A b e l
I WILL OFFER UP A BRICK
TO THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD, BOY
He does not speak as they make their slow way up and up and up, to the place that once belonged to the gods and now must surely belong to nothing.
What is there to say? They carry their burden between them and they are each as silent as she is, nothing but breathing and the occasional scrabble of hoof on stone. Abel does not concern himself with what the gods must think, for if they have ever thought of him before it has only been to punish him.
Eventually the moon comes out, and they are all limned in silver, save for the places where blood marks them like an offering. There is only the wind to speak, and to Abel it shivers and wails and moans and he wonders if the queen can hear it singing, in her slumber. He hopes she cannot. He hopes there is only blackness, wherever it is she drifts.
Abel does not hesitate at the mouth of the cave. From moonlight to shadow he steps and the light bars his skin like the stripes he wears and then is gone, extinguished, as they are born into darkness. It smells musty, a womb of cobwebs and grave dust where nothing can be born, but his face is still blank as they lower the queen (him easing, almost gentle, even as Raum simply sheds her weight like a purple robe).
The boy does not look at the shattered altar, and does not look at the fallen queen whose horn looks so crooked and broken and not magic at all. He only watches Raum as the man tips liquid between dry lips. He only waits to be told what must happen next.
Until the altar begins to change. Only then does he step back, and cast his good-dog gaze to bones that begin to shift and sprout, to go green and limber, to bloom. Something in his heart changes, as well, as if her magic can touch his body, too - but it does not bloom and grow.
As her eyes open Abel feels his heart twist and harden and replace those old and withered bones.
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