The truth was, Merris didn't know himself at all.
He didn't know what he was. But he was quite aware of what he was not.
He was not an elf.
He looked like one. He had friends. He had a family. He had an arguably normal childhood with normal parents and normal schooling. His family was upper middle class. They could afford the finer things and had an exquisite taste in literature, theater, music and the arts.
He followed his father's footsteps and attended a prestigious university. He majored in medicine and had an exemplary understanding of how the body worked.
A lot of his knowledge, however, was self-taught.
After his father, Doctor Basil Osterious, had died from pneumonia, he changed his direction in life and turned to commercial investment banking. He made a lot of rich men richer, which in turn made him a very wealthy man indeed.
Despite all of this, he was never normal.
As a child, he could talk to the gods.
He saw many people pray to the gods. He assumed that it was the same for them as it was for him – they immediately responded. They were invisible people that held normal conversations and sometimes manifested messengers and angels to reply. They were very real. Some were nicer, and other gods were snide, callous and annoying. He got along with some better than others. They were more like distant relatives, aunts or uncles, than ethereal beings with unlimited power.
He quickly learned, though, that this was not the case. It was abnormal.
In addition, he always had the mind of an adult, even when he was young. There were things he just inherently knew without being told. It made him stand out from other boys. He had been called "creepy" and "odd" by his teachers. He was teased and tormented by his peers.
He learned to internalize. He became introverted and quiet. He stopped talking about how the gods spoke to him. His mother never believed him anyway. He simply had invisible friends. Maybe he was gifted.
It was nothing more special than that.
When he hit puberty, however, his problems only escalated.
He learned that if he concentrated very, very hard, he could disappear and reappear without a trace. It made his stomach a little nauseous each time he did it, but it had saved his life once or twice. It was very difficult to do, and he did not wish to draw attention to himself. Thus it became a trick he didn't practice often.
And then there was the flesh crafting.
It started as a hobby. But then Nehmain suggested to him that he could create. He had the knowledge, and the power. Nehmain showed him how. Merris had the ability to make the undead walk and think. No one else in the world could do this, Nehmain assured him. Merris was gifted. It was a marriage of science and art, two things he deeply loved.
Over the years, he became better and better at it. He liked the feeling of accomplishment and power. He also felt that if he could not relate to live people, then perhaps he could make dead ones. His creations were his friends, his family members. They did not cower or flinch from him. They did not tease him or call him names. They loved him, despite who, and perhaps what, he was.
Nehmain and Venorith became his closest allies. Two gods: the god of death, decay, Unquenched, and rebirth, and the god of wickedness, spite, anger, war, and hatred. They found favor with Merris. They acquiesced to him without asking for anything in return, as other gods did. They did not speak in maddening riddles or play tricks and jokes, as pettier gods tended to do. They did not mince words, and always seemed to speak the blunt truth to him, whether he wanted to hear it or not.
The only things the gods never answered him on was the single question: if he was not an elf, then what was he?
He was always answered with silence. Even when he begged, pleaded, and sacrificed. They did not say a word. After many, many years, he stopped asking.
It became a relationship of mutual respect. Merris found kinship in them. They were not frightening to him, and they did not once harm him in mind or body.
Still, Merris had no reason not to trust them. He was glad that at least they did not lie to him. No answer was better than a false answer.
Most of all, they were friends.
Friends that came and went by bidding alone. They were there and gone at his whim. They were always there for him, always.
With the gods, Merris was never lonely, even when completely and utterly alone.
And Merris felt more alone now than he ever had in his entire life.
Merris had lain in his bed for three days straight. He asked Lauris in a soft, polite voice to please, please send everyone away. He did not want to be bothered, not now. Perhaps not ever. He didn't care if he never woke up again.
But he always did. For Merris, there was always a tomorrow. It was one of the things he knew about himself. He couldn't die. He always woke up. Life just kept going on and on and on… no matter how mortally wounded he was. He just woke up again and again. He tried to end it before. Many times, in fact.
Although he did not remember his past lives, he reincarnated. When he died from old age or was slain somehow, he was reborn as a baby again. He was unaware of this fact, but he suspected it may be true because of the dreams. Vivid, strange, disturbing dreams where he was someone else, somewhere far away or from long, long ago. Sometimes he had caramel-colored skin and amber eyes, like the desert sands. Sometimes he was female – but he was always himself, too, somehow. The dreams disturbed him deeply. He rarely had uninterrupted sleep.
He knew from endless hours of research that there were things similar to him, and they could only die or be made "mortal" through a complicated ritual.
Thus he began collecting the components.
Lillandyr was to help him. And oh… Lillandyr, he moaned as he turned over on his side. Forever lost, the only woman he ever loved.
His arms were crossed over the book. He pressed it to his chest. The unmarked, black, leather bound book of Venorith's, the Mad Penitents Codex. It was the book that Lillandyr wanted to trade for the Idol of Turtih. It was the closest thing he had to her. The object of her desire.
Which certainly wasn't him, not now.
He ruined it.
He cuddled it close, pressed his nose to the cover and shut his eyes. He smelled the electric stench of ozone, magic, and old leather.
He'd give the book to her freely, if she ever agreed to speak to him again. She wouldn't, he knew. It was hopeless. But he'd give her anything.,anything, just to hear her voice.
He was too lucky, maybe. He flew too close to the sun. He pushed it too far. The carousel. The manipulation of the oracle. Too bold, Merris, he thought to himself. Too awkward and bold for courtship. If only he could have wooed her like a normal man.
But...
"You're not even a man, Merris," she said. How right she was.
"How long do you plan on lying there, Meriweather Osterious?" said a voice that emanated from his nightstand. "A week? A month?"
He recognized the small, hissing voice. It vibrated his back teeth and buzzed in his brain. It wasn't the voice of anything living. It was impish and weak, barely a whisper. It was a voice not meant to be heard often by those of mere flesh and blood. It originated from another dimension, another world. It was a messenger of Venorith, and she had come without Merris summoning her. Maybe, Merris thought, the gods – his friends – had been watching and were genuinely concerned for him.
It was a comforting notion.
Merris turned over and blinked blearily. The angel of Venorith was manifesting in the twisting, ribboning smoke from the candle at his bedside. It looked like a small fairy made of the dirty silver soot.
Venorith's servant tipped her head at him curiously as she stood above the flickering flame and dripping black candle wax.
"How long?" she repeated again, as if he hadn't heard her the first time.
Merris didn't reply as he resumed staring at his ceiling with the book pressed to his chest.
"I gave you what you wanted, Merris," the voice of the god said quietly. "You should be more grateful."
"It wasn't what I wanted," he gritted hoarsely. "I wanted her to love me. And she did. Maybe. For a moment."
"Love you?" the angel snickered. "You can't trick someone to love you, Merris," the angel said as she danced away from the candle flame to float above him, forcing him to look at her. She moved elegantly, like ink dropped into a glass of water. Her smoky body twisted and undulated before him, a hazy dream. The angel's voice was gentle and motherly, not mocking or sarcastic. "You should have known that. But we did as you requested. Don't be angry, Merris," she said in a sweet, sing-song voice. "And you shouldn't hold a grudge against Castalline."
"And why shouldn't I?" Merris snapped loudly. He was normally very soft and even-tempered. This was the first flare of anger he openly expressed in a long, long time. The black book slid off his chest and fell to the crux of his arm. "It was because of her I lost Lillandyr. She insinuated we were something we weren't. I should have never slept with her – never! Why, I don't even know what inspired me to do so in the first place! She made it sound like we were lovers in front of Lady Shadowglade. It was because of her that everything is ruined. I don't want her in my home. I don't want her in my life. I just want to…" He trailed off and turned on his side, facing away from the angel hovering above him.
"Want to what…?" she gently prodded as she floated down in front of him again. "Be alone, Meriweather? Pout and feel sorry for yourself for days and days? Look at you…" she said as she walked on thin air. The serpentine smoke slithered around her delicate fairy form. "Haven't dressed. Haven't eaten. Haven't shaved. So undignified. So ungraceful. So unlike you, Meriweather. It's pathetic how you wallow in your own misery. Castalline is a Muse and you haven't been utilizing her as you ought to. You and she have more in common than you and Lillandyr will ever have in a lifetime."
Merris stared at the pixie disdainfully, but he listened.
"With her, you could be inspired to do great things, Meriweather. Very great, powerful, and wondrous things. Don't hold this one little thing against her. Mortals are finicky. There is always a chance to forgive and forget. But this opportunity? The opportunity to have a Muse at your disposal? You shouldn't take it for granted."
"Why, Venorith?" Merris muttered as he rolled onto his back and draped his arm over his eyes. "Why do you care? What is your motivation for wanting me to keep Castalline around after she ruined my life?" he moaned.
"Stop it!" the angel snapped, and swooped down in front of him, leaving a wispy trail of smoke behind. The angel showed him a row of vicious, pointed teeth. "You're acting like a child, Merris!" she scolded, her tone growing raspy and cold. She began to sound more and more like a servant of the demonic god. The voice was more familiar to him now. Less caring and more icy, factual, and detached. It made him feel grounded. He hated when the gods sounded motherly and warm. "Get up. Collect yourself, and –"
There was a sharp knock on his bedroom door. The angel was gone in a whiff of smoke, leaving behind the acrid scent of sulfur and brimstone. "God's sake," he hissed under his breath as he tore thick layers of bedding off his small frame. "I said not to be disturbed. It better be important." He snarled irritably as he slid and cinched his house robe on. It was black with a red sash slashed across his waist. A silver moth was embroidered on the shoulder.
He left the black book on his bed. He answered the door and immediately dropped his eyes downward. It was Varnil, his messenger Unquenched. He, sometimes she, only came when it had very, very important information to share. It was never a bothersome interruption.
"Master," he hissed, his face nearly touching the ground. He crouched low; his spindly, long spider arms and legs were covered in dark, navy leather. His joints creaked and groaned when he moved. "I know you are not to be bothered, Master." His voice like was dried, cracked leaves. "But we have messages, two messages, waiting for you. Both are pertinent," he rasped. "One is from the Marquis Shadowglade, and the other is from the Speaker of Nehmain, Marquis of the Hidden Quarter," Varnil said reverently as his spindly hands vanished into his jerkin. He produced two sealed scrolls and offered them upwards.
Merris took them both. Standing in the doorway of his bedroom, he tore Lillandyr's letter open first.
It was only one line, tersely written and businesslike. She had the Idol of Turtih. She wanted her book.
Her book? he thought with a nasty flicker of irritation. How presumptuous. It was his. She was to borrow it.
And she would be there to collect it in a handful of days. He threw a glance over to the book in question, which sat lifeless and lopsided on his pillow.
It was signed with her overly large, looped signature beside her sigil of a dead black tree.
Merris snapped the seal of the second letter open. It was from Seralah Bloodhaven. He knew who she was, but he had never met her face-to-face. He had dealt with her people on a handful of occasions, when he was collecting a forbidden magical text. This was the first time he ever had direct communication with her.
She was Nehmain's voice made flesh. She had dominion of all the unliving. It was no surprise that Varnil spoke so fondly of her. All of his creations bowed to her. She was almost like the descendent of the god himself – even if he was their creator.
How strange. What did she want?
His eyes darted across the letter as he read. It only seemed to have gotten stranger. Was this… some sort of joke? A prank? He didn't understand it.
"Are… you absolutely certain this is from the Speaker of Nehmain, Varnil?" He had never questioned his servant before. The creature hissed like a cockroach, as if he were being scolded.
"Yes… yes, Master. I would never deceive," the Unquenched replied humbly, his forehead pressed to the ground at Merris' feet.
Dearest Sweet Meriweather Osterious,
It is silly and sad that we've not met and had tea together. I think you'll find we have much in common. Much more than some noble girl in a golden tower. I fixed your servant Lauris for you! She's so pretty now, like she deserves. You have a lovely home! All your taxidermy animals are wonderful and your pets are so precious and darling. I'm sorry I had to visit while you were away, but not too many up top are very fond of me. You understand! Come see me soon. Pretty, pretty please! You're welcome any time.
Hugs and kisses!
Sera
It was written in pink. Sticky bubblegum-colored lip prints peppered all over the parchment. There were childish hearts and flowers along the margins.
She fixed Lauris? But… how? Why?
"Varnil," he said, properly distracted. Lillandyr was far from his mind. "Fetch me Lauris, please. And have Castalline waiting for me in an hour. I wish to speak with her as well."
"Yes, Master," Varnil said in a hushed, respectful bow. He scrambled away.
Merris turned and re-read Seralah's letter several times as he waited. He flipped it over, then back. Lip prints? Hugs and kisses? Hearts? Soon, the tick-tock of Lauris' heels against the wooden floor clacked louder and louder.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw her. No, this wasn't a prank. Merely seeing Lauris was confirmation of that. She was perfect. Lauris was restored to the first day of her creation.
Her skin was flawless, no longer stitched in places like a rag doll. Her golden hair cascaded down her shoulder in ringlets. Her mask was gone. Her heart-shaped face was porcelain, her eyes wide and earnest. She reached a hand out to Merris.
Even her nails were restored, shining and opalescent. Merris noticed that she wore the same shade of cotton candy pink lipstick painted on her mouth that was also pressed onto the letter.
"Lauris," he whispered in wonderment. "You look magnificent. Has Seralah done this for you?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
She nodded and glanced down at her feet, modestly. Her master had complimented her loveliness, and it embarrassed her on some level.
"Good," he said as he squeezed and patted her knuckles affectionately, like an old friend. "I'm pleased, so very pleased for you. Truly. It was a… unexpected gift that she has given us. She's asked for my company, Lauris, and I intend to go meet her, Seralah Bloodhaven, down in her domain in the Hidden Quarter. I know I've been indisposed these last few days. I've not really been myself," he explained to the Unquenched.
She listened curiously, canting her head to the side with mild concern. Her perfect, shimmering yellow hair draped down her shoulder.
"And I know as a result that I've neglected you, the other staff members, and everyone in the manor house. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be a disappointment. I mean to change that right now. Will you please go and run me a bath? I also require something to eat. And a change of clothes. A shave. And then I must meet with Castalline. I've sent Varnil to fetch her for me to be ready in an hour. I suppose I owe her an apology, too."
He patted Lauris' hand a final time before he released. The Unquenched gave a small shy smile before she bowed and trotted away to do his bidding.
She ran Merris a bath just the way he liked it, scalding, searing hot with heavy disinfectant soap. She combed his long wet hair until it shined like an oil spill. His beard was trimmed until it was neatly cropped and perfect. He ate a small, modest meal that was sterile in his mind – which consisted of no meat and no dairy products. Then he slipped into his fine black robes with dark silver trim. By the end, he looked regal, severe and immaculately clean.
He was unaware of the Muse's unintended effects. Even her mere aura affected those around her. No one was immune. Oftentimes it was an enhancement of thoughts or feelings that already existed, like an amplifier.
Merris was not consciously aware of how deeply she altered the emotions surrounding him and Shadowglade the night of the Feast Day. All of his insecurities and fears were inspired to grow to overwhelming levels. He couldn't even defend himself when she approached and ruined things between him and Lillandyr. The all-consuming, black emotions and doubting, negative whispers loudly reminded him that she hated him. She wanted nothing to do with him. He was a thing, not even a man.
Castalline's god-touched presence disarmed him to crippling levels. All he heard in his mind was how unworthy, strange, and worthless he was. It left him speechless.
Thus he was unaware of how Castalline's inspiration was about to influence him when he descended the steps and asked to speak to her again. He requested to meet her in his drawing room, filled with his collection of taxidermy insects. There were glittering scarabs, a rainbow of butterflies and moths, and a wide assortment of beetles. All of them caught the afternoon sunlight and shined like small, precious gemstones.
Castalline was waiting for him, sunken, white, and small.
She wore one of the many old-fashioned dresses he had purchased for her. It had a high, lacy collar and billowy sleeves. Her long silvery hair was loose in waves around her shoulders and face and she looked devastatingly sad. She probably knew she was in trouble or that she'd displeased him. "You'll see," she said, her voice barely above a squeak, "that this is best."
He stepped into the drawing room. The buttery afternoon light spilled from huge, towering windows filtered in dust.
"Come again?" he asked as he approached her with light, small steps. His black eyes were fixed on her tiny frame. His thin, quiet voice echoed in the cavernous room. "Castalline?" he asked politely as he rounded the antique chair she occupied.
She dipped her gaze down to her small, fragile hands which rested on her knees. She hunched a bit, afraid perhaps. "You can't be with a mortal woman, Merris. You're special." She drew in a sharp little breath and raised her eyes to his face again. "I don't know how. I just can tell. I can feel it."
His lips thinned and his eyes darkened, hawk-like and cool. He didn't want to discuss Lillandyr, not really. He tersely changed the subject as he swooped into the chair across from her. An old, beautifully carved coffee table separated the space between them.
"I came here to apologize. I wanted to let you know that I still want you here, and you are welcomed in my manor, regardless of what has happened," he said as he steepled his fingers. His giant silver moth ring glistened in the light. "Though… I suppose we… ought to have a discussion about what occurred, to clear the air, so to speak," he said as he gestured with his hand. His ring weighed down his fingers.
She flinched. It was a tiny movement, but there all the same. Her big gray eyes filled with hurt tears. She seemed to know what was coming. Anger billowed off of her. Sour and black. It was like the air was filled with poison suddenly. Her influence turned hateful and dark.
"I was just saving you from more embarrassment," she said, tone defensive. "Before she called you a thing again. She should be honored to be near you. But people never are, are they? People like us... we're just things to them. Just tools. To be used and cast off." Her voice was harsh with anger, upset. Tears spilled in shining rivers down her pale face. "No one ever thinks of how we feel. Maybe people think we don't."
He listened with detached patience. His legs crossed at the knee, and his long, thin white fingers delicately tangled under his chin. Inwardly, he winced. That word again. "Thing." Lillandyr had used it. Castalline used it, too. We are just things to them; he rolled the idea around in his mind.
Finally, he frowned. A long, slow sigh pushed from his lungs. Perhaps Castalline was right. Perhaps it was all a joke to her, and love didn't mean anything to Lillandyr. He loved her. He had the courage to confess to her. In the end, she didn't care. She never did, did she?
Castalline's aura worked like venom trickling through his brain, making the feeling of despondency and inferiority that much more potent.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Was that… what you think she was doing?" he asked, his voice searching and earnest. He wanted her opinion. "That she used me?" He was looking for confirmation.
She stood and came to him. She nodded.
"Oh yes. Just like I was used by the Maestro." She took his hands. Her own were cold, trembling. She seemed like an innocent thing, guileless and small. She didn't seem capable of holding all that power. But she did. Passion laced through the inspiration and loathing. Rage. It was boiling bile.
"She just wanted to look good in front of everyone. I couldn't bear to see you hurt again. To see a mortal use you. Like the Maestro used me. And then? She'd cast you out... tell everyone how 'different' you were. Hurt you." Her lower lip trembled and she pressed his knuckles to her cheek.
He uncrossed his legs and watched her with uncertainty lacing through his face. He listened to her, as if she were a whispering angel on his shoulder, gently prodding suggestions in his ear.
He squeezed her hand lightly, as if expressing a sense of camaraderie. They were both "things." He just wished he knew what he was, exactly.
"But..." he protested with the last shred of argument he had left. The final thing he continued to cling to. "She said…" He swallowed, his Adam's apple lifting and falling. "She said she loved me, Castalline. She said it once we were gone, away from the crowd." His brow pinched. Someone wouldn't say that unless they meant it, would they? What was there to gain from that lie? He so desperately wanted to believe it, too. He had been waiting all those years to hear it.
And then, once they tumbled from Lillandyr's sweet, wine-colored lips… it was a lie? It was a falsehood? A trick? But why?
Her look was as dark as her aura then. It was intense, hard to even be in her company.
"Oh, mortal things always lie, Merris. The Maestro? He whispered honey in my ear all the time. That he loved me. That he adored me. If that were true..." Pain. Pain written all over her delicate face. "He wouldn't have let them beat me. He wouldn't have let them..." She choked off the words. "Lillandyr is no different. She is rich and beautiful, and you were a novelty. A passing amusement. We should pray that she tells no one what you are." She shrugged and looked at their feet. "She should be silenced before she ruins you. Before she hurts us, Merris. Me, you, Lauris…"
In overwhelming, damp despair, Merris' face tipped downward. His long fingers splayed across his temple and raven colored hair. The stale light cast across his contrasting black and white features. His eyes came to a close as the poison cloud of the Muse's influence began to infiltrate his thoughts. She should be silenced. He had the ability to do it, too. So what if he was a "thing?" He could use it to his advantage and show her what a powerful thing he was. He could conquer and be feared. He could be a god.
Maybe even a god the other gods would fear…
After all these years, they respected him, didn't they? They always did. He never questioned why or gave it much thought.
Perhaps he ought to. See what his limits were. See what he was capable of. He would crush Lillandyr so swiftly and effectively under his shoe, the city would tremble.
And Venorith was right. He could use a Muse's power to his own advantage. Smite his enemies.
But he thought as he finally tore away from his maelstrom of thoughts as he looked at Castalline. He couldn't be a hypocrite. He couldn't use Castalline as Lillandyr used him. It wasn't right. He needed to respect his Muse, cherish her. Never make her feel as Lillandyr had made him feel inside.
He squeezed her hand.
"You're right, Castalline," he whispered in a reverent hush.
He was rewarded as the influence turned sweet, less oppressive, and so passionate and wanting. He could feel her longing as she looked up at him, her eyes wide and bright. "Oh, Merris," she breathed, drawing his hands up to her lips. She closed her eyes adoringly as she kissed his knuckles. "You'll see," she promised. "You'll see how different it can be... with someone more like you..." She trailed off, hope tingling in her voice.
"Kiss me, Castalline," he uttered as he watched her press her mouth to his hands. "Kiss me," he repeated with heat, leaning closer. The small spark of desire bloomed brightly in his eyes. It shimmered and illuminated like a lantern with the influence and magic of a Muse. He felt inspired. Strong. Invincible.
And he was invincible, wasn't he? He was immortal. He had died several times and only came back. He thought it was a burden, but now he realized it was a blessing. He was capable of anything. His only hindrance was himself, after all these years. He was a fool to never fully realize it.
Joy and adoration spread over her lovely little face and she kissed him. Perhaps it was merely the physical touch coupled with her inspiration, but it seemed far more passionate than any touch Lillandyr had ever given him. Castalline whimpered and pressed herself against him. Her kiss was frantic, a little rough, as if she wanted to crawl inside his skin. Her hands tangled in his robe as she clung to him.
His lips trailed down her neck, across her shoulder. When he tugged away her dress, his tongue trailed down her torso.
He made love to her in the chair well into the evening. The fireplace died down and it had been both a wild frenzy and very sweet. The Muse inspired him to touch her and caress her until he was breathless and exhausted.
Merris turned to her as they laid on the floor. As she slept, he slid his silver ring from his thin hand. It was heavy and gaudy, a cut replica of a death's head hawk moth. It was scientific and perfect, down to its last detail. There were no jewels or adornment, beyond a well-polished sheen. The skull on the back of the moth grimaced menacingly in the cold blue moonlight. Merris slid the ring onto the ring finger of her left hand. He gently kissed her forehead as she slept. He swept a lock of icy white hair aside and tucked it behind her ear.
He could hear the crickets sing. The night called him. Nude, he briefly stood and looked out the window as the wind breathed cool, chilling over him. He felt renewed, as if he had splashed and swam through a sea of new life. He was going to start over.
He was going to be what he had perhaps meant to be in all of his lives. He was going to test his boundaries. He wanted to be bigger, better, stronger, because he knew he could. He was going to stop being afraid and live a new life, without having to die to begin again.
His first order of business was to see the Speaker of Nehmain. She had summoned him.
He whispered to Lauris after he left the drawing room to fetch a blanket and pillow for Castalline. Do not wake her, he insisted. Let her sleep. Then he had Lauris dress him in his richest finery, something worthy to be seen in the presence of Nehmain's chosen one.
Then he ordered Lauris to have the carriage ready. A small fleet of strong black horses and a shining, clean carriage, dark as obsidian, pulled him down into the underworld.