony thought of me often, he is like the little brother I never had. The kitchen is the busiest whenever he is around. I miss Wrath the most though.” She pauses. “I never got to say goodbye to any of them, including my aunt.” The corners of her lips start to sag.

“Your uncle lost to Gluttony, twice. Did you know that?”

Crinkles appear beneath her eyes as they gleam. “I never heard the story how Da’s troupe went dry for a day because the two of them depleted their supplies. Do you happen to know that story?”

“I do but I’ve noticed you haven’t eaten,” he says as her fingers tug at his blindfold. “I would have fed you…” He rattles the chains shackled to the stumps of his severed arms.

“You are very cute.” She pauses. “I mean kind…quite the opposite of what I hear about your ilk,” the veiled woman says. “I should prove a dreadful hostess were I to neglect you. You appear to be enjoying my cooking.”

“We worship refined and cultured cuisine.” He smiles. “Like Gluttony.”

“Infidel,” the hazel-haired woman giggles. She then reaches for a bowl of thick soup, brimming with beef shanks and bones full of marrow. She punctures the marrow with her two-tined fork, scooping out the treasure inside. “You fancy a bite?” she asks.

“I won’t be able to hold you if you faint from hunger.” He shakes his head as she teases his lips with the marrow. The aroma of sweet onions, peppercorns, and beef makes his mouth water, and he cannot bring himself to refuse.

The woman belches loudly, her cheeks reddening as her hand comes too late to cover her mouth. She catches him smiling and playfully slaps his cheek. She reaches for another plate. “Very cheeky of them. They left us none of my favorite. I cook the best sisig in all of western Laurasia.” She pulls a different plate, full of stir-fried noodles with sparse meat and vegetables. “They picked all the meat out of the pancit as well.”

Rain drums against the wheat-and-rye thatched roof. Outside, the surviving livestock stir in the rain. The few pigs grunt in unison, making soft splashes in the mud, while the chickens cluck softly.

“Are your swine and fowl secure?” he asks. “The storm might sweep them away.”

She nods, slurping her noodle dish.

“Your simple home reminds me of someone,” he says, waiting for her to finish her supper. “You worship the Ironsnow?”

“Aye, my mother taught me before she left.” The woman finishes her thick soup, stifling another burp. Her gaze moves toward the altar, where a giant carved wooden bear embraces an intricate figure of a familiar little girl. “I’ve always wondered why the carved little girl looks like me. But aye, the gods are dead, yes, but there’s no harm in remembering them.” She turns her head, raising a brow. “Perhaps you don’t need that blindfold.”

“It’s for your own safety,” he smiles. “Which Ironsnow do you venerate?”

“Come on, man,” he feels her fingers around his blindfold. “Let me see your eyes.”

“They left a few spoonfuls of sisig right over there,” he purses his lips, using them to point toward the table.

She turns her head. “They did not finish my cooking?” She shakes her head, pouting.

She washes down the last of her supper with mead before exhaling loudly. She then raises another brow, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “I do not seem to recall any other Ironsnow save the Mother Bear herself. Scourge of the Gods, they call her.”

“Aye, all gods feared her,” he says, “before they all died.”

“Was she the god who painted the purple moon green?”

“She bore witness to the event. She, among others, including your au…” he pauses, “this tale is not for the faint of heart.”

“Including my?” She says, scooching close. Her arm wraps his far side shoulder. “You owe me another tale then, stranger.”

“Another?” he sighs, shaking his head with a smile.

The woman playfully ruffles his red hair. “Who was the Mother Bear before she became the most feared goddess?”