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My hand strays from her chin to brush her cheek. “Thank you for sharing your ceremony, my dark rose.”
She shivers and bites her lower lip but clenches her hands to deny herself any desire from these moments. More death rattles. Her throat constricts with emotion.
Good girl,I almost commend her.
“Not all the world believes in such ceremonies,” I inform her, and her gaze rivets upon my skull eyes. “Too many struggle with Death, battle it. Or avoid it at all costs with healers and potions and rites without number. But here in Talahn-Feyal and especially in my Underworld, we honor Death. Recognize him as a friend and not a foe. As I have said: Death is final. Silent. But...” I conclude, raising a finger, “he causes no pain. Instead, he reaps pain and caresses the soul. I appreciate your respect, Isla.”
Swallowing the thickness in her throat, Isla clutches my sleeve and answers, “You’re welcome, my King. After all, Death deserves the ultimate respect, doesn’t he?” The shadow mark thrums above her collarbone as if accepting her gratitude. I inhale when Kryach’s appreciation deepens.
“Hmm,” I muse. “These citizens believe the same. They come for the blessing of the Corpse King. Of Aryahn Kryach.”
Isla nods, eyes straying to the coffins, pressing a hand to her airy tulle bodice.
I release her hand, approach a coffin where a thin, aged Ith man with sunken-in cheeks gasps for breath, his skin amassed with wrinkles like the beautiful lines of a tree trunk. Eyes of foggy gray.
“Donnyl,” I speak. The man’s haggard brows lift, his tired eyes widen, his fatigued hand rises. I know all their names. Their lives. Their memories. Their dying thoughts. In these final moments, I capture all. But I am a vessel. A stop upon their journey to Death’s realms.
This is the boon of Death tangled into the Curse. It keeps me breathing through the rot and pain.
Isla’s breath catches when I remove my glove with my teeth, assume the man’s hand, and cradle it in my ruined bony one. My shadows extend, curl to Donnyl, stroke his face?dark and tender.
I open my mouth to impart my shadow lullaby...
“You may weep for the life you have led
Tears will be gone once you are dead
Remember not your past nightmares
Enter Kryach’s arms without a care
For your song will echo in the rain
And in the stars, your eyes remain
Close them now and end your breath
Rest in peace, thy spirit now to Death...”
I cradle the man’s forehead. The Feyal-Ithydeir opens his mouth in one deep gust. Kryach’s shadows reap his breath, stop his heart, and escort his spirit into my river. Strong spirits like his voyage through the river portal into the Void where he will embark to the spirit realm. To the forever Havens close to the Isles.
Without another word, I close the coffin, bone fingers lingering before I nod to the servants. His chosen bones will be bequeathed to his kinfolk. Meanwhile, I proceed to the next coffin and the next, imparting a similar blessing each time. Uncertain of what else to do, Isla stands behind me, threading her fingers. Most souls are too lost upon Death’s edge to notice her.
Until...Glynna, an old woman with sagging gray skin and long, white hair like lace around her chest, points to my bride-to-be.
“Rose,” she wheezes.
I turn where Isla peers at Glynna who isn’t pointing to her but to the gown’s flowers. Her smile as radiant as her violet eyes, Isla plucks one without care and offers it to her. Glynna’s eyes brighten, but the aged woman longs for more. My pulse pounds in my ruinous throat with every rose Isla plucks, how careless she bares more skin, the neckline of her gown in threads around her cleavage. She gifts all roses to Glynna. What astounds me is how Isla braids the roses into her hair.
“There,” she announces, “now, you look like a perfect dream for your final journey!”
“Lovely girl. Lovely bride,” Glynna rasps before she closes her eyes to receive my blessing.
When we progress to the next coffin, a noble lady Ith searches Isla’s person, and I smirk. Cyara is as envious at the end of her life as she was throughout it. Nor can I fault her. The irony: corpus roses do not grow beneath the White Ladies.
“Do you have more for my journey?” wonders Cyara to my bride-to-be, her eyes glassy and hopeful.
Isla chews on the inside of her cheek, her eyes flicking to mine. I prepare my hand to settle on Cyara, to offer my lullaby. Until I read no desperation in Isla’s eyes, no plea for help. Instead, she sighs, drops her hands to her sides, palms open.
