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Death doesn’t move a muscle, his face impassive as Kalma withdraws the spike and places it back on the crown. The blood runs down toward the base of the crown and freezes, hardening into a jewel-like crystal.
“Bloodstone,” Kalma says with a nod. “Now, Hanna, it’s your turn.”
My eyes go wide. “Can’t we just exchange rings or something?”
Death doesn’t smile at that. In fact, I think he’s close to calling me a chicken.
So I suck up my fear and hold out my hand, palm up.
Kalma plucks out another spike, the one beside the one that cut Death, and then holds it out above my skin. Wasting no time, he brings the spike down against my skin. The pain erupts, my blood rushing from the cut and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
“Good girl,” Death says appreciatively under his breath.
I relax slightly at his praise and Kalma takes the blade away, placing it back in the crown. I watch as my blood does the same as Death’s did. It runs down the metal length of the spike and then hardens into a crimson jewel.
“Now what?” I ask, mesmerized by it.
“We keep going,” Kalma says, pulling out another spike.
“What?!” I exclaim.
Death holds out his bare palm again and, to my surprise, the wound has totally healed itself, leaving no trace that he was ever cut. Kalma makes another quick incision in the same place and puts the bloody spear back in the crown.
“Wait a minute,” I tell them, panicking. “I’m not Death. I haven’t healed.”
Kalma gives me a stiff smile. “I suppose that’s a bit of a problem when a mortal marries a God. Normally we can make you bleed a million times. Sorry, Hanna. This may hurt more than I promised.”
Oh my god.
He grabs my wrist and holds my hand out this time, knowing I’d probably fight back, and makes another cut alongside the other one, the blood still fresh.
“Fuck,” I grind out, the pain sharp and searing. I look up at Death, because this whole damn thing is his fault. To his credit he does look apologetic.
And so the rest of the crown gets its crimson jewels this way, Kalma taking turns slicing me and Death open again and again, making us bleed.
I’m near fainting when it finally ends, feeling woozy on my feet.
“Now that the crown is complete,” Kalma announces with reverence, “it is time for the blood pact.”
More blood? Holy fuck, I’m not going survive this.
Kalma reaches out and grabs my wrist again, turning my hand palm up, my hand positively screaming in pain, my skin bright red and bloody with five different cuts that pulse with my heartbeat.
Death then takes his hand, and for a moment I think he’s going to touch me, but instead he holds it inches above mine. Kalma pulls out an actual blade from his pocket and slices upward into Death’s hand once more until his blood spills out of his palm and down into mine. Some blood splatters onto my dress (and I’m now getting why the brides here don’t wear white), some on the stone floor, but most gathers in my open hand like a crimson pond.
This is very unsafe, I can’t help but think to myself, as if Death was a normal mortal human full of diseases. But while I’m watching his blood pool on my palm—his a shade lighter and brighter, almost metallic compared to mine—it seems to take on a life of its own. His blood swirls and moves of its own accord, pushing itself and my blood back down into my wound until it’s all gone.
“Tuoni of Tuonela,” Kalma says in a deep voice, “your blood is now a part of hers. Hanna Heikkinen, your blood is now mixed with his. This formalizes your blood pact, creating a bond that shall not be broken. Tuoni, God of the Dead, King of Tuonela, you now have a wife. Hanna, Goddess of the Dead, Queen of Tuonela, you now have a husband. May your blood run together as you rule together, forever and ever. And ever.”
He gives us both a smile of encouragement. “Well, this should be the part where you’re happy.”
I look at Death. Tuoni. My husband. He’s staring at me with such an odd expression that I can’t get a read on him. Then again, I may look the same.
I don’t think either of us know how to feel.
“I know in your world, Hanna, it’s customary for the bride and groom to kiss to commemorate the moment,” Kalma goes on, clearing his throat. He looks to Death. “But, it’s not customary here. Neither is the physical consummation of your union. If that makes you feel any better,” he adds under his breath.
“Thank you, Kalma,” Death says stiffly. “But there’s still the matter of the crown.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Kalma says, clapping his hands together. He twists to grab the crown from the altar and holds it above my head.
