(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

the stink of the Hive so much.
~~~~~
The door creaked as I pushed it open. I had been hesitant to come, anxious
that I might face her again. Or worse, I wouldn't see her at all.
As I entered Mebbeth looked up from her bed, her face ashen as if she were
gravely ill. As I watched, creases spread across the folds her face like cracks
and her gray eyes flickered, as if having trouble focusing on me.
"Mebbeth, are you all right?" I knelt down next to the layers of woven mats
she used as a bed. The air smelled dusty. The medicinal scent of the drying
herbs had turned stale.
"Aye..." She smiled weakly. Her voice was scratchy, as if trying to force its
way past layers of dust. When she spoke, it was like an echo. "I have... a
little longer..."
"Mebbeth..." I took her hand in mine. It was cold and dry, and flecks of her
skin fell away and clung to my palm, "did you know you were Ravel?"
She took a deep breath... her words came slowly, her voice rattling in her
throat. "Mayhap... Mebbeth has forgotten herself many times over... I have
dreamed that I was someone else..." Each word was heavier than the last, as
if centuries of weight were pressing down on them. Her body seemed to
shift slightly, as if wanting to relax, let go.
"How could you not know who you are?"
"How is it ye do not know yerself?" Mebbeth licked her lips. "Many things...
even bits of the self... they fall through memory's cracks, shadows of things
forgotten, these memory thing-pieces, maybe bad... maybe good."
"But why Mebbeth? Why the disguise when you could have been Ravel
again?"
"Here, in this place, all I did was the mendin' of things and bodies, settin'
bones, deliverin' babes... in all these things, I was content." She sighed. "As
for being that other, that Ravel..." She licked her lips again. "I think... ye take
for granted what a comfort it would be, oft times, to misplace a memory or
1095