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She had given birth to her son - not the strongest.
A few years ago, she was holding him in her arms for the first time, her son – so small, so fragile. When she looked out the window, she saw the first snows of December beginning to fall as he uttered his first cries. Whiteness everywhere – outside, in her room, in her arms. An immaculate whiteness she was afraid of soiling. A body so small she was afraid of breaking. Yet the world already put its burden on his frail shoulders. They told her it was an honor to have carried the new God in her womb. They called him the Six Eyes bearer, even though she only saw two eyes crying as his lungs filled with air for the first time. They said that since this moment, since he took his very first breath, the balance of the world had been altered. She knew hers had been, for sure, as he was her first and probably last child. She couldn't really process that it changed other's, too.
He had come from the depths of her insides. Her body had crafted him with love and precision. The blood running in his veins was the same as the one running in hers. But she knew, deep down, that even if her being had shaped him in her image, he would grow up shaped by the purpose they had in store for him. She knew she would have no say in the matter, that they would turn her baby into a God without her being able to do anything about it.
From the moment he opened his eyes and she met their ethereal blueness, she knew his fate.
She knew his fate when he took her breast and fed on her love. She knew his fate when tears burst as his first teeth pierced his gums. She knew his fate when her hand caressed his silken hair. She knew his fate when swaddling him felt like swathing him in a shroud. She knew his fate when she whispered lullabies and ancient stories – of love, of flowers and rivers, of dragons and infinities, of birds with golden wings. She knew his fate when she’d kiss away his fear and exorcize the monster under his bed. She knew his fate when he scratched his knees as he took his first steps. She knew his fate when he would come home with flushed cheeks and sparkles in his eyes. She knew his fate when she saw him with his mouth full of sweets and his lips covered in sugar.
He was her son, not the strongest, not yet.
She knew he would be used – as a tool, as a weapon. Another pawn on a chessboard that was far too big and corrupt. She knew they’d take everything he could give and even more. She knew they wouldn’t love her son, because to be loved is to be known, and none of them cared enough to want to know about him. They wouldn’t want to know about her baby. They'd all be content with the perfect, unreal, fantasized image they’d project onto him. She knew he would be willing to be used. Because they would carefully make sure he was brought up to believe it was his destiny, his sole purpose in this world. They would make sure he’d think it was what he was made for. They'd make sure he never saw himself as human – because he was a God, and a God was made to sacrifice himself for humanity, not to be part of it. They would make him all-powerful but never free.
She knew it, which is why she made sure that the few years he would spend alone with her, where he would be only her son, her little boy, would be full of love and joy. She'd cover him with kisses and smiles, making sure he never heard her heart ache and whine in pain.
She knew it, when she’d look at him from the front porch, her eyes following his every move with an easy smile. He would run and jump in the tall grass, trying to catch some dragonflies, falling on his knees and scratching his skin, but laughing out loud, the sun reflected in the shine of his white hair and in his eyes. Once, he ran up to her with a bug clinging to his fingers – a headless dragonfly that kept moving. He asked her if he could save it. She told him there were some things you couldn’t save and couldn’t do anything about. He wondered how its body could still move without the brain to command it. She said that the body had memories, too. He shrugged and crouched down to the ground, holding the bug until it wouldn’t move anymore, until even the body lost its consciousness.
She knew it, when he would sit on a stool and help her bake his favorite cake. He’d try to crack eggs with exaggerated caution, his tongue peeking out from between his lips in concentration. He’d wrinkle his nose when a piece of shell fell into the mixture, looking at his mom with a pout. She’d laugh gently and kiss the top of his head, and his smile would come back fast as they’d add extra sugar to the batter, his eyes wide with excitement. When the cake would be in the oven, he’d take the wooden spoon and raise it to his mouth and lick the remaining batter, enjoying the sweetness.
She knew it, when she’d teach him how to ride a bike. The sun was high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the garden. Their laughter echoed with the joyful chirping of the birds. His small hands gripped the handlebars tightly and his blue eyes sparkled with determination, staring at a point in front of him. She had placed one hand on the back of the seat and the other on the handlebars, giving him reassuring smiles and encouraging words as he pedales, his movements wobbly and unsure. She trotted alongside him, keeping the bike upright with a firm grip, and the hours went by as she gradually loosened her hold until he was able to keep going on his own, his laughters of joy mingling with his mother's cheers.
She knew that beyond their secluded home, the world began to stir and wake, people spoke in whispered awe, the heavens seemed to quake. The ones who wanted to see him worshiped, the ones who wanted to see him eliminated. The one who hailed him as a God, the one who reduced him as a target. The ones who loved, the one who loathed. Fortunes were promised for anyone who could snatch the life she had given. She knew how hidden and protected they were, but her heart ached at the thought of someone hurting her baby. She couldn’t understand, really, how could anyone want to hurt her baby. He was a nice boy with a gentle heart, fully clueless about the sword of Damocles hanging over him. Sometimes she wondered if she should have tried to explain it to him, but that would have been condemning him too early. She couldn't bring herself to let him live knowing he was doomed, she wanted him to have at least some years during which he could be sincerely happy.
And he was, until that day, until that moment – when his cursed technique manifested. From the moment her hand wanted to reach his hair and met with emptiness, sealing his fate forever, she knew he would never be her son anymore.
They took him from her so he would now be raised in the Gojo's estates. She wanted to fight back, but what could she do against them? She was only a mother. She said she wanted to keep him with her, they said she was selfish. They reminded her of their agreement – she would only take care of him until his cursed technique manifested. They said she was too emotional, that she made him too human. He was a little God and needed to be treated like one.
Her boy tried to fight, too. Pushing them away with a technique he could barely control. Struggling, screaming and crying for her, his mother. They quickly told him he would kill her if he didn't follow them. He shut down and stopped trying.
The fruit of her womb had been torn from her, and even before she could realize it, he wasn't her son anymore. Not really, not fully. He wasn't the boy with messy hair and shining eyes, he wasn't the boy covered in bruises, scratches and dirt from running and playing outside. He wasn't the joyful, laughing, dancing boy who was hers.
He was the Six Eyes Bearer and Limitless User. He was the heir to the Gojo Clan. He was a boy with a calm and cold voice, with empty eyes and a sharp tongue. He was a boy spoiled rotten and arrogant. He was a boy with powers far too great for one so small. In the echoes of eternity, his name is praised, yet she could only remember the boy she raised. The one who used to be but wasn’t anymore.
He wasn't her son anymore. And he couldn’t even recognize her as his mother anymore.
Yet, she hoped that someday, he would have the opportunity to be himself again – himself, the real him, the one that came out from her womb, the one he was before the world planted its talons in his flesh that was also hers.
She hoped that someday, he would meet somehow who would love him the way she first did, loving the human and not the God. Someone with whom he would be able to fully open his heart. Someone who would give him embraces that felt like a warm spring. She hoped someone would love the one who once was her baby.
For now, she could only cry.
Oh, how tragic it was, for the mother of the Honored one, to mourn the death of her son, while the world celebrated the birth of its God.