The Curse of Eternity

Death Six

He skirts around the mess like it would grow fangs and bite him to retrieve the towel he'd been using flickers before. He then walks around the right side of the bed and fetches the washbasin and a pitcher of water. Returning to Desolation's side, he places them at her feet, dips the corner of the towel into the tepid water, wrings it out, and washes the dark splotches of wine and pieces of adhered fruit off her feet.

It's just like blood, he reminds himself, just like blood.

Desolation does not react. He glances up. She is staring into the distance, eyes vacant of recognition. Lord Jerrath swallows the guilt clawing up his throat. He'd done what he thought was imperative at the time. All he can do in the present is take care of the one he hurt by his actions.

His thoughts wander to Destruction's parting words. If Desolation does happen to die, he'd beg Destruction to inflict the punishment upon his person. He would take the pain for each soul under his care. Immortality did not exempt him from suffering.

When all the retch is removed, he slowly pulls back the hood. She sways slightly beneath his ministrations but gives no indication she is aware.

He examines her face, hair, hands and cloak. They are pristine like fresh flowers.

"Well aimed. You managed to get most of it on me," he says and gently moves hair out of Desolations eyes.

He sighs and kneels, peering in those unseeing, everchanging eyes, "For what my word is worth to you, I am truly and deeply sorry. I will spend the rest of my life atoning. Anything you desire, you shall have." Encasing her hand in his, he continues, "I am a coward to speak these words when you cannot hear but speak them I must. You have given me something I never dreamed of again, hope. Hope I may break my curse. I promise you Desolation, I will give everything I possess to help you find answers to yours."

Lord Jerrath picks Desolation up and repositions her on the bed and lays her prostrate. He then stands, walks over to the calling cord and pulls it twice in rapid succession.

Gregoire takes longer to reach his rooms but Lord Jerrath can hear his heartbeat from down the hall.

"Enter Gregoire," Lord Jerrath says before his manservant can knock.

"What can I do-," and catching the putrid stench of vomit, he coughs and asks, "Are you ill, my Lord, shall I call a physician?"

"No and no. It is not I, it is the girl-"

A gong of pain strikes Lord Jerrath reverberating through his body like tidal waves and it takes a few strangled breaths to croak out, "Desolation."

"She did warn us, my Lord, we cannot call her by anything else. Though it seems we use her."

"Well, I have obviously forgotten. Desolation is sick, call the maids to clean the floors and we have to be careful with Desolation's name."

"We can simply have the maids refer to her as M.I.S.S." Gregoire pauses, waiting for the pain.

"Have we resorted to spelling like parents not wanting their children to know about a new T.O.Y?"

"It would seem so, my Lord."

"You are way too amused Gregoire," says Lord Jerrath, recognizing the sly glint in those silver eyes.

"I would never be so bold, my Lord, though it would seem she's not an ordinary bride."

The unasked question hovers in the air like a glow globe.

"I am confident she will not," he answers, "I'll explain after you retrieve the maids and I am refreshed."

"As you will, my Lord."

Wasting not a breath, Lord Jerrath strips from his soiled garment. It's the perfect combination of wet and dry, maximizing disgust and it clings in all the wrong places. As soon as the last inch of the revoltingly, nauseating fabric is free; Lord Jerrath all but flys into the pool.

Quiet weightlessness surrounds him and for this one moment, nothing exists besides the space of one breath to the next, the exhale of peace and he drifts in that peace for eternity, and in that eternity, hope and in that hope is Desolation. After four hundred and ninety-nine years, he can finally breathe.

A heartbeat runs along his skin as Gregorie walks through his chambers and towards his edge of the pool. With the eagerness of a man laying with a toothless crone, he opens his eyes and spots Gregoire standing stone-still by the steps.

"How did the maids take the news?" he asks and begins to cleanse himself in a quick soldier-like manner. He pulls on the coil of his hair, examining the braid; he can leave it to another day. There are more pressing matters to attend; for example, the subject of his resurrecting wife.

"I am sure all the servants would have heard about the incident and await anxiously to hear whether the. . .Desolation survives. I have managed to avoid Desolation's name altogether. As you well know, the staff have stopped learning your Brides' names. You are the only one who insists."

"It is the least I can do. I bring them to their death."

Mounting the marble steps, Gregoire stoically stands with a towel extended before him. Lord Jerrath wraps the fabric around his trim waist and plucks the second from Gregoire's waiting fingers, using it to squeeze water from his braid.

"None of them are strong enough to resist the pull, my Lord," Gregorie replies.

"Until now."

"My Lord, you mean to say you think she is the one?"

"I know."

"How?"

"Because she is Death's pull. Let's retire to my drawing-room, lest our voices disturb my sleeping Bride."

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