A Manticore Tale

>Have sickly manticore daughteru
>Bedridden most of her life
>Her mother wanted nothing to do with such a sickly child
>Never learned what her tail was really for
>Gives you kisses with it and hugs you
>You're her only friend
>Her disease continues, making her weaker and weaker until eventually she can barely lift her tail
>It flops weakly like an elderly dog's tail whenever she sees you now
>Her bright eyes are cloudy now
>Never once has she cursed her fate, but rather tells as excitedly as she can how lucky she was to have you as a father
>Years pass, and on every anniversary you spend the entire day mired in thought and what-ifs
>One year at her tombstone, laying flowers, you encounter her mother who learned of her daughter's fate
>A mix of emotions seems to be wracking her, and she seems to be genuinely grieving
>Apologizes over and over for what she did, how she never got to really know her daughter
>Makes a few subtle indications that she'd like to have another child - with you

--

In a masterstroke of brevity and pointedness, you tell her two words: Fuck. Off.

Anger and sorrow twist and spiral within. The nerve of that woman, that manticore, that loathsome bitch.

She tries to stammer out a defense, how she was young and stupid but you're not having any of it. Not a word.

The shock on her face only grows and spreads as you launch into a endless tirade about what you really think of her. You tell her of the daughter she never knew. Her smile, her kindness, her insatiable curiosity for life. How could such an adorable little thing have come from such a wretched parent, you finish as you pull yourself up to full height and glare with all your rage at the ever-shrinking manticore.

Tears stream down her face, her lip quivers and her tail is twisted round one leg. She backs off before collapsing to her knees and sobbing into her paws.

She doesn't deserve a second chance, not after abandoning her own child. Despite being able to overpower you any other day, the former mother seems so very small and fragile. But the anger and grief aren't so quick to subside, and you find yourself very nearly striking out. The only thing that stays your hand is the memory of your precious daughter - it's not what she would have wanted.

Hell, the little darling probably would've welcomed her mother back. That's just how she was.

Overwhelmed with frustration, all you can do is knot your fists and stalk back to your car and drive home.

But the thought of another child is not so easily dismissed. That warm smile, that laugh, happiness, and adoration only a daughter can provide. The thought grows heavy. Is it loneliness? A desire for offspring? Would you be sullying her memory?

A long walk. A long walk might help clear your mind.

Is another daughter the right thing? If so, could it be another manticore? Do you want another woman in your life?

--

Thinking and walking, walking and thinking. Your feet go where they wish while your mind lingers on the past. You'd give anything to have her back - even taking back her accursed mother if it meant you could see your daughter's bright smile one more time.

Before you know it, you find yourself in an unfamiliar part of town, but not unknown. There's little to fear, though you do have a twinge of anxiety. Though any anxiety is quickly abated as you come across a flickering neon sign for a bar - The Dusty Tomb. Or at least you think it's a bar.

What you need right now is a good drink or three to quiet the thoughts and ghosts of the past.

The door creeks as it swings open and you step inside. Dark, dank, and filled with smoke. Just like any other hole in the wall. The best kind of place to hide away from the world for a short while.

A few other patrons glance your way as you ease to the bar and take upon a stool, but none linger. The barkeep is a plump woman with long, unkempt hair and an odd skin hue, but that must be your eyes playing tricks from the dark. You order something simple, something strong. With few words she delivers your drink and you hunch over the bar as you nurse it. Normally you'd lean back and keep yourself open, but not tonight. You want to be alone.

One drink. Two drinks. Three and four. Warm and numb, the memories comforting rather than haunting now. It's easy to see how people can become alcoholics, you muse. You did always avoid the drink around your daughter. Model father and all that. But now? Now you're free. For better or worse.

Five drinks and six. Just as you take another sip you nearly jump out of your flushed skin as a cool hand rests upon yours.

A short woman with remarkably, absolutely remarkably pale skin rests her hand upon yours.

"Haven't you had enough to drink?"

Your mind reels and fumbles about in a stupor as you struggle to process this surprise. Was it just your imagination or was her touch rather cool? Maybe your skin is just warm. And why is she telling you how much you can have? Who does she think she is?

"I see that you have," she says, reading your expression.

You snort. Just another woman hitting on a single guy at a bar. Can't they just leave you the fuck alone for like five fucking seconds? Bad enough you were a single dad and had to deal with a deadbeat mother (So common, these days), but now you can't even grieve on the anniversary of your daughter's death in peace.

Any semblance of niceties flies out the window, partly because of your drunkenness, partly because you just don't care anymore. You think your words will instantly drive away this short woman, this woman with unnerving pallor and disheveled hair, but she just watches. And smiles. The fury in your sails does not last long, and soon you find yourself just mumbling and rambling about woman this, whore that. Yet she never stops smiling. Not a smug grin, nor a superior smirk. Just a wry, knowing little smile.

Finally, after you fall silent and stare into your glass, the woman speaks up. Though something is peculiar about her voice that you only just now notice.

"What grieves you so?"

You furrow your brows and level a stare at her. Most would've left in annoyance long ago. Being an abrasive, drunken wreck is usually a sure-fire way to drive off any potential predators. Is she just that desperate? You shake your head and laugh, telling her it's none of her business. What's lost is lost and can never come back.

Her eyes glint and she smiles knowingly.

"What is lost can be reclaimed," she says matter-of-factly. "Don't give me that look; I know your type well."

Once again you're given pause, and you so very dearly wish you weren't so desperately drunk. You steady a look on the barkeeper who returns yours with a smile, followed by a glance towards the woman seated next to you. Their skin tones are... very pale. Lifeless, one might say. Your mind quickens and you whirl around and study the others, rude as it may be. A thought creeps forward: You've probably got the most blood of anyone here. Maybe more than everyone else combined.

The Dusty Tomb. You laugh inwardly, and quickly attempt to excuse yourself, racist as it may be. Undead may be part of the citizenry, and they're well-to-do folks, so you've been told, but you've got other places to drink yourself stupid at.

She doesn't try to stop you - physically, at least.

"Who have you lost? Wouldn't you like to see their return?"

She didn't need to. You turn about, scarce steps from the door.

"Wouldn't you like to hear more?"

--

Your mind lingers, the gears slowly turning as you mull her words. The woman is obviously a lich or necromancer, or maybe she’s just a servant as such. It’s difficult to tell, or maybe you just don’t want to see. Not that it matters either way, since the end would still be the same. The dead brought back to life.

Being able to see your daughter once again. To hear her, hold her, and to seal the gaping void. A long sigh escapes your lips. She was sickly and in pain, but no longer. Her long struggle ended, now she rests. Unburdened by life, free to play and laugh. You’ve no right to return her to life to lighten your burdens.

You laugh dryly, bitterly, to conceal that which you feel. But it’s obvious to the woman, and she seems to want to press in harder. Forstalling her with a hand, you shake your head and tell her that you know what she offers, and you want none of it. Your daughter has earned her sleep.

“No convincing you, is there?” The woman says, mostly to herself. “Fine, fine, I’ll leave you be.”

For a moment you think she’s sympathized with your feelings, but reconsider that she’s simply somewhat annoyed at having lost a ‘sale.’ You must’ve looked like an easy mark, far as she was concerned.

Unwilling to risk any further conversation with the saleslich, you amble out into the streets. The cold air is welcome relief, even serving to sober you up some.

As your feet guide you back towards your house, your thoughts turn to your former wife – Dunya. You hadn’t seen her in an age. Time hadn’t been kind to her. In less than ten years she appeared to have aged 20. Her provocative dress was gone; instead she was wearing something far more conservative. Perhaps it was in respect to the daughter she never knew, perhaps she really had changed.

Still. Tears and words of regret and apologies and modes of dress didn’t mean much. Then again, you were rather short with her. It felt good to vent, but also made you feel a little emptier. Taking it out on her wasn’t going to bring Anysi back, nor would it make her happy.

Reaching home you collapse into bed, the same train of thought looping in your mind. Maybe forgiveness was in order. Tomorrow, anyways. Sleep for now.

--