The Crowned Captive

Of the dead laid out before her, Morana recognised nearly every face. They had been the straight and serious faces of the men and women who had guarded her, the faces of the innocent servants and workers of the castle, the faces of the children who had dared sleep in the same wing as her. Every dead faerie, no matter their status, was lined before her in a permanent sleep. Magic had tried to school many of their features into masks of serenity, but only so much could be done for those butchered at the hands of such sadists. Faintly smiling lips looked near comical against the eyeless sockets, the carved flesh, the slashed faces.

She walked along every row, stopping and wordlessly cataloguing every injury and thanking every victim for their sacrifice. She silently vowed to each one, tears streaming down her face, that she would exact their revenge. She would do unto that evil man what he had commanded done to each and every soul. Their names may not be remembered, but their suffering would be, as would Draigh’s. His death was a promise unspoken.

Cordan followed behind her, a comforting presence despite his own mourning. Whereas she knew faces, he knew names, smiles, laughs, hearts. Many of the people here once shared uniforms with him despite now being wrapped in black shrouds. They had likely once shared more, some of them infinitely so. She was the cause of all of their deaths. She would not let their lives be wasted in vain.

It felt like an eternity had passed when she finally reached the last body of the last row, a girl of barely six. Morana felt a cord snap, somewhere deep inside her, as she looked upon the lifeless face. Too early, too young the child had been taken. If Death was just like she had been told, a god who had spoken to her and gifted her the life of a friend, how had he commanded this? How had he stolen so much from so many innocents in a single day?

A deep, dark, unhinged hatred built within her very core then. It caught in her veins, filling her every muscle and bone. As she stared at the broken figure, she did not have the power to stop it. The hatred, heavy and cloying, filled her entirely, dropping off of her in dark strands that-

“Morana.”

Cordan’s voice cut through her trance like a knife through butter, freeing her from the grasp of her emotions. She shook her head, freeing her mind from the feeling and looked at him. Worry and confusion sat on his face. Suddenly, she realised that the dark strands had not just been metaphorical. That easily, with a simple lapse of her mind, her emotions had taken her back to that place of magic and death. In Acheros’s temple, she had been about to kill everyone in sight; she supposed there was some irony in that.

“I’m sorry, Cordan. I will wait outside with the rest of the guards, you take as much time as you need to say your goodbyes,” Morana said as she finally reigned in her senses.

“I have said my piece to the gods for everybody here today, Mor. Tomorrow I will come back and say my goodbyes to those I was close with,” Cordan replied, shaking his head. “Did you want to go into the temple proper? Fulfil your deal for a visit with Acheros?”

Morana looked away, back once more at the bodies, and nodded slowly. She had been clad in her gown for that exact occasion, apparently having to dress appropriately to meet a god. The King would be furious if she did not get the debt off of her chest as quickly as possible. So she turned to leave through the entry to the morgue, the lace hem of her black gown dragging behind her. As they came into the midday sun, the gold edging of her gown glinted in the light. Her guards fell around her in rank as she and Cordan traversed the short distance to the temple proper, their uniforms nearly matching her dress. Their retinue had been increased to six once more and she momentarily wondered how many of them would perish. She would remember their names this time. That was a promise

The temple was massive, a sprawling building made of obsidian and gilded with gold. When she had asked, Cordan had explained that it was not made from stone mined, but of stone created by the magic of previous priests and priestesses. It served as a barrier against anything from another realm, preventing its entry. It also served as a looming threat Morana thought as they scaled the slick stairs. She would never dare commit wrongs within its walls for fear of what wards they held.

Inside, the temple workers were cloaked in similar black and gold attire. The women wore high-necked dresses made of black silk with long, trailing lace capes. Each of their hairstyles were styled with gold pins cast of bones and blades. Upon their face, they each wore thick gold liner ringing their eyes and black paint across their lips. The men styled themselves somewhat simpler, wearing black robes alongside gold bands around their necks and hands. The worshippers were easy to pick apart, wearing clothes of black of varying degrees of richness, the wealthiest of all adorned with gold. Morana looked at them all, thinking of how recently she would be one of them dressed in faded black rags.

In the centre of the temple foyer sat the statue of Death Incarnate. Acheros towered over them all, hooded in robes made from the same volcanic glass as the walls. From the depths of the folds stared a marble face, kind yet unforgiving, seeming to watch every person who entered. Golden eyes gleamed as Morana entered, seeming to fix on her above all else. A chill ran down her spine at the sight, but nobody else seemed to notice.

“Welcome,” a voice called to her as she looked at the statue. Morana turned, coming face-to-face with one of the priestesses.

“This is Matriarch Vessa,” Cordan began, nodding to the woman in front of him. “Matriarch, this is Her Royal Highness Princess Morana Gosselin, our rightful heir.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Your Highness. Whilst I had heard of your deal with Acheros, it is not unlike those of royal blood to dally to repay a debt to the gods. I am honoured to be of your service today,” Vessa replied. Morana swallowed down the uncomfortable feeling in her gut as the temple leader bowed deeply to her, nodding respectfully in return.

“Thank you, Matriarch Vessa, but I don’t think I require any service today,” Morana replied, slightly confused at the reluctant acceptance that passed over the other woman’s face.

“I understand, your Highness. I am sure you lead a busy life, being so newly introduced to the court, and your deal is filled with Acheros by your presence. Thank you for your time today.”

Morana blinked, taking in the woman’s words. Sure, she had technically fulfilled her promise to the god, but to trade a mere wander to the temple for the life of one she cherished so dearly seemed an affront more than anything. Slowly, she shook her head.

“You have me mistaken. I meant that I intend to spend my time here today as privately as possible, not that I wish to leave already. Acheros and I have not seen eye to eye in my short life, but he quite literally gave me every tool to steal a soul destined for him. I have many people I need to ensure he is caring for, and many questions for him.”

The Matriarch seemed to watch Morana for a long moment, before nodding her approval. With a slight upturn to her lips, she waved them on. Morana nodded respectfully at the woman once more, unsure of what else to do, and continued deeper into the temple. More murals, like those of the room within the library, were carved into the walls, depicting what she was sure were more myths of the god’s time. Towards the back of the room, several doors and alcoves lined the wall. Those were the doors she had been told to look for. With a centring breath, she allowed Cordan to lead her through one to the room that lay beyond.