It is with no small amount of regrets that I must inform you of the resolutions of the Pains of the Alihjn. From this day onward, the Sisters of the north will be unable to provide assistance to our southern siblings. Our numbers are too few and our resources slim. Dearest Sister, do not take this as offense, but rather as a regrettable motion of necessity. Upon our earliest ability to lend either a single woman or a single coin, the Sisters of Castle Town will be the first to know.

 

Sincerely,

 

Most Sorrowful Sister Plenly Margaret of the Pains of Alihjn.

 

Dwenne closed her eyes painfully tight as she finished reading the letter, tossing it onto her desk as she rubbed her face with her other hand. This was not the news we needed, she thought. The Sisters of Sorrow had once been a highly influential part of Telbian society, now left with just three small enclaves in the entire world. Serving the people selflessly for generations upon generations, the organization Dwenne led had suffered a slow, trickling decline in interest that culminated in the letter before her in her office. 

 

“I’m too young to feel this old,” Dwenne muttered to herself, opening her eyes and looking about her office. It was a room devoid of any decorum and scarce furnishings. A small chest sat in a corner, holding the last and greatest treasures of the Sisters- the journals of Mother Tourmaline herself, the founder of the religious order Dwenne belonged to and managed as best she could. Her chair was of simple wood with a small cushion, and her desk little more than a sliver of oak held aloft by a quartet of planks. Dwenne’s thirtieth year had just passed not two months prior, and already her soul felt as though it had lived centuries. Half her life serving in the Sisterhood, three years of leading it as Eldest Sister. Too much time, yet not nearly enough.

 

Dwenne stood, dusting off her robes and walking towards the door. She wore mostly black, though the sleeves were striped with as much red as the station of her birth had allowed. Youngest daughter of a minor Lord left her with some political sway, but Dwenne dared not to use it any more than this. The hallway leading out of her office was equally barren. Stone walls that had once held grand portraits of Mother Tourmaline and the First Sisters looked forlorn unclothed as they were. Pale rocks mirror the destitute Sisters themselves in many ways. Self-sacrifice, serving those around them, living for others and denying oneself the pleasures most desired.

 

All were but a list of suggestions, if Dwenne’s fellow sisters were to be believed. Dwenne passed a woman wearing all black in the hall, who bowed to her as she passed, only standing once their backs faced one another. The deference was a gesture of respect, though Dwenne long suspected that they had more for Dwenne herself than they did to the sanctity of the Sisterhood or to Mother Tourmaline herself. 

 

If only life were that easy, Dwenne thought as she passed the other woman. She looked down at her hands, at the Marks there, at the power that she could wield to bestow or to receive the gift of life. Not a power Dwenne could ever use, not that the Sisterhood forbade relationships or even child rearing. No, Dwenne had taken her oath upon initiation to the Sisterhood. Love and lust had been her vices, and as a Sister of Sorrow, had vowed to keep them at bay as long as she lived. Each initiate was required to do the same- give up that which she loved most. All took the vows, though Dwenne suspected she were the only one keeping them.

 

“Eldest Sister Dwenne,” A voice rang out as the silent, barren hallway ended in a large room with simple tables, chairs, and a fireplace slowly smoldering. Dinnertime. In many ways it was the worst time of day for Dwenne. In just as many, it was the best. Her fellow sisters sat at the table, eating a simple meal of soup from wooden and clay bowls, sitting in their black robes. Only one woman wore any other red, a young woman, a beautiful one, the newest initiate into the Sisterhood. Three years now, and one would have thought that accepting the King’s own youngest sister into their order would bolster their reputation and numbers. Neither happened, but the Sisterhood had- if nothing else- their most fervent and devout member in Prince Rose of Telbud.

 

“Good evening, Sisters,” Dwenne said, taking her seat next to Rose at the end of the tables. She sat not at its head- the position of honor was always to remain empty- instead sitting on the left side of the table, lessening herself  in order to heighten her fellow woman.

 

“What news from the north, Eldest Sister?” Rose asked. The letter had arrived after no small amount of fanfare and discussion among the Sisters. 

 

“It is as we feared, we of the Castle shall operate independently for the time being,” Dwenne announced loud enough for the whole room to hear. A quick head count had shown that eleven of the twenty- five Sisters in Castle Town were present at the table. No doubt news would spread to the remainder.

 

“True suffering is suffering done alone, is it not?” Rose asked, nodding solemnly. 

 

“Truly, it is,” Dwenne said, sighing, looking at Rose for a second longer than she knew she should have. The Prince was a beautiful woman indeed. Barely twenty- a full ten years younger than Dwenne- with long blonde hair that curled down her back in waves that Dwenne could only admire. Her face was round and soft, her button nose slightly pink in the chilly evening of early winter. Dwenne’s head snapped back down to her meal. Improper looking leads to improper thinking. But… all the same, Dwenne couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong with the mere thought? She knew joyful thoughts led to joyful actions, but Dwenne hadn’t become Eldest Sister by exhibiting joyful behavior in every opportunity she had.

 

Dwenne’s Marks began to glow. Faint, barely recognizable, but alight with the blue illumination of joyful desire all the same. Dwenne hid her hands in the sleeves of her long, flowing robes. Rose was beautiful and earnest. Too beautiful, too earnest. Dwenne knew that Mother Tourmaline had sent her greatest challenge in the form of a beautiful young Princeling, barely a woman.

 

“Then alone we shall suffer,” Rose said, putting a hand lightly on Dwenne’s forearm. Rose wore a pair of black gloves out of the Old Denarian Position. Visible Marks could encourage joy, and woe to any Sister of Sorrow who displayed her inner desires so openly, lest they inspire the faintest joy in her fellow Sister.

 

“It is of no matter. We will last the winter with the generosity of your patron, afterwards, we will do what we must,” Dwenne said. Rose had brought with her what would have been her dowry were she to be wed. The money had been spent building an orphanage, feeding the poor, and tending the sick- all primary among the works of the Sisters of Sorrow. Help others, foster a community… and receive naught but sorrow for it. That was the way of things.

 

“We will survive,” Rose said. Dwenne noticed quite plainly that Rose’s hand hadn’t left her arm. Dwenne could feel her Marks glowing brighter. Years of abstinence had led to the slightest bit of attention in this manner to thoughts of pure joy. Joy for Dwenne ended in oiled hands and the soft feel of a woman’s body… No. Dwenne wouldn’t allow an innocent gesture from her most devoted Sister to bring such joyous temptation to her.

 

“We always have,” Dwenne said, gently moving her arm backward. It fell out of Rose’s grip easily, the former Prince offering little in the way of resistance. That beautiful face fell back to its own meal, Rose slurped another small bite before Dwenne could so much as breathe again. It was another moment later that she felt brave enough to expose the skin of her hands. Both Marks had grown dull and lightless. 

 

Discussion at the dinner table was usually lively, Dwenne had suspected toinght’s silence was a result of the contents of the letter received. Not enough womanpower to run the desired operations all throughout the city. They needed more, but no more seemed to be interested. None save Prince Rose in the last five years had joined.

 

“We are dying, Rose,” Dwenne whispered into the silence, into a spoonful of soup that was quickly becoming lukewarm. “I fear we will soon be no more.”

 

Silence. Nothing met Dwenne’s words. Not a comment, not a word, not a whisper. Silent eating of the soup prepared by Sister Patsy. Silence. One by one, the sisters silently stood, black robes pushing the cold air around the room and sending chills down Dwenne’s spine. Soon, only Dwenne was left in the dining room. Her, and Rose. Dwenne looked around, noting the long row of empty seats and a single radiant young woman sitting next to her in black and red.

 

“Sister Rose,” Dwenne said, contemplating every word carefully, swallowing a tiny bit of saliva the walls and roof of her mouth desperately needed. “The hour is late, shall we adjourn to our quarters?”

 

“Eldest Sister, upon our receipt of my dowry, you placed me as Sister of Finance, and I have toiled in misery upon it these past three years,” Rose said. The hand returned to Dwenne’s body, resting gently on her shoulder. Dwenne looked over, head turning slowly. Rose sat straddling the bench, smiling with those full, luscious lips. Her other hand went up to Dwenne’s cheek, fingertips gloved with cotton of moderate softness touching her face. Dwenne felt her stomach twist and turn, her face redden in the darkness. Rose had sacrificed the companionship of her twin sister, yet… Dwenne knew by the Tourmaline Diaries and by the Mother herself that did not preclude… this. Dwenne slowly reached up and took Rose’s hand in one of her own, trembling fingers against that black glove.

 

“And… what is your assessment of this winter’s finances, Sister?” Dwenne asked, voice barely above a whisper. Dwenne spoke of grave matter, yet her mind was fixated on an even greater one. Fingertips gripped the glove, slowly pulling it. Rose looked down, confused as Dwenne pulled on it, cursing herself all the while. 

 

“It is that… we musn’t worry ourselves. Our suffering will be seen by Mother, and she will provide for her children. We sisters must…” Rose pulled her hand away from Dwenne’s, though not before Dwenne saw the Gift Mark on her right hand. The exact same one every woman had. When lit, it allowed her to give the gift of life to another. Rose’s Gift Mark was as dull as the day she were born. Dull, lifeless, the black lines in her otherwise porcelain skin betrayed not even the slightest hint of arousal.

 

You fool, Dwenne cursed herself, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek.

 

“Must what?” Dwenne asked as Rose readjusted her glove.

 

“Stick together,” Rose whispered. “Eldest Sister, is something bothering you? Do you not approve of Denarianism?”

 

“It is not that, Sister,” Dwenne said, dipping into her extensive knowledge on Tourmaline philosophy. “Denaria was wise, her opinions on chastity and personal sacrifice beyond the Mother’s demands are worthy of study. If anything, I should applaud your dedication to the sect. Among those in Telbud, you are the last to subscribe to her views.”

 

“If we are to speak on philosophy, Eldest Sister, rather than economics, I might suggest the study?” Rose asked. “I would like to cite the reasons why I believe what I do about Denaria.”

 

“That… won’t be necessary, Sister,” Dwenne said, standing. Removing herself from any physical contact with Rose was the only way to eliminate any amount of joy from her thoughts. Rose squinte her eyes, head tilted upwards to meet Dwenne’s face. Rose looked down, at the edges of Dwenne’s robes, where she still hid her hands, her hands that were glowing almost a radiant blue. “Shall we discuss things tomorrow? The hour is indeed late. Good night, Sister.”

 

Dwenne tore her gaze from Rose’s beautiful face, that beautiful, joyful face, and left the room ringing her hands, a cold sweat at the back of her neck, and a heart full of regret. Rather than returning to her sleeping quarters as Dwenne herself had suggested, she instead walked the path back to her study. Closing the door and opening the window to more cold air but the light of a near-full moon, Dwenne opened the Motherly Chest, containing the Tourmaline Diaries. The originals. Nearly a hundred years old, Dwenne’s faith was a young one, a dying one. One that Dwenne couldn’t help but ponder the efficacy of true suffering.

Today, I saved a woman’s life. Bethany was her name. An elderly woman, a widow who had lost a wife of sixty years last spring. Like many elderly widows, she begged on the streets. I still haven’t eaten anything since that bit of bread three days ago, and a Sister insisted I take a coin to buy a meal. It was lunch break in the city, restaurants open and patrons mostly filling them already. The coin, I spent on a kebab of beef with steamed peppers. Just as I was about to take my first bite, this woman- Bethany- called to me. She looked more sorrowful than I felt. I am young and can survive more than three days without food. This woman… well, I was sure that if I ate that meat and pepper myself, the woman would have died. I gave it to her, and she thanked me. My suffering has been magnified, but better I suffer for another day than to let a Sister of mine suffer into death.

 

It was a passage Dwenne had read plenty before. Giving up one’s food to a beggar was a common experience among Sisters. It was partially why Dwenne had ordered meals to only be taken in seclusion- if not, then the most devout Sisters risked starvation by their own hand. Dwenne flipped carefully through the old book for another entry, this one some three months later, one that Dwenne had witnessed Rose recite from memory, Mother’s inclinations and all.

 

Today, I suffered as a childless old maid suffers. I was wrapping a woman’s arm in a bandage- she had suffered a wound in combat training at the barracks some weeks ago and had been sent away from duty to recover. The wound was large, and deep, it had almost necessitated amputation but by the quick work of army surgeons, that was not necessary. She asked me if I had children, I told her truthfully I had many Sisters but no daughters. This soldier- Reylan was her name- told me she would not have to return were she with child. When I asked her if she had a wife, she said no. Reylan had never been interested, but a daughter would bring her a lessened risk of suffering. She asked me if I would be willing to sire a child unto her. It was an interesting dilemma. Among many things that bring me joy, the feel of a woman’s soft body is one. It is joyous to me to touch, to squeeze, to taste, all that which women have and love. However, if I were to bring myself joy, I would bring less suffering to Reylan. While it is my lot to suffer, is it also not that to lessen the suffering of all my Sisters? If I did as Reylan requested, I would experience joy. If I did not, Reylan would suffer.

 

“You never gave us an answer, Mother,” Dwenne said, slowly closing the book and placing it gingerly back in the chest. ‘Reylan’s Child,’ as the famous debate was now called among Sisters of Sorrow, was a topic that seemed appropriate now. Is joy acceptable if it also brings suffering? Dwenne sat in contemplation, thinking back to sitting alone with Rose in the dining hall.

 

She had experienced joy then, joy that had also brought her suffering. Was joy acceptable if it brought forth suffering? Was the magnitude of acceptable joy contingent on the amount of suffering experienced? Dwenne’s actions tonight had placed her in the camp of not giving Reylan a child. Did she do the right thing? Did it matter?

 

“What does any of this matter?” Dwenne thought, slumping over. The Sisterhood was dying, membership was static, their influence and ability to minimize suffering at an all time low. But, conversely, the Sisters themselves suffered greatly at the hands of such adversity. Was greater suffering necessary? How much could one woman suffer? How much was too much? “We still suffer.”

 

The sun rose every morning, and it set every evening. All the while, the Sisters of Sorrow suffered. Why? Dwenne read the Tourmaline Diaries, read every word of philosophy that had come from her sect. She was the leader of her religion, and yet, why did dinner tonight make her feel so disconnected from it?

 

It’s been fourteen years since you’ve let those Marks stay blue, Dwenne, she thought to herself. Fourteen years of suffering, and for what? To deny herself the daughters she so desperately wished for? To deny herself the happiness of a loving wife? Mother’s diaries dictated that one could have a family yet still suffer, the theme was omnipresent in the Diaries. Why then did Mother insist on maximum suffering?

 

Dwenne looked down at her hands, anger at Mother forming in her mind not for the first time. Not for the hundreth. This suffering was like no other suffering, yet Dwenne could only take so much pain.

 

“Mother, forgive me later, now I settle a debate,” And betray my Primary Suffering. The thought gave Dwenne pause. Was she- the Eldest Sister of Suffering- even considering allowing herself to have the one thing she swore not to have? She sat there on the ground, robes already hiked up to her waist, hand already resting on her inner thigh, contemplating. Half a lifetime of suffering, half a lifetime of self-sacrifice, was that a high enough price for one moment of joy? Could Dwenne have one moment with the thoughts of such happiness? Of love, of a family, of…

 

Dwenne’s mind began to wander so aggressively that the morality of her thoughts and actions mattered not.

 

Dwenne thought of Rose, of that beautiful young woman Dwenne had spent three years trying to not think about. She thought about her in bed, laying side by side, lips on lips, hands aglow, purposefully keeping them lit. Dwenne imagined Rose’s fingers at her entrance, pushing them inside, of doing the same to Rose. The memory of the inside of a woman’s body- even her own- was so distant as to be foreign. Dwenne thought of growing a child in tandem with Rose, bellies growing sisters who would share in untold joys together. Of growing old hand in hand with her…

 

Dwenne felt at her soaking wetness once, just once, for the first time in almost fifteen years. The orgasm ripped through her body, her mind, her faith, her suffering, her resolve. Dwenne lay there drenched in her own joyous lust, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would have sired Reylan’s child.

 

And then she cried.