The Immortal Lord sits on a throne composed of fossilized black feathers; long fingers tapping an irregular rhythm against the onyx armrest. Waiting for his Bride is a nuisance and a complete waste.
Yet, wait he must because it was a crucial part of his survival. Like a luupiina, the curse howled for it.
Without a Moon Turns Bride, his body would be consumed with invisible fire never quenched. His
Immortality prevents the peace he'd seek in death. The curse is absolute in its detail and never imparted many.
Will my bride survive more than a few nights?
All too soon the great, black Currath doors swing inward admitting his servant, a tall lump of cloak and dresses trails behind.
Gregoire bows before him and says, "May I present my Lord, your Moon Turns Bride."
"This sack of clothes?" he asks, eyeing the pile suspiciously, knowing a human stands beneath, he can make out the form.
A large hood swallows the upper part of the girl's face, edges brushing the tip of her nose or where he assumed it would be. It is hard to discern because the rest of her countenance is obscured by a burgundy veil. Underneath, long azure locks stick out like lightning strikes. Its color is uncommon in the human race meaning her blood most likely contains more lous'rief than the Brides before her. They were human through and through.
She wears layers upon mismatched layers of ugly dresses all in the same mottled browns and greys. The shapeless girl gracelessly curtsies and says, "M-My L-L-Lord," trembling voice like wind rattling leaves.
"Tell me, girl, did you choose, or were you chosen?
The girl is silent, tucking her chin into the recesses of her horrid cloak.
"Speak!" he commands, voice echoing off the black marble columns and rising like smoke from the floor.
She flinches and stammers, "I-I-I- w-was ch-chosen m-m-m-my Lord."
"Why did they choose you to be my Moon Turns Bride?"
A few flickers of silence then, "I-I'm not su-su-sure my Lord, th-they d-d-d-did not say."
"Oh, but I am sure that you do. The villages never send any woman my way without reason and rarely does my Bride come to me of her own volition. Why did they send you?" He does not wait for a response and continues, "Did they send you because you are the most graceful dancer, or you can sing the birds from the sky? Or perhaps your talents lie elsewhere?"
The Immortal Lord know she is none of those things, the villages have long ago ceased sending their bright and beautiful maidens settling to send the ones they had no care for.
"Well," he snaps tiring of her silence. How odd, usually he could not get the Brides to stop babbling like drunken merchants settling in on prey.
A long flicker passes before she speaks.
"Wh-what b-better to s-s-s-serve a Dea'Mond th-th-than a D-D-Dea'mond."
"How dare you speak that way to your Lord and Master. . ."
"Gregoire enough," the Immortal Lord commands cutting his manservant's words, eyes never leaving the stuttering girl before him.
"So your people think I'm a Dea'mond? What do they say?"
The girl flinches, licks her lips, and whispers, "Th-that you a-a-a-re cursed t-to n-never walk under th-th-the suns r-r-rays. Y-You d-d-drink blood to m-m-maintain your l-l-life and n-n-none of your M-Moons' Turn brides s-s-sur-vive."
"Interesting, oh how words travel even when left unspoken. I can hardly be offended it's true on all accounts. Do you drink blood and smolder under the sun?"
"N-No my L-L-Lord."
"Tell me, what makes you a dea'mond?"
"N-N-Nothing."
"Someone seems to think you are."
"I-I'm ugly."
"That may be true. Beauty or lack thereof does not make you a Dea'mond. I am waiting."
Another long pause. The sheer force of the girl's will threatens to explode his eardrums.
The moment passes like water on sand and the girl says, "I-I'm cursed."
"Is your ugliness the basis for this curse or is it your unnaturally long, thin skeleton?" he asks standing and stalking even steps towards the overly clad woman desperately endeavoring to meld her form into a nearby pillar. She might have well succeeded if his eyes lost track of her tall, shadow-like profile. He pauses several hands away.
"Death," the girl responds, its weight settling atop his chest before dissipating like smoke.
He walks half a circle, taking note of her frame and the bulk of her horrid dresses.
"You are entirely too frail to carry the weight of death."
"D-Death c-c-cares not of strength or w-w-weakness. She c-c-comes f-f-for us a-all."
"Are you here to send me to her? Is that why the village chose you?"
"N-N-No. I a-aam here in h-hopes you w-will s-send m-me t-t-to her," she replies so softly even his unnaturally keen hearing strains to decipher the soft air passing through her lips.
He completes the circle around her.
"Not looking a man in the eye while he speaks is considered a great slight. Mayhap this part of your education has been neglected seeing how the villages are rarely adhering to tradition nowadays. I am not going to hold it against you. It is painfully obvious you have been neglected. Now that I have increased your education on the matter, you may feel free to remove your atrocious head coverings."
"I-I c-cannot."
Her fear skitters beneath his skin and his left-hand clenches in a vain attempt to dispel the eerie sensation.
"Look at me," he commands, curious whether her curse would affect him.
"M-My Lord p-p-please."
"Why are you so afraid? Think about it. If your curse works on me then you are free and this castle and its possessions pass to you. If it doesn't work then you remain here with me which was to be your fate anyway. See, you have nothing to lose," he says fluttering his hand in the air like he was warding off a tenacious blood-biter.
Slowly a crocheted orange and peacock glove rises and pulls the dull, dark fabric away. The veil resists for a breath before succumbing to the pull revealing mottled azure skin. The heavy fabric fell away like a cough showcasing a dark head with long, thick strands of burgundy hair heavy with static. Strands of hair stands of their own volition defying the pull of Mother Ira. The remaining locks fall about her face in unnatural angles obscuring most of her mien.
Stepping closer, head hovering fingers above hers, he whispers, "Look at me."
Again, the pull of her Will is like a void building pressure behind his ears as she forces her head to tilt back. Tresses angle away exposing more mottled skin. Curious, he allows his eyes to focus on the splotches, and in the light of a dozen brightly burning candles, he realizes the splotches are not blobs of color but instead marquings. They travel the length of her face in a swirl of familiar patterns. A spell but impossible to cipher without reading its entirety.
Frost-tipped eyelashes reach towards the sky unveiling eyes inhumanly tilted, housing vertical pupils.
Those exotic eyes lock onto his bringing with them a power that knocks him to his knees. A hand squeezes his lungs preventing the intake of air and he spends several flickers coaxing his legs to assume an upright position. In doing so he brings his face level with hers.
Eyes earthen-brown shift to bright green, to cool blue, intense violate and tepid teal until her iris become a myriad of colours spiraling like a water spout and dragging him along. His spirit squirms rubbing against death's coolness. Weightless he allows the current to ferry his spirit closer to Hedias.
Pain explodes from the junction between his shoulder blades and a wall of steel feathers shields him, severing the magic with such ferocity the girl is flung into the air like a dead mouse. Her head slams with a sharp crack against the pillar she had sought refuge from moments before.
For several breaths, he remains in the shelter of his wings, until the girl's lous'rife dispels like dust in the air. He feels her very last breath and hears her heart extinguish like a candle.
"My Lord, I did not think you would have killed her."
"I had no intention of killing her, the pull of Hedias was strong and my body reacted without warning. Never have I experienced such strong lous'rife in one so young. Gregoire, go and prepare a room for the body and find something suitable for the poor girl."
"As you command Lord Jerrath." His servant only used his name when showing disapproval yet quickly moves off to obey his master's wishes.
He moves closer to the girl watching blood pool from her scalp and slowly make its way across the tiles. He licks his lips at the sight.
"Let no blood go wasted," he whispers.
Placing his forefinger in the pool, he scoops some blood and places it in his mouth. Lous'rife lightnings across his skin making his hair stand on end. The power of her blood, even in death, strengthens him. His wings flutter, fold and sink into his skin. Like the sting of a blood-biter, the pain is barely noticeable.
The Immortal Lord is truly sorry that this girl died, even more so, before he had a chance to know her name. He was hoping this girl would not meet the same fate as the rest of his brides; they all committed suicide. The Dyu's have a strange way of answering his prayer, she didn't commit suicide, he killed her.
He moves the locks that obscured her face. By their own accord, his fingers run through the strands amazed by the feel; like water and silk.
Suddenly, like a thousand fire beetles, power prickles along his skin. He watches in wonder when the blood begins to flow in reverse, leaving not a speck.
The girl's eyes fly open and she gasps for air.
The Immortal Lord flinches, such actions are unexpected from someone thought dead. She looks at him for a flicker then snaps her eyes shut scurrying away from him like a spider and pulling her hoods over her face in the process.
"I thought you were dead."
The girl remains silent, quietly standing, and straightens her attire.
"Y-You th-thought w-w-wrong."
The Immortal Lord opens his mouth to contradict her, a soft click issues from the farthest corner of the large room, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps. Lord Jerrath knows those footsteps like the letters of his name; his manservant had returned.
"My Lord, I have prepared everything you have requested. Would you li-," he stops abruptly noticing the girl awake, breathing, and standing on her own two feet. Gregoire gives a small cough, "Perhaps I should cancel previous orders? Should I perhaps have the bride's quarters prepared?"
"Yes, you should."
Gregoire gives another bow and leaves.
Turning to the girl who is once again backing herself against a pillar he says, "So my cursed bride, you never told me your name."
"Y-you n-n-never asked, m-m-my Lord."
"Yes, I was too preoccupied with your curse and presumed death. You of all people should understand, hence, why I am asking you right now."
Once again, proving to be a habit, the girl speaks nothing for a few moments; then places her hands atop her overly covered eyes and whispers, "I f-f-feel like i-i-it would be b-b-better if y-you d-do not k-know m-my name. Y-You c-could call m-me wh-what e-ever you want. O-Once you k-k-know m-my n-name, y-you cannot c-c-call m-me by a-a-anything e-e-else. Y-You w-w-will get h-h-hurt."
"I'm waiting. I would rather not continue thinking of you as 'the girl.'"
She slightly shrugs, sighs softly, and says, "My n-name is Desolation."
"Quite fitting. Come now Desolation, my ugly cursed bride; let us see if you live up to your name."