It had been an exhausting day. With Castalline, the Muse of Eryss, in his manor, he felt a constant compulsion to compose and work. He made a small army of new servants and undead. He experimented on making them better, sturdier, requiring less maintenance.
He tended to the crop of undead he had living in his home. He fed them and stitched together their more decrepit pieces. He could not save Lauris' face entirely. He wasn't sure how it happened, but it was as if she hadn't been fed for several days and pieces of her skin were slipping as a result. He decided to fashion a half-mask made of carved bone. He polished the ivory until it shined like porcelain, and then burned beautiful lace and scroll-work into the side. It was a piece of artwork by the time he was done. He gave it to Lauris in a patterned box, and then fixed it permanently to her face. It now hid the imperfections and the half of her skin that was slowly sliding off her skull.
Lauris, his near silent Unquenched, deserved the gift. She had always been loyal, always been dutiful. She was a beautiful creation to him. A dear member of his family. A child. He liked it when she was beautiful, like all of his children and pieces of art he owned. He brushed her hair aside and kissed her cheek. She was a gift from Nehmain, he told her. He was the god of death and life. Giving her a new face was giving her a new chance at her life, or unlife.
Lauris gave her best efforts of a smile in return.
The Feast of Saint Baellith was just three days away. Even though every pore in his being was screaming to continue to work, continue to create, he could not.
His manor became an open house and all of his family members, Castalline included, were forced into hiding, as priests and priestesses came to bless his home. Nobles, well-wishers, members of the royal family, and devotees came and went. Parties were held and preparations were made.
Being chosen had briefly made him popular. His name was now thrown around town from the poorest beggar to the highest on the throne. Everyone wanted to see him, and he was forced to hire temporary, living help to handle the appointments, gifts, and workload.
Merris knew his popularity was hollow and short-lived. People only wanted to see him for what he represented, not who he was. It was very superficial. Once the Feast was over, he was certain he would return to being the strange, secluded man on the hill.
However, he attempted to enjoy the celebrity treatment while it was thrust upon him. Yet it was tense, uncomfortable, and stressful. The attention and publicity made him feel naked and under a spotlight. Sensationalistic articles were written and published about him. The journalists and public discovered details about him that he wasn't aware were even available. He had been careful to hide himself and his secrets. Luckily, no one discovered anything very damaging. They even boasted about his devotion to the Marquis of the Flesh Quarter, choosing to live there instead of the Merchant's or Artisan Quarters. Therefore, his devotion to the god Baellith must have been unquestionable, making him a perfect candidate for the ceremony. He was even so generous as to give to the Flesh Quarter during their time of need, donating to charities to help rebuild after the fire destroyed much of the area.
It was said he was an eligible bachelor from a faraway, exotic land. He blustered into town with fanfare and exuberance. The whole story was overblown and romanticized to make him sound embarrassingly rich and powerful. The news stories made him sound dark and mysterious, elegant and poetic. They rattled on for pages about how he came from a family of artists and writers, witty and intelligent with refined tastes. Though, he noted with dry amusement, they did not know any of their names.
The stories also talked about how he made his fortune very quickly. From a modest background, he was a self-made man that made the majority of his wealth from banking. He graduated from a University, having studied medicine and the body. The articles even called him a brilliant Renaissance man, with knowledge of art, economics, and health. It often speculated on why he never married, sometimes alluding to having a taste for men rather than women.
That made him smile wryly.
But the wording was sympathetic and forgiving. It spoke about how he was so successful he even lent money to the crown.
The majority of the details were true – all except the blurb about preferring men over women.
He was surprised at the journalist's tenacity and proclivity for unearthing obscure facts. His House's sigil, the gray moth, was stamped on clothing, jewelry, and cheap souvenirs at the marketplace. Merris the moth, Meriweather Osterious, was a household name. While it was a brief boost of ego, he was well aware that every man chosen once a year experienced the same fifteen minutes of fame. He didn't, even for a moment, allow it to go to his head.
He still needed to fulfill his duties at the ceremony. That caused him a huge amount of anxiety.
Both Merris and the public were very pointedly aware of the other celebrity that the Feast of Saint Baellith brought forth every year.
Baellith was the hermaphroditic god of flesh, fertility, pleasure, and pain. He accepted blood sacrifices. Every year, a young virgin girl was burned, death by cleansing fire at the beginning of the ceremony. It was always a young female on her first blood. She was not touted around town like the male sex sacrifice. She was too young to have the same financial marketability. She was always given pity. The story was always the same each year: a sweet, innocent, child sacrifice. The white child-bride given to Saint Baellith. It was always a sad tale, and the family was granted great monetary compensation.
Although Merris had never met his young female counterpart, he felt an odd kinship with her. They were both being taken advantage of and exposed to the rotten media. It was a selfish thought, he knew. At least he had lived long enough to enjoy some of his life. He also felt a strange flare of envy. She got to die after her public ridicule. He never got to die.
He would rather channel his anxiousness into his work. Instead, he had to appease his fans. He was invited to attend the opera with a member of the extended family of the royal crown. He had lunch with a wealthy nobleman, whose name he kept forgetting, an opening art exhibit with an up-and-coming contemporary artist, then, in the late afternoon, he had fencing lessons with the Marquis of the Military Quarter.
Armed with an epée, he bested Marquis Lynith four times. He laughed goodnaturedly, but Merris could tell he was slightly irked at consistently losing.
Fencing, the rigorous physical sport, was the only thing that eased his worries. He channeled the apprehension into the foil, which allowed him to win against the old military veteran. A gracious winner, Merris peeled his white mask off and invited Marquis Lynith over to his home for dinner that evening. Afterwards, he gave him a tour of his huge taxidermy collection. Lynith was astonished and fascinated. He appreciated the craftsmanship and skill it took to mount the dead creatures, and make them so lifelike. He asked Merris if he had killed the animals himself; was he a hunter? Merris shook his head. Some of them, he softly replied. He only killed some of them. Lynith smiled and suggested that they ought to go bow hunting sometime.
The day came to a slow close and Merris breathed a sigh of relief when Marquis Lynith's carriage came to pick him up. He watched from his front door as the coachman helped the Marquis inside and closed the door after him. The sunset was bloody and red that night, and turned the sky the color of a copper piece. The Feast day was now two days away. Time was ticking by very quickly.
Merris excused his temporary human help for the night. Finally. Finally, he was alone with his quiet, undead family and little Muse. Finally, he could be himself. The constant shower of attention was making him feel worn and nude in front of the world. It ate a hole in his stomach. What if they somehow discovered his true self and intentions by carelessness or overbearing publicity?
He brought Lauris up from the basement and instructed her to release the ghouls, geists, and other children from their hiding places. He had her check on Castalline, who was asleep. He did not disturb her – it was for the best that she rest for the time being. He had Lauris leave her dinner on a tray for when she woke.
It wasn't fair to her, he knew, that he kept her locked up while the public eye was pressed upon him. Yet he did not know what else to do. He wasn't sure what sort of sordid speculation or unfair judgment it would bring if people knew he had a Muse of Eryss in his home. It would probably be nothing. He was, after all, a strong patron and supporter of the arts. But because of who he was – what he was – he felt the need to keep as much private about himself as possible, even if it was benign facts.
It would all be over in a few days, he reminded himself. Then Castalline would be free to roam his manor and do as she pleased.
Castalline, he thought. She saw him disappear. She witnessed one of his many gifts. She probably knew he was god-touched. That was reason enough to keep her secret. He couldn't bear risking her accidentally saying something to someone. It was justification for keeping her in her room until this was all over. He felt more assured that he was doing the right thing.
He wondered what she thought of him. She claimed she loved him. Did she? Could she? She wasn't an elf. But neither was he. Could Muses feel as others felt? Was it because he slept with her when he was wallowing in self-pity and alcohol?
Probably, he thought bitterly. He still regretted sleeping with Castalline. It was the first time he had ever lain with a woman, and it was an awful mistake.
Love, he thought. Castalline... loved him? It was a strange, alien feeling that made him feel lonely. He didn't return her affections, not in the slightest. He felt pity for Castalline. She was in the same position that he was with Marquis Shadowglade. He loved her, and she didn't love him back, either. It was an empty, burning, unrequited feeling. However, it made him feel sure on his course of action: he would continue fetching and searching for the needed relics that he may one day perform the ceremony and finally die.
He'd soon have one of the items, the Idol of Turtih, and then he could move onto the next item on the list.
He didn't feel he had anything worth living for anymore.
Merris wanted to enjoy the silence in his manor. He traveled up to the westernmost tower and climbed the spiraled staircase of the turret. He entered one of the large guest rooms. The unused furniture was covered in dusty white sheets. They looked like old, large ghosts frozen in time. Yet it was this room that had the best view of the sunset. He opened the great windowed doors that lead to the huge, circular stone balcony. On the balcony was a small, wrought iron table and a set of chairs.
He called for Lauris to fetch him a bottle of red wine and a glass. Several minutes later, he heard the click-clack of her shoes.
He could see the small, green stretch of his property from the view. Beyond that, there was a dotting of trees that outlined his land. It was just past the trees that he could see the Flesh Quarter and a portion of the city. Even from a distance, he could see that it was buzzing with life. He could hear faint music playing, a pre-festival celebration. They were erecting colorful tents, splashing the skyline with red, blue, gold, and violet. They hid the ruined, burned, black hole buildings with decorated canvasses, masking the destructive fire that his Muse was responsible for.
They just covered it up, as if it never happened. Perhaps they were using the fire as an excuse to have an even grander celebration this year. Through destruction came rebirth. Perhaps they were saying that no tragedy could break their spirits, but only united the community. Maybe they honored the deaths of those that perished in the flames as a sacrifice to the god. No one died in vain; it all had a reason, a purpose.
Merris knew better, he thought to himself. He spoke to the gods on a regular basis, and they were just as petty, cruel, and foolish as humans and elves. They were greedy, and fed on the sacrifices and prayers like gluttons.
He could hear the distant throb of drums. He heard the screech of a pachyderm. Wild, exotic animals from across the world were brought in each year to be gawked and marveled at. Some were gifts to noblemen, and others were feasted upon or sacrificed to Baellith. Temporary, cheap, tent-city homes were erected to house the hundreds if not thousands of travelers that came to take part in the celebration. They came from the lands across the sea and the wilds of the forests of the north. They came to eat, trade their foreign goods, entertain, and pay homage to the god and the Marquis of the Flesh Quarter, Lady Shadowglade. She must be used to this chaos, though. She had to host this holiday every year.
He wondered if she was enjoying the attention, or if she was like him: smiling just to keep face and then spending the evenings in solitude. He wondered what her reaction was to her demon he slaughtered. Now, he thought, she would need to take him more seriously. If not as a suitor, then at least as a threat.
He smiled a little. He heard nothing in the papers or press, of course, about it. It was a shame that he doubted he would hear or see what she thought of it. He wouldn't see her again until it was time for the ceremony. And even then, there was no time to talk.
And oh, gods, he frowned as Lauris poured him his wine. He had to lay with her. He had pushed it from his mind. He didn't want to think about it. He had to lay with Shadowglade and release his seed within her in front of the city... He couldn't do it. Why did he ever think this was a good idea as a means to win her heart? It was stupid, absolutely idiotic. He had to perform in front of everyone and he had only ever slept with a woman once. One woman. And she wasn't even an elf, really. Why did he ever think he was qualified to do this?
Did he need to please Shadowglade? What if he was too fast, and made himself a laughing stock and fool? Or worse, he couldn't bring himself to do it at all. What if his... appendage... was judged as too small and became joke to everyone? He'd have to leave town. His name would be slandered for decades to come. He had never heard of it happening before in past celebrations. Most were too drunk, too stoned on foreign herbs and substances, and too preoccupied with the celebrations to give that detail much mind, he reminded himself. He shouldn't worry so much, should he? Just get it over with and be done. She never needed to speak to him again, afterward.
He imagined Lillandyr's face under him as he stood naked before her. She sneered in loathing and disgust.
"You're not even a man, Merris," her voice hissed, ringing in his head. "You're not even a man."
He frowned and sipped his wine. The vision in his head was a nightmare. Lauris sat down in the other cold iron chair across from him. She said nothing, but peered at him with mild concern. The bone half-mask reflected like a crescent moon in the dying afternoon light.
Merris continued to watch the preparations and pre-festival celebrations from the distance. He could see banners bearing different noble houses' sigils. He saw plenty of flags waving with Shadowglade's symbol, the dead black tree with winding, twisted roots. And he saw the sign of Saint Baellith, which was an elaborate knot that bore resemblance to the male and female sex organs against a bloody red background.
"Lauris," Merris cooed softly. "Will you put some music on for us? Please?" he asked gently as he stared out at the city.
Silently, she stood and padded into the guest bedroom. She removed a sheet from a large phonograph in the corner of the room. She placed a record in and cranked the handle. Out of the large, brass horn, heady orchestral music began to spill.
Merris tapped his hand along with the steady melody. The music filled the atmosphere and leaked out of the balcony and into his property. He felt briefly soothed. Lauris rejoined him at the table. He continued to sip his wine as he listened.
He again thought about the child sacrifice that would occur before he and Lillandyr performed their copulation ceremony. The purpose of the virgin girl was to symbolize a reenactment of Saint Baellith's origin story.
It was said that Saint Baellith was once a living, breathing man with a twin sister. His twin sister was very, very ill from birth and could not walk, talk, hear, or see. But he loved her very much and cared for her. Then, according to legend, Baellith fell asleep beneath a fig tree and was granted a vision. He was supposed to kill his sister to appease one of the ancient gods, the god of harvest, in order to ensure enough food for that winter.
But Saint Baellith refused. Even though his sister was never going to become well, he loved her dearly and never wanted to harm her, even in the name of a god.
It was later revealed to him that his vision did not come from the god of the harvest, but a demon. He was declared a saint for seeing through the lies of the devil. When asked what gift could be granted to him as a reward, Baellith replied that he wanted to be with his sister forever.
It was then that their bodies were fused together by fire. They became man and woman together, the twins, and then transcended into godhood. They ascended to take their seat among the stars with the gods and goddesses above.
Over time, Baellith became the god of sex, fertility, pleasure, and pain. But originally, he was also the god of twins and duplicity. Few remembered these things, though.
Merris had only spoken to an angel of Saint Baellith once. He didn't quite understand what he, or she, said. It was always riddles and double-talk, with a strange childlike quality that he found particularly disturbing and irksome.
He also had the distinct feeling that the angel of Baellith was merely toying with him, and that it could speak straightforwardly if it wished. But since Merris had favor with other gods, Baellith wanted little to do with him.
The daylight was almost melted away now. Stars were beginning to bleed through the bruise-colored sky. A sobering chill squeezed out of the air and breathed through his dark hair. Lights were beginning to flicker to life across the city and the opening festivities. Jangling music still played, and a giant ferris wheel was being erected. It was as if the circus had come to town. Dancing, laughter, food, drinks, and celebrations would continue day and night.
He re-corked the wine bottle and glanced to Lauris. The Unquenched tipped her head curiously, as if to ask what he was thinking about.
"Come, Lauris," he said as he motioned for her to clear the bottle and glass. "Help me into my robe. I think I wish to retire for the night."
She nodded and did as she was told.
Merris closed the glass doors behind him, shutting out the festival noise.