All characters who participate in sexual activity in this story are 18 years or older.
WRITER'S NOTES:
This story contains elements of the Sharing, Group Sex, and Incest, if you're offended by those elements, don't read this.
A thank you goes out to
NEUROPARENTHETICAL
for the amazing editing, and making this story easier to read. And another thanks goes out to SARKASMUS, and others for taking a look at the story and giving me feedbacks.
I hope you all enjoy and I would like any HELPFUL feedback.
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PROLOGUE
"How do you think she will take it when she finds out?" a man, who looked to be in his fifties, asked the woman who stood in front of him.
Her back was turned towards him. He laid on his large bed, his lower back supported by one of several comfy pillows. They were colourful and intricately-designed, just like the bedsheets. A young woman laid by his side, topless, her head resting on his chest and her arms wrapped around his.
"Honestly, I have no idea," the standing woman said, "but I can be sure that that firecracker daughter of mine will attempt to kill me once she finds out." Her voice was layered with doubt and worry. She was stirring medicinal herbs in a small clay cup. It was work she was confident in; her worry was for the future.
The hundred-and-three-year-old man sighed. He looked half his age, but he felt old. The magic that delayed both death and ageing, by itself, would have had him looking and feeling twenty-five. Within him, however, it was at war with a disease. The disease itself should have been a trivial thing to cure, but there he was, looking and feeling thirty years older than he ought. Something was very wrong, and no one was quite sure what.
"Then, do you think it's a good idea?" he asked.
The woman turned and looked at the man. Her eyes were the shape of almonds, and her irises, their colour. She was still stirring the herbs, making sure they had blended together properly. She smiled at him, and that served as her answer.
Her poise, posture, and stoic expression made her look older — ironic, considering the great lengths their culture had taken to preserve all the real, physical trappings of youth. Her body suggested thirty-five. Her carriage and demeanour hinted at decades more. It hardly seemed relevant that she had, in truth, lived for about sixty years.
"Elder Memmaram, aren't you going to be in trouble with the Grand Patriarch?" the young woman asked, lifting her head from the ageing man's chest.
Elder Memmaram raised her eyebrow, looking at the pretty, dusky belle. "What is that prick going to do, kill me?" she scoffed. "And don't call that bastard a Grand Patriarch here, he's not even a... he's not even fit to sit on that chair. It's an insult to the ones who came before him and were actually fit to bear that name."
"I'm sorry," the young woman said timidly. The Elder's stern voice had always had that effect upon her, even when her ire wasn't truly directed at her. They'd known each other for years, and the younger woman had never found her confidence.
"Hey, now," the older man said, giving her spherical breast a gentle squeeze and weakly pulling her close to his body. "You shouldn't be so scared of my niece. Her daughter, well..."
The young woman nodded.
"Listen, Nasirah," the older woman said, "I promise, nothing will happen to you. No one will find out." She sat by the bed and put a reassuring hand upon Nasirah's thigh.
Nasirah's soft, square chin and wide lips quivered like she wanted to say something, but nothing came.
The older man brought his bulky hand up to her chin, gently pulling it in his direction. He looked into her light brown eyes — which still shone, despite the worry that plagued them — and smiled. "Don't worry, dear. Everything will be alright."
"I know...but what if I do it wrong?"
"You won't," the ageing man said. "I believe in you."
"Me too," the older woman said, squeezing her smooth leg.
Nasirah's magic wasn't flashy, or even very useful most of the time. Upon this rare and fraught occasion, Elder Memmaram desperately needed it — even though that need had been born of her own selfishness and greed. Memmaram realised that what she was about to do might sever her already-damaged relationships, but she pushed those thoughts and worries to the side.
It's been eighteen years. There's still a good chance that she changed her mind...
"
Mama
[Uncle], are you sure you'll be able to use your powers without passing out again?" Memmaram asked.
The old man nodded. "I'll be fine."
The disease was ageing him progressively; using his powers only hastened his decline. He'd done his best, so far, to restrain himself. Not only did he feel old, therefore, he also felt constrained — trapped in his body. Using his powers, he could see through the eyes of other people, fully possess animals, and even share his own sight with others. It had been strange for him to remain so long behind his own eyes. He felt incomplete.
Memmaram looked at her uncle, and could not mask her worry. "Nasirah," she said, handing the clay cup to the younger woman, "check if everything's mixed properly."
Nasirah took but a single glance. "It is," she said. Suddenly, the confidence she could never find or summon was simply there.
Nasirah had been born with the gift of magical healing. From a very young age, her entire education had revolved around supplementing that gift with all the society's collected knowledge of medicine, both natural and supernatural. Her late mother had been her mentor; her loss had been devastating to the young woman.
She wasn't there just to examine the herbs Memmaram had prepared in her stead, though. She was there to use her rarest, most unique power. It was a power that she hadn't had much practice with — or any practice, for that matter. The old man and Elder Memmaram had helped her with the very little knowledge they had of it, but it hadn't been much.
She was there to awaken someone — to activate a deep, dormant power that otherwise never would have surfaced. It was the ultimate act of healing, some would say. She didn't know if she could do it. She didn't know what the consequences would be if she failed. She didn't even know if she
should
try to do it. All she knew was that Memmaram wanted it done, and she could not defy her. She lacked the confidence, and therefore the courage. Memmaram wasn't evil — or at least Nasirah believed she wasn't — and she didn't want to disappoint her.
"Hmm," Memmaram said, getting up from the corner of the bed. "Make sure to give it to
Maman
before we leave."
Nasirah nodded.
"Also, where's your brother?"
"He's with his
umma
[mom]."
"Of course," Memmaram said with a sigh, shaking her head. "Do you know how long he's been there?"
"An hour, maybe."
Memmaram cooed a specific, rhythmic, bird-like tune, calling over her pet. It was a rare breed — a member of the tri-coloured blackbird family, but a variant indigenous to Mayalokam. It was much smaller than most other blackbirds, and its colours were inverted — red as the primary, with black spots on the wings. Memmaram felt a deep affinity for these rarities, often using them as her eyes.
"Little Red, go get Rafiq,"
