For a flower, Death is kind. For a flower, Death will smile. For a flower, Death loves eternal.
But there aren't any flowers to give.
*
ERIS AWOKE alone. To silent sands and dead skies, and boulders that were once valleys. She had but a few hours before the sun rose, transfusing the world with its lifeblood.
Blood-red against bone-white. The colors of a dying world.
She slumped against a rock, stretching out the ache that sleeping in the Deadlands always left between her shoulders. It was never pleasant sleeping in the dune sea, but throughout her journeys, she'd found a few locations better for it than others.
A cave was close by in this part of the sands, which had provided Windwalker comfort, as the ground there was steady, and the cave itself protection from the carrions.
Eris had slept under the sky, unafraid of the scavengers.
Death respected death, after all.
After the ache had dulled, Eris slipped her boots on, then reached for her pack. It carried all Eris needed, all she had. A waterskin, a tattered piece of petal-pink fabric, a handful of dried grain pods, a clay bowl, and pot. Once, the clay pot had kept her mother's best healing salve fresh, but it had been many moons since Eris last smelled the bitterness of the herbs or felt the salve's cooling sensation on her skin.
Now it kept her cleaning powder. Taking a palmful of the grayish mixture of crushed bone and dried clay, she sprinkled it on top of her head, massaging it into her scalp before working it through her ends. It absorbed her hair's oils, and come sunrise, it would absorb the sweat brought on by the heat. After twisting her hair and wrapping it up in a headscarf, she headed in the cave's direction.
Windwalker was quick to greet her-- poking her head out of the darkness-- and quicker still to whinny her delight, as her eyes fell on the waterskin and bowl in Eris's hands.
"Good morning." Eris laid the bowl before the horse, then undid the stopper of her waterskin. Windwalker nudged her arm excitedly. She emptied the waterskin, squeezing out what water remained.
The horse dipped its head and sniffed the bowl.
"I promise it's drinkable," Eris assured, resealing the waterskin, "even the sourness is faint."
Windwalker drank.
"Where shall we head this morning?" Eris moved around the horse, adjusting the saddle on her back.
The horse snorted but did not stop drinking.
"What about north? The Shallows impart sickness, and more people have been using silt for their huts. I'm sure it's spread."
The horse nodded and once the water had been drunk, Eris gathered her things and mounted Windwalker. With the horse's reins in hand, she led the beast north, in the direction the sun would eventually rise.
*
The sun had fallen below the dunes, leaving the world orange, and Eris grateful. No longer were her breaths laced with fire, her chest heaving, and sweat drenching her cheeks.
They had come upon another cave. Windwalker soaked up the shade, and the cool stone, sitting down, eyes closed. Eris settled between the dunes. With night descending on them soon, she thought against making a fire. Fires attracted the desperate.
Instead, she watched the sky. Slightly red at the edges, orange at its center and fading fast. It would be a quick transition to night, as cool air pricked Eris's arms, and the wind rustled loose strands of hair around her face. She thought it a quiet end to another quiet day, until she spotted a ribbon of smoke rising in the east.
She shot to her feet, turning her head back in the direction of the cave. "Windwalker."
The horse revealed itself, tilting its head in confusion. Eris's voice brokered no rebuke when she said, "Stay."
And the horse obeyed.
Coming upon humans in the Deadlands was dangerous enough. They were often dehydrated, malnourished, slightly mad. Quick to violence. But humans who started fires, who cared not for the carrions who would be attracted by their flames, were either vicious, or foolish.
With a sense of caution that hadn't been with her since the Ruin, Eris went to investigate.
She laid on her stomach, sand slithering up her body, and watched the fire. It had been recently lit, the palm fronds crackling, the scorch marks on the rotted wood faint. Flames reached toward the sky.
A caravan leaned against a rockface, filled with small trunks, crates, a cage with a black bird whose beak was tucked beneath its wing.
Save for carrions, birds did not inhabit the Deadlands. Eris hadn't seen one fly overhead in a thousand years.
One captured was either meat, or messenger.
Eris made to get up, to hunt the surrounding dunes for the makers of the fire, when a weight fell on her back, pinning her to the ground. Something sharp and cold pressed into her neck.
Eris stilled, flattening her hands against the sands. They eagerly slid over her fingers, her dark skin buried beneath their dullness.
"You do not react." A darkly syruped voice dripped into her ear. "Do you not fear death, sand-dweller?" The voice was closer, the blade, as Eris was certain it was a blade, digging into her further. She felt her skin rupture, a burst of warm blood slicking her neck. "I've heard those who make the Deadlands home are of a different mindset, but surely even one such as you must fear His Lordship?"
Eris closed her hands and set her jaw. Acolytes then. Outsiders to the Deadlands who made their homes in the Ashen Mountains, where Akul's temple had turned to rubble.
What was there to fear from a god who broke his promises, she thought, the warmth of the sand spreading over her cheek. Akul's acolytes were fanatics, prone to burning the tongues of those who raised a voice against their god.
"What is there to fear from a god who loves flowers?" Eris asked.
"But there are no more flowers in the world," the acolyte hissed, their moist breath brushing against her ear. The weight on her back lessened, before altogether disappearing.
Eris got up slowly, wiping the sand from her skin and clothes.
The Acolyte was a man - dark haired, dark skinned. With faded blue eyes and a scar the length of his throat. He wore black robes, a sashed belt. He gripped a toothed blade in a dusty hand. "You know of His Lordship?"
Eris nodded.
"Then what say you? Are you one of us? A sister in belief, who knows His Lordship in earnest?"
"His lordship promises –" She took a breath, steadied her heart and quieted the words she wanted to scream. Instead, she responded, "He promises peace, for his blessing is the end of suffering." She paused. "He is nothing to fear." Of that she spoke true.
The acolyte smiled, his mouth a wide crag filled with yellowed teeth, and pale gums. His hand returned the dagger to a pouch at his hip. "Too often people fear His Lordship's blessings. They fear him." He studied her face but for a beat before his smile widened. "You do not see with fearful eyes." He held out a hand. "I am Brother Bakku, Sister–"
She took it. His flesh was clammy, the stink of sweat and desert thick on him. "Eris."
"Sister Eris, come." He nodded toward the fire. "We have few supplies, but we welcome sharing what we have with another of Akul's followers."
She let herself be led to Bakku's camp, his voice continuing its praise of the god of death.
"What brings you so far out here?" she asked, when a moment of silence had been forged among Bakku's ranting. "The acolytes keep to the temple, yes?"
Bakku turned, eyes wide. He settled a hand on Eris's shoulder. "Why Sister, have you–"
Behind him, another Acolyte rushed to greet them. "Brother Bakku." This one was shorter, slimmer. With skin only slightly darker than the sands, and eyes a brownish-green. "We found them." The acolyte turned and pointed. A third acolyte descended a dune, followed by three people wreathed in chains.
"Blessings be to Him, Sister Inora!" Bakku swept his arms skyward. Sister Inora smiled and nodded, her hands clasped at her chest. When she registered Eris's presence, her smile vanished.
"And this is—" Her eyes narrowed.
"Sister Eris."
Inora blinked. "Sister?" Her mouth puckered as though the word had soured on her tongue.
"Yes, prepare what we have."
Inora's gaze lingered on Eris long after Bakku's words had been claimed by the wind. Eventually, she did as she was told, making her way to the caravan.
"Please." Bakku motioned toward the fire, settling himself cross-legged on the sand. Eris was pleased he made no move for his dagger. "Sit with us, Sister. Sup with us and bask in His Lordship's sovereignty."
When Inora came back, she offered Eris a plate of salted beef and dried apples. A cup of water. Clear water that didn't reek of rot. "It's good," Inora said, noticing Eris's staring. "There are underground springs beneath the mount."
Eris thanked her before taking the cup and plate. "A blessing." Her gaze flitted over to the acolyte's three prisoners. They had been tethered to a boulder, and they sat huddled, cupping skinned knees and resting swollen faces. "Do you have silverware?" Eris's gaze flicked up to Inora.
The acolyte gritted her teeth, but she did as she was asked, going to the caravan, before returning with a tarnished fork and knife. Eris thanked her again, took them and began eating.
The third acolyte, who had led the prisoners, joined Bakku at the fire. He was a sickly man, whose features had been gutted by hunger. He was Bilic.
"The prisoners," Eris said, after spearing a piece of fruit on her fork, "they're from the woods?"
Bakku cast his eyes in their direction, mouth full of meat. "Ah, yes. You know your places well, Sister."
She gave a half-smile. "Why capture them?"
Opposite her, Bilic and Inora exchanged glances. Bakku ran a hand over his mouth. "They may not look like much," he said, balancing his plate on his knee, "but once Inora makes the preparations they'll be fit to see His Lordship."
Eris tightened her grip around her fork. She stared at her plate. "Sacrifices then?"
Bakku nodded as he returned to his meal, hungrier, as though the talk of human sacrifice had reignited his appetite. Bilic and Inora gorged themselves on apples. All three of their mouths glistened with spit.
Quickly, Eris slid the fork and knife up her sleeve.
"Why?" she asked. "What reason do you have for such celebration?"
They stopped eating.
"Have you not heard, Sister?" asked Bakku.
She shook her head.
He set his plate aside, arms raised overhead. "What marvelous news has come to us by messenger, Sister!" He swayed, madness gripping his eyes, "Our Lord has returned!"
Eris stiffened, the plate nearly dropping from her hands. "Akul is–"
"Yes! No greater blessing could the gods bestow!"
She exhaled. "Where?" There was a strain to her voice that hadn't been there, but she was so easily undone by Akul, even after all those years.
"His temple."
Eris did not believe it. For entire lifetimes, she had chased corpses, hoping they'd adorn the path that led her to Akul, that would end her curse, but she had never been so fortunate enough to exchange one death for another. But now he was back, and his zealots were preparing the pyres, eager to offer flesh in wake of their god's return.
"Is it not great?" Inora's voice broke over Eris like ice. She watched Eris, one arm crossed over her chest, the other grazing the hilt of her dagger.
Eris forced a smile, pushing aside her feelings to better fortify the lie. "It is greater than I can put into words, Sister. The god of death returned to the dying world. Blessings be."
"Blessings be!" bellowed Bakku. His voice shook the dunes, grains of sand scrambling off each other.
The others joined him in his fervor. Eris followed suit, thankful the hollowness of her words had been drowned out by the wind.
*
After the acolytes had fallen asleep, Eris stood over them. Had she been kinder, she would have extinguished the fire; even though its flames had been reduced to embers, the glow was enough to catch a carrion's eye.
But she was not kind. Akul had seen to that.
She made her way to the prisoners, instead, careful not to wake Bakku or the others. Two of them flinched at her approach - a small girl and an older woman. The young man with them only stared Eris down.
She crouched before them. With a yelp, the girl retreated into the safety of the woman's bosom. The woman wrapped her arms around the child, stroking her back, and whispering of her to stay strong. The young man remained unflinching, his mouth hard, his skin dirt-crusted, his eyes a brighter green than the most virulent poisons.
Eris reached into her sleeve, retrieving the fork and knife she'd hidden earlier. The young girl raised her head, her skin wet with tears. The older woman blinked, confused, uncertain. A faint smile danced upon the young man's lips.
"In the Deadlands, death is a choice."
She threw the silverware at their feet and stood.
Come daybreak, Eris knew, the carrions would have their corpses, and she'd be well on her way to having Akul's.
Without flowers, Death is unkind. Without flowers, Death will scowl. Without flowers, Death withholds love.
And in a world without flowers, Death can be spurned.
Author's Note: I think this chapter is okay. At least, I hope it is. Writing feels like it's getting easier. Not as easy as it used to be, but I'm not hating every word I put into a word doc, so that's something.