Title-- The Panthera Walkers: Freedom - Chapter One
Rating and Warnings-- PG; warnings for grief.
Species and Characters-- Just humans this time - President Kevyen and his mother, Witch Eyvi.
Summary and Notes-- The first chapter (prologue is here). This establishes that there is no 'bad guy' in any of the four races on Ykinde, despite the odds at which they find themselves with each other. Also, writing this made me cry like a baby. -_-;;



"Mister President, sir! Your witch, she’s ... I think it’s finally time, sir."

A middle-aged man turned from a schematic displayed on the wall, a frown creasing his face beneath a thick moustache. "She isn’t my witch. She’s my mother." His sun-bronzed face contorted into a black scowl at the messenger, who quickly skittered out of his way as he strode into the hall. "Where is she now?"

"Her hut, Mister President, sir. She requested to be moved this morning. I think she knows."

The president nearly snarled. "Of course she knows, you twit! She’s a witch." His polished black boots clacked as he passed over a stone threshold and out into the street, his aide scurrying behind him. The merchants quieted and passers-by stared as he passed, his fine scarlet and purple robes betraying his wealth, his proud posture betraying his rank. He was, after all, president of one of the biggest businesses on Ykinde. He had no equal in this backwaters town that he called his headquarters.

"There, sir--"

"I know where my own mother’s hut is! Now begone! Alert the vice president and council members. Find her apprentice and notify him of his promotion to Prime Witch. He’s already gotten her blessings." The president waved a hand irately at the slim girl, who nodded and sprinted down a side street to do his bidding. Even the pickpockets and out-of-work mechanics didn’t dare hinder him as he turned a corner into the town square.

There was her hut, swathed in the colorful scarves she so loved, the lone entrance guarded by one of the cat-men that she had helped tame. His business, which had been started by mass-producing common potions and remedies, had boomed when she had successfully enslaved one of the wandering tribes of cat-people. It was Witch Eyvi who had made her family rich and powerful, and her son would never forget it.

The cat-man stepped aside after a cursory sniff, and the president swept inside and slowed his pace. His mother was wrinkled and motionless in her small bed, the red blankets lush against her pale skin. In her later years, her life prolonged by her magic-working, she had lost the height and leanness of her youth and become hunched, bone-thin - a true witch in appearance, the all-mighty Crone from children’s stories.

And now, forty years after she had made her bloodkin famous, she was dying.

"Mother," the president murmured as he knelt at her side in a rustle of expensive cloth. For all her age and frailty, her eyes were clear and bright as she turned her head to look at her son.

"My boy," she whispered, "my Kevyen. It... is today, you know. I told you... years ago... that it would be today."

Kevyen bit his lip, hoping she wouldn’t notice it beneath his moustache, but her thin lips twitched in a smile nonetheless. "Yes, I remember, Mother." He refused to cry in the presence of any others, but it was only the two of them in the curtained hut.

"You are a good man, my son." She smiled, and tears came to her eyes first, slipping in slow motion along the sharp curve of her cheekbone. "My apprentice will do you well. And I... I will watch over you." Weakly, the dying witch lifted a thin hand to wipe her son’s cheeks, knowing her fingers would come away damp. "My spirit... will not be erased. I will always... be here... with you."

Kevyen bowed his head, tears falling silently. "I know you will, Mother. I’ll--" He had to stop, and swallow, and try to find his faltering voice again as her hand drifted back to her chest. He caught it in his own, gently, and kissed her wrinkled knuckles. "I’ll talk to you often. I..." Breathe. Just breathe... "I promise."

Eyvi smiled and squeezed his hand lightly. "And I’ll always listen, my dear boy." She took another breath, and for the first time, it was difficult to fill her lungs. "Time... to go... my son." There was no fear in her eyes, for all that her very soul would dissipate in the living world with time. Perhaps she truly believed she really could stay with her son in spirit. "I love you."

He tried not to choke on the words, tried not to clutch at her hand and sob. He succeeded, for the moment, tears darkening streaks in his close-trimmed beard. "I love you too, Mother." Keyven bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, meeting her gaze for the last time. She was still smiling as her eyes rolled back and she exhaled one more time.

For a moment, there was stillness in both mother and son, a respectful quiet in the air that seemed to deaden the merchants’ shouting outside and the children’s laughter in the square. And as Keyven realized she was not going to draw breath again, he pressed his forehead to the edge of the bed and wept.

Outside the hut, the scarves of so many colors that had always fluttered cheerfully suddenly drooped, falling deathly still and ignoring the playful breeze that tugged at them. The cat-man who stood guard with his long spear looked up at the lax decorations, then wrinkled his muzzle at the scent of death long-postponed. The wind was cold in the town square.