2 Death One

On the furthest edges of the Ciy'bria Provence next to the Chimera Sea, lays the Dukedom of Everlasting. The Dukedom once knew a different name; a grand name, a name noble and proper befitting its nature. All can agree the name it conveys, suits the land much better than the name it bore before.

As the name suggests, the land is cursed; cursed by a powerful witch to eternal darkness. Our skies are always night. With the moon and stars constantly overhead, we tell the passage of time through the cycles of the moons. There is no Rhyun shining his face above us yet, the crops still grow, and the season's turn. While the rest of the world calls the passing of Rhyun, morning, noon, and night; we call the passing of the moons early night, midnight, and dark night.

The lore of the curse can fit inside a nutshell, so small the information is but all know this; a powerful witch cursed the Lord of the Land to everlasting life and the land to everlasting darkness. There is one more fact we know about the curse; the Immortal Lord needs a Bride every New Moons' Turn when Rhyun's power is at its nadir. He sends his grand carriage to a village three moons prior where it waits until the Bride steps within.

In some stories, the Bride is special. She is chosen out of fear and respect for the Immortal Lord's power. The village will designate their best; one who will be of marriageable age when it's their turn to present her.

They will choose a young girl, the promise of her beauty like a closed flower, shy and hidden among nervous petals. She is trained to be a proper wife to the creature responsible for sending their land into eternal darkness. She learns to sew and embroider with tiny, perfect stitches. She is given the best silks in the brightest colours, sewn with brass, copper, and silver coins and bells. She sews her wedding gown in neat, nearly invisible stitches and grows into the role she's been bred to play.

The snow is always deepest during Moons' Turn, the village turns to ice most wonderfully. I imagine it's the same now as it was when the curse began; full of glimmering snow and trees crowned with ice chimes singing in the frigid winter wind. The moons' are their brightest during this time and illuminate the bride and her walkway like Rhyun shines his face overhead. She is adorned with silks the colour of the sky and sunshine. Her hair is shorn, a sign of what she is yet to become, royalty. The bells and coins she's sewn among the gown chime merrily and she is a beacon for her beloved to find her in the darkness. She believes in her purpose. The path plotted before her is carpeted with hard crimson winter berries and they shield her bare feet from the blistering cold. At the end of the path, the carriage awaits unmanned to take her to her groom. As the years travel, the ritual turns into something barely called tradition.

I am Desolation; born cursed and found wandering a cursed land. From the crown of my head to the soles of my feet my skin is spelled and my gaze brings death.

Of the times before, I remember not and prefer to remain in ignorance.

Mupu, a dear old Feelinai rescued me when the world left me to die and a woman who cannot be affected by my curse because she is blind. She does not care about my curse or the marqueings on my skin; she cannot see them. More importantly, she never seeks to exploit my curse for her benefit.

I was about seven when I kill my first living being and my curse was discovered. The memory takes me, throwing me headfirst into the past spiraling downwards until I relive the memory, moment by moment.

I am foraging in the forest. Sunlight streams inviting and warm between golden Feyan branches illuminating the ground carpeted with vibrant moss, eine nettles, and twigs. The air is pungent with spicy Lililanth, a soft breeze plays about my ankles. I walk with muffled footsteps. A magnificent blackberry bush raises decorated with large, ripe berries. Gathering the corners of my cloak in one hand, I make a mock basket and collect the fruit with the other.

The bush has summoned another visitor with its succulent offering. A loud growl ensues. The growl is familiar, and I back away from the vegetation slowly. A Mera bear barrels through the bush and then stands on its hind legs. Its roar rattles my ears and I release my hold of the berries; they waterfall around my feet and roll towards the bear. I pull my hood off and stare, trembling at the grey and white striped monstrosity.

Fear has me tethered to the ground; I make eye contact, the world spins and the bear stumbles falling back to all fours. It stares at me a moment longer then begins to eat the fallen berries. The mera does not eat like a regular animal; no, it gorges itself swallowing minimally as it would never eat again. I continue to slowly back away from the animal now that its attention is averted. It does not notice.

When the bear is finished with the ground berries, it hurries over to the bush and begins the gorging process again. It throws its body into the bush and eats, and eats, and eats until there is no bush remaining. The bear should be sated but it continues to another bush full of red berries, not for human consumption. I watch, no longer fearful but fascinated and curious. Halfway through eating its third bush, the bear halts and collapses, breathing its last.

I creep forward but it's still as stone. I creep furthermore feet light upon the nettles but it still does not stir. I cannot see the rise and fall of its breath.

I am standing over the bear when a quivering voice asks, "What have you done?" Standing nearly out of sight behind a large Feyan is Urentina the Maiour's wife. Her face explains she's seen everything.

"O'finren's spawn! Wait until my husband hears of this."

The event spreads like the worst case of Ashes but there is no substantial proof and the word of only one woman. Most do not believe, but the ones who do will cause me grief for the better part of a moon turn.

I am young and do not understand my curse; many seek to use me as a tool against their neighbors.

One mid-night, I am approached by a few men and a woman. They tell me they overheard one of their neighbors speaking of me and how they would love to get a glimpse of my eyes, saying my eyes must be quite lovely.

In my innocence, I believe them and lower my hood for an innocent man. They quickly learn the nature of my curse is unpredictable and I am not in control.

Suffice it to say, many people died in the most unpleasant and unfortunate ways. One man slips off his roof and breaks his neck. Another's barn catches on fire and while trying to save his animals, he is trampled to death instead. No matter who the man is or the manner of his death, they all die within candles of each other and are the same men who pestered me a few nights earlier.

Urentina takes the time to mention the incident in the forest; her words spark a wildfire. The town's people are livid and they are out for blood but not any regular blood. No, only my cursed blood will sate their lust for revenge. They demand my death. They come with rope and fire to my home screaming in anger at mupu, wanting her to release me to them. She refuses, thus they take me by force.

A blind woman cannot defeat a berserker crowd.

I cannot be older than eight, yet they sentence me to death. Early night they hang me in the village square. I hang until the last star disappears from the sky.

That early night the villagers learn a new meaning to fear; me.

Whether a part of my curse or a blessing, I cannot die; no, I can die, yet I do not stay dead for very long.

When the rope is removed, I gasp for air. My eyes focus on the terrified faces before me and recall they are the ones who killed me. Roaring lightning fills me. I feel like I'll disintegrate at any moment. The receding backs of horrified villagers are all I remember.

Three more villagers die that early night, including Urentina.

Since that early-night, we live in a pact I am never to remove my hood in public or display even a hint of power I unleashed.

Yet again, they don't understand that I have no control.

In return, they will have nothing to do with me besides trade. To ensure my good behavior, they make mupu part of the bargain. If I break these two rules they will hang mupu as they had done to me.

I turn ten and it is once again our village's turn to present a New Moon's Turn Bride. A grand gilded carriage arrives one mid-night and parks in the village square. The carriage is not pulled by any beast. The stories I hear mention say it is manned by some type of magic wielded by the Immortal Lord.

A tall, elegant man dressed in fine clothes steps from the landau. I take advantage of the attention he's receiving; for once not all eyes are on me. I crouch behind some empty barrels and shifting my hood back, I tilt my head and peer through the veil. The man is tall, handsome, and dark, very dark. His skin is the colour of our forever-darkened sky, deep, starless, and rich. He wears his long, silver hair in the typical male fashion; in a queue clubbed at the base of his neck.

"Citizens of Everlasting," the man says, voice deep and melodic, "The moons' turn, and your village has the honor of bestowing a Bride."

At his words, women weep and angry murmurs break out among the crowd. Confused whispers follow like fire ants. Never once has the Immortal Lord sent a man to collect his Bride.

The whispers wonder about the change.

I hear more as the night progresses. Some villages no longer choose the best of their maidens; instead, offer their worst the ones never missed. Other villages have stopped giving Brides altogether; hence the presence of this man is explained.

The village panics becoming clear they were planning on not sending a Bride.

A village meeting is called.

Three nights later the village presents its candidate.

It is the baker's daughter Lykka.

Lykka is a woman in her mid-twenties with no marriage prospects. She is on the portly side with a face akin to a pig.

I like her.

I find her face friendly. She sneaks me sweet buns when no one is around. I feel a pang, she is an almost friend. I am sad to see her go, no one else will ever think of giving me sweet buns.

Lykka is not prepared. She is not chosen for her grace and beauty, just the opposite. She did not sew her wedding gown. She is given no coins or bells to call her husband.

Instead, she is dressed in her best but it is a thin dress, once blue, now gray from many washings. Her eyes are bloodshot and puffy, I want to hug her but such action will most likely see mupu hanged.

At her sides, her arms hang like wet rags, hands clenched in fear. We all hear the rumors. What happens to the

Brides once they are taken? Why does he need so many?

Then come the whispers from another village. Blood.

If the village has to give up a woman then they'd give him Lykka, whom no one but her father wanted.

That was many moons' turn ago.

I turn twenty-two. For the past twelve moons' turn, I think I pass through the villager's memory.

How wrong I am.

A rough knock disturbs the argyle pattern I am carving on a piece of pottery. I ignore it, desperately wanting to finish the overdue piece before Mupu arrives.

The knock morphs into a pound hard enough to rattle the door on its hinges and buck against the frame.

Grumbling curses, I place my etching tool on the Feyan bench beside me and grab the cloak I tossed on an oak stool. I am not required to be cloaked and hooded in the privacy of my own home. I have the mind to open the door as I am and scare the water out of the person breaking down the door. I am confident such action will be viewed as attempted murder.

I sigh pulling the cloak around my shoulders, and place the veil over my face followed by the hood. I open the door to the impatient, disgruntled mien of Yathu, the Maiyor. He's aged twenty moons' turns. His face is lined with anger, and whatever joy it contained died with his wife. I lower my eyes to the ground before he notices the direction of my gaze.

"Where is your mupu?"

I shrug.

"No matter this news is for you. The Immortal Lord's man has returned. You are to go with him this night. If you are not in the carriage by third white I will hang your mupu. Do you understand?"

I say nothing but move slightly to the right and shut the door, loudly. I feel his wrath behind the wood wanting to lash out but he doesn't and after a few breaths stalks off in the direction he'd come.

I am sitting on a stool when mupu arrives.

"There are whispers in the village," she says by way of greeting.

I don't respond.

"Ah, so you've heard."

She understands my silence.

I raise from my stool and hug her for a long moment letting everything I can't word flow through my embrace.

"C-Come w-with me."

Mupu places a hand on my cheek, smiling, with milky eyes roaming the walls behind me. She's stooped with age and her raven hair is streaked with lavender marking the moons she's lived; for a Feelinai it means centuries. Her kind is a very long-lived race. They are one of the first beings created by Ira and gifted with the ability to shift into cats. They are the keepers of prophecy and can walk the threads of time to observe history and record it accurately.

"Ah, sweet child I have seen this day come. I love you but I cannot join you. My path lies elsewhere," she taps her right eye, "To the Immortal Lord you need to go, there you will find answers."

"An-Answers?"

"To the questions your heart asks."

I do have questions, many of the. I'd given up on finding answers. At the prospect of being completed, the questions flutter anxiously in my chest like panicked birds. I turn and walk away from her, there is nothing left to say. If I look at her old, happily wrinkled face a moment longer, I will break down and beg her until she acquiesced.

Instead, I tug my hood and veil even lower and walk my path toward the carriage. As Lykka before me; I am not clothed in a bright array of colours. I have neither bells nor coins. I do not walk down a crimson path of winter berries toward my beloved.

The Immortal Lord's man stands beside the carriage, dark and patient. The carriage is large, built like a house on four wheels than one pulled by beasts of burden. It is made of dark wood, most likely Currath or Black Oak, and is engraved with small silver lettering.

When I am closer, I notice the lettering has faint blue light rhythmically pulsing at regular intervals. The man opens the door releasing a small step ladder cleverly hidden on the bottom of the carriage and unfolds on smooth hinges. He gestures for me to ascend.

I falter, gather my dresses, and step up into the carriage. The man follows, closing the door with a solid click.

The sound resounds like thunder marking the end of my life with finality and the beginning of another. I pray to Ira the next life she gives me will be much kinder. What I hear of The Immortal Lord, he is anything but kind.

I silently settle on a maroon stuffed seat containing several stacked books placed for my entertainment. I ignore the pile. I'd prefer not to mention I cannot read.

It's going to be a long ride.