Populus

The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. The once lush and vibrant landscape had become a vast expanse of desert, whose deep fissures etched their way through fractal plates of clay like stretch marks. They seemed to strain upward over the monolithic city walls, to grasp desperately at what scant enduring moisture might still be suspended in the cloudless sky. Perhaps she was projecting. The world had grown tough in recent years not to view through a colourless lens. Surface runoff from the nearby mountains, which the Architects had once redirected to flow through the citadel, had been exhausted ages ago. And rainfall had become a rare phenomenon that the Aunts recounted with reverent longing. Groundwater, drawn from aquifers deep beneath the city, had since served as their primary water supply; The majority of which was reserved for maintaining crops and livestock.

Citizens had adapted to the lack by relying on the bi-products of pickled vegetables and fermented fruit to suppress their unrelenting thirst. A practice which took years of genetic recalibrating to be able to withstand, at considerable detriment to their physical and mental health. The first few decades of debauchery and resulting discomfiture had done little to counteract the societal dereliction set in motion by the governing forces' political and agricultural ineptitudes. It had been four decades more since the draught had first cemented its malignant roots, and those who remained had hardly an appetite left for life itself, let alone productivity or, All forbid, sobriety. It was still up for debate as to whether they had ever truly adapted to metabolize the swill into sustenance, or if they had simply grown so accustomed to being perpetually drunk that even the Family had unwittingly rendered themselves high-functioning alcoholics, with nothing that vaguely resembled clarity to compare their faculties to. A notion which crossed her mind idly as she gazed out onto the barren carpet of rust-coloured shale. Its unforgiving, exponential warmth against the limestone wall that framed the last window in Populus made the world inside feel that much colder. She wondered which death would be more torturous: to waste away in the scorching heat while forfeiting one's last dregs of sanity to dehydration, or slipping into such death-begging madness from too much drink that one was blind to any sense in living. Both seemed equally as gratuitous in their futility: Two cuts from the same sackcloth; Both of which the Father would've professed to don willingly, if burdened with the opportunity. Both of which she would gladly help him in and out of at his slightest whim, wether or not she were given a choice. The selfish thought moved her to cross herself, and the irony of this antiquated compulsion provoked a feeble smile to break out across her unsuspecting face, causing her lips to crack. She held her bottom lip in her mouth and let the blood pool on her tongue as she fought the temptation to smile harder, lest it split further and give her away. She wouldn't risk him knowing there was any capacity for joy left in her. There wasn't time enough for her to savour it, anyway. He'd been gone too long already. Truthfully, the arrangements ought only to have taken a few hours, had anyone bothered to show up on time, or in any way prepared. Fortunately, neither of these had been realistic expectations to which one could hold anybody, especially oneself, for some time. Things simply happened when they happened, if they happened at all. Which in this particular instance suited everyone just fine.

The man was a relentless vexation at the best of times, but Father's behaviour had grown increasingly erratic since he had been pressured into making a decision. His reluctance to do so had been an ample source of tension amongst the Family, with prognostic results. Since the rationing had begun, the yield had left too narrow a margin for the Sisters to justify any further attempts at smuggling provisions outside the citadel walls. The Citizens had relied on these dregs of contraband compassion to concoct their own version of the drink, but hadn't the self control to save any mother to feed for future batches. Their rashness had resulted in a crippling dependency that the Brewers and their dwindling stores could no longer sustain. Once their supply had dried up, the Citizens had resorted to a bloodier means of sustenance which had only quickened the populations decline. Disposing of the resulting carrion had required far greater manpower than the Brothers were able to muster. So, they had instead been tasked with sealing every entry point and airway into the citadel in order to prevent any hint of disease birthed by the putridity from infiltrating its walls. The only room far enough beyond reach of the infectious fog to warrant permitting any airflow was the Father's own private quarters located here, in the high tower; Accessible only to him and a close few of his retinue. It wasn't much of a view, as there wasn't anything alive left to look upon, but the gentle breeze was undeniably welcome, even if its sweetness was tinged with the distant yet distinct stench of decay. A luxury she found herself grieving, for the loss of time she might've had to eventually take it for granted.

A booming knock jolted her out of her despondent reverie, partnering the hollow ache in her gut with a wrenching twinge of anxiety. He never knocked. She didn't suppose he'd ever felt the inclination to extend such a courtesy, given the boundlessness of his entitlement. Was there even a lock in all the city which his key couldn't open? She made her way hesitantly to the door, not oblivious to the comic irony of her sudden irrational fear. What was there left to be afraid of? She unlatched the bolt, heaved at the solid wooden door, and was greeted on the other side by the distraught complexion of Aunty Goode. Beads of fermented sweat had pooled above Aunty's upper lip during her climb, which she was visibly restraining herself from lapping up thirstily. She nodded gravely and turned without a word to begin the long descent back. Following behind her clunky limp made the already arduous task all the more tedious, and Little Sister found herself growing frustratedly impatient with every tentative step. At the bottom, Auntie braced herself against the entryway to the staircase as she paused to catch her breath. Behind her, Sister's eyes strained against the light of hundreds of candles which illuminated the usually gloomy great hall, seeking Him out with pathetic desperation. Finally, Auntie regained her composure and took her rightful place with the rest of the Elders, with Sister in pursuit. Her eyes adjusted to the unfamiliar brightness as she fumbled her way into the hall, just in time for Aunty Walcott to hand her a small wooden chalice and mouth the word "shame" as she passed. A word which at one time might have incited feelings of guilt, but now sounded as hypocritical as it was redundant. Fully assembled, the Family regarded each other in nervous silence while the Father, dressed in his finest silks, kept his glassy eyes fixed firmly but fuzzily on Little Sister. He swayed drunkenly in place, stifling the odd hiccup, or perhaps holding back something slightly more corporeal. Her eyes met his as she settled in amongst her kin, and for the first time she thought she recognized in them a glint of something like regret, or even sadness. After holding her gaze for just under a minute, he lifted his goblet unceremoniously to the sky, and then to his lips. Slowly, each of them followed suit. Closing her eyes and tilting her head back, she heard their bodies thud gracelessly to the floor, one by one, as the room filled with an undignified odour. Then, just as her own cup rose mechanically to her lips, her ears were confounded by the ludicrous yet somehow unmistakeable roar of a thunderclap, followed by the drumming of rain.