Chapter 28 Lazarus #2
More months had passed. Inside the house, twelve jars were filled—white jars for hope, violet for despair, green for envy, silver for longing, each breathing a different hue, each humming with the stories of those we’d taken.
The walls glowed with their light until it seemed the sea itself was climbing the cliffs to join us, reflecting every color in its dark waves.
Through them, we began to remember who we had been—boys racing through fig orchards, sneaking into the temples, stealing dates and copper coins, reliving the war we fought alongside each other.
Sometimes we spoke of Amara, sometimes we didn’t, but her name hung in the air between us like the scent of cedar after rain.
“Do you remember the alley by the leather-tanners?” he asked. “When those boys tried to drown me in the trough?”
I almost smiled. “You bit one of them.”
“He deserved it.”
“You broke his nose.”
“And you dragged me away before I could finish.”
He laughed—a low, rasping sound that felt almost human. “I hated you for that,” he said. “Until I realized you were saving me.”
“You didn’t look very grateful.”
“I was ten. Gratitude wasn’t something I’d learned yet.”
For the first time in decades, I heard something that wasn’t cruelty in his voice. It was fragile, like a ghost remembering breath.
For a heartbeat, the house felt alive again. Then the moment passed.
The memory of our laughter didn’t last. Outside, the world had begun to decay.
Ugarit was starving. The barley fields had turned to dust, the fig trees shriveled black.
The priests burned cedar in the temples until the smoke blotted the stars, begging the gods for rain that never came.
The air smelled of salt and ash. Merchants abandoned their stalls, and soldiers dragged the dead to the cliffs when there was no more space in the crypts.
Even the sea had changed—its waves too heavy, its color the dull red of blood mixed with oil.
We walked those streets without speaking.
People knelt when we passed, not in reverence but in fear.
They saw the shadows that clung to our heels and believed the famine itself had taken our shape.
The cries of the hungry followed us to the harbor; the wind carried them up the cliffs until the sound never left our ears.
At night, we studied the sky from the terrace, charting the moon’s slow drift toward the sun.
The constellations bent, lines shifting where they had held for centuries, and we recorded every movement on a clay star map, the stylus scratching over its hardened surface.
The lamps smoked in the wind coming off the sea; the smell of cedar oil and brine clung to our hands.
Each night, the moon moved a little nearer, and the city below sank deeper into ruin.
“A week,” Salvatore said one evening, his voice low and fevered. “Maybe less. The heavens are aligning.”
Before I could answer, a knock rattled the door.
I opened it to find King Cyrus, his crown dulled by soot, and beside him Queen Seraphina wrapped in a shawl that could not hide the weight of her pregnancy.
Behind them stood Captain Lior, armor scorched, eyes hollow from sleepless nights.
They entered without ceremony. Even the air seemed to bend beneath their urgency.
“Lazarus,” the king said, his voice frayed. “You promised us salvation. You swore that if we allowed you to free him—” his gaze flicked toward Salvatore in the corner—“you would bring deliverance before the year’s end. It has been almost that long. Nothing has changed. Everything is worse.”
Queen Seraphina’s hand pressed against her stomach. “The famine spreads every day. The wells are empty, the fields are ash, and the people whisper that the eclipse will destroy us. I am to give birth within two weeks—tell me, will there even be a city left for my child to live in?”
Before I could speak, Salvatore stepped from the shadows, his smile thin and poisonous. “Your Majesty,” he said smoothly, bowing just enough to mock. “You haven’t changed at all. Still regal. Still terrified. And expecting a child in these times? That is almost… brave.”
Captain Lior’s spear flashed toward him. “One more word, and I’ll silence you myself.”
“Enough,” I snapped. “Both of you.”
The queen turned back to me, desperation glinting beneath her composure.
“Please, Lazarus. The healers say the baby will come within a fortnight. The people say the eclipse will end us all, that the sun and moon will devour the city. I need to know—will it destroy us or save us? The people need hope.”
I looked at the tome on the table. Its leather cover trembled, as if aware of her voice. “When the sun and moon meet, the shadows will reveal the final words,” I said. “We cannot force them before their time.”
“You told us that months ago,” the king growled. “And still, they are silent.”
The anger that had been simmering for weeks finally broke. I struck the table, the jars rattling against the wood. “Do you think I enjoy waiting? Do you think I have not begged them for answers while the world decays?”
Seraphina flinched at the sound. I exhaled and forced my voice steady. “I have asked for the final instructions, and the shadows give me nothing. You must be patient with me. I am doing everything in my power—with Salvatore—to make it happen.”
The queen’s tone softened, the desperation in her eyes dimming to weary faith. “We believe you. Both of you. The people still whisper your names as a prayer, not a curse. For that, I thank you.”
I inclined my head. “Go home, Majesty. Rest. Your child will come soon, and fear will not help you bear it. Let us handle what comes next. I promise you.”
King Cyrus placed a hand on her back, guiding her toward the door. Captain Lior followed, as silent as the stone he guarded. When the door closed behind them, their footsteps faded into the wind.
The room sagged into quiet. The sea beat against the cliffs below, the sound as heavy as a heartbeat.
Salvatore watched the retreating torches from the window. “Promises, promises,” he murmured. “You give them hope the way priests sell absolution. At least they can be bought.”
I ignored him and turned back to the tome. Its cover quivered under the lamplight. I placed my hand on it. “Shadows,” I said, “the sun and the moon are nearly one. Tell us what comes next.”
The book burst open, pages fluttering like wings, light flaring through the cracks. The lamps extinguished themselves; the room plunged into cold darkness. Then the voices came—smooth, layered, endless.
“The time has not come. You will speak to us again when the light dies and the sky bleeds black. Only then will the rest be revealed.”
The tome slammed shut. The silence that followed was immense. I stood motionless, breath catching, fury clawing its way up my throat.
Something in me broke.
I slammed my fist against the table, dust burst into the air like breath from a dying god. The jars rattled, their colored lights flickering against the walls. “How could you tell me that the time hasn’t come?” I roared. “After everything we’ve given you?”
The shadows shifted, dark threads slithering along the ceiling. Still, they said nothing.
“We’ve fed you pain. Blood. Chaos. Agony. Despair. Longing. Envy. We’ve filled your damn jars until the house itself bleeds light—and yet you give me nothing! You refuse me!”
My voice cracked. The rage that had simmered in me for months came boiling to the surface, burning hotter than the lamps. “Salvatore and I are reforging our bond, tearing ourselves apart to do it—feeding you every broken piece of what we were! Do you have any idea what that costs?”
The tome lay still. The air around it pulsed, as though mocking me.
“I need to know!” I shouted. “You expect me to stand before the city when the sky turns black and pretend to be a god? When the world falls to ruin, how am I supposed to hold it together if I don’t even know what’s coming?”
The shadows whispered then, as faint as wind over bone. I could not make out the words, but the sound carried the rhythm of laughter.
I struck the table again. “Damn you,” I hissed. “All of you.”
The anger drained from me as quickly as it rose. I sank against the table’s edge, breathing hard, my hands shaking. The sea roared below the cliffs, the wind howling through the open shutters.
Then, quietly—
“Lazarus.”
I turned and saw Salvatore standing a few paces away, half-bathed in the glow of the jars. There was no mockery in him, no arrogance. He stepped closer, his voice low but steady.
“Enough,” he said.
I stared at him, ready to lash out, but his eyes held something I hadn’t seen in years—the calm of the boy I’d once shielded from his father’s whip.
“When it happens, it will happen,” he said. “You can’t force the heavens to speak before they’re ready.”
His tone was steady, quiet, but it carried weight. He reached out, placing a hand on my arm—not as command, not as condescension, just presence.
“We’ve done everything we can, Lazarus. More than anyone ever could. Let the heavens take their turn.”
I said nothing. The fury in me settled into something colder, smaller. His voice, calm and almost human, chipped through the rage until only exhaustion remained.
It felt strange to be the one comforted. For decades it had always been me pulling him back from ruin, soothing him after each storm. And now the roles were reversed. The boy who once sought solace in me had learned how to offer it.
We stood there in the glow of the jars, two hollow creatures carved from what was once flesh and fire, while outside the wind screamed over the cliffs and the sea tore itself against the stone.
“Everything will unfold as it should,” Salvatore said. “When the sky goes dark, the answers will come.”
The words should have felt like reassurance, but they only deepened the unease twisting in my chest.
I turned back to the tome. Its surface pulsed, like a buried heart under stone. The light from the jars flickered over its leather binding, and I could feel the shadows inside listening, waiting.
“I hope we’ve done enough,” I murmured. “All the feeding, all the jars, all the pain we’ve given them—if the shadows reject it, if they find fault in what we’ve done, then Ugarit will fall. Every life in this city, every cry in its streets, every sacrifice—it will all have been for nothing.”
The words left me barely above a whisper. “I just hope, when the eclipse comes, we are ready… and that we save this city, not doom it.”
Salvatore didn’t answer, but I felt the faintest pressure of his hand still resting on my arm, steady and real.
Outside, the bells from the temple began to toll again, carried by the wind up the cliffs.
The sound wavered through the room like a heartbeat faltering.
The jars pulsed once, their colors shifting to the hue of dying embers.
The shadows rustled, whispering in a language that felt like breath and prophecy at once.
And for the first time, I feared that when the sky went black, they wouldn’t bring salvation—only destruction.
The wind howled through the open windows, carrying with it the scent of ash and the sound of distant thunder, and I knew—when the sun and moon finally met, the world would either be reborn…or burn with us.