Chapter 5: Chapter 3: Funeral

No one escapes the dead. I thought I could, that night, or… at least put it off, for a time. I retreated within myself, an observer, into the deepest folds of my brain. I watched and I listened… but felt as if my body was not my own.

Memories are a fickle thing… but I remember every detail. The whip and sting as wet hair lashed my face, bouncing in the saddle. The way my fingers stuck together, soaked in crimson. The constant din of the storm and prick of the rain. The splash of hooves through puddles and mud. I remember it all.

Eventually, Azareth reined in his horse. Shrugging off my hands, he stepped down from the saddle. A wrought-iron fence surrounded us, black rods standing as impenetrable walls. Rows and rows of headstones peppered the land, most small and unadorned, poor attempts to honor or remember. Trees encircled, branches dangling over the perimeter fence like dark, grasping fingers. All was lit by a single tiny lantern—the only warmth in this blackness like pitch. A figure held the light, features only half-covered by the flickering glow. I saw the bearded mouth, rugged nose, and the heavyset brow in equal parts light and shadow. The eye swollen shut, cheek stitched together… the bandaged, blood-soaked thigh.

I did not fall, weeping into my father’s arms. I did not tell him the things I had done, nor did I look to him for comfort. There was a slowness about my body and mind, and I only watched him with vapid eyes. It was by Azareth’s effort that I came down from the saddle—by his force that I ambled forward through deepening mud.

The light brightened as my father ventured closer. Somewhere deep within, I wanted to flee. The urge was a voice, crying, drowned by sounds of rain and thunder. My father took my sanguine hands, tainting his own. Mine shook like the leaves on those wind-swept trees. I saw, in his single open eye, a grief and a guilt as deep as the southern sea.

He spoke, words squeezing from his throat. “What… happened?”

There was Azareth’s voice. “I believe your daughter is in shock.”

“This blood. Is it… hers?”

“There were seven men, Stal. The same seven, I believe, that attacked you, this night.”

My father watched me for a long moment. He looked at my hands. The rain streamed down from his matted hair.

Slowly, he reached his arms around me. He held me tight, chest to chest, hands clutching at my back as if afraid I’d otherwise fall. And, somehow, through my mind’s deepening fog, I raised my arms to similarly hold. My knees, forgotten, went limp. I leaned further into my father’s embrace as his smell, his strength, his pounding heart returned some small part of me to the physical world.

Time passed. Or, perhaps, it stood still. The moment only broken by Azareth’s voice.

“She will be fine, I sense. For the time being, we have more pressing issues.”

Tension seeped into my father. A deep breath, and he uncoiled. He released me, righting me when I stumbled. One hand vanished into his cloak, eyes forever on mine as he drew something out and nestled it between my hands, numb and red and raw.

The object was soft and light, a familiar form and weight… though it had been years since I’d held it. It was a little direling, stitched together from old linen and burlap. It had been a birthday present from when I’d hardly reached my father’s knee. I’d had other toys—a stuffed horse, a wooden goat, a few dolls of cloth and straw. But this had been something different.

Friends had been a rarity, even in my early years. Hard to find… impossible to keep. But in this doll of fraying rags, I’d found one. One who… looked like me. Accepted me. Horns, a tail, unprejudiced button-eyes. My father’s hands had been more suited to the sword than the needle, but he’d striven to give me something I otherwise lacked.

“Your mother once told me… objects can have great power,” my father said as the rain soaked the musty fabric. “When tied to powerful memories, or… strong emotion. More often, you notice the negative things. Grief, regret, anger… but love and happiness have the same tendency to linger.”

Azareth approached and stood in arm’s reach. “There is wisdom in that. Memories are a powerful thing. They make us what we are, for better or for worse. They are… perhaps the only things that linger, once we’ve died and turned to dust.”

My father lowered his head. A rugged hand brushed my forearm, hesitant to do anything more.

Azareth spoke again. “Understand this, Stal, Valhera. Undead do not seek to torment the living. They aim, not for bloodshed, but to right the wrongs of their death.”

“I know that now,” my father said.

“Gazmere’s haunt was slain by your hand, you said.”

My father watched Azareth in the corners of his eyes. “I did not remember, not at first. But… looking at my old sword, there was a whisper. A hamlet, in the North. Talk of men and women communing with Hell. We decided… scorched earth.”

Azareth began to pace. “There was… a child.”

“We didn’t know. We… wouldn’t have burned the house, had we known. But we heard his pain. We found him once the smoke cleared, and… buried him with his parents.”

“There was nothing more you could have done. But the dead demand a reckoning. They demand a price. It is a price that only you and your daughter can pay.”

“She’s paid enough.”

“I ask not for her blood,” Azareth responded. “I ask only… that she remember.”

Azareth placed his hand on my back, escorting me forward. Ten paces, and we stood above upturned earth. A small, fresh grave, bearing no headstone, no inscription.

He pondered for a pensive moment. “Undead are as unique as the lives they lived before, but all of them share a drive. There is something they crave, something… they cannot obtain, not without our help. Our case is particular. We have a child, denied a childhood. Its parents, slain… last moments spent in horror and fear.”

He turned to me. “Do you understand, Valhera? You have had your childhood, given by a man who took it from another. This is injustice. But… I think you and your father share a rare sort of bond. So I ask you… when you look at that doll in your hands, what does it mean? How has that changed, over the years? The undead… his are the bittersweet fetters of childhood. Allow him to understand… what it meant to break those binds.”

I stared at the doll with its crooked button eyes. Clumsily made, but… cherished, as few things are. Dragged about the cottage, the farm, tucked under my arm when it came time to sleep. Because where others said I was different, a freak, hellish and black-blooded, the doll had given me a way to feel normal. Its horns and tail had lessened the shame of my own. Then I’d grown up, trading childhood toys for the sword and the plough. Even then, the doll had been a reminder that my father accepted me for what I was. That he loved me despite what I was. That he’d provided for me when I hadn’t been able to protect myself. That he’d suffered so much on my behalf, and raised me to be strong enough to bear my own burdens.

I thought about our unwritten, unspoken understanding. He would not ask me to love his goddess, and I would respect his faith for what it was. I thought about the things we never spoke aloud—words far too simple to convey the true depth and breadth of what we felt. I thought about our swords—my passion, and his regret. The parts of him that I’d seen, crossing our blades.

I thought of my fingers, stained red. And knew, even then, that I was my father’s little doe. All in all, when I looked at this doll, I saw my father’s love. Implacable, invincible… implicit.

Something shattered the fog in my mind. My amorphous eyes began to weep.

There was a similar expression on his face. My father was a candid man. But honesty, true honesty, is something rare between a parent and child. It’s rare between friends, too, and lovers, but from a father, it carries a different weight.

That may have been the only time I ever saw him cry. There is something… visceral, about tears on your father’s cheeks. Something… harrowing, about those barriers broken down.

I felt Azareth’s weight, pushing the two of us closer to the grave’s edge. His voice was soft, as if in prayer. “Good. That’s good. Let the memories wash over you, like the pouring rain. Let them seep into this object, to give the dead the comfort they require.”

I held the thing close to my chest. There were no glowing lights, no moments where I felt any power, except a subtle weight on my shoulders. Even so, I knew the necromage’s command had been done. That together with my father and I, this object bore the stains of the life we’d shared.

“Into the grave,” Azareth whispered. I trembled while I knelt, then nestled the ragdoll in the empty grave. Azareth nodded, then lowered himself to touch the upturned dirt. He closed his eyes and spoke, solemn and low.

“Thus… the living pay their debt to the dead. Accept this gift, and return to slumber. Pass this vale… and rest.”

A shadow moved, nearly invisible. Something came forward from the darkness—a boy. His was the exposed, blackened skull, the ribs that had snapped like chalk. The jaw, crooked and half-open… the hand, dangling by an inch of skin.

He stepped into his grave. He picked up the ragdoll then nestled it in his arms. His faded eyes closed, and his half-mouth made a line. He sat in the mud, laid back, and watched the dark void above.

He moved no more. Azareth picked up a shovel and tossed the first mass of mud on top of his body. My father watched, weeping a moment longer, then set down his lantern and grabbed a spade of his own.

“This lost soul will no longer haunt the town of Gazmere,” Azareth said when they were finished. “But this night has given us other matters to discuss. Let us seek shelter from this storm.”

He took his horse by the reins and started leading it away. I watched him go, but felt unable to move of my own accord. When he was ten feet away, I felt my father’s touch. He watched me with his one good eye, all the while seeming to search for words, for voice.

“Little doe…” he said, laden with a thousand things unsaid.

Even had I known the words, I could not have spoken them. My mind, still returning, was blank in the face of my father’s grief. But, even lifeless as I was, a conviction burned within me, sparked by that look in his eye.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He had suffered for my behalf. So much. So many years, treated as an outcast because he dared to love a fiend. The burden of my life… had been too long on his shoulders. A burden I knew he was content to bear… but one that I would no longer let him suffer.

My deeds were mine alone. My nature, my own. I would not allow them to spread.

So, even as he stood with open arms, I found the strength to depart. My steps were slow and shuddering, tail dragging through mud as I followed the necromage’s path.

* * *

Given the hour and weather, we did not return to the countryside. Rather, we made our way toward Azareth’s room in Lord Gazmere’s mansion. I did not want to stay in Gazmere, so close to the men I’d slain… but I couldn’t bear to return home, either.

The mansion was one of the biggest buildings I had ever known, second only to Elthys’s cathedral. It stood three stories tall, with an entrance wide enough to fit five men abreast. At this hour, the watch was a single man. He was startled when we stepped out of the darkness, but seeing Azareth’s face, he let us in. We followed Azareth first to the stables, where he tethered his horse. Then, we entered through a side door, into halls only lit by my father’s lantern.

It was late enough to be considered early morning, though the sun showed no signs of rising. The world was black and silent, but for the patter of thunderous rain.

At length, we arrived at Azareth’s quarters. The door creaked open, and Azareth gestured that my father and I enter first. My father complied, pulling me along, and his lantern’s glow took its time illuminating the room. There was a bed, big enough for an entire family. There was a table, set with a teapot and ornate silverware. There were two windows, black as the night outside, with patterned curtains hanging down. The carpet was firm beneath my feet—no more squelching through mud, no more rain beating down.

Azareth came in behind us and sighed, long and deep. He shook the rain from his hair, wiped it from his cheeks, and took three brisk strides toward the wardrobe in the corner. He thrust the doors open, shed his coat, then lifted a robe off its hanger. He pulled it around himself, tied it around his waist, and rubbed its dry warmth over his freezing joints.

“Stal, your lantern, please,” he said with an air of command. My father handed the light over, and Azareth promptly crouched beside the fireplace. He worked with tinder and kindling, then opened the lantern’s chamber and spread its little fire. Before too long, the room was alight with the orange blaze.

Azareth set two seats in front of the fire, then pulled up a rocking chair for himself. He gestured at the empty chairs, an invitation. My father pulled me forward and set me gently in the first. Then he turned and eased himself into the second.

The fire crackled—another sound mixing with the thrum of the rain. Azareth fished his pipe from his pocket, then busied himself with lighting it. Before long, there was the glow of embers in that little bowl. He took his first pensive draw, and licked his lips before speaking.

“Tell me, Valhera. Did you hear the undead’s wail?”

My pulse began to pound. The necromage watched me, eyes somewhat sunken and tired, but cold and analytical nonetheless. Silence endured for a while, before he leaned forward and cleared his throat.

“The blood in your ears says you did. And yet… you are not gibbering mad.”

I stared at him blankly. My father spoke up.

“But she… isn’t right,” he said.

“That is shock, Stal. Not the power of the dead.”

“She’ll… return, then. Right?”

Azareth sucked on his cheeks, sucked on his pipe, and let loose a long stream of smoke.

“In time. I would have liked to hear this account from her perspective, but… it seems that will have to wait.”

“You saw nothing?”

“It’s not what I saw, so much as what I felt that has me curious. I felt… great power. Power of the sort that sends tremors across the Veil.”

My father lowered his brow. “What does that mean?”

The necromage waved his question aside. “I cannot say for sure. However… I can speak with certainty on other things. Your daughter slew your assailants, down to the man. I found her kneeling among them, caked in blood and mud.”

My father’s face was white as bone, a sickly shade. The blood had largely faded from my fingers, but he turned my hand and touched my pink palm.

“I’m sorry, little doe.” I opened my hands to more fully show the stains.

“Magic, I sensed,” Azareth said. “But not the sort that I know. Some part of it felt… like the things beyond the Veil, yes. But something else, too.”

“The curse,” my father muttered.

“The undead was there,” Azareth continued, smoking again. “Torn to bits, but reconstituting. Somehow, she shrugged off its wail. A sound that may reduce the mightiest warriors to madmen.”

My father took some time to respond. “Her eyes… red, or blue?”

“Blue. Are they… wont to change?”

My father hesitated. I met his eyes a moment, then returned mine to the fire. “She… has this rage,” he finally said. “It doesn’t come out often, but… I saw it, before she left our farm.”

“That is why you sought me, despite the hour.”

“Yes. I was worried. I knew she planned to confront the undead, and… that she would find nothing but pain. This, though…” He trailed, watching the fire.

“It is worse than you could have imagined.”

My father closed his eyes. Azareth let the silence drag for a while, similarly pensive.

“It is my duty as a necromage to see cause and effect, Stal. The warning I gave… it was not without purpose. Lies could only lead to harm. I don’t need to tell you that harm, in fact, came down.”

“You think I’m to blame.”

“The dead are dead. Blame will not change the past. But you withheld information from me. You waited too long to confront your past… and for what? Regret?”

“It doesn’t suit a man to dig up the dead.”

“But the dead will find you regardless,” Azareth sighed. “There are few things that can be said with absolution, in this life. That… is one of them.”

There was tension in my father’s every muscle, strained like a spring wound too tightly. “Then it falls to me to fix this.”

“You, Stal, cannot.”

“I won’t let my daughter hang for my mistakes.”

“Nor will she. Please, take a deep breath. Try to stay calm. As a necromage, I understand this situation. I am afforded certain privileges… and may find a solution.”

His words did little to comfort my father. He seemed ready to burst, or break. Even so, some small part of him relaxed.

Azareth’s cleared his throat. “I… have a theory, regarding Valhera’s… nature,” he said, and my father’s gaze shifted.

“What?”

“In one way or another, direlings trace their lineage to the demons of old. Whether spawned from an unholy union, turned by their god, or… something else, that fact is irrefutable.”

“She’s no demon,” my father growled.

“No, but it is obvious to me that demon-fire runs through her blood. Such cases are rare among her people, and I have only heard rumors, but… I am sure you’ve heard old stories of the direling rage.”

“Elthys closed off Hell. She slew the demon-kings. That’s… impossible.”

“And yet, dead things tend to leave their stains. It is not a bad thing. Some direling tribes value the demon-fire for the tool it can be.”

“Things are different in that half of the world.”

“Indeed they are,” Azareth said, drawing on his pipe. “But there is wisdom found in the dark, in the shadow of the Dead God. I know of your faith, Stal, but as the father of a direling, surely… you understand that this world has more nuance than the light and the dark, the saint and blasphemer.”

A difficult thing for my father to reconcile, I knew… but I also knew, just as well, how his faith had changed to accommodate me. The necromage’s words gave him pause.

“Does it matter?” My father responded. “Will it save her from the gallows?”

“Perhaps not. But I may yet save her neck. When time comes for her trial, allow me to plead on her behalf.”

“What do you mean to say?”

“The truth of things.” Azareth blew a ring of smoke, wafting its pungent aroma. “Regarding the specifics, I will find the words when need arises. Until then, I ask only for your faith.”

“Faith is for Elthys. Not… your kind.”

Azareth’s teeth flashed in a smile. “The goddess will not save your daughter’s life.”

“Don’t pretend to know the goddess,” my father growled. Annoyance glinted in Azareth’s eyes, half a moment, almost-concealed.

“I know the goddess better than anyone in this backwater town.”

My father took breath for a bitter retort, but I dreaded such an argument. I touched his arm, nothing more than a graze, though his attention quickly turned. I’m not sure what he saw in my eyes, but it was enough to silence the room.

I felt Azareth’s eyes on me, too. I drew breath to speak, even as it felt as aimless as the stormwrought wind. “Seven… seven…” I whispered, quiet even to my own ears.

“Seven men dead,” Azareth affirmed. “But death is not the damnation you believe.”

“Seven… seven…”

Something came over Azareth’s face. He smiled, dimples creased, laughter lines wrinkling. Perhaps meant to comfort. A gentle smile, given to a vulnerable soul. But his eyes were not the same. They were hard. Uncompassionate.

“And your body, dangling from the noose, could unmake all that grief? One death, to relieve seven more?”

I flinched, holding my arms tight as my mind retreated again. My father moved, perhaps subconsciously imposing between myself and the necromage. He looked to Azareth, a hideous threat in his eye.

Azareth shook his head and sighed as he seemed to reorient himself. He drew on his pipe for a few seconds before continuing. “Forgive me. You are not a lost cause, Valhera. Believe me. I have lived my entire life around the lost causes, and it has taught me one thing. Only in death can we be unchanged. The restless dead are regret and despair incarnate. They are this way because they are trapped. They require living help because only the living can change… ourselves, and the world around us.” He held my eyes seriously, even as I hung my head. “Only in life can we find peace, Valhera.” His face was softer, now. “Death is no solace for a tortured soul.”

“Then… that’s it,” my father said. He turned to me. “We… trust in the necromage.”

Azareth smiled, showing teeth. “I can avert your terrible fate. And, again, I ask for nothing in return. Nothing… but your faith.”

Static filled my brain, and I looked listlessly at my father. I saw his broken heart. His anger that had no outlet. His shame that festered within. But he nodded slowly. He knew, as well as I, as well as Azareth, that there was no choice to be made. My life was forfeit if it was not in the necromage’s hands.

It took all my strength to nod in turn.

Azareth made to stand. “Then tomorrow, we shall stand trial before the local lord and cleave to his judgment. Come. Until then, perhaps… you would benefit from some time alone.”

I shook my head. Azareth offered his hand regardless, and I could tell he was beginning to lose patience.

“Consider this an arrest, then. You, after all, have shed your neighbors’ blood.”

I hid my hands and decided to stand without Azareth’s help. My arms wrapped tight around my core to preserve what little warmth remained within. My father rose with me, but Azareth cut him off.

“No, Stal, there is much to be done before morning. Make yourself at home. I wish to speak with you alone, ere I return.”

My father lowered his brow, but I touched his dangling hand. He looked at me, and as so often was the case, no words seemed appropriate. I moved my head, more of a twitch than a shake. But he seemed to understand. This was my battle to fight. I… would be fine.

Azareth and I went downstairs. I stepped into a cell. Azareth shut the door and ordered the jailer to lock it. Without another word or glance, he turned and returned to his room.

I sat in the darkness, waiting for sleep that couldn’t come. I stared at the cell wall and tried to think about anything other than the butchered dead. I closed my eyes, wanting, yearning for the sun to rise and wash away my horrifying deeds.

In time, exhaustion overcame the ghosts. Sordid and cold, I slipped into fitful slumber.