Death Two
As predicted, the carriage ride to The Dea’mond Lord is long but not nearly as dull. The quiet is not something I mind; surely this peace will be the last for a very long time to come.
The first early night my companion introduces himself as Gregoire, the personal servant to the Immortal Lord and a man of very few words. I am not an expert in conversation and I stutter terribly. I am not sure if it is the direct result of non-practice or a natural occurrence.
I use the quiet to reflect and think on all I know about the Immortal Lord. Sad to say, facts all summed up to two. First, he is immortal. Second, he needs a Moons' Turn Bride. Word has it none of the Brides survive but this can be entirely false. If it is true, well, I have something none of the other Brides possess, my curse. I can always use my curse as a way to escape.
Across many moons' turns, I have experimented with different ways to die. I want to understand the nature and limits of this power. When I die, I usually stay dead for a candle or two and then wake from dreamless slumber. I discovered if I die from impalation, I can stay dead for several nights. After that, I awaken and suffer agonizing pain until the object is removed. This method I discovered by accident.
I do not have the galls to stab myself to death, too messy and painful not to mention hard. It’s a mental overcoming to stab oneself and a force of will I do not possess.
A few moons turn back, I decide to test my mortality by jumping from great heights. I walk my way into the depths of the forest one mid-night and climb the tallest Feyan I can find. Pine trees cluster around the grand Feyan-like worshipers with slightly bowing spines. When I reach as high as the limbs will allow me, I jump intending to kill myself in the fall. I miscalculate the distance and launch my body directly into an overhead branch. My head takes most of the impact and I blackout.
I wake to find the extremely pointy end of a pine branch protruding from my chest like an extremely bloody banner. My dresses and hands are stained rust-brown. My chest has been tossed in a kiln and the fire of pain licks my insides. I grab ahold of the branch, it is too thick to break. I extend my arms, grip the branch, grind my teeth, and pull with all my strength. Bolts of lightning flash through me and I black out, again.
When I wake again, the fire of my insides has dimmed to throbs and pulses with the tattoo of my heart. I have managed to pull myself halfway off the branch. I repeat the process and again, I faint from the pain.
The next time I awake, I am on the forest floor covered with branches and leaves broken with my fall. I am not in pain. I feel energized. I stand, brush myself, and examine the damage to my clothes. There is a giant hole where the branch punched through, but the skin underneath is smooth and unblemished. The point being, if I ever see a need, I can impale myself with something small and hope it goes unnoticed. I will also have to pray I stay dead until buried or put inside a coffin and the art of cremation is not practiced.
I am not sure if I can survive a complete burning and if I do, it will not be the most pleasant of memories and the fear of fire will most definitely ensue. This plan is as perfect as Meahini’s Mirror but will have to do until I think of something more functional.
I decide I will try my hardest to keep my temper in check. When anger descends upon me its fire burns my stutters to ash and replaces it with a whip. My tongue is not leashed during those times and if what I hear about The Immortal Lord proves correct; then I do not need to risk his temper and have my little quirks exposed. I’ll see how it plays when the time comes.
All too soon, the strange, self-propelling carriage turns on a large paved roadway leading up to the castle.
“Miss,” Gregoire speaks, “We will arrive at the castle soon. Might I suggest looking out the window, the blossoms are in full bloom and no one has trees such as these in all the land.”
I am curious; Gregoire is a man that does not make suggestions lightly, that much of his character I have discerned. Besides, what kind of trees bloom in the dead of winter? I do not fling the curtain back as most would do. Instead, I duck under it letting the grey, velvet fabric fall about me. When I am positive I am covered completely, I slide the veil and hood back until my eyes are free.
I gasp, pressing my hands and face against the glass. These trees are small and delicate compared to the grand Feyans I am used to seeing. Rhinnlas and Rhikklas are full tonight and the stars are equally bright. The road is lined with blue orbs set at equal intervals. The magical lights combined with the evanescence of the sky illuminate the surrounding area with surprising clarity. The trees’ trunks are startlingly gold with leaves a vibrant pink glowing in the light. My eyes are unaccustomed to the brightness, water, and begin to ache.
I pull the hood and veil to their proper place and duck back under the curtain.
“I-I-It’s beautiful,” I whisper, “What a-a-are th-they?”
“They are called Louss’eter. Long ago, it is said that the dead are buried with the seed of one of these trees. The following moon turn if the seed sprouts the soul is content finding a new home within the tree. They say it is the soul which causes the tree to grow.”
Ah, so the trees are glowing and not a trick of the moons.
“Wh-what do y-you th-th-think?”
I feel Gregoire turn towards me. This is a speech for me.
“I do not have an opinion. I was not alive when the tradition came to be. Of its truth, I cannot account but superstition and myth often have a basis of truth.”
A comfortable silence fills the carriage and its rhymic swaying lulls me to sleep.
“Miss, Miss please wake we shall be at the mannor in a quarter candle.”
Gregoire's smooth, deep timbre invades my slumber but his words wake me faster than a dousing of snow. I sit straight tugging on the edges of my hood and begin to rub the fabric of my cloak between my fingers; the action soothes my nerves.
We arrive at the castle in what feels like breaths and all too soon Gregoire opens the carriage door and hops off the edge to the ground. He pulls the stepping stool down, it unfolds neatly in front of me. Gregoire offers me his hand, but I ignore it. Contact between me and other beings is extremely rare and unnerving.
Grabbing the door for support, I lift my dresses, exposing the tops of my brown, worn boots, and step ungracefully down. My heart hammers in my throat, saliva sticks like a glob of honey in my throat. My hands shake, this fear is new and unknown. Sweat slides down my spine like icy oil, and more gathers at my temples.
“Very well Miss, if you would follow me, best not to keep Lord Jerrath waiting.” He turns and walks away leaving me to trail behind.
I slide the hood and veil just far enough to watch Gregoire's legs mounting grey stone steps to the largest door
I have ever seen. Really, what use is a door so overly large? It towers over Gregoire like a giant, tall enough to fit three carriages stacked on top each other and another two in width. The sheer size of the doors suggests the castle to be of equally oversized proportions. I don't remove my hood to confirm; the time to explore will present itself.
How in the seven pits of o'finera's does someone move an object of such gigantic stature? Gregoire pauses in front of the doors and makes a sweeping motion with his left hand saying something like, “Nomhaye.”
A flash of cerulean follows the motion splashing on the door in a burst of colour. The monstrosities move by themselves by rotating back and revealing a gap large enough for two men to walk comfortably abreast.
A magical lock; great, it means I cannot leave by the front door. There is tremendous magical ability within me but one I never learned to wield. I am harmless most times, useless against magic, and incredibly dangerous if someone causes my power to go out of control.
I sigh in resignation and follow Gregoire through the gap.
He leads me into a room with onyx marble flooring polished so brightly my lumpy form reflects a perfect image. Taking precarious steps lest I slip on the shiny surface, I follow like an obedient lupinaa.
Gregoire stops, bows, and says, “May I present your Moon's Turn Bride."