His soul was closer to this world than the next when Mora appeared again. She sat on the edge of Pierre’s bed, flesh and tangible, the bed shifting with her weight. Her dress was opaque, though cut low in the back, and the ghost of great bat wings sprouted from her shoulders.
“You will leave,” she said to the physician, her gaze never wavering from the duc.
“My lady, he—”
“You believe your presence will make any difference?”
He did not. Pierre, while at first his protégé, was far more skilled now in the dark magic. He dared not continue because of what Mora wanted him to do, instead using his knowledge to heal and keep death away. Pierre embraced it.
But Ophion returned to his seat. The same position that meant he could not stop Mora also meant he could defy her. Maybe he would be of some use to Pierre, if only as he had suggested earlier—a tether to the living world. His hands moved in his lap, as if he was tying a string to his finger, luring the soul with a beacon.
Death ignored him, tilting Pierre’s head so that unblinking eyes met hers. The body was room temperature by now, feeling cool even to her touch. She straightened his collar and cravat, lying down beside him with a smile; he had come to her in his best. The only scent to permeate the room was that of the flowers, her duc must have fasted in anticipation. He lay her perfect corpse.
She stretched up to kiss him, to steal the last breath that a closed mouth might still hold. His soul then settled into flesh. She turned away like a demon from the holy.
A warmth spread throughout his body, becoming heat and then movement- circulation returning to limbs, muscles contracting, extremities flexing. His heart beat erratically, she felt his pulse against her cheek where she had hidden her gaze. The duc suddenly gasped for air, and moaned in pain. With a spasm his arms wrapped around the woman atop him, and he crushed her to his chest.
A whispered plea turned into a groan before he could form the words. He buried himself in her embrace as another moment of pain seized him, his nails digging into her back. He sought shelter in her arms.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t,” he managed to say. “I wanted to, I..” He loosened his hold, aware of how he had thrust himself upon her. She pulled back only enough to place her hands on either side of his face, her fingers tangling in his hair. The locks she touched whitened.
“No,” she said. There was no warmth in her voice. “You did not.” At this she vanished.
Pain shot through him. He curled up in a ball, composure failing as all of her favour was revoked. Ophion rushed to him, but dared not touch him until the tension left his body.
“I am sorry,” Pierre whispered. He was still curled up, voice strained. Slowly he sat. “Uncle, forgive me for-” He vomited black bile.
“Sh, be quiet Pierre. Let me help you.”
He moved Pierre to the cleaner side of the bed, leaving the bile for now. It could not expose them, though it would suggest Pierre being far more ill than he wanted made known.
“I can move my limbs, feel everything,” Pierre grit out, spitting. “I have not eaten, I do not—”
“I said quiet,” the physician ordered, and the patient obeyed. He began to undress Pierre.
The duc had planned tonight well. Neither eating nor drinking for a day and a half removed the possibility of soiling oneself in death. Aside from the issue of cleanliness, the stench would have raised alarm and inquiry. As it was in the strain of return he had only sweat through his clothes. His trousers were also stained with ejaculate- a Suitor who had undergone all tests by Death was no longer fertile.
The several hindering layers were thrown aside.
“What hurts?”
“Everything.”
Ophion opened the wound in his arm again, making Pierre take a few sips of blood. He coaxed the spirits of death and pain in the room, taking their attention so there could be some reprieve for the duc. He stayed until morning.
***
A small crowd gathered before the duc’s chambers. Some were there to wish him well, and others had not even known he had taken ill until seeing the commotion. Two guards stood by the door; merely a presence of power, not a force. No one was being allowed entry.
Lord Ophion came out of the room, and raised a hand to gain everyone’s attention. He wore the same clothes as the evening before.
“Ladies, gentlemen, I beg you to be quiet. I understand you are all worried about the duc, but this was not an uncommon occurrence when he resided at home as a young man. Many of you know others that suffer from similar headaches. Stimuli will aggravate his pain. Now please, a late breakfast is being served for all who stayed up the night before.” The intense headaches were often brought on by the use of necrocræft, though it was a common enough symptom among the ill in Clandestina as well. Those who called themselves Suitors of Death were quick to use this as part of their masquerade.
The doctor urged the guards forward and they began to usher away the guests that did not leave hastily enough. Elizabeth was among them, and tried to stay until she could get closer to Ophion and speak with him directly.
A guard placed his hand on her shoulder. “My lady—”
“No, please, I—Uncle!” They were not related by blood, Ophion and she, but his adopted daughter was her sister-in-law and perhaps that was enough.
“Please!” Slightly louder, but still under her breath, almost like a hiss. Her brother had occasionally suffered from similar headaches and she knew better than to raise her voice.
To her relief Ophion saw her and nodded to the guard, who let her go and returned to his duties. Elizabeth dashed to the physician. “Has the lord gotten worse? I know he took unwell, but that was last night. We danced, I thought he was only nervous. He should be better by now if it is not serious.”
“Lady Elizabeth. Yes, unfortunately he is still unwell. He will be fine soon, but the pain has not disappeared as of yet and I would prefer he still rest. He did desire I inform you that he will be well soon, should you come asking.”
“It is just the headache?”
“A cough as well, and slightly dizziness, but everything is under control. Stress from travel waking a dormant illness.”
Only then did she smile, glad Pierre was mostly well, and wished her informed so as not to worry.
“Thank you, lord physician, it is good to know that it is something which can be dealt with.”
“Mm. Now I shall go and check how he is doing, then perhaps join you at breakfast. You thought Pierre nervous, I wish to hear this. Have a good day, my lady.”
“I am feeling quite well, Ophion. You’ve frightened away those I have no interest in, but certainly Lizzy is allowed entrance.” Pierre was leaning heavily against the now-open doorframe, a cane helping keep him up. He was terribly pale, and his hands still shook, but he smiled.
“Oh, my lord.” Elizabeth forgot herself, embracing him. “I was so worried.”
“My, little Lizzy, there was no need of that.” And as if to then show his lie, he turned away to cough harshly. “Perhaps that is not entirely true. Ophion?”
The physician gently moved Elizabeth away and helped Pierre back into his room. She waited a moment, but walked through the entranceway. The guards did not stop her.
“I should be quite well by this evening,” Pierre continued to speak to her, now in bed but sitting up. He picked up a damp cloth and pressed it to his forehead. Pluta lay curled up in his lap watching Lizzy.
“The pain comes and goes, as long as I do not strain myself I should be fine.” He said it with a look at his uncle, and put the cloth aside.
“My lord—” Ophion said.
“She may stay.” He rubbed his forehead; another wave of pain was starting. “And you may go have your breakfast, and then depart. Sleep on the journey. I am fine now, I am sure the worst has passed. You are needed in Eichel.” The lord physician had had plans to leave and see to his daughter and son-in-law, that is before Pierre had done much worse than merely risk hi
s life.
The duc spoke aside to Lizzy, “Ophion stayed up the whole night making certain I was managing with the pain. He does not believe I am almost well and is forcing me to stay in bed. Would you mind terribly keeping me company?”
“No, my lord, I would be delighted to.”
Pierre turned to his uncle and smiled. “See? And I promise that I will rest. Go on then.”
The physician sighed. “Send Pluta if you worsen.” He pulled over a chair for Elizabeth, scooting it next to the bed. “I shall still be here an hour or two.” He shut the door as he left.
As if understanding she had been mentioned the cat moved over to the edge of the bed. The young woman reached out and stroked her from head to tail. “She’s gorgeous! Why, hello there.” Pluta purred. “Is she not almost twenty years in age by now? I remember her from when we were young, you said she was a longtime pet even then. Assuming of course it is the same cat..”
“It is the same cat, I could not give her name to another.” To name the living exactly after the dead was full of meaning in several realms. “And she is almost twenty three,” Pierre continued. “Cats can live into their twenties, though rare. Do you remember the first spring we met? The fée rings we found, Pluta ate some of the mushrooms when I was there later. Time has not affected her since.”
“You went back alone? Did you make a wish?”
“No, actually, I did not. I wanted to see if there were any differences during the night. The moonlight was brighter than usual.. Springfinding will be here soon, perhaps we could look for another one to wish in? Leave milk and honey on your windowsill to appease them.”
“It is still too early for them to be venturing so close to human homes, they will only come once our midspring has passed. I think you are just setting this up as a treat for Pluta.” She scratched the cat behind her ears, and was patiently still as the animal looked her over and sniffed her. “Do not worry, I will leave enough for you and the fairies.”
“Cats should not actually be given milk,” Pierre said. He spoke as if he often corrected others, especially while only overhearing a conversation. Lizzy wondered if his professors had found it a nuisance. She smiled.
“She is an immortal fay-cat, I do not think a saucer of milk will do her harm.”
“Ah, well..” Pierre struggled for words, as if too he was very rarely himself corrected. “When stated that way I believe you are correct.”
She looked up to him, and though smiling he seemed now in more pain. Elizabeth stood and looked to the bowl of ice-water that served to re-dampen the cloth. She held up a finger to Pierre for patience. With the other hand she picked out a cube of ice and wrapped it in the cloth, then pressing this to his temple. He reached up to hold it himself, and placed his hand atop hers.
“Thank you, Lizzy.”
“Of course, my—”
“Pierre, my dear.”
“Of course, Pierre.” She stroked some of his bangs out of the way, then quickly retreated to where she had sat with Pluta.
“Is it from the pain?” she asked. “Your hair colour, there is quite a lot of grey amongst the black. I have heard fright or pain may cause it to whiten. You have had these headaches since you were young..”
“It seems to be the case. Even my poor moustache is greying.”
“I fear I am too far away to see that.” He had only begun to wear the thin moustache when he had left for school, now a neat goatee complemented it.
“Were you not paying attention last night?”
“Your eyes held my attention, my lord—Pierre.”
“Perhaps you would wish to again come closer?”
She looked down to Pluta, and then around the room. “My lord, the door is closed. I do not believe it would be proper.” It was enough that they were in this room alone.
“Of course.” The duc was not as pale as he had been at the beginning of their conversation. “Forgive my suggestions, Elizabeth. You were among my thoughts last night.”
“You were in mine,” she confessed, still looking away.
There was a knock on the door. Pierre bid them enter, but winced at his own raised voice.
Two servants entered with a small table held between them, filled with all manner of breakfast food sweet and savoury. Placing it down each took a large dish and filled it with an assortment, one plate given to Pierre on a legged tray and the other put down next to Elizabeth on the table.
“My lord, do you desire to be fed?” One of the servants asked the duc, not moving from beside his lord, “It is an unnecessary strain, given your illness.”
“No, thank you I am well enough. You are dismissed, please keep the door ajar.” The two bowed, though stayed where they were.
“Yes?”
“The comtesse Bethany wishes her daughter know that they will be leaving before lunchtime with the lord physician Ophion, to return to Eichel.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth answered. “The information has been heard.”
Elizabeth said nothing about her abruptly scheduled departure, taking a large bite of fruit (something that should not have been in season yet) and delighting in its taste. Glancing to Pierre she noticed that while he had refused to be fed, with one hand occupied keeping the cloth pressed to his head, it did not look a very comfortable task.
“May I?” she asked. She stood again, and shook a finger at Pluta (who was stretching over to sniff the dish), “This is mine, you may have your own share from the table.” Pluta looked to her master, the two dishes, and then jumped to the extra food. She began to eat a slice of ham.
“Elizabeth,” Pierre protested when she sat at the edge of his bed and took his fork. “I sent away the valets, you are a noble lady—”
“And too I have been taught healing arts. You are in pain. Therefore at the moment, my lord, I am a nurse and you a patient.”
Pierre had no reply to this, and was forced to accept the food as it was offered.
Pluta sneezed as if to laugh.
***
“I am fond of her,” Pierre said. He leaned back and sighed. Elizabeth had left a quarter hour ago and he already missed her. She had indeed fed him, and he in turn had then announced the pain had subsided and surely as was fair he would feed her. She had not been able to object. “Not love,” he continued, reflecting, “not yet. But my heart beats faster in her presence.”
“You are infatuated already?” Pluta replied. She looked up from the food she was nibbling on.
“I believe I have been in some way since we were children. She has taken quite a stronger hold on me this time..” His voice drifted off, and he turned to the larkspur around his room. Reaching out he grasped a stem and pulled one out.
“Look, my Familiar.” The cat jumped from the table to the bed, and sat dutifully beside her master. He placed a finger in his mouth and bit down. Black blood dripped from the wound, and it tasted bitter. He touched the purple flower with it and watched as the bloom shriveled up.
Pierre then snapped his fingers, smearing blood on his hand, and quite the opposite took place—a flower returned to life. New buds and leaves poked from the stem, and the roots grew long. He leaned over and replanted it.
“It is easier,” he said, letting Pluta lick his wound. It began to heal far faster than if he had left it be. “There is a general ease to it. When before the spirits had resisted, if only gently, they now trust my own judgment. And while I still feel unwell after last night, I assumed far more pain.”
“You are no longer merely a suitor of death, Pierre,” the cat said.
No, he was not. He had returned to life within the hour of his own volition. He would have lost all he had strived for if he had taken longer. Perhaps then he would have rather stayed dead.
“Mora asked me to stay.” Pluta paused in cleaning the blood from his hand. He stroked her behind the ear. “She asked I stay as her consort in the realms between lives.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I would not be her equal. I wou
ld rather a limited life as her equal than forever as her consort.” He sighed. “And there are those who would miss me.”
***
The insistences that he was fine ended by noon, and call for aid began soon after. What Pierre had taken as readjustment was just the beginning of a long process. But what else could be expected from a body that had died?
Though it was not the first time it had done so. The studies of necrocræft were extensive, and to become a suitor to the lady of death was to become intimately familiar with all she governed. At nineteen he had been killed so he could experience death firsthand. Ophion had then brought him back to life, and for a week Pierre slept before waking. Perhaps that had been Mora’s mercy, to keep him from the pain she now let befall him.
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