Insignia: Scars of Lumierna

Nineteen

Over the next week, Stirling spent as much time as he could with his mother. The only time he left her side was to assist with the bakery when his father asked for quick favors trying not to keep him away from watching over her.

Stirling had pulled his stool away from the window over to his mother's bedside, but not before he had taken notice of the accidental embedded dips in the wooden floor, carved from the years the chair had sat in the same location. The spot Stirling escaped through the window and dreamt of a life away from the bakery. The memory of Stirling spending so many nights paying attention to the stars and the mountain's dark shadow cutting jagged lines into the twinkling sky. While his mother stood behind him as no more than an afterthought, tugs at his heart.

Maybe, if I had just paid attention to her, I would have noticed she was sick. Or, if I helped around the bakery when I was asked, she wouldn't have felt the need to work herself to... Stirling couldn't get himself to think the final word. He doesn't want to admit what he knows is inevitable.

He sits on his familiar stool in an unfamiliar spot as he watches his mother sleep.

He reaches his thoughts out to Ignis. "Ignis, you said you don't remember your mother, right?"

"Correct."

"I wonder what's worse; to have loved and lost, or to have never loved at all." His eyes fall to his mother. Her hair pulled free from the knot on the back of her head, letting the curls fall around her sunken features as he listens to Ignis.

"To have loved and lost. I'm thinking that even though losing someone dear hurts, it hurts because you got to spend time in this world loving them. The time you got to spend with them makes it worth it though."

Salted liquid clouds Stirling's vision as he lowers his head to rest on the mattress.

His father steps through the open door to the room to ask Stirling if he would like any supper. He stops himself before he speaks as he sees Stirling sound asleep with his head cradled in his arms on the mattress beside his mother. He decides not to disturb him, slowly backing out of the room. He retrieves the wool blanket off Stirling's bed in the corner of the room and carries it back into the bedroom.

Draping the blanket over Stirling, his voice no more than a whisper, he says, "I know it's going to hurt. But you're a strong-hearted boy, you'll get past this. We'll get past this."

He lays his hand on the top of Stirling's head. He pulls it back awkwardly and shuffles out of the room, silently closing the door behind him.

The next morning, Stirling scratches at a parchment sprawled out on the bed beside his mother, her upper body propped up by layering full flour sacks beneath her straw-filled pillow. The charcoal leaves behind black lines forming the shape of a dragon.

The remedies the apothecary had given her helped her regain consciousness, but it is not curing her. She can't retain any liquids that Stirling has to help her drink.

She is too weak to lift her arms. Her body is failing her; dimming like a fire left unattended, consuming its support, slowly growing weaker until it finally fades out.

"Oh, Stirling, dear, dragons don't have four legs," she weakly tells him. Her voice is just a small breeze of the once strong wind it used to be. Stirling lays the charcoal down.

His eyes focused on the drawing, "You know how I never told you how I got this wound on my arm?"

His mother, leaning back on the pillow, tilts her head raising an eyebrow quizzically.

Stirling, still staring at the drawing, takes a deep breath. His fingertips begin to tap his thumb. Index, middle, ring, pinky, ring, middle, index.

He slowly raises his gaze till their eyes lock, "I've lied to you all these years. I don't have any farmer friends. In fact, I don't have any friends except—except for Ignis. Although no one will ever believe me. But, Mother, Ignis is the dragon who gave this to me." He holds out his arm as if she had never seen his scars before.

Stirling feels as if he has cut himself open, revealing all the mechanics that make him tick.

He is vulnerable. His body shakes, but she needs to know the truth. He runs his fingers down the length of his arm, leaving behind black lines of charcoal.

The memory of the day he decided to walk off the trail his life was supposed to be on, is something he will never forget.

She eyes him skeptically. "Stirling, a dragon?"

He lifts the drawing letting the charcoal roll off and fall to the ground. "Yes, Mum, he's real and I'm teaching myself how to ride him. I go up to the mountains to train with him almost every day. You don't need a special insignia. You just have to not give up." Stirling's eyes are full of sincerity as he pleads, "He's real, I swear. Please believe me."

Jannell's lips quiver as she smiles softly. "I believe you."

Stirling feels the tension in his body drop with relief. Jannell's fragile hand trembles as she musters the strength to raise her hand up to touch his cheek. He cups his hand over hers, holding it tight against him, her fingers cold against his skin.

She speaks up again, her voice faint, "I know you will be a great man one day. You're going to make me so proud. Stirling, promise me, don't you ever give up."

"I promise," he manages to choke back the onslaught of tears.

He can feel his mother's hand become limp under his own as it almost slides from his grasp before he tightens his grip. He watches her through clouded vision as she falls back asleep with a faint smile still remaining on her face. Except she isn't asleep and he knows this.

His heart feels as if it had plummeted into his stomach, pulling his throat down with it. He can't speak, not a word. He can barely breathe, his chest constricting, suffocating him as he chokes on his tears.

He sits there holding his mother's hand, refusing to let it go. He lowers their hands to rest on his lap. Feeling as if letting go of her hand, she will disappear right in front of him, even though she is already gone. So, he remains there, on his stool, tears rolling down his face following his jawline to his chin where they drip one at a time onto his and his mother's intertwined fingers.