Mara and Morok

“The second daughter in the same family!”

“What a blessing!” the villagers are whispering louder now, watching us with rapturous attention.

I look back at my sisters, Maras, and I see them smiling. But these smiles are thin and sad for, unlike the villagers, they realize what a tragedy it is for the family. They know people only talk about the blessing till it comes to their own house and forces them to give up their own child.

And my parents have to give up a second one.

I feel a treacherous joy rising up in me, mixing with bitter disappointment. I know this pain of separation, I know the lessons my sister will have to learn the hard way, the destiny that awaits both of us. We are destined to live a lonely life, devoid of love of our parents or a husband. We can’t marry, our lives are dedicated to ridding the world of evil. I don’t want that for my sister. But the warm feeling that I’m no longer alone is already spreading inside my chest.

“Anna,” I reach out for my baby sister again and now, she presses against me like she used to when she was a baby.

My father wipes away the tears before they fall, but my mother is not trying to hide hers. She cries openly, gently stroking my hair. They don’t say anything to the other Maras because they know that no pleas or threats will stop them. Anna will be taken away no matter what, even if she has to be prized away from her parents’ arms.

They say there used to be families that tried to escape and save their daughters from their destiny. But it would always end the same way. The girl would be either given up voluntarily or taken from the arms of already dead parents. So now, no one even tries to resist. No girl who was marked by Morana has ever managed to escape her fate.

But no family has ever been ‘blessed’ with two Maras either. I glance at the Maras again and it hits me. Anna must be special.

Irina steps forward and gives me her hand. I grasp it like a straw and follow my mentor. My other hand is still grasping Anna’s, so I’m dragging her away too, to some new, magical world that she’s only heard of from the fairy tales and legends. The world that will become her new reality, so different from the one we used to dream of, huddled together around the fire on cold, winter evenings.

3

I grit my teeth when Prince Daniel orders his men to find a white steed for me, even if they had to turn the whole village inside out in the process. The more time I have to spend in his company, the more annoyed I become. His childish enthusiasm and the way he talks about the old legends, which for me are (or rather used to be) harsh reality, are really starting to get to me.

“I don’t need a white steed, Your… Highness.” I add the last word under Dariy’s intense and hostile stare. I’m doing the best I can not to snap at him that the dislike is mutual.

Daniel turns to me and his lips break into a ready smile. Either he doesn’t notice the way he sets my teeth on edge or he’s doing it on purpose, just to have a little fun at my expense. And judging by the fact that his smile that doesn’t stretch to his observant eyes, I’m gravitating towards the latter.

“Oh, my dear Agatha, but you do! For two centuries people have thought of Maras as a thing of the past…”

“We are.” I butt in.

“…and here you are, in your scarlet cloak…” he goes on paying no heed to my comment. “…entering the capital on a white steed. A living legend. White is one of your colors, isn’t it?”

“It is, but…”

“Good!” says Prince, turns away from me and shouts to his soldiers to double down on the search.

I feel an overwhelming urge to give him a good kick, but one glimpse of Morok stifles it immediately. He’s standing still like a statue, in his black armor and his black-and-gold mask, half hidden by the hood. If Maras’ colors are red, black and white, Moroks are said to wear only black and gold.

The Shadow’s servants are just as real as Maras or evil spirits, but back when I was still alive, they were somewhat of a legend or a cautionary tale for Maras. They have a similar job to ours, they lay lost souls to rest. But if Maras were always easy to reach and anyone could come to the temple and ask for our help, Moroks are hard to come by. Rumor has it that there are only three to five Moroks out there at any one time and only a few people know for sure where their temple is or if they have one at all. Moreover, not many people would have the guts to reach out to them even if they knew how to. Maras are merciful, even when we sever the life threads tying you to earth, we offer a chance of reincarnation, of life after death. The soul finds its peace and flies to the Goddess, who will determine its next life form. Death at Morok’s hand is… the end. There’s no rebirth, no second chances. Some say that Moroks can also send a soul to the Shadow forever. No one and nothing is there, there are no smells or sounds, it’s neither hot nor cold in the Shadow. Just an eternal excruciating emptiness that you can’t escape. The mere thought of that place, impossible even to imagine, makes me shudder.

Kings used to take interest in Maras for our ability to prolong a life. But a Morok has a different power, to raise the dead from their graves by tying them to him. One Morok can only raise one person. However, I still haven’t figured out how they managed to raise me from the dead. It’s been two hundred years since I died. Why hasn’t Morana taken my soul? Why hasn’t my body completely decomposed? However, now is not the time to pester my convoy with questions. For now, I’m just watching the prince and Morok as carefully as possible. And that’s another mystery: why is a Morok helping a prince in the first place?

Apart from this one, I’ve only seen a Morok once. It was when I was seventeen. That Morok was wearing a raven mask. I know each Morok has his own mask, it’s magically tailor-made to suit each particular servant of the Shadow and is given some additional powers. But neither when I was seventeen nor now can I seem to muster enough courage to pry further.

I am back in my room at an inn. It’s our last stop on our way to the capital. We’ve already been on the road for about a week. The rumors about a live Mara who has been raised from the dead and showed her powers by vanquishing a few ghouls have spread quicker than we expected. I hear people ooh and aah whenever they see our procession. But as soon as they glimpse Morok, they huddle in small groups, apprehensively watching us pass by.

As it has turned out that manacles are excessive and Morok could hunt me down easily without them, Prince Daniel has decided to discard them. But barely a minute passes without me wondering if I can ask him to put them back on, if it means I don’t have to travel on Morok’s mount together with the Shadow’s servant himself. The first time, he lifted me up like a sack of potatoes and sat me down right in front of him, pressing hard against his chest. But he relented when the pain in my shoulders made me hiss. Since then, Morok has been gentler while helping me on his horse, but for the first couple of days every time he put his arms around me from behind, I shuddered with fear. On the third day, the fear didn’t subside, but I learnt how to relax my muscles while sitting so close to this monster.

Back in the room, I’m packing my few possessions. Prince Daniel treats me now a bit less like a puppet he has taken hostage, and more like a welcome guest. How ironic. These cute gifts he’s been showering me with, like a hair comb with an exquisite bone handle from one village, a piece of fragrant lavender soap from another, a brand-new dress to replace the caftan, ruined by the ghoul, from a third village, just make me want to roll my eyes. But beggars can’t be choosers, so I gratefully receive all the presents with a smile, albeit condescending. It’s all I can manage, considering that the prince can be showering me with gifts one day, and tossing me back into the grave the other.

The wounds have already healed, just as Morok promised, and even my skin has turned a shade pinker. In one of the villages, I finally found a full-length mirror. I wanted to see how bad a walking corpse could look like. On the whole, it was better than expected.

I smell like lavender because of the soap, my skin doesn’t peel off anymore, and my body is not falling apart. On the contrary, with each passing day, I’m starting to look more and more like a living person. At the beginning, my skin did have this blueish tint to it, but now it’s just a bit paler than normal. I have lost a lot of weight and my jawline is sharper than I’m used to, which makes me look older than nineteen. But Morok has reassured me that it will get even better and the more time passes, the more I will resemble myself. Apart from my hair and eyes. My once jet-black hair has remained grey and my eyes have become lighter and foggier, which makes me look eerie.

I shoot a glance at a small mirror on the table and wrinkle my nose in distaste as soon as I find the reflection of my eyes. I was never as beautiful as my sister but nor was I bad-looking or spooky.

Since the start of our journey, I’ve found out that not only do I feel pain, but I can also become tired. That’s why I have to spend my nights sleeping. I breathe too, though I’m still not entirely convinced that it is necessary, I do it by force of habit. My body is functioning from force of habit too, it is just doing what it is used to. My breath can quicken or slow down depending on my emotional and physical state. I don’t have to eat because I don’t feel hungry, but sometimes when I see or think about food, my mouth starts watering. Morok has told me that I can taste some dishes I crave if I want to refresh my memory about their taste, but my body does not really need food. The most unusual feeling, however, is the sense of stillness in my chest, where my heart should be beating. But to that Morok said that it would re-start when I am stronger, and then I will be almost indistinguishable from normal people, because it will start pumping blood through my veins and my skin will turn the right shade again.

I take some stibnite from my purse and line my eyes with it. I also cover my lips with a special paint. Those, too, are Daniel’s presents. I used to use stibnite when I was still alive, but instead of lip-paint we would use juice from different berries. Progress can’t be halted; people have come up with new ways to make themselves more beautiful. Well, the make-up is an improvement, but my outlandish eyes are now even more pronounced than before.

“I wonder what my Goddess would say if she knew that I too am a spirit now”, I say aloud, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

“She won’t say anything. Your Goddess couldn’t care less, just like everyone else.”

The sound of his voice makes me start. I didn’t see him enter the room.

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t answer, just shrugs his massive shoulders and gestures me out of the room. It is time for us to leave. I toss the rest of my things into a small bag and follow my guard.

“Yarat is only a day’s ride away now, my dear Agatha,” the prince reminds me, while Morok helps me onto a white steed.

The prince found one after all. And I catch myself thinking that my scarlet cloak does look nobler against the white of the horse’s back. I smile, patting the white of the horse’s neck. The steed is beautiful indeed, with its long mane and silky tale. It’s a pity its magnificent body will be stained as soon as we start on this muddy road. Though fortunately, it didn’t rain much yesterday.

“So, you can smile,” the prince says with a grin when Morok has stepped away.

My smile vanishes. But I continue stroking the horse’s mane and meet the prince’s gaze.

“I do not allow myself to smile for the fear you might fall in love with me, Your Highness.”

He only grins wider.

“And what if I already have?”

His question catches me off guard. Daniel runs his fingers through his golden locks with a look of satisfaction on his young face. He must be waiting for an answer but I keep silent, ashamed at my loss for words. My life has consisted of worshipping my Goddess and training and killing evil spirits. Maras can fall in love but what’s the point? If you have been chosen by Morana, you can never get married, your fate is to serve the Goddess. Most sisters, me included, preferred to banish these feelings knowing that there is no future there. So, my experience of flirting is almost non-existent, which is more than can be said about the prince. I have a hunch he will defeat me in these verbal duels more than once. The only thing Daniel fails to take into account while playing his little game of seduction with me is that I hate princes. But now I can think of nothing better than straightening myself in my saddle and ignoring the question completely.

“I will take it as a yes,” grins Daniel and mounts his horse.

“A yes to what?” is all I have time to say before he trots away.

I let out a scoff of frustration and brush my hair back to put on my hood.

4

Winter has always been our favorite season. Not only because my sister and I have been marked by Morana, the Goddess of Winter and Death, but also because it is the time of year when magic seems to envelop the whole world. I especially love a night after a snowy evening, with a full moon makes the snow shimmer and twinkle like stars. And the frost in the air bites your cheeks and tickles your nose.

I breathe out a small cloud of steam, wrap myself tighter into my fur-lined scarlet cloak and take a few apprehensive steps towards the woods. My legs in high, winter boots sink into the snow up to the middle of my shin.