Ryan Graudin - All That Glows

And now, like Richard, she’s gone.

I stroke her hair. Each brush of my finger brings back a separate memory. Of how, in the early days, we flew along coasts without tiring, grazing cliffs and skimming the iron-gray waves of the North Sea. Of the battles we fought with magic and steel, of the ballads that sprung from them. Of the gowns and gavottes, the cellos and long, candlelit dances drenched with wine. Of her pouch of birdseed and those dirty, adoring pigeons.

There are well over a hundred bodies laid out on Windsor’s emerald lawns. Like Breena, the dead are dressed in white, crowned with garlands the Dryads fashioned for us. Every surviving spirit and even some of the mortals are here, gathered around the fallen with closed, solemn faces. My breath grows weak at the sight of so much death and, for a moment, I’m not sure I can stand.

“Lady Emrys?”

It’s Helene, now next to me. Several younglings fan out behind her, their mouths drawn tight. I stare at them, keeping my precious words to myself for a moment longer. My throat hasn’t released me since that hour in the clearing.

The Fae is undeterred by my silence. “We were wondering if you might conduct the ceremony.”

A quick scan at the ranks of the living confirms what I suspected. In light of Breena’s death and Titania’s disappearance, I’m the oldest here. It’s my duty to perform the funeral rites, to cast the farewell spell.

“Will you do it?” Helene nudges after another silent moment.

“Yes,” I say because I must.

Satisfied with my answer, the younglings return to the group of observers. I feel eyes on me. The gazes of both the dead and the living, waiting for me to speak.

“Friends and Fae,” I begin. My voice wavers as it breaks its dormancy. “It’s easy for us to forget that this life comes at a price. In the end we all must pay it, whether it be a score of years or a millennia from now. These noble sisters of ours have willingly accepted that debt so that others might live.

“We do not know what lies beyond this plain. We can’t imagine where our sisters might be now—yet we know they aren’t gone. Not really. We must not let their sacrifices be in vain. We must continue to defend what they died for and live in the acceptance that sooner or later there’s an end. One day, when the dark glass between lives is lifted, we’ll all be together again.” The choke returns, trapping what other words I might speak in the lump of my throat.

I wrap my hand around Breena’s rigid grasp. Her fingers are like stone, pale and unyielding.

“Thank you, friend, for standing by me all these years,” I whisper into her wintry ear. “I’ll see you again, soon enough. Hæl abide.”

At my farewell spell, the dead Frithemaegs’ bodies begin disintegrating. A light, great and gold, wells up from inside each departed Fae. Every secret of Breena’s alabaster skin is illuminated with the brightness. Pieces of her begin to dissolve, fly apart like dandelion seeds blown straight into the sun. I hold on as tightly as I can, until it’s only my own palm my nails dig into and Breena is gone.

I stand here as the others disperse, disappearing back into the castle. The sun is just slipping out of sight. Its rays wash over everything: my bare arms, my bloodstained skirts, the empty grass. Every detail is redeemed in this dying light.

But not everyone is gone. I see his shadow first, long and terrifying. The sharp edges of his boots creep into my sight.

“We had an agreement, Lady Emrys. Lest you forget.” The evening trembles against Herne’s cold words. With them comes the night.

“I know.”

The spirit holds out his hand, ready and waiting. I stare at the smooth, eternal leather of his glove. Even with Richard gone, I have no desire to cling to my immortality. Death is something I’ve already embraced, a much-needed end.

“There’s something I must to do first. I need one more night,” I tell him.

The woodlord grunts. His coal-glow eyes pierce through the gathering darkness. “I’ll give you until dawn, woodling. Then I’ll take what’s rightfully mine.”

He turns and flows back to his woods, where his trees and hounds are waiting. And I stand alone, aching for everything that will not return.

I spend the night on the battlements, gazing into the black space that holds the stars. Constellations are strung tight and unwavering, telling the same stories they always have for those who take the time to listen. Everything is so quiet, so bright after the battle. I stare on and on, trying to keep the pain from eating me alive.

And I know now that the emptiness will always be there, yawning wide until the end. Because some cruel twist of fate decided that Richard’s sacrifice was better. Because I lived and he did not.

It’s still dark when I enter Anabelle’s bedroom. The princess is curled on top of the comforter, in the exact same spot Herne placed her almost an entire day before. His spell was a powerful one—staving off her grief and hysterics with heavy, dreamless sleep.

Her eyelids flutter as I draw close, but she doesn’t open her eyes. I’d never noticed before how much she looks like Richard. The same high cheekbones, the light splash of freckles coaxed out by the sun. Their resemblance is so strong that I can’t bear to look at her long. Instead I stare out the window, where the moonlight tangles with the tops of Herne’s trees.

The memory spell builds; I weave it slowly, deliberately. It has to be just the right strength—potent enough to make her forget everything that happened in the woods that night. Strong enough to stanch some of the princess’s agony. If I could I would erase everything, give Anabelle a fresh start, a childhood without Richard. But the world, and the order of things, won’t allow that.

Once the magic is finally ready I look back down. Anabelle’s face is serene, despite her mass of tangled hair and the smudges of dirt. I can’t make myself speak the word that will release her from her past. She needs the pain and memories as much as I do. She needs to know that her brother died well. Who am I to take that from her?

My hands drop to my side, and the magic slips away, unused.

It’s almost, but not quite, dawn. Herne will be waiting for me. I’ve already stalled as much as I dare.

“I’m sorry, Anabelle. I’m sorry I failed.” There are so many other things I could tell her, but none of them seem fitting. In the depths of her slumber she won’t hear them anyway. “Good-bye.”

I turn and go.

Mist gathers at the edge of the woods, wreathing in and out of ghoulish trees. I expect Herne to rise out of its embrace at any moment, but everything remains still. I draw closer to his woods with hesitant steps, feeling for his magic.

“Herne?” My call is little more than a whisper. The stillness of this night’s end seems holy, something I shouldn’t break.

The answer I receive is not from the woodlord, but his trees. The Dryads have returned to their leafy abodes. They stir the branches without any wind to guide them, their leaves brushing together hushed words.

Farther in. He’s waiting.