28. Twenty-Five

My heart thumped loudly in my ears as Daraith prepared for the ritual that would bring Elindir back to me. He moved with a practiced efficiency, his expression focused as he laid out the arcane implements and ingredients on a cloth of deepest black.

The chamber had been transformed, the debris cleared away to leave a wide, open space. Runes and sigils glowed on the floor in an eerie, pulsing blue. Candles burned at the cardinal points, their flames an unnatural shade of violet that cast flickering shadows on the walls.

In the center of it all, laid out on the altar to a dead god, lay Elindir. The sight of him, so still and lifeless, sent a fresh wave of anguish crashing over me. I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms hard enough to draw blood.

Aryn stood to my right, silent and stoic, as always. Ieduin hovered nearby, their face drawn and pale in the guttering candlelight. Neither of them spoke, the weight of what was about to transpire hanging heavy in the air between us.

As I watched the preparations unfold, a creeping sense of unease coiled in my gut, winding tighter with each passing moment. The air was thick with the cloying scent of incense and herbs, their acrid smoke stinging my eyes and throat. It mingled with the musty odor of age and decay that permeated the chamber, creating a miasma that made my head swim.

My gaze darted from the glowing runes etched into the flagstones to the array of gleaming surgical implements laid out on the black cloth. The sight of those wickedly sharp blades sent a shudder rippling down my spine, a visceral reminder of the price I was about to pay. A pound of flesh, carved from my own body—a small sacrifice compared to the eternal torment of a life without Elindir.

I inhaled deeply, trying to steady the rapid flutter of my pulse. My hands trembled at my sides, and I curled them into fists, willing them to stillness. There could be no room for weakness or hesitation, not when I was so close to having Elindir back in my arms.

I reached out with a trembling hand, my fingertips hovering just above Elindir, aching to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath my palm once more. But I couldn't. Not yet. Not until I had fulfilled my end of the bargain and paid the price Daraith demanded.

A bone from my own body. A sample of my seed. And a deathlike sleep, a journey into the unknown realms beyond the veil that would last a full day and night. A journey I would have to repeat every year on this date, a reminder of the unnatural pact I had made, the laws of life and death I had defied.

It was a steep price—perhaps too steep—but there was no other choice I could possibly make.

I turned to Aryn and Ieduin. "Leave us."

Aryn's brow furrowed. "Are you certain? Perhaps it would be better if you weren't alone."

I shook my head vehemently, my braids whispering against my shoulders. "No. I won't have you bear witness to this. What I'm about to endure... it's not for your eyes."

Ieduin stepped forward. "You don't have to suffer alone. Let us share your pain, as siblings should."

"I said go, both of you!" I growled. "Before I lose what little patience I have left."

They exchanged a weighted glance, a silent conversation passing between them in the space of a heartbeat. Ieduin hesitated, concern etched into the lines of their face, but a sharp look from me sent them hurrying from the chamber. Aryn lingered a moment longer, looking like he wanted to continue the argument, but in the end, he too bowed his head and took his leave, his footsteps fading into the distance.

Then it was only Daraith, the surgeon, and myself. The guttering candles cast eerie shadows on the walls, their flames dancing to the rhythm of some unheard dirge. The air was thick with the cloying scent of incense and dark magic.

I turned to face the necromancer, my jaw clenched tight against the dread that coiled in my gut. "What must I do?"

Daraith glided forward. In his hands, he held a small, ornate vial of smoky glass. Runes were etched into its surface, their lines pulsing with a sickly greenish light.

Daraith held out the vial, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. "Your seed, my king. Freely given for the ritual."

I took the vial with trembling fingers, its cool surface slick against my skin. Humiliation and dread warred within me at the thought of what I must do, but there was no choice. No other path forward.

I moved to a shadowed alcove, shielding myself as best I could from prying eyes. With shaking hands, I fumbled with the laces of my breeches, my fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. The vial felt like a lead weight in my palm, its purpose mocking me. Never in my life had I felt so…sullied.

I tried to summon the necessary arousal, but humiliation and grief had rendered me as limp and lifeless as a discarded rag. Shame burned through me, hot and caustic, as I stood there in the shadows, struggling to perform even this most basic of tasks.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the oppressive gloom of the chamber, the weight of Daraith's expectant gaze boring into my back. I conjured up the image of Elindir as I had first seen him, naked but for a loincloth and painted in gold, his body dripping with priceless gems. But even their worth paled in comparison to the man they were attached to. All the diamonds and rubies and sapphires in the world were worthless if I couldn't have Elindir.

I thought of the first night we came together under the strange light of the eclipse. I could almost feel the heat of Elindir's skin beneath my fingertips, could taste the salt-sweet musk of his arousal on my tongue. I remembered how he had fought me, and then how he'd shuddered and gasped beneath me, his body arching into my touch even as he fought not to want me. The way he had cried out my name, both as a curse and a prayer.

I felt myself begin to stir, my manhood twitching and thickening as the images played out behind my closed eyelids. I wrapped my fingers around my shaft, stroking slowly at first, then with increasing urgency as my arousal built. The vial pressed against my palm, its purpose temporarily forgotten as I lost myself in the fantasy.

In my mind's eye, I could see it all so clearly—the future I had dreamed of, the life I had fought and sacrificed for. Elindir and I, side by side, on matching thrones of silver and moonstone, ruling over a kingdom united in peace and prosperity. The wars were finally over, our enemies vanquished, our peoples free to live and love as they chose.

I imagined our wedding day, Elindir looking regal and strong, with many of his own braids woven in his fiery hair. That night, we would retire to the grand bedchamber that was now ours to share. The room would be aglow with the soft light of a hundred flickering candles, their gentle fragrance mingling with the heady scent of night-blooming flowers and the plums growing down in the garden. The bed would be draped in silks and velvets and strewn with rose petals in shades of crimson and cream.

Elindir would stand before me, his eyes dark with desire and devotion in equal measure. Slowly, reverently, I would undress him, unwrapping him like the precious gift he was. Elindir would wrap his legs around my waist, arching up to meet me as I sank into his body. No more fighting. No more petty arguments or scrambling for position. Just whispered promises against sweat slick skin and blunt nails raking against my back and the quick, wild gallop of two hearts beating as one.

A low groan escaped my lips as the fantasy played out, each imagined caress and breathless moan stoking the fire building low in my belly. My hand moved faster, gliding over my shaft as I pictured Elindir splayed out beneath me, his skin flushed and glistening, his lips parted in ecstasy.

My breathing grew ragged, my heart pounding a staccato rhythm against my ribcage as I chased my release. Sweat beaded on my brow, trailing down my temples to soak into the collar of my tunic. The shadows pressed in close, but behind my closed eyelids there was only Elindir—his fiery hair spilling across the pillow in a crimson wave, eyes glassy and unfocused with pleasure, his mouth forming the shape of my name like a sacred incantation.

My climax wrenched a guttural sound from my throat. For a brief, blissful moment, there was no grief, no anguish, no looming specter of war, only the sweet oblivion of release.

But all too soon, reality came crashing back in. The shadows of the ruined chamber pressed close once more, the air heavy with the stench of dark magic and desperation. With a trembling hand, I stoppered the vial, cleaned up quickly, and tucked myself away, shame and revulsion already creeping in to replace the fleeting euphoria.

I handed the vial to Daraith, unable to meet his gaze. The necromancer took it without comment, though I thought I detected a flicker of something that might have been pity in his eyes. He turned away, gliding over to the makeshift altar where an array of arcane ingredients were laid out.

I watched, my stomach churning, as Daraith uncorked the vial and tipped my seed into a larger vessel filled with a viscous, oily liquid. He murmured an incantation, his long fingers tracing sigils in the air above the concoction. The fluid began to bubble and hiss, wisps of sickly green vapor rising into the air.

As Daraith prepared the elixir, I turned my attention to preparing for the second part of the ritual, eyeing the wickedly sharp blades the surgeon laid out.

I swallowed hard, a fresh wave of dread churning in my gut. I had faced death countless times on the battlefield, had felt the kiss of cold steel biting into my flesh, the searing agony of arrows piercing me to the bone. But this... this was different. To lie down and allow myself to be cut open, to feel the slow slide of a blade parting my skin and muscle and sinew... It was a violation that went against every instinct, every fiber of my being that screamed at me to fight back, to live.

But I had no choice. For Elindir, I would endure any pain, any degradation. I would walk through the very fires of the underworld itself if it meant having him back by my side.

I stripped off my tunic with shaky hands, baring my chest to the chill air of the chamber. Carefully, I laid down on the makeshift altar next to Elindir and turned my head to look at him, drinking in every beloved feature and committing it to memory. The elegant arch of his brows, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the full curve of his lips… This was why I was here. This was why I would endure anything, sacrifice everything. To see those eyes open once more, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips, to hear my name on his lips... There was no price too high.

Daraith approached, his robes rustling softly. In his hands, he held a cup of dark, viscous liquid that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. He stood over me, his features cast in sharp relief by the guttering candles. In his long fingers, a blade glinted, its edge honed to wicked sharpness.

"Are you ready?" Daraith asked.

I took a deep breath in. "I am."

The surgeon nodded grimly.

Daraith handed me the cup. The potion smelled acrid and cloying, its surface shimmering with an oily sheen. I'd been warned ahead of time that this concoction would render me unconscious, but still able to feel every slice of the blade, every snap of bone.

I lifted the cup to my lips, the foul potion coating my tongue and throat as I choked it down. It tasted of decay and ash, of things long dead and buried. Almost immediately, a leaden heaviness began to spread through my limbs, weighing me down against the wooden surface.

My eyelids fluttered and drooped, but I fought to keep my gaze fixed on Elindir's face as the darkness crept in at the edges of my vision.

I felt the first bite of the blade an instant later, a line of searing agony drawn down the center of my chest. The pain was indescribable, white-hot and all-consuming, as if the very fires of the underworld had been poured into my veins. Yet I could neither move nor scream. It was a silent agony, one I had to face alone.

Daraith began to chant, his voice rising and falling in an eerie, undulating rhythm. The ancient words of power rang in my ears, vibrating in my bones as the dark magic took hold.

The knife worked its way down, parting my flesh like overripe fruit. Hot blood poured down my side and over the cool stone of the altar to pool on the floor.

The blade sliced deeper, parting muscle and sinew in a searing bolt of agony. I felt it grate against my rib, the bone resisting for a sickening moment before giving way with a nauseating crack. My scream was trapped in my throat, unable to escape past my paralyzed lips. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes to trickle down my temples and into my hair.

Through vision blurred by pain and tears, I watched in mute horror as the surgeon reached into the bleeding ruin of my chest. His fingers probed the wound, each brush against torn flesh sending fresh shockwaves of torment radiating through my body. After what felt like an eternity, he withdrew a bloodied shard of white bone clutched in his crimson-stained hand and passed it to Daraith.

Daraith placed the rib on the altar beside me with almost ceremonial reverence. It gleamed obscenely in the guttering candlelight, still slick with my blood. The sight of it, this piece of myself, now an object to be used as an arcane ingredient, filled me with a visceral revulsion.

My vision began to darken as Daraith began to chant once more, his voice rising to a fever pitch. The ancient words of power thrummed through the air, pulsing in time with the erratic beat of my heart. Each syllable felt like a physical blow, driving the breath from my lungs and sending fresh shockwaves of agony radiating through my ravaged body.

Through the haze of pain, I watched as Daraith lifted the rib from the altar, holding it aloft like some macabre trophy. The bone seemed to glow with an inner light, pulsing in time with the necromancer's chanting.

A figure began to take shape at the foot of the altar, coalescing out of the shadows. She was taller than any mortal woman, her towering form draped in tattered black robes. Her face was a ruin of decaying flesh, withered and sagging where it still clung to the stark white of bone. She had no eyes, and yet the sockets glowed with a pale green light.

She glided forward, skeletal feet gliding soundlessly over the blood-slicked stone. The air around her shimmered with a miasma of decay, and the stench of the grave clung to her like a noxious perfume. As she moved, the shadows bent and distorted around her. She came to a stop before Daraith. One withered hand reached out, yellowed nails curling like talons as she plucked the bloodied shard of rib from Daraith's grasp.

The goddess turned the bone over in her skeletal hands, the rib seeming small and insignificant in her grasp. The bone began to pulse with an eerie green power, tendrils of sickly light twining around her fingers like ghostly vines.

She lifted the rib to her lipless mouth. Her jaw unhinged with a grating creak of bone on bone, and she placed the bloody shard on her tongue. I watched in mute horror as she swallowed it down in one gulp.

For a moment, nothing happened. The goddess stood motionless, her empty eye sockets fixed on me, peering through me. I felt flayed open, exposed, as if she could see every secret, every shame, every desperate hope that I had ever harbored.

Then, slowly, she inclined her head in a nod of acknowledgment. A tremor of something I couldn't name raced down my spine—fear, or awe, or some unholy combination of the two. I had the sudden, unshakable sense that I had just made a bargain from which there could be no turning back.

She reached out to touch me and I braced myself for a fresh onslaught of pain, but when the bone touched my torn flesh, a blessed numbness began to spread through my body. It started at the point of contact and radiated outward, turning my blood to ice and my limbs to lead. The agony that had consumed me began to recede, replaced by a creeping, all-consuming cold.

Daraith's chanting grew louder, more urgent, the ancient words blurring together into a continuous stream of eldritch syllables. The air in the chamber grew thick and heavy, pressing down on me like a physical weight. Each breath was a struggle, my lungs burning as they fought to draw in the stagnant, magic-tinged air.

As the numbness spread through my body, my vision began to tunnel, the edges of the world blurring and fading away until all I could see was Elindir's face, so close to mine, yet impossibly far away. I tried to focus on him, to anchor myself to his beloved features, but even they began to dissolve, melting away like a painting left out in the rain.

Until there was only nothing. Only blackness. Only death.