Page 149 of The Death Wish

His great love, hidden away, but never lost.

Silas reduced, whilst Seraphiel’s Cultivation distended to engulf all the tragedy and perdition that festered here. His eyes stung, his throat thickened as his humanity rushed in to fill the void left by the drying of his Nephilim blood; he had been birthed a child of Samyaza, but would not die one.

The firebird’s shadow rippled over the still waters as it soared higher. Silas had thought himself behemoth when he’d opened his Nephilim heart. He had thought the Lady’s Leviathan a great and daunting creature, but they were, all of them, mere specks beneath the firebird’s shadow.

The creature born of primordial fire and daemon flame was vast as the heavens themselves.

And surely far more beautiful.

Silas craned his neck, watched the epic sweep of infernal wings, felt the furious blast of their movement upon his cheeks, and cursed his tears for how they blurred his vision. He did not wish to miss a moment of Pitch’s last spectacular display.

Silas prayed the prince knew himself wondrous. Let Seraphiel have given him that, at least; a chance to realise the magnificence Silas had always known.

The firebird opened its mouth, a beak curled like a massive ocean wave, and sent forth a holocaust of flame. The touchdown against the lake was the eruption of a volcano, the brilliance making Silas wince. He raised his arm, shielding himself from the heat. He was far from where the firebird struck, a half mile at least, and yet his hair singed.

Again and again, a devastation of fire worked at evaporating Blood Lake. The firebird made no sound, save for the rasp of wings and hiss of the torrents as they jettisoned.

And Silas had much else to listen to, as the lake was turned to ash.

The exhale of breaths long held.

The shackles of the Watcher King’s regrets and furies coming loose, falling away.

Those who had languished here, drowning in their own laments, now pierced the surface and opened themselves to the cleansing fire.

The water grew lower and lower around him.

Silas watched, his neck aching with the weight of his own bones. His spine fractured as he refused to look away, his fingers snapping when pressed to the thick ash to bolster him. Silas crumbled along with all the bones.

‘Not yet, please, I beg of you,’ he implored his goddess. ‘Let me be the one to bring him to you. Let us go together.’

But if she listened, he heard no reply. The scythe did not whisper, nor tighten in assurance. Perhaps he was voiceless; now that his ride was done.

Ash floated from the fiery sky; thousands of years of turmoil now insubstantial as dust.

Silas bent to the whim of time, naked and breaking, finally kneeling at mortality’s feet.

The firebird circled around, the shifting light betraying the movement. Silas felt his bones grind as he forced his head to raise. The pyre was gone, but the mound of bones Silas had created still stood tall. Those he had cast off whilst he was giant, now overshadowed him. The last collection the firebird needed to decimate.

Silas sought to rise to his feet, but death had her gentle hands upon him now, coaxing him to lie down his head a final time.

But not here, not this way.

He did not know if Pitch watched on from behind the firebird’s eyes, and understood the blissful havoc they wreaked. But Silas would take no chance with his love’s last moments.

Prince Vassago had been haunted by the strike that had downed Seraphiel. The guilt and remorse had eaten at him. Hehad not loved that angel, and yet he suffered. How much greater the suffering if Pitch struck down the oaf he had finally, so wonderfully, found cause to love?

Silas ground his teeth and fought death once more. Not with the scythe, as he’d done with Sybilla, but with all the resistance his purebred blood could muster. Humanity held an innate desire to fight against the goddess. For time immemorial, they had sought to elude and outrun Death. He knew that better than anyone alive.

Their evasion was pointless, but there was something to be said for their tenacious belief in its possibility.

He joined their ranks, and clung to wistful hope. He dug his fingers into the shifting ground, seeking to drag himself clear of the last bastion of bones. The water was a thin film that had turned the ash to grey mud; adding further duress upon his feeble body. But he tried. An inch here, another there. Trying to outpace death on two fronts.

The air brightened, and his skin burned with the proximity of the firebird. He was barely a foot away from the pile. Hope was one thing, but stupidity was another. It was ludicrous to imagine himself far enough away to escape the oncoming blast, and plain insanity not to notice his broken wrists and splintered knee bones. He was done for.

The soft whoosh of sweeping wings grew louder. Silas sank into the sludge. His heart slowed. His end song rose, while the Seraph’s magick descended.

He dragged his gaze upwards. Taking a breath that must number amongst his last.