Virgin Challenge: The Greater and the Lesser and Those of the Becoming by Brighid
Challenge: Virgin
Title: The Greater and the Lesser and Those of the Becoming
Spoilers: None.
Rating: PG-13
Author: Brighid
Summary: It would do well.
Note: This is probably not what they were thinking of. Explanatory note at the end. For Lisa-Lisa and the Cult Jam. Not mine, not for profit. Or prophet.
The Greater and the Lesser and Those of the Becoming.
By Brighid
Ma’Ur touches its pale cheek, lets her claw tips touch the tattoo the First Arul has marked on its neck when the new Urae had been picked from the last cullings. It is a pretty beast, with soft fuzz on its chin and the beginning of breadth to its shoulder. And alive; so very, very alive. It would do well.
“Do you know why you are here?” Ma’Ur asks, letting her hand drop. “Do you understand the honour you’ve been given?”
It nods, but its wide, pale gaze says otherwise. She can see the white all around the strange, round iris of the eye; she can smell fear in the sweat that beads along its sweetly curved upper lip.
“You will,” she promises, and then lifts her hands, gestures. “Clean it. Feed it. Clothe it.”
A Lesser Arul, Ma’Hkt, comes forward with two Least and bows, silently, before taking the h’man beast. She looks at the second one, same stock as the first, only smaller, sweeter, still fat in the cheeks. She crooks her finger at it, and it comes. “Do you know why you are here?” she asks it, touching the soft hair delicately. “Do you understand the honour you’ve been given?”
The young beast looks at her with dark, curious eyes, confused and only half-fearful. Ma’Ur lets her hand drop down to the narrow chest, watches the eyes widen, the mouth twist in silent despair as her claws slip beneath the skin, as tiny hooks seek and catch the ebb and flow of its tiny life.
She touches the withered cheek almost kindly when it is nothing but brittle flesh stretched over powdering bone, for truly it had been sweet. She leaves it to be disposed of and makes her way to the Centre. The Ul Hive has been culling at the fringes of Ma feeding ground, and that was not to be tolerated. A new Queen, and apparently witless and arrogant as well. She would be easy enough to break
)0(
When next Ma’Ur sees the beast it has grown a little taller, a little broader, and its voice breaks when it gives supplication. She pulls it to its feet, catches its jaw and nods approval. “I hear you are learning well, training hard. You will grow up strong and serve me. Do you understand?”
He nods.
“And as you have striven so hard to please me, you will be named. From now on, you will be Ma’Ursn.”
“Ma’Ursn,” it repeats, its clumsy h’man mouth mangling the name slightly, but not too badly. Not enough to make her reconsider her choice.
)0(
She sleeps a cycle, leaving the Hive to the First Arul. When she wakes the first thing they bring to her is Ma’Ursn. It wears her colours, and when it gives supplication its accent is perfect, pleasing. She smiles, leans down, inhales its scent. Healthy, sweet, ripe enough to eat and she is hungry, so very hungry.
It does not flinch when she feeds from what the Lesser Arul brings, and this pleases her as well. She leaves her chamber and extends a pale, bare arm. “You may,” she says, and slits her eyes in pleasure as strong fingers remove the hsin that has wrapped her, then peels away the scaly layers of her guard skin. It moves in closer, works its hands over her until she is gleaming like waterstone and humming like the heart of the Hive itself. She steps into her dark robes, belts them across her narrow pelvis, pulls the edges closed over the pale buds of vestigial nipples. She lifts her long silver braid as he fastens a wide, flat chain around her neck. “Very good, Ma’Ursn. From now on you are to stay by me.”
“Yes, Divine.”
She gestures for the Lesser to clean the room and restore the chamber, and then makes her way to the Centre, Ma’Ursn moving silently behind her.
She is very pleased.
)0(
Ma’Ursn stands silently as always as her claws rip open the neck of her third feeding that morning, not even moving when the creature’s blood spatters far and wide, wetting its face. Her hand in its chest, her mouth at its throat and not even this will be enough, not quite. She lets it drop, finally, and it breaks apart when it hits the floor. “Another,” she snarls at the First Arul, watching her carefully from the door. He nods, gestures for the leaving to be taken away and fresh fodder to be brought. “Go,” she says, voice still reverberating with something that is almost like the rage of hunger, only wilder, deeper and far, far older.
“Are you well, Divine?” Ma’Ursn says quietly. “This is not the same as the God Hunger, and I fear that you …” it trails off.
Ma’Ur turns to it, and the rage softens, slips sidewise into something almost fond. “I am well, Ma’Ursn.” She licks the blood thoughtfully from her fingers, crosses the room, licks the flecks of spatter from its cheeks, from the corners of its strange, feeble eyes. She finds them oddly pretty, like small glass beads. She touches its soft skin, strokes the tattoo that marks it as part of her Hive. It shudders softly, and its pulse thunders, so strangely fast beneath her fingers. She smells its scent change as its body quickens, rises.
“And now, Ma’Ursn, I shall give you the greatest honour your kind can ever hope to attain.” She pulls the pants low, rucks the shirt up, presses her body against it, opens her mouth over its lips. She lets her robes slip open, grinds against Ma’Ursn so that her guard skin catches the fine, soft hairs of its torso. She bites at its lip softly, then reaches between them to open herself. She feels it shudder when her ovipositor breaches it, pushing through the little half-way hole already in its belly to carefully deliver her offspring into its gut. It is the first she’s produced in almost sixty cycles. She steps back, strokes the small welling of its red blood, then smoothes the wound with hsin. “It will heal, I promise.”
“How long?” Ma’Ursn asks finally, calmly, touching its belly with a reverential hand. Ma’Ur covers the hand gently. Truly, she is so very pleased in it. In him. “Eventually, but we grow slowly. You will have years yet, I promise,” she says. “You will bear a Queen,” she offers. “My inheritor, eventually, though she may well sleep several of your lifetimes before she is needed. Still. I will name her Ma’Ursn, for you, for your service.” She catches him as his legs give out, carries him effortlessly to her chamber. She strips him, then slowly wraps him in hsin. She leaves his face for last, touching his mouth, his cheeks, his pretty, pale eyes.
“I am very pleased in you,” she says gently, and then winds the last layers around him as his gaze goes vague and dim.
It takes another two feedings before her appetite is quenched, but even when she is done she does not leave her rooms for the Centre. Instead she sits beside the chamber and talks of the history of her Hive: of the beauty of their perfect order; of their lineage tales that span twelve thousand cycles and more; of the precision of their artisans; of the spare elegance of their sciences. She is not sure if she talks to the offspring or the vessel. She decides, in the end, that it does not matter.
)0(
End
Author’s Note:
vir·gin
n. Zoology. A female insect or other arthropod that produces fertile eggs without copulating.
Title: The Greater and the Lesser and Those of the Becoming
Spoilers: None.
Rating: PG-13
Author: Brighid
Summary: It would do well.
Note: This is probably not what they were thinking of. Explanatory note at the end. For Lisa-Lisa and the Cult Jam. Not mine, not for profit. Or prophet.
The Greater and the Lesser and Those of the Becoming.
By Brighid
Ma’Ur touches its pale cheek, lets her claw tips touch the tattoo the First Arul has marked on its neck when the new Urae had been picked from the last cullings. It is a pretty beast, with soft fuzz on its chin and the beginning of breadth to its shoulder. And alive; so very, very alive. It would do well.
“Do you know why you are here?” Ma’Ur asks, letting her hand drop. “Do you understand the honour you’ve been given?”
It nods, but its wide, pale gaze says otherwise. She can see the white all around the strange, round iris of the eye; she can smell fear in the sweat that beads along its sweetly curved upper lip.
“You will,” she promises, and then lifts her hands, gestures. “Clean it. Feed it. Clothe it.”
A Lesser Arul, Ma’Hkt, comes forward with two Least and bows, silently, before taking the h’man beast. She looks at the second one, same stock as the first, only smaller, sweeter, still fat in the cheeks. She crooks her finger at it, and it comes. “Do you know why you are here?” she asks it, touching the soft hair delicately. “Do you understand the honour you’ve been given?”
The young beast looks at her with dark, curious eyes, confused and only half-fearful. Ma’Ur lets her hand drop down to the narrow chest, watches the eyes widen, the mouth twist in silent despair as her claws slip beneath the skin, as tiny hooks seek and catch the ebb and flow of its tiny life.
She touches the withered cheek almost kindly when it is nothing but brittle flesh stretched over powdering bone, for truly it had been sweet. She leaves it to be disposed of and makes her way to the Centre. The Ul Hive has been culling at the fringes of Ma feeding ground, and that was not to be tolerated. A new Queen, and apparently witless and arrogant as well. She would be easy enough to break
)0(
When next Ma’Ur sees the beast it has grown a little taller, a little broader, and its voice breaks when it gives supplication. She pulls it to its feet, catches its jaw and nods approval. “I hear you are learning well, training hard. You will grow up strong and serve me. Do you understand?”
He nods.
“And as you have striven so hard to please me, you will be named. From now on, you will be Ma’Ursn.”
“Ma’Ursn,” it repeats, its clumsy h’man mouth mangling the name slightly, but not too badly. Not enough to make her reconsider her choice.
)0(
She sleeps a cycle, leaving the Hive to the First Arul. When she wakes the first thing they bring to her is Ma’Ursn. It wears her colours, and when it gives supplication its accent is perfect, pleasing. She smiles, leans down, inhales its scent. Healthy, sweet, ripe enough to eat and she is hungry, so very hungry.
It does not flinch when she feeds from what the Lesser Arul brings, and this pleases her as well. She leaves her chamber and extends a pale, bare arm. “You may,” she says, and slits her eyes in pleasure as strong fingers remove the hsin that has wrapped her, then peels away the scaly layers of her guard skin. It moves in closer, works its hands over her until she is gleaming like waterstone and humming like the heart of the Hive itself. She steps into her dark robes, belts them across her narrow pelvis, pulls the edges closed over the pale buds of vestigial nipples. She lifts her long silver braid as he fastens a wide, flat chain around her neck. “Very good, Ma’Ursn. From now on you are to stay by me.”
“Yes, Divine.”
She gestures for the Lesser to clean the room and restore the chamber, and then makes her way to the Centre, Ma’Ursn moving silently behind her.
She is very pleased.
)0(
Ma’Ursn stands silently as always as her claws rip open the neck of her third feeding that morning, not even moving when the creature’s blood spatters far and wide, wetting its face. Her hand in its chest, her mouth at its throat and not even this will be enough, not quite. She lets it drop, finally, and it breaks apart when it hits the floor. “Another,” she snarls at the First Arul, watching her carefully from the door. He nods, gestures for the leaving to be taken away and fresh fodder to be brought. “Go,” she says, voice still reverberating with something that is almost like the rage of hunger, only wilder, deeper and far, far older.
“Are you well, Divine?” Ma’Ursn says quietly. “This is not the same as the God Hunger, and I fear that you …” it trails off.
Ma’Ur turns to it, and the rage softens, slips sidewise into something almost fond. “I am well, Ma’Ursn.” She licks the blood thoughtfully from her fingers, crosses the room, licks the flecks of spatter from its cheeks, from the corners of its strange, feeble eyes. She finds them oddly pretty, like small glass beads. She touches its soft skin, strokes the tattoo that marks it as part of her Hive. It shudders softly, and its pulse thunders, so strangely fast beneath her fingers. She smells its scent change as its body quickens, rises.
“And now, Ma’Ursn, I shall give you the greatest honour your kind can ever hope to attain.” She pulls the pants low, rucks the shirt up, presses her body against it, opens her mouth over its lips. She lets her robes slip open, grinds against Ma’Ursn so that her guard skin catches the fine, soft hairs of its torso. She bites at its lip softly, then reaches between them to open herself. She feels it shudder when her ovipositor breaches it, pushing through the little half-way hole already in its belly to carefully deliver her offspring into its gut. It is the first she’s produced in almost sixty cycles. She steps back, strokes the small welling of its red blood, then smoothes the wound with hsin. “It will heal, I promise.”
“How long?” Ma’Ursn asks finally, calmly, touching its belly with a reverential hand. Ma’Ur covers the hand gently. Truly, she is so very pleased in it. In him. “Eventually, but we grow slowly. You will have years yet, I promise,” she says. “You will bear a Queen,” she offers. “My inheritor, eventually, though she may well sleep several of your lifetimes before she is needed. Still. I will name her Ma’Ursn, for you, for your service.” She catches him as his legs give out, carries him effortlessly to her chamber. She strips him, then slowly wraps him in hsin. She leaves his face for last, touching his mouth, his cheeks, his pretty, pale eyes.
“I am very pleased in you,” she says gently, and then winds the last layers around him as his gaze goes vague and dim.
It takes another two feedings before her appetite is quenched, but even when she is done she does not leave her rooms for the Centre. Instead she sits beside the chamber and talks of the history of her Hive: of the beauty of their perfect order; of their lineage tales that span twelve thousand cycles and more; of the precision of their artisans; of the spare elegance of their sciences. She is not sure if she talks to the offspring or the vessel. She decides, in the end, that it does not matter.
)0(
End
Author’s Note:
vir·gin
n. Zoology. A female insect or other arthropod that produces fertile eggs without copulating.