Death Vignette

Death

Linos paced back up to the knob of stones again, looking out across the olive grove to the vivid, pink-streaked sky. He’d always heard that the Fell came from the west. But the rows of ancient, twisted trees were empty, save for a flock of twittering sparrows, sheltering in the silver-leaved boughs.

You’d think he’d know the truth, by now. Linos had been summoned twice before. Once as a child, when he had the red fever. Then again, last winter, after he was caught out during that terrible storm. But both those times, the Fell had simply seemed to... appear. Faceless, formless, lantern held aloft, calling in its faint, sepulchral voice to summon those marked by death for their final test.

Linos shuddered, pressing the heel of his palm to his chest, as if he could somehow keep his spirit within him by physical might alone. The deathmark seemed to burn there, under his hand, with a cold, bitter fire. Like a shard of ice, in his heart.

Markos would be furious! Linos had promised him he would stay out of trouble. Especially now that he no longer carried the grace of the gods to enable him to undertake the Fell's tests. He had wagered, and he had lost. All he could hope for was that the Fell would grant him the time to say goodbye.

Linos swallowed against the tight vyse of his throat. Regret was useless. He turned around, facing east, letting the chill, salty winds from the sea sweep over him. He breathed deep, let his feet sink into the good, solid earth. He wrapped one hand in his sash, feeling the smooth lines of the embroidery, the names of his family, the deeds he had done.

Just as well there was no time to add to it. He really didn’t want to leave behind a sash that ended with: tripped like a clumsy fool while chasing after a deer and stupidly bashed his head in.

He ought to have been more careful. But the buck was so perfect! He could have traded the kill for that fancy Dantessi surcoat Markos had been eyeing at the market last week. It would have made the perfect gift, to celebrate their promise to marry at high summer. It was just the right shade of green to bring out the sparks in Markos’s laughing hazel eyes.

The thought set a dismal weight in Linos’s chest. He might never see those eyes again. Markos was off on an important courier mission, carrying a message to one of the outposts up near Wolf’s Neck Pass. He had said he probably wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. But sometimes he surprised Linos, coming back early, usually with some souvenir from his travels. Once he brought back a flask of fire-wine from the Silver Daggers. Another time it was curry puffs, from the markets of Dantessa.

But right now, all Linos wanted was to see Markos one last time. He had even sent a message, praying it would reach him in time. Apparently, it had not.

He turned back to the west, searching the shadows of the grove. The sun had dipped low. Not long, now.

A shape moved, somewhere between the trees. Linos’s heart stuttered. He forced his shoulders straight. He would meet his fate with honor. He would do his family proud.

But the figure that ran from the olive grove was no spectral creature come to take him to face judgement. It was a man with a short black beard and hazel eyes. Markos!

And following him, a priest, puffing and sweaty-browed, clutching a chalice and a scroll.

“Quick!” Markos shouted, as Linos ran to meet them. “We don’t have much time. Father Jovial said he could do it in five minutes, if we skip all the showy bits. But only if we do them again later, in front of a proper audience.”

Linos staggered, as Markos crashed into him, nearly sending them both to the ground. Markos’s arms crushed him, desperate and fierce. “What do you mean?” Linos asked. “Are you-- are we getting married? Now?”

“No.” Markos pulled back, grinning, though the shadow of fear still haunted his eyes. “That can wait for High Summer.”

“Then what is this?” Linos asked. He kept tight hold of Markos’s hand, the one sure thing in this confusion of hope and despair.

“A threadbinding. So I can go with you, to the Fell's testing.”

Linos shook his head, sharply. “You can’t. It’s not--”

“Yes, you can. You have to. Then I can help you.”

“By giving up your own grace! It’s not fair. I can’t ask you to--”

Markos’s hazel eyes flashed back at him, unrelenting. “No. What’s not fair is you dying. What’s not fair is me living alone, without you. This way you can live, Linos. We can live, together.”

Linos stared at him, at the brave, generous man he loved. He prayed that he would be worthy of this. And then, finally, he nodded. “Alright.”

The priest gave a huff, nearby, and began chanting something, jiggling the chalice and tracing patterns in the dry earth.

“Just promise me one thing,” said Markos, as his fingers tangled in Linos’s, as the threads of their lives tangled together, inextricably. “Be more careful, next time.”