ARELLIA

My father was draped in Virtris colours of white and gold and buried in the Imperial Cemetery–surrounded by beautiful irises plucked from the north–next to my mother. They buried my father seven days after his death. In those seven days, they laid their King on a bed of silk, placed a garland of chrysanthemums on his head and left him in Orris to decompose while my brother marched into the desert with my father’s crown above his brow. All to resurrect a weapon he does not understand and has yet learned to fear.

The ceremony was intimate, only a few were there. Father Phillippe held my hand as he sang a hymn. I did not weep when they lowered my father’s casket into the dirt and I paid my brother no heed when he turned on his heel at the first sound of a shovel against dirt, for all I felt was anger–deep, pure and all-consuming.

They did not bury Enka, Yhana or Ermund. They did not care to burn their bodies. Instead, my imperial guards hacked them into consumable pieces and fed them to the hounds. My brother laughed as he told me the tale–a goblet of wine pressed against his upturned mouth, in a room filled with wolves. When I laughed along, toasted to the butchering of my departed servants and branded them as criminals, my hands did not shake. My voice did not falter. Vasilis did not laugh.

The sorrow within me is a well without a bottom. But my wrath burns as bright and hot as the blazing flame in the stone pit before me. With steady hands, I light seven candles and place them on the round mourning altar alongside hundreds of flickering others– each one a memory of a person loved and lost, proof that they once lived. Warm, yellow light casts shadows onto my bloodstained hands as I hum a quiet requiem for the dead.

For my mother. Father. Enka. Yhana. Ermund. For the dozens of men, women and children slaughtered all in our Angel's name.

And lastly, Dillon Azshker– the man whose end will be my beginning.

A cold breeze caresses my skin at the thought of him, causing hairs on my back to stand. I clasp my hands together and close my eyes. My skin is sticky and clammy from the heat of the mourning altar in Ilshala’s holy temple, but despite my discomfort, I sing the familiar tune of death.

“When blackness looms and starlight dims,

Death takes our Bloodied hands and guides us to the Heavens,

For without Sin, we are not human,

For without Them, we are nothing,

Let Mother grant us a slumber deep and tranquil,

For only then will we rest in the Dark,

Peaceful and eternal,”

A clacking of heeled boots approaches me slowly, hesitant as if assessing the mood of a wild animal. I breathe deep the smell of candle smoke and incense and turn my head to the sound of a wet cloth being wrung.

“You have a beautiful voice, princess.” Marcel kneels quietly beside me. He is impeccable, clad head to toe in black and gold. A golden pin on his shoulder reflects the light of the candles—a symbol of his rank in the army—illuminating his face. His hair is damp, falling in beautiful curls over his face. He has bathed and dressed. How long have I been here? “But I find the song to be terribly bleak. Don’t you, your highness?” He peels apart my hands gently and begins to wipe crusted blood from my fingers and nails—his blood.

“Yes, it is a song for the dead, after all.”

Marcel grins and pulls me gently to face him, his eyes downcast and focused on the task. The air between us has changed now that passion has simmered down. The atmosphere is tepid and awkward but in a way, I find it to be rather comforting. “Death should be a celebration. The Pethyans believe that our bodies and souls feed the earth when we die, creating new life. So on the last day of each year, The Day of Life and Death, they drink wine, feast, dance and make love from sunrise to sunset.”

I yank my hand from his grasp and clench my fist. “What ignorance,” I mutter. “When we pass, our Blood feeds our Gods and Angels and our remains turn to ash.” Marcel chuckles lightly and takes back my hand–his grip tighter now than before– and continues to wipe.

“Perhaps,” He shrugs. Despite the few weeks that I have known Marcel from our long journey to Ilshala, he is a mystery still. Behind his charming smile and violent temperament, there is a man I have yet to meet.

“Do you not believe in the Faith, commander?”

“Do you, princess?”

“I was not given a choice,” Marcel turns over my palm and drags his thumb softly over a speck of dried blood. “The Faith was forced upon me and now I walk the path of Blood.”

“I believe we make our own choices,” Marcel shifts smoothly from his knees into a sitting position before giving me a slight shrug.

“You… are Faithless?”

“I believe in what I have witnessed to be true–I have not met a God or Angel but I have seen trees and flowers grow atop buried bodies and babes born from the act of making love.” He flicks his eyes to mine and smiles softly. “That is what I know. Others brand me a heretic, a madman undeserving of my accomplishments. But my lack of faith has brought me right here.” He pulls my arm softly until I am inches away from his face. He brushes his lips against mine, light as feathers. I close my eyes for a brief moment.

“Did you see a face in the Dark, Marcel?” I pull away and search his face. He tilts his head and contemplates his reply.

“I expected to see the God of Death himself or perhaps a path to the Heavens but I saw no such things. Disappointing, really. I saw only the Dark, princess.” But it was not Death I spoke of. Still, I am afraid to say His name aloud for fear that I might summon Him, even without Blood.

When Marcel finishes cleaning my hands, he wrings out the cloth–now soaked in deep rep–and throws it in a bucket by his feet. But he does not leave me. Instead, he stares at me a little longer, his face is impassive as stone. His eyes are warm and inviting against the glow of the candles. When Marcel reaches up and holds the base of my jaw with his hand and strokes a thumb softly over my cheek, I close my eyes and fall into his touch.

I will not fool myself into thinking that our brief intimate moments are real. I will never allow myself to want, need or feel any pleasure from this relationship. Love is not an emotion I can afford. When I look back up at Marcel, his eyes harden. There is a silent understanding between us.

“The sun has set. Your presence is dearly missed in the banquet hall.” He says softly as if not to disturb me. Though I have gathered every ounce of anger in my hollow soul and rid myself of any other emotion, an old drop of anxiety still manages to crawl its way into my mind.

“Let them wait.” I pull away from the comfort of his hand and push myself up onto my feet. Tonight we dine with House Douma before my brother rides back to Orris. I am to finally meet my betrothed, Lord Amond, heir to House Douma.

“Will you dance with the lady Rilliane Douma tonight?” I ask as I stride past Marcel and towards the door but he is much faster. Marcel glides past me with careless ease and blocks my path with a heavy hand and a click of his tongue. Even from this distance, I smell his cologne and the residual soap in his hair.

“Who?” He smirks and leans against the door and holds out a hand, beckoning me to take it. “There is only one lady I will dance with tonight and that is you.”

“Do not misunderstand, commander, our alliance is merely transactional. We need not burden ourselves with pointless intimacy.”

“I don’t think it’s pointless. I believe it’s necessary, princess.” I grit my teeth and rush forward only to be stopped once more by his towering frame.

“Do you dislike me that much, princess? I’m hurt.” He frowns animatedly and balls his fist against his chest. I take a step towards him and cup his cheek.

“Smile at her, speak to her. Tell her of your battles and victories. Tell her she is beautiful and make her laugh. You will do nothing more when she lays her eyes on you and you alone.”

He grins and leans down and presses his lips against mine.

“What will you do if she invites me to her chambers?”

“Then you must go,” I plant soft kisses on the corners of his lips and then down the curve of his jaw. “And when she is fully satisfied, will you pay a small visit to her dear brother?”

Marcel cups my jaw in his hand and chuckles lightly against my lips. “Shall I wear my best suit for the occasion?”

“I must insist you wear silver, it is the colour of this eve.” Marcel drops to one knee and plants a kiss on the back of my hand. “Treat him kindly, Marcel. After all, he is my betrothed.”

“Yes, your highness.”