The Mournful King

X. The Widow's Walk

Snow crunched softly under bare feet that felt no cold as a lonely figure passed through the gardens at the base of the solitary standing spire that marked an otherwise crumbled skyline. Illusions flickered and danced around the slim mage, echoes of a different place and time. The figure that appeared the most real—real enough to delude a broken mind into believing it for a few moments—was a woman with the blue tattoos of a spellguard and warm, honey-colored eyes. "Couldst thou make it bloom?" the figure asked, gesturing towards one of the few rose bushes that had survived among the black thorns, though it had been covered in hoarfrost for years now. Winter had come to Zaeylael and never left, the sun weak behind dark clouds that roiled with unholy power.

The mage concentrated for a moment, touching the plant. The ice cracked away and the dead, black rosebush started to form a bud. The blossom that bloomed was a dull, withered red and it smelled of rot. She had long ago forgotten what life and light were like. Her power was so twisted now that just a touch could poison. Not even the stones beneath her feet were free of the corruption.

"'Tis so elegant when thou dost cast," her illusory companion said.

She blushed, the color a fragile hint of pink on pallid skin. Her eyes were surrounded by dark, bruise-like circles that spoke of a body that had not known true rest in years. The world of mortals could not claim to own her any more than it owned the immortal elves. She did not age, nor mark the passage of time. The years that had passed since the end of her apprenticeship had not touched her, an instant and a lifetime at the same time. Perhaps she would even outlive her elven ancestors, considering how fragile their grip on survival was. Seasons came and seasons went, but the midwinter of her heart was eternal. 

The mage turned and reached out, trying to brush the spellguard's cheek. Her fingers touched only cold, lifeless air. The spell broke and left her even more alone. Behind her, the rose crumbled away into grey ash. She felt something wrench inside herself, a heartache that time was unable to ease, and tears formed in her eyes. For a moment, she had felt the light again, but the second she remembered that it was only an illusion, she was plunged back into Stygian night. There was only her and her remorse. These days, even weeping was beyond her. There was only the darkness. 

"My lady," someone approaching called. She didn't recognize the voice other than that it had a Talinese accent, but she knew it was one of the demon-kith who had flocked to Zaeylael when their masters moved in. "My master—"

It took her only a shadow of a thought to feel the threads of life force pulsing through his body. She flicked her fingers as she turned, taking control of his body. He was helpless to do anything but walk forward until he was standing right in front of her. "I said I wasn't to be disturbed." There wasn't a trace of heat or anger in her voice, only a puzzlement. It was as if she simply couldn't comprehend why anyone wouldn't acquiesce to her wish. 

His skin blanched beneath the stare of those almond-shaped, emerald eyes. They were alive with strange fires in their depths, bewitching but never quite focused. She always seemed to be looking at the world through a warped piece of glass that left things blurry and wrong. He knew she was only half elf, but she strongly favored her fey blood and had that same, almost ethereal beauty. She also commanded powers at her fingertips that could make elder demons mind their manners. But for a living body, the necromancy she favored was doubly dangerous. "Forgive me, my lady, but—"

She smiled at him almost gently. "No." She flicked her fingers. There was a scream and that horrible cracking rip of bone, muscle, and gristle being ripped apart. Red spattered across the snow. The ache behind her breastbone eased slightly as she focused on something other than the gnawing absence. As she looked down at the wreckage of the man, she took out a white cambric handkerchief and dabbed away the blood that had hit her face. She hadn't bothered to trap the power that escaped his body to use later. He was a minnow among the endless waves of existence, barely useful for anything other than breathing air and making noise. To have him gone was a delight.