Till death do us part
There was no art about the maid’s body, left carelessly in a narrow passageway, her throat gaping up at Teresa, like a bloodied smile. Her chest had been cut open to, her heart cleaved from her body, leaving the girl in a puddle of her own drying blood. It was a messy, chaotic scene, artless and tasteless. There was nothing clever about it, no precision or care made; yes, it was full of passion, the intensity in which she had been slaughtered, her heart taken, as if in a kind of frenzy.
Luka, what have you become?
Teresa stepped back from the edge of the puddle; her dress still immaculate. Her hands remained clasped behind her back, looking pensively over the scene. Of course, she knew this day had to come, the inevitability haunted her every waking moment, lurked in her dreams sometimes, too. Yet she had clung to the hope that he would learn; for a time, it seemed, he had. His kills had been careful, elegant and faultless – now, he had slipped.
It was disappointing.
She left the body behind, instructing the guards, whom had waited several feet away, to clean up the incident. The clever men would remain silent over the matter. She proceeded through the palace uninterrupted, through the gardens and down into her tower. With a wave over the lock, which slid aside and opened the door magically before her, she continued in and ascended up the steps. The door closed behind her with a resounding click with lanterns flickering to life as she approached, extinguishing behind her, lighting her way all the way to the top.
At the final door she paused. A cool feeling brushed against the nape of her neck. She steeled herself and stepped forward, the door opening before her. At once, the mettalic stench of blood struck her nose; normally, an inoffensive smell, it now sat sourly with her. It wasn’t just anyone’s blood, certainly not from someone whom had passed by her hands; no, it belonged to the maid.
Teresa looked across her private workshop, across the tables with her jars of spices, herbs, a myriad of powders. At the far table, which sat beneath the only window, was a bloodied cloth stretched out before her. A human heart lay on it. She glanced around but Luka was nowhere to be seen, which meant he’d left the heart for her, a kind of gift. A peace offering perhaps after their argument last night, his way to prove himself.
What better way to put yourself into the good graces of a necromancer than by offering up a heart? Metaphorically, she knew it was to be his heart he was offering.
She closed the distance to the heart and looked down at it. The problem with Luka’s methods was there was nothing to be gained by this heart. No true method of necromancy had been approached, no respect given to the death, nothing done according to ancient law. He had left her a heart she could do nothing with.
The door opened, then shut again behind her. She didn’t have to turn to see whom it was; her private workshop only yielded to her and…
“Do you like it?” Luka asked feverishly.
She wrapped up the heart carefully, silent for a moment before she turned to him. Maintaining eye contact she proceeded to the fire pit and tossed the heart into the wood pile; then, she snapped her fingers and flames erupted to life, rapidly rushing up to devour the heart. The stench of burning flesh filled the air.
Luka’s eyes widened with horror. “Do you not like it?”
Her temper snapped.
“Like it?” She hissed with venom. “You have insulted everything I stand for. No, I do not like it.”
“I just wanted to make you happy,” he said softly, his eyes glistening.
Gods, how had she even loved this pitiful creature? Her gut twisted; a knife jammed in there. He had showed such promise to become a necromancer, such passion! Now, it had wasted. He had left his infatuation of her grow too much, his need for her all-consuming. She let her anger bleed away from her face, summoned sorrow to her eyes, even if it was forced.
She held out her hands. “Come here, I am sorry. I was quick to anger. Court was trying today and I have lashed out on you – forgive me?”
It was all he needed to hear apparently and rushed to her; within reach she drew him into her arms and cradled his head into the crook of her neck. The warmth of his breath brushed her skin. Her anger really left her this time, filling her with pity instead, shame that she hadn’t seen the signs. In her heart she knew he wasn’t right for her world, yet she convinced herself he was. That he possessed what it took to take a life within the code of a necromancer. She had loved him, had risked her whole position at court, danced the edge of danger for him, drew him into the shadowy depths of her world.
He had risked much for her too; his mind namely…and it was a risk that had not rewarded him kindly. His soul, too, was tattered from what she had asked of him and she knew deep down it was irreversible. His mind would fracture further, his murders more violent and senseless each time.
She held him close with one hand; with the other she reached down into the folds of her dress and unsheathed her small dagger. To keep him close she started to sing, a sweet lullaby that seemed to soothe him. She lifted the dagger.
“I am sorry, my love.”
She drove the dagger down, right into his heart – and twisted.
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