Mother And Child
by Francis

China, 1900

She told him, it, her last words, "Tell my mother I'm sorry". She told this to him in her native tongue, the tongue her true mother spoke, the mother she did not know. It said something to her in his own tongue, the tongue her mother with the eyes as rich as the blue sky speaks, but the words escaped her then. She fixed on its eyes and understood the simple truth. She was going to die tonight.

London, 1892

It had been a month since she had begun learning the intricacies of the Chinese culture and with the language as well. Fookien, Cantonese, Mandarin. Rose McGovern knew all the basics of the dialects by heart, her assignment would no doubt take her across the vast landscape of dragons and brick walls.

Her wrist flexed with great care as she wrote the letter equivalent to tree in Mandarin, she had now begun to immerse herself even to the painstakingly accurate art of calligraphy. Just then the door to her spare room opened and the man she had just married entered, "It is time."

"My bags are there," she turned to face him slightly to point at the corner. "Have you said your goodbyes?"

"What's the matter with you? You speak as if we'll never come back here again," he nervously laughed picking up the bag.

China, 1894

The girl clasped her hands together and listened meekly at the conversation, her father had welcomed the fair haired woman and man into their home, she understood through the conversation that they were looking for a young girl to be a servant. It was strange to her because she they had traveled all the way to their small village from Shanghai to find one, but she found herself drawn to this woman as no doubt the woman was drawn to her.

"We will pay you what is right," the woman with the hair as fair as the grain of harvested rice plants and eyes like the trembling body of a quiet lake said. She laughed unintentionally. The European turned and smiled at her while her father gave a disapproving stare.

China, 1896

It is night and the Slayer is born when the other died, she roams the street. They roam the street, servant and master, Slayer and Watcher.

China, 1899

"You are not my mother," it hurt saying this to her, but this was all she could do now to save her. Disown her like she was really related to her.

"You say that but you don't mean it," Rose smiled looking at her hands, the ring that came from her husbands cold dead finger in it.

"Leave this place now or they will find you."

"I don't care, I have nothing left to lose," Rose frowned dryly.

"You say that but you don't mean it," now the girl with hair as black as the evening sky spoke. "Please save yourself, leave this country for me."

"Then go with me, because if you stay here, they too will find you and kill you."

"This is my land, this is my people."

"But your God is my God," the Watcher tried to explain.

"I'm not afraid to die, I've been dead ever since you bought me like cattle."

London, 1900

She opened the envelope slowly and tore off the seal of the Watcher's Council. The paper, crisp, unraveled in her hands the message was cold, cruel but expected. Her Slayer had died. Her hands slowly closed to a fist, the letter engulfed in them, she swallowed a bitter tear for her Slayer. Her Daughter.