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So when she turned towards the door to place the pot of peonies that her son had just dropped off only ten minutes prior, she was extremely delighted to see who walked in for a visit.

“Oh it’s you!” Muse exclaimed, beaming at the door. She tenderly set the ceramic jug down, frowning at the way the peony petals seemed to droop. “Forgive my flowers, they don’t seem to be very welcoming.”

“It’s alright.” A light laugh followed. “I didn’t expect florals to say hello anyways. What a miracle that would be, one I now desperately want to see.”

“Perhaps one of the Saints had a dalliance and accidently created a gardener or something. You never know what our kind is capable of.” She messed with them, perking them up and inevitably deciding upon something better. Muse reached for the water tin, misting the plant with a soft squeeze of her finger on the metal trigger.

Her visitor coughed as she jokingly aimed some their way, dousing them in a fine layer. They rolled their eyes. “Now, that wasn’t very kind, was it, Empress?”

“No, but I think you look rather fetching like that!” Her airy laugh was the sound of ancient bells ringing in a church, musical, whimsical, delicate. “Perhaps I should water you more often!”

They stared at her for a moment and she felt as if they were memorising her like this. As if this would be the last moment they ever laid their eyes on her. It struck her as off, and suddenly all the joy fell from her form. Perhaps not all chaos was good, considering that a swirl of spiced un-knowing doused her like she’d just done with the plants.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” She asked softly,setting the bottle down. Confusion flushed through her veins, heavy and unwelcoming.

Footsteps sounded as they came closer. Her hands became encased in theirs, tender and loving. A familiar scent warped over her and she inhaled deeply. Savouring the richness of it.

“I’m sorry for this.” They whispered, but it didn’t sound like they regretted anything. Perhaps there, if she looked past the feigned depression in their low voice, she could find a hint of actual sadness. But it wasn’t much, only a crumb. Not enough to feed a mouse or any of its ilk.

“Sorry for what?”

But then Muse saw the flash of metal, of steam-curled steel and the red handles. She saw the knife plunge down until the hot pain and rush of her blood began to drip down her chest. Flutes wailed, harps sobbed and violins screeched as she began to sort it all out.

“How-” She gasped, her lungs filling. “How could you do this to me?”

Now they cried.

In soft waves that trailed down their lovely cheeks, but she trembled as a terrifying cold began to set in. She knew those blades, knew they were made by Heartache, which meant that she was dying and would eventually be dead.

“Because I had no other choice.” They murmured and caught her as she fell. Their arms were sturdy and strong, stroking loving strokes at her bare skin. Her gauzy gown felt heavy now, as did the pain that settled into her ancient bones. The clementine fabric darkened, staining with scarlet and horror. “Please, believe me that I didn’t want to do this.”

True admissions.

“I-” Sparkling blood trickled out of her mouth, cold andwarm at the same time, and utterly heartbreaking.

Muse understood it then.

She wasn’t dying because of the dagger in her torso, the one plunged into her very heart. No, she was dying because they’d broken it, shattered it completely.

Because Saints often died from heartbreak.

So as Muse lay there, shallowly breathing in her last air of the beautiful world she loved so much, she sobbed. This was it for her, and she did not want to go.

Muse, at last, died of heartbreak.

Part Two

The Lament for Love

FortyFour

The Beginning

For all eternity, he’d been alone.

There was a realm below, one that he could watch with eager anticipation as his creations learned to live, to love, to lust. His power flowed through them with a vermillion brilliance that he found himself utterly obsessed with the word that described the colour.

Crimson.