Epilogue
Spurred by the success in her own village, Corabeth returned to the town of Darkwood with a similar offer.
Access to the woods in exchange for them doing business with her.
Rooke’s coffers would last them a lifetime, no matter how egregiously the townspeople overcharged her.
Combined with the animals provided by the village, Rooke did not fear hunger again.
In the village of Gravebrook, they now whispered of two monsters living in the woods. Each of them had been forced into the shape of one. Made into one. But Corabeth and Rooke knew that sometimes monsters could be unmade too.
Together, Corabeth and Rooke lived a life that was quiet and filled with love. For Rooke, long nights of frantic hunting were replaced by gentle ones alongside Corabeth. There he found his peace.
Corabeth passed her days, trying out every imaginable pastime. Painting, stitching, basket weaving, furniture restoration, reading. When she felt she had read all the stories, she wrote her own.
Eventually, Corabeth became as familiar with the ravens as Rooke.
She could recognize them from the shades of their feathers and the shapes of their wings or beaks.
For decades, they brought her little presents.
Buttons and coins and figurines that Corabeth treasured equally.
She kept them all in a box on her dresser, and when that overflowed, she dedicated an entire drawer for the gifts.
She still had her bad days when the weight of her body seemed too much to carry, when the shadows of her past stretched too long, and the greyness of the world outside was suffocation.
But through it all, Rooke stayed by her side.
Not to carry her through those moments, he knew those were her own battles, but to welcome her when she found herself again.
In her hands, the garden behind the mansion came to life. All through the summer, pansies, snapdragons, primroses and lavenders flowered in pinks, reds, and purples. When the doors and windows of the mansion were thrown open, the soft gusts carried the scent of blooming flowers everywhere.
Around them, the manor seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. The hallways weren’t quite so dark anymore, the shadows not so deep. In the summer, birds coasted in through the open doors and out the other side, their shrill songs echoing in the halls.
Corabeth was sixty-three years old when she lay down for an afternoon nap that she did not wake from.
Rooke felt the moment it happened. Felt the shifting in the air, like the first hint of spring after a harsh winter or an exhale of a breath held in too long.
Rooke ran through the house, though his own steps faltered now. For an age, the curse had clung to him. Now he clung to it, pleading for it to remain just long enough to make it to Corabeth’s side.
He threw open the doors to their bedroom where Corabeth lay, hair now silver-white, and stumbled towards the bed. His knees buckled as he collapsed beside her, her name the last thing on his lips. With Corabeth’s hand in his, and a lifetime of happiness between them, time finally caught up to him.
Rooke’s body withered into dust.
All around them, the manor crumbled. Cracks ran across walls and ceilings like lightning strikes.
Outside, for the first time in centuries, the mist began to burn away.
A hundred ravens called out at once.
They were the only witnesses to two souls reuniting.
One belonging to a woman with midnight black hair, the other to a man with gentle features now returned to him.
The spectral images of who they had been in life.
For a brief moment or an eternity, they simply looked at each other—time no longer existed to them.
Then, they joined hands and walked into the last of the lingering mist.
A final gust of wind, and they were gone.
Thus was the story of Corabeth and Rooke.
The End.