Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 232: Cloak of moonlight

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"For years," the old woman says softly, her voice trembling with age and memory, "I’ve wondered how she was... if she was okay. It’s... disheartening to know she passed away so young."

Her gaze drifts beyond the garden, past the sunlit flowers and neatly trimmed hedges, into a distance I cannot see. I follow the direction of her eyes but find nothing there—just the endless sky and the faint rustling of leaves in the breeze. But she isn’t looking at the present. She’s looking into the past, searching for the girl she once knew, the one she helped escape all those years ago.

My mother.

Mirelle Vetara.

The woman who raised me with laughter and endless love, despite the weight of the world she carried. And yet... this woman beside me speaks of her like she was someone else entirely. I try to reconcile the images she paints with the mother I remember—the carefree woman who hummed while braiding my hair, who insisted that scraped knees were just "warrior marks," who once chased a wild goose through our garden because she thought it stole her herb basket.

It feels surreal.

"She... never really talked about her life before," I admit, shifting on the garden bench. The cool stone presses into my palms, grounding me. "She always said the past wasn’t as important as the present."

The old woman—Joan, I remind myself—smiles faintly. Deep lines crease the corners of her eyes, softened by the warmth of her expression. "That sounds like her," she murmurs. "Always looking forward... even when the past never really left her alone."

I inhale shakily, caught between curiosity and disbelief. "What was she like?" I ask, voice quieter than I intended. "Before me?"

Joan turns her attention back to me, her eyes sharp despite the age clouding them. "She was... a force of nature," she says with a chuckle. "Mirelle was curious about everything. She was clever, mischievous... stubborn as hell." She pauses, her gaze softening. "But she was also scared. Lonely. The palace was a cold place for a child like her. She learned to laugh to survive."

That makes sense. My mother always laughed—loud, carefree, and infectious. Growing up, I thought it was because she was simply happy. I never considered that it might have been armor.

"She never mentioned the palace," I murmur, voice tight with emotion. "Never mentioned being a princess. Or anything like that."

"She wouldn’t," Joan says, nodding knowingly. "She wanted to leave it behind. She didn’t want that life touching yours."

I stare down at my hands. The thought of my mother, young and terrified, fleeing from a world that tried to crush her... it shakes me. I remember her stories of imaginary castles and cruel queens—fantastical tales she spun at bedtime. But they weren’t stories, were they? They were her memories, painted in softer colors so her child wouldn’t feel the weight of them.

"She told me once that she always wanted to live in a small isolated tight knit village," I say, voice cracking. "To be a healer and raise her family somewhere peaceful."

"That was her dream," Joan says softly. "And from the sound of it... she lived it."

I smile faintly through the tears gathering in my eyes. "Yeah. She did. She was a horrible cook, though."

Joan lets out a surprised laugh. "Oh, I could’ve told you that!"

The laughter catches me off guard, bubbling up through the ache in my chest. "She burned everything," I say, wiping my eyes. "I remember the village head once scolded her for nearly burning down our herb shed. She tried to blame it on me, but everyone knew I was too scared of fire to go near it back then."

We fall into a rhythm then, sharing stories as the sunlight dances across the garden. I tell her about the time my mother declared war on a family of squirrels because they kept stealing her mint leaves. About how she made me practice dancing in the living room, saying, "We may live simply, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be elegant." I tell Joan about how my mother used to sneak extra honey into our tea, whispering, "Life should always have a little sweetness, even on the bitter days."

Joan, in turn, tells me about the princess who climbed trees just to escape etiquette lessons. About the girl who dreamed of running away to find a life where no one cared about titles or politics. About the night they set fire to the estate and ran for their lives.

The weight of it presses against my chest. My mother, the woman who hummed lullabies and patched my torn trousers with mismatched thread, had once risked everything to give me that simple life. She had walked away from a world of power and wealth to give her child something better.

Tears blur my vision, but I don’t wipe them away.

Joan reaches over and squeezes my hand. Her grip, though frail, is comforting. Grounding.

"I’m glad," Joan says softly, after a long stretch of silence.

I blink, turning toward her. "What?"

"I’m glad she had that life," Joan repeats, her voice thick with emotion.

"She always dreamed of simplicity. Of peace. And she found it... with you."

I look away, my throat tightening painfully. The breeze carries the soft scent of lavender and rosemary from the garden beds, a scent that always reminds me of my mother. I can almost hear her voice now, teasing me about my tendency to overthink.

"Let life surprise you, Noelle. It always does."

"She did an amazing job," Joan continues, her thumb brushing the back of my hand. "Raising you. She gave you everything she hoped for... and more."

The tears finally spill over. I press a hand to my mouth, trying to stifle the sob, but it escapes—a broken, aching sound.

Joan doesn’t speak. She simply shifts closer and wraps her arm around me. I lean into her, letting the dam break, sobbing into her shoulder like a child. The years of missing my mother, of not knowing where she came from or what she sacrificed, come crashing down at once.

I weep for the mother I lost too soon. For the girl she once was. For the life she fought so hard to build.

And through the tears, through the pain, a fragile warmth blooms in my chest. Because now, at last, I understand.

She wasn’t just my mother. She was a survivor.

"I miss her," I whisper into Joan’s shoulder.

"I know, sweetheart," Joan says, her own voice trembling. "I miss her too."

We sit there, holding each other as the sun dips below the horizon, the garden bathed in twilight’s gentle glow.

And for the first time in years, I feel her presence—my mother’s unbreakable, enduring love—wrapped around me like a cloak of moonlight.