City of Shadows

Epilogue: How A Faerie Loves

Tlayolotl was beautiful as ever. The sun was shining, the sky was bright blue, and white, puffy pieces of cloud decorated it. The grass gleamed with dewdrops, the flowers were blooming, and the ground was pleasantly sun-warmed, even so close to winter. It was a beautiful picture, and it was a stark contrast to the mood that settled over the small village.

A large group of people dressed in various shades of red was passing through the village's bronze and gold-wrought gates. They were following a wooden casket uplifted on the shoulders of six strong warriors. They all held a single white rose in their hands, from the oldest to the youngest. Their heads were bent respectfully, and their footsteps were soft whispers as they brushed against the grass.

Itzamatul walked at the head of the procession. She didn't wear her circlet of branches. There was no gold or finery today. She wore a simple red dress. The band circling her sleeves and waist were white, and a deep red lace veil was draped over her head and shoulders, only leaving her face available to sight.

Ember and her father were walking directly behind the chieftess. Ember was clutching her father's arm. She had her grandmother's rose held tightly in her hand. Her father was dressed in a combination of red shirt and black slacks, as were Magnus and Luke, and the New York Shadowhunters trailing behind her wore the traditional white and red-runed mourning gear of the Nephilim. Ember wore neither of the two. She couldn't bring herself to wear gear or the traditional mundane black. Somehow, neither felt quite right for the occasion. She was not mourning as a Shadowhunter, after all, or as a mundane. Isabelle had helped her apply her mourning runes before she got dressed, but when she emerged from her room she was wearing a simple red dress that brushed against the tops of her knees. Rosa's shawl was draped over her shoulders, a splash of black, red, gold, and green, and her rose pendant rested between her collarbones.

Rowan stood solemnly with them. He wore his freshly-cleaned armor, and his auburn hair was unbound from its usual braid.

They all walked along the path of trees circling the village and came to a stop just outside the forest's entrance. There was a gaping hole already dug into the earth, waiting. Itzamatul took her place on one end of it, and the people gathered around it as she began to speak. Ember barely registered the words coming out of her mouth and watched in silence as the warriors carrying the casket lowered it into the ground.

"Warrior, sister, daughter, wife, mother, and friend. Daughter of Roses, blood of Rosario and the Ancients," Itzamatul was saying. "May you rest in peace and join your ancestors. We will rejoice again when we will be reunited in the Lands of Eternal Bloom."

"And so it shall be," the crowd chorused back.

Beginning with the chieftess, one by one, the people approached the grave and released their roses. They fell onto the casket, until it was covered in a blanket of white. Only towards the end did David Valenza step forward and drop his rose to join the others. Tears were glistening on his eyelashes. Ember stood by his side, her hold on his hand never loosening. Then she raised her eyes to Itzamatul and nodded once.

Soon two men from the village were shoveling piles of dirt back into Rosa's grave. Every heavy thump of soil hitting the lid of the casket made Ember's heart grow heavy in her chest.

She had mourned her grandmother's death long ago. Rosa was gone; she would never return—she recognized that, and she accepted it, but it didn't change the fact that it still hurt—the finality of it all.

Ember didn't turn, but she sensed Itzamatul's presence nearing behind her. "You don't mark places of burial with gravestones?"

"No. How could we mark something that was never ours to own but only to nurture and care for? Why taint the pureness of the earth with such painful memories?" She had made her way to Ember's side and was now watching as the men patted down the soil. "I do not know the ways of the Angel's children, but in our culture, death is not the end. We believe we rise again in a paradise that never withers and never dies, where we live forever in eternal youth, at last released from the bonds and suffering of this world." Her amber eyes were a mixture of sad and hopeful. "Be as it may, the death of a loved one is always painful. We are still in the mortal realm, after all. As long as we are here, we are exposed to situations such as these."