you are my life,
and i believe in your might;
i'm reading on my heart
the real dreams of my mind.
(setanera, journey to the freedom)
Malistaire watched the procession's exit, his heart aching more with each step she took. He wanted to follow her, hold her in his arms and beg her not to go. But it was too late now— Shadowsong had made her choice, and he would never see her again.
The minions all gathered around, perhaps to offer condolences to their now-inconsolable master, but he was having none of it. "Get out," he ordered, pointing to the door as tears began to fall. "Burn it! Burn it all, until all of Castle Dragonspyre is lost to history!"
When they had sufficiently busied themselves with setting fire to everything in the vicinity, Malistaire grabbed his staff and hurried through the dark passageway— the same one he'd once carried Shadowsong through— to his secret chamber, blinded by tears. The room seemed dimmer somehow— the flames were less bright now, and the piles of gemstones and gold didn't gleam like they used to. Without her, there was nothing beautiful left in his dark and lonely world— no reason left to exist.
Love me.
He grabbed a nearby torch off the wall and, without thinking, set the entire room aflame. Everything— the sheets, the curtains… Even the air was still saturated with her sweet perfume, and memories of her consumed him, a heady and intoxicating swirl of raw anguish akin only to a scythe in his heart.
Love me.
Suddenly, the dress in the corner caught his eye. He remembered how beautiful Shadowsong had looked in it, and the memories seared themselves into his mind like a burn. He held it in his arms for a moment, imagining how he'd held her in his arms only a short time ago, before throwing it, and himself, onto the pile. For a few moments, he lay amid the smoke and fire and her, and it was almost as though she were still in the room with him, curled up against his chest and trailing her fingers over his battle scars with a tenderness so beautiful that it made him want to cry. And, alone in the burning room, he finally allowed himself to break apart, like the fragile and bitter creature that he was. But not before he heard Shadowsong's voice in the back of his mind, almost like she had whispered the words into his ear.
Dead men tell no tales, he heard her say. The living corpse does not burn by mortal hands. And a dead man certainly wouldn't feel this.
White-hot pain screamed through Malistaire's veins, followed by a sense of relief as he realized that his entire body was on fire. The scalding orange tongues licked their way across his face, his chest, and lower still, igniting every inch they touched. It was as though the fates had finally heard his cries for absolution, though he hadn't felt such a horrible sensation since before the curse.
Then that must make me… human.
Smoke filled the room, snuffed out the stars and anything else alive as it filled his lungs with its bitter truth. Malistaire closed his eyes and smiled to himself, his funeral pyre continuing to burn until crypt dust was all that remained.
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