to the eye of the world mountains

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xvi: to the eye of the world mountains

 

I run toward the Woodland townhouse, Donovan’s last words an echo in my head, repeating in the rhythm of my pounding footsteps:

“Violence is the language they understand—the only one.”

The building is in flames; a crowd is gathered around the burning timber. I see a few Nightmares, coughing and soot-covered, among them.

Enna’s in there.

Everything else—politics, motives, repercussions—flees from my mind. I race inside, searching for her. The scorching heat whets my skin like oxygen. My lungs, built for the brimstone of hell, breathe fine.

Where is she?

A Nightmare lies beaten on the ground. He’s already dead. I’m too late. Those who could have escaped are gone. I’m suddenly desperate not to find her, but I will scour every inch of blackened framework until I’m sure. I whisper our poem like a sick war chant; the one I always used outside her window when I wanted her to know I was there. She tried to get me to love nursery rhymes, and I quoted Poe back to her.

 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-

The fire started near the podium—and it’s there, beneath the weight of a collapsed ceiling, that I see a hand. The flames stretch high on the stage, but I walk through them like they’re nothing but soft wind. I yank the debris off a curled, fallen body.

Her dress—once pale green and covered in yellow ribbon—is mostly burned away. Her eyes are open and her flesh is red and blackened on one side. I see bone through her corroded cheek. But she is still unbearably familiar. I kneel, breathless, and gather her burning body into my arms. Oh, Ennabelle . . .

 

And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

Holding her as the fire around us continues to eat away at her lifeless form, the heat weaves into my agony, and I think I know what hell feels like—and why someone would fear it.

And then it stops; a torrent of rain washes over the townhouse. A Nightmare with weather powers must have come. Water leaks through holes in the ceiling and wall. Ash and steam create a foggy, gray slush around us. They will find her body like this, deformed and unrecognizable.

 

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee

With a pained cry that crawls out of my throat and into her neck where I’ve buried my head, I release the flames that destroy what’s left of her. The moisture in the air smears her remains over my fingers like striped war paint. Goodbye, I think, clenching my fists. I love you so much.

 

And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee

 

I stand and walk slowly out.

Zizzy is on the street. Her raised hands drop when she sees me. She called the thunderstorm that put out the fire. Whatever she observes on my face, it causes her to pale.

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