The lament of farmhand Geist: Mommy’s home

“I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”
– T.S Eliot

momshome

Master is back! She snuck into the house at dead of night, knowing I would be “asleep” – such as sleep may be for geists like me. I woke from my troubled sleep, for we can never sleep at ease, and there she was. A death gate out of nowhere. Master in the darkness. For a second I thought those swords of hers was going to get run through me. Like so many swords have done before. But Master sheathed her swords. Master sat down. Master stroked my fake hair on my leathery head – I’ve taken a liking to a whig – and said:

“Mommy’s home now, dear. Don’t be afraid no more.”

My twitching pinkie finger settled down. My skin stopped crawling. Well, it doesn’t crawl as such but it feels like it’s crawling. Many parts of me twitch and crawl and slither and … scream. In silence.

You see, these days and weeks and months and years since Master found me have taught me something valuable. It doesn’t matter what you look like as long as you live. Gina, though she pretends to be aghast when I come around if the other Mudclaws are close by, know this. Little Andi, who’s afraid of me but can’t stop giggling when I make fun of Haohans nose, also knows this. The grummle messenger, don’t care what I am – he says I have many lucky-doo’s. To witch my thumbs usually twitch (they belonged to a card-shark from Stormwind, my resteless thumbs are player thumbs). These … living has taught me somethin about ourselves – about myself.

We live.

I.

Live.

Life, if you’ve ever seen a mogu, can come in many forms.

My parts are many. Pamelas pinky. Mortys thumbs. Thessas brain. All of us that once created what I later came to think of as … Me. I doubt anyone – least of all Dr Putricide! – even dreamed of what’s been happening to us … me.

Life. Such as it is. Is the mogu alive, yet the do not draw breath? Is Master alive, yet she has no heartbeat? Am I alive, yet I am many? You know, there’s a joke amongst us Scourge: How many geists does it take to open a door? One legion.

Because we. Are. Many!

You see!? It’s funny, no!? No? Hmmmm … maybe “fun” is something I’m lacking, allthough Andi always giggles when I make fun of Haohans nose.

Master is back! Mommy’s home! I know, she is not my mother, not the mother of any of my parts. But it keeps pinky safe and sound and not twitching when I think of Master as “mother”. My pinky miss her mom, you see. My brain, Thessalias brain, also miss her mother. All parts of me except a tendon between my knees – it’s made of Scholazar rubber – miss their mother.

There’s three stages in geists life that will make or break the creature (as my creator jotted down in some notes in Naxxramas). None of them are important to know, not now. Those terrible days of early funcion is long gone. I keep the memories – that’s why I have trouble sleeping.

Masters soothing touch to my skin. She made fun of me, because my whig had gone askew as I tossed and turned. It’s a nice whig. Long strands of golden hair, spun from yak hair (not real humanoid hair!). Gina, though she pretends to dislike me, made the whig herself.

“A girl like you should have som hair to toss around when the guys comes by”, she said. Then she had to explain why I should toss my hair at them. Then she had to explain I shouldn’t throw my whig at them, just – move, fast, with my head. I tried it out in front of her.

My head fell off.

It’s a good thing she’s got a good friend, a tailor, down from the Silken Fields.

Why did Master come back? As she tucked me in – funny that, but my pinky won’t stop twitching unless Master pulls the blanket snug up under my chin (wich once belonged to an orc) – I asked her. She said:
“I had to quench my thirst. But I’m home now, honey. Go to sleep.”

I only pretended to sleep. For a long time, up until dawn, I peeked out rom under the quilt, watching her. She sat alone by the window, looking out on the dark and sleepy fields. I heard the footsteps of some virmen dashing around among our flowers. I though Master would come down on them, but Master …

You know, I think she cried. Very silent, of course. She kept spinning an amulet between her fingers. One of those things you can open up and it contains a picture of someone. A locket. Later that day, when Master was down at the market getting seeds, I snuck up to the table where the locket was and opened it.

Master spends a lot of time staring at her sisters portrait. In the left hand of that locket. On the right there’s another portrait. I’m not sure who “Menea” is, but Master often whispers to her. How she miss her. How she’s sorry. How she would give anything, anything at all, to touch those lips once more.

I think it’s a distant memory, long gone … back on Masters homeworld. Draenor. Yet … I wonder what Master meant, in the grey early morning light as thunderclouds crept in across the Valley and the downpour started. I wonder what she meant. When Master said:
“Come fall season, we’re going home. Again. Please Light, bring me pain and misery – but let me go back. just once.”

I thought this was our home?

Pinky is twitching now. Pamela is afraid. We are all afraid. I am afraid. What if Master leaves again? What if she leaves – and don’t come back?

Who’s going to tuck me in, this poor lonesome geist who dreams of kissing a long forgotten night elf under the Teldrassil canopy of rustling leaves?

I can’t handle fear that good, you see. I’ll tell you a secret about the Scourge. Listen well.

We’re all afraid.

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