Not Even Death
Disclaimer: It's called fanfiction for a reason, you know. Tortall and its characters belong to Tamora Pierce. The shadowy figure is Neil Gaiman's.
Chapter One: Heart's Desire
Deep below the earth, in the crypts of the Stone Mountain family, something stirs. A decomposing hand rises. And the pink, twitching nose of a rat appears beneath it. The rat peered out and then retreated as a light came toward it. The light's source was a flickering torch carried by a man dressed in once fine clothing. It was now stained and worn, matching his unkempt hair and fanatical expression. This was a man who was no longer completely sane. He paid no attention to the woman that trailed behind him, grabbing at his arm.
"Buchard, don't, please," she pleaded. "Let him lie." The man pulled his arm from her grasp.
"I will have my son back," he snarled at her, "No matter what it takes."
"Buchard, please,"
she begged. "He dead, leave him as he is. The gods—"
"The
gods that would take my son from me while letting that bitch,
that abomination, live are not worth fearing." He reached
the body and stopped as their so far silent third companion stepped
out of the shadows to stand next to him.
"This one,"
Buchard of Stone Mountain said, gesturing at the body. "This is my
son." The final figure nodded, its face concealed in the shadows of
its cloak. There were no magic words, no fancy spells, or sacrifices.
There wasn't even a complicated hand motion. The figure pulled the
shroud away from the body's face and leaned in close, almost as if
to kiss the dead boy.
"Rise, Joren of Stone Mountain," the figure said, sounding faintly amused. "Rise, and attain what it is your heart desires." The figure drew back and turned, brushing against the woman on its way out of the crypt. The woman, who would swear that the figure's eyes had shone gold in the torch light, turned also, watching the figure leave with a longing expression on her face.
"He's
gone," Buchard stormed into his wife's sitting room with that
announcement. She looked at him, half rising from her chair.
"Gone?" she asked faintly, emerging form a daydream
about a man with golden eyes. "Who's gone?"
"Who
do you think?" he raged at her. "Our son. He is loose. The
door to his room has been torn from the wall the men guarding him
have been killed. Their skulls were pried open," he continued, not
sparing his wife from the gruesome details. "Their brains—assuming
they ever had any—are missing." The woman began to laugh.
"I
told you," she said in between fits of humor, "I told you that
the gods would not be pleased. See how they punish you?"
"Be
silent," he snarled, hand flying to strike her. She fell back in
her chair, cheek red from the blow, and buried her face in her hands
as her shoulders shook. Whether it was laughter or tears, the man
couldn't tell. He looked at her in disgust and left the room,
leaving his wife to her hysterics.
See a pair of what used to be gates to a castle. They are now bent out of shape and the men who had been guarding them lie in the snow, which has now been dyed a lovely shade of dark pink from their blood. The decomposing body of what was once Joren of Stone Mountain lurched away in search of two things: Brains, and her, the one that would fulfill his heart's desire.