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Perfectly normal children who would be culled if I could not alter their path in a matter of days. The reinforcement of no painful consequences in my class would only lead them to act out everywhere else.
Durim was frustrated.
But I could not bring myself to break one of their perfect little fingers.
One afternoon, when the boy was particularly rowdy, I even started crying in the middle of class. Certain I was not cut out to be an instructor, that the responsibility was too big, I lost control of myself and sobbed into my hands.
Of course, my theatrics caused a general panic amongst the littles, a watcher reported me, and Cyderial descended.
My mate being a pure leader and utterly terrifying, the boy wet himself by the time the general was finished yelling at him.
Cyderial continued the class, and Cyderial did break three fingers. The boy, the girl, and another student who made a simple mistake.
Order returned, but all I could think about was the fact that my baby would have to go through this if I dared do something so stupid as grow pregnant.
I wanted my daughter to be able to twirl, to laugh, to sing….
The more these ideas came to me, the more I began to wonder what she might look like should I indulge in this insanity.
Would she have pale hair like her father, or dark, thick hair like mine? I always saw her with my brown, hooded eyes, and I imagined a pretty smile that would be taken from her when she was five.
When she would be forced to come here, and I might only see her in class. How much would she hate me for it?
Would she ever be able to forgive me for offering her up as a sacrifice before society developed enough to deserve her? Would she understand why I was so stupidly considering such a nightmare?
Would it ultimately benefit her if I took this risk now before the opportunity for male support evaporated?
Was I wrong about everything?
Dark thoughts would come, daydreams about the fog I longed to disappear into. Secret wishes that poison air would roll through the city and choke all the humans who made this suffering necessary.
Secret bitterness grew in my heart; I began to sound like Cyderial in my thoughts. Why should we die for them, when they already solved the issue of their existence with our creation?
But so many of the humans did not see us as their children.
Strangers on the street called me an abomination.
Many would call my children abominations.
How I could have grown so disillusioned so quickly saddened me deeply. But I forced it down, hid it, unprepared to admit my inner failings to the very man who shattered my world view.
In a matter of days, teaching those wonderful children, knowing what I knew, I grew to loath the unseen humans in power—influential men and women whose names I heard in meetings yet never so much as laid my eyes upon.
I wished horrible evils would befall them. Then shame would come for such dark thoughts.
Afraid of what it might mean should I confess my wicked imaginings, I submitted to my mate’s ridiculous possessiveness and let him exorcise my demons without complaint.
He told me to eat; I ate.
He told me to drink; I drank.
Sleep? I closed my eyes. On the white couch in the middle of the day. In his arms in the night.
Spread, yield, climax? Yes.
Cyderial was the master of purging shame straight from my body.
“You can talk to me, Lorieyn.” He said it so sweetly, smoothing loose hair that escaped the knot at my nape, offering me something sweet to snack on while I worked through the endless paperwork that came with my new position.
