Chapter Text
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Osha doesn’t bother with regret anymore.
Regret only tastes like ash disintegrating in her mouth, as useless as the sting of a bee. She tries, especially now that she’s older, to think things through before she makes a choice, to force herself to understand the consequences, to trust her instincts and rationale before feeling the weight and judgment of others. There is an intimacy in guarding her thoughts and decisions that she refuses to give up to another, not anymore.
And yet, too often, the choices are still taken out of her hands entirely. She still sits with the same consequences of regret, the burnt aftertaste, the displaced feeling of disappointment; it lives with her like a constant companion, her true twin.
But all living things are connected by the same Thread. A Thread woven through all of existence, or so Osha has been told since she was a child. She has long since stopped fighting the lessons taught to her, been many years since she ascended to witchhood and things had settled much like Mother Aniseya had promised. She is one of the most prominent members of the coven now. Always watched, never alone. Either the sisters are watching her, or Osha’s own twin – Mae. On a good day, she tells herself she doesn’t know which one is worse; on bad days, she knows.
She never gets a moment of peace to herself anymore; her only recourse is the brief escapes she makes to the forest, lounging under the large bunta tree that has only grown twice in size since she was a child. But such escapes have proven less and less over the years as Osha has grown older. Grown of age, presenting her designation only in the last year.
It had been a particularly warm night on Brendok when Osha had stirred awake. At first, she’d thought — she’s sick. Cold sweat dripping down her spine, shivers running up her back, cramps wringing through her gut. She’d had few experiences with sickness as a child, the sisters always treating any illness or distress among the twins as if it was an omen of death. Succored to the point of near obscenity, these last two children of the Aniseya Coven.
So, at the onset, Osha had been determined to suffer alone in silence. It didn’t worry her so much, this sickness, even when her vision blurred and she had difficulty sitting up. It was only when she stripped her covers off, sweat soaked, and discovered the newly formed gland at her throat that alarm truly set in. That was when she realized what had happened, how her world was about to change.
She’d presented — as an omega.
Surprising, considering both her mothers were alphas.
Only later, nearly by two weeks, did Mae present the same, but by then the expectations had already settled in like dust and fading smoke after a wreckage. Her mothers had been more controlled in their reactions, less distressed, more accepting. Omegas, the both of them; the coven had not seen one in generations, much less two. The time for childhood and its simplicity was over, Osha knew.
That had been three months ago.
Now, Osha doesn’t know precisely what is happening next, but she knows things have changed. Her mothers whisper when they think no one can hear. Mae will agree, but will Osha? She’s always been the stubborn one. That much hasn’t changed since youth. Two nights before the full moon, Mae is summoned to her mothers for a private conference. A day later, it’s Osha’s turn.
“It has been many years since the coven has seen a pair of omegas,” Mother Aniseya says, robed in dark folds of amethyst. “We can protect you, Osha, but this is a delicate matter that can be handled a number of ways. Mother Koril thinks you should be paired with an alpha of your choosing among the sisterhood. There is no shortage of options.”
Osha hears the silent part, the possibility of an alternative. “What other options are there?”
A pause, and Mother Aniseya says, “An outsider.”
“Another Alpha female?”
A longer pause. “Not a female,” Aniseya admits. “Not if it is your desire.”
And it comes upon Osha like a swift attack, like a thrown knife — the realization. “You want me to mate. You want me to produce—” pups, the words left unsaid only because Osha swallows it. “Offspring.”
“If you are willing,” Aniseya whispers, controlled. Her face gives nothing away, measured and tranquil. “You and your sister are the last two children we brought forth, and you have no idea how much of a miracle you are. But we need a future, Osha, even after you. If this coven is to survive, we need new pupils, new acolytes.”
“So you want us to breed,” Osha exhales out, outraged. “Like we’re nothing more than empty vessels for—”
“It will be your choice,” Aniseya cuts in. “Mae has already agreed.”
Osha snorts. Of course Mae has, she would do anything for the coven. “And who would mate her? What male would you trust to set foot on Brendok?”
“Trust is a strong word, but we have someone in mind. He is an— unorthodox choice, but the Thread is tied to him the same way it ties us all. He has been an ally to us in the past.”
“An Alpha,” Osha surmises, obviously.
Aniseya nods. “He seems agreeable. He’s coming to Brendok by the next full moon to see if he is — well matched with Mae.”
“Good for Mae,” Osha spits out. “I’m not agreeing to any of that. I can do this alone. I don’t need anyone — male or female.”
A short pause, a small nod, as if she expected this. “Handling a heat alone is difficult, Osha. I’ve heard tales of it being overwhelming even to the strongest of omegas. It can be life-altering.”
Another right of passage, like the Ritual of Ascension.
Osha has as much interest in this one as she had an interest in the last, except this time she may be able to choose for herself. Unlike the white tattoo that decorates her temple, she does not want her mating gland to define the rest of her life. No longer a child, she’s determined this time to make her own choices, to keep to herself, her instincts. They always claim omegas have such good instincts, are run almost entirely by them. She has never been like Mae, always been willing to comply, eager to say yes to whatever the coven requests. Other, apart — now Osha will be an unmated omega, another aberration. Osha is used to such monikers by now.
Even one of two, she’s always fought to be unique.
“I know my mind,” Osha says, determined. “I don't need a mate.”
#
Preparations are made, though Osha has little to do with it. Mae seems to fortify herself for whatever is coming her way as if it is a test of physical and mental strength itself, spending hours training in the courtyards, fending off attacks of other sisters several at a time; hours more meditating and lost in the strands of the Thread, a blank sereness to her that clears away everything but stillness. Osha watches her and decides not to disturb the delicate peace Mae is trying to find for herself. Osha has made her decision, and Mae hers, and while they are once again opposed, they must each learn to respect the other’s will. Easier said than done, because Osha always has to defend herself and her decisions twice as much as Mae ever does.
“You don’t have to decide now, but think about it. You could bring about the next generation for the Coven,” Mae tells her, early on. “It would be an honor.”
“You have full claim to all that honor. I want to be left alone, sister.”
Mae frowns. “It's not as if we will be bonded with the Alphas,” she insists. “I know to avoid a mating bite, a claiming bite. We will still remain ourselves even afterwards. Men have no dominion over us, even if we are omegas.”
Osha nods, because it is easier to agree than argue with Mae. It settles the argument faster.
They dress Mae in the most elaborate robes Osha has ever seen, second only to the ones Mother Aniseya wears for special ceremonies. There is an intricate pattern of golden brocade sewn into the outer layer, a design of a thousand threads all swirling around one another to join at the center of Mae’s chest, all Threads leading to one.
In sharp contrast, Osha is offered nothing.
“Only Mae will be presented,” Mother Koril says. “We do not want to confuse the Alpha with the presentation of two omegas. There is no need for him to know of your existence.”
She’s lived her life in secrecy, this is no different. But she is curious about the outsider; she always has been insatiable anytime someone from the outside worlds enter into their little domain, so full of isolation that Osha feels like a scream is perpetually trapped in her throat at times. But it is tempered with the knowledge of who this outsider is, what he is. A male Alpha. Even her curiosity has limits.
So, she lets Mae have the spotlight. If her sister is willing to endure the mating rituals, the blasted heat with another, Mae has more than earned the acclaim.
Still, the preparations seem excessive.
It is finally nearing the full moon again when Osha senses a shift in the Thread. She could not even define how it shifts, other than a sense of otherness in the wind. A presence like that of fast-settling warm weather, an aromatic uplift of a fresh dawn after an overly hot night. It is incongruent with Brendok’s natural pleasant weather, this sense of unexpected heat, and it makes all the hairs on Osha’s neck stand on end. The outsider’s ship must have landed at the edge of the Condumen Forest, and he must be one with the Thread too, a keen master. She can already sense it clearly. She knows he’ll make the trek on foot the remaining four hours to reach the coven’s fortified entrance.
“What is it?” Mae asks her.
Osha frowns. “Can you not sense—“
She stops herself, because the confusion on Mae’s face answers it for her. Osha shakes her head, dispels the question.
“Good luck, sister,” she tells Mae, instead, in earnest.
Her sister looks nervous, but nods back silently, clenching her jaw, lifting her head proudly.
When the sisters begin fussing over Mae again, Osha uses the opportunity to retreat, as bid, to vanish to the banta trees outside of the fortress walls.
There, she sits and waits it out.
But long before sunset, still a few hours before the sisters would serve their lavish dinner, Osha is still lost in her own world when she hears a snap of a twig behind her.
She whirls, and there he is. The Alpha. Draped in full black robes, the hood drawn up over his head, the only thing she can see at first is his eyes, dark and penetrating, watching her keenly as a hawk.
They stare at one another, caught in a spell. He’s older than her, but not as much as she’d been expecting. He passes through the crowd of trees as if it parts to make a hole for him, a presence that draws her entire focus — as if he blots out everything else. For a moment, the forest seems to stop breathing around them, stop moving. She feels herself splayed open for his perusal, his glance down her modestly dressed robes. His cheekbones underneath the hood are rather cutting, highlighting a clear athletic build, his jawline too as slicing as a blade.
It’s his eyes, though, intrigued and intelligent, piercing, that offset her the most.
She clears her throat, awkwardly. “Hello.”
“Well, hello,” he offers, almost disarmingly soft.
“Hi,” she manages, and feels like a foal standing for the first time.
A pause, a distinct impression of amusement. “Hi,” he returns, amiably enough if not for the hint of something else underneath it. “Are you Mae? I’ve heard all about you from your mothers.”
A brief pause, where she remembers she is not supposed to disclose her existence to this outsider, this stranger. “Yes,” she manages, shifting on her feet. Osha does not know how to lie; it sits awkwardly on her tongue. “We did not expect you for some hours. You are meant to reach the fortress.” She pauses, uncomfortable in her own skin. “This is not the fortress.”
“Yes, I noticed,” he manages. “Would I be remiss in pointing out that you are not there either?”
She has nothing to say to that.
It’s then that it reaches her, his smell. Smoky wood, a hint of sandalwood perhaps, but as if it has been charred in a fire. There's the smallest hint of elderberry too, a sweet undercurrent that makes her swallow around a mouthful of saliva unexpectedly. The discomfort she feels in her own body appears to increase rather exponentially, and she does not know much at all about this stranger, but he is dangerous. She can sense that much alone through the Thread that is already curling around them, wrapping its tendrils to him and her both.
“Are you okay?” he asks her, curious and light, approaching her. There’s a disconsonance between his words and actions, one harmless and the other predatory. The way he walks towards her is the same as an animal stalking its prey, but his tone is completely affable. He must sense it, how uneasy he makes her feel, because his posture changes — relaxes. “You don’t need to be scared. I won’t bite.” A pause, as if a joke occurs to him, half amused by himself as he changes course, stopping to reach for the long cascading flowers of the bunta tree, plucking a twig free with a gathering of the faded yellow delicate petals. “Not yet anyway,” he murmurs under his breath.
Osha hears it; she’s almost certain he meant for her to hear the whisper.
She shuffles back on her heels, unsteady. His — his smell is louder now, more prevalent. “Stay back,” she warns, splaying her fingers wide, trying to be covert by leaving them at her sides, but she is ready to call on the Thread if need be. It is a subtle gesture, hands well hidden in the folds of her robes, but his eyes draw to it immediately as if recognizing the defensive posture.
He pauses, but there is so much promised in the way he holds himself.
“Go to the Fortress,” Osha insists, tightly. “My coven is waiting for you there. My mothers would be most displeased if you broke their protocol.”
A beat. “And will I see you there as well?” he asks.
Not if it can be prevented, Osha thinks, but she only nods. Mae will certainly greet him.
He nods back, eyes narrowed.
Then he leaves, far more quietly than he arrived and with less fuss. Still, her heart does not feel normal in her chest, something strange and chalky on her tongue that makes it difficult to swallow. She feels wholly not herself, itchy with an uncomfortableness that is nameless to her. For the rest of the afternoon, she feels restless.
#
She had not intended to be anywhere near the dinner when it began. It was clear orders from her mothers. She was to be a ghost, hide away in her room or wherever else she chooses, a hidden presence. She’s spent her entire childhood a ghost when any visitors came to their planet, she is well used to keeping herself a secret.
So she cannot name the motivation she has behind lurking on the second floor balcony, overlooking the dinner unfolding beneath the starry skies. She watches from the shadows, peeking out from behind a pillar at the gathering. The dinner table is long and overflowing with food and wine, but the party is relatively small. Her mothers, Mae, and the stranger. She realizes she never got his name.
She can hardly hear the conversations unfolding, but her eyes stay riveted on the man.
He seems to pay Mae considerably more attention than he does her mothers, and this is to be expected. This is to be expected, and yet at the same time Osha cannot stop watching the way they interact. Mae looks beautiful and poised as she always does, and the special ceremonial garbs do well to bring out the glow of her skin. Still, Mae is — not uncomfortable, not visibly, but she is not entirely comfortable either. Her posture is stiff, her mannerisms guarded.
Only once does she see them touch. Mae and this stranger reaching for the same dish at the same time, their fingers brushing each other only briefly. Mae retreats quicker than one of her blocks in battle. They sit across from each other, but Osha can count on one hand where they maintain eye contact with each other for longer than five seconds. Instead, Osha finds herself remembering how she’d been unable to look away from him, caught in his gaze as if it were some type of trap.
And once, only once, does this stranger look up towards the second floor balcony, towards the pillar where Osha hides — as if he can sense her up there. Osha retreats with a sharp inhale, hiding behind the pillar entirely, telling her heart to calm, telling her limbs to recede into the shadows. He should not be able to sense her, but he is strong with the Thread in ways Osha can feel even from a floor away. Even if the entire fortress rested between them, she has the sense she’d be able to feel him. It is not restless, his presence, not entirely. But it is not calming either. She cannot name the feeling he inspires.
She finally leaves, after a while. Her curiosity is not sated, but there is no point in watching the dinner unfold any longer. Nothing further will be answered about this mysterious stranger, and Osha cannot permit herself to stand idle watch any longer.
Still, when she returns to her quarters, the one that rests across from Mae’s room only down the hall, she sees something that halts her in her tracks. There, at her doorstep, is that single twig with its plucked yellow flower, the familiar dangling petals of the bunta tree.
It is — unexpected, and almost alarming. Osha knows the stranger would not have had any opportunity to peruse down these halls so freely, much less leave any trace of him behind. These corridors are blocked and well protected by her sisters. Besides, he wouldn’t have known which corridor contained the gathering of their private bedrooms, or even which door belonged to her.
Still, she cannot deny it, the intuition in the placement of the flower at her doorstep.
Left there, as if a little courting gift just for her.
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