Upon a throne of woven thorns the king of the dead sat, thoroughly miserable, the empty eyes of his mask of bone gazing upwards at him from where it rested within his lap.
It was wretchedly ugly, he decided; a thing of dramatic and macabre appeal. Something that many felt a ruler over the dead ought to wear. And though it made his appearance striking in nature, he had always loathed the manner in which it had scraped against his face, rubbing the flesh of his cheeks raw.
With his thumb he brushed against the tender skin with a wince, a spark of anger flaring within his chest where a hollowness had sat for so long. And though it was a thing he had done countless times before to no avail, with every ounce of his strength he threw the mask, watching as it shattered upon the ground several feet from him.
He waited a moment, then two, the pieces of ivory bone dissolving to ashes that scattered amidst a breeze that wormed its way through the tent as its flap was thrown open. The last of it vanishing just as Oz stepped within, his ears twitching with apparent irritation.
"Are you through with your dramatics, sir?" the Cat asked innocently.
"Shut up." Azrael grumbled.
They stood in silence for a brief moment then, words hanging heavy between them till finally Azrael spoke once more. "The first key's been found." he said almost absentmindedly, "I felt it. Like someone plucking at the strings of my very being."
"Does it worry you that a soul may very well escape tonight?"
"You know as well as anyone, Oz, that if I could I would release every soul here I would. Is that not why I made it? All of it? That those separated by death might be together again."
"You made it for them, sir."
A smile of bitter longing crossed his features then. "Yes, them. You know, I can't recall their name any longer? Not their name, nor their face, nor the sound of their voice. The gods took every memory of them from me, the deplorable things."
To this, Oz did not reply, and from his silence Azrael knew he experienced much the same.
Rising from his throne whose thorns had long begun to prick his bottom uncomfortably, Azrael stepped down from the dais upon which it was perched, coming to stand before the entrance of the tent.
Midnight had taken its toll, he knew, and already as the night began to die so he felt the magic die with it.
It was something very few ever wished to talk about; the strain it put on him to keep such a thing alive. To put on a good show even if it pressed his tired body beyond what it could endure. And indeed even now he felt its draining pull upon him, the sights of the carnival beginning to dull before his eyes.
The light had changed, he noted solemnly; a slight fading of its color from what was once a vibrant gold. The dancing flame now flickering dimly within the confines of the lanterns, appearing almost downtrodden within its cage.
Into the mist it would all fade, gone by the morning as though it had never been there to begin with. And in such mist Azrael would wait, empty and forgotten. A ghost upon the breeze as the days passed him by, the memory of his love being chipped away from his mind till at last it was hollow. And so it would go on, forever and ever.
The never ending cycle, the centuries of nights blurring together, the wretched game in which others played for a happiness he himself could never obtain. It was as bound to him as he was to it. It was his eternal curse to endure.
Reaching up to brush his hand along his cheek once more, he felt it then. The unmistakable protruding of bone spiking out of his skin. The first formations of the mask of bone returning, ever relentless and never fully destroyed.
He shuddered, pulling away and turning his attention once more to the waning night and the remaining keys that had yet to be found. The freedom of life held within the palm of her hands.
"I only wish you could let me out, Miss Caramonte." he whispered, the lights around him continuing to grow sickly and pale, as though drained of all color of fire.
Yet they were the only ones to hear his plea.
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