Chapter 33
The walk up to Llyn Glas was the shortest it had ever been, as if I glided there on newly feathered wings.
The air was warm, a rich ochre light filtering through the forest boughs. So far, it had been a perfect autumn, leaves burning red and gold under cerulean skies. A lively breeze skipped alongside me, giving the moment an air of vitality, the assurance that I was right.
I had hooked a large satchel over my shoulder containing a set of Accolon’s clothing and his favourite boots. The Shroud of Tithonus I had placed in my cloak pocket, its life force ringing above the jangle of my nerves as I strode forth.
In my hands I carried only one object—the silver box containing Accolon’s heart. Hereafter, it would no longer be preserved in marble, but beat anew in the depths of his chest.
As ever, our lake looked the same—serene, sapphire, ancient—ready to bear witness to a miracle.
I passed through the willow tree’s drape of leaves and knelt on the lush carpet of grass, where my Gaul and I had lain for so many of our hours, talking, loving, sleeping fast in one another’s arms as the stars rose and fell.
Following a process had always calmed me.
First, I drew Accolon’s clothes from the sack and folded them in a pile beside the willow.
Then, I knelt before roots and asked the earth to shift, making a hole as I had done once before, many years ago, when I had failed to commit his heart to its rest, but heard the heartsong that told me everything was not over.
I asked the elements to make the space tall and wide, enough for long limbs and broad shoulders to be remade. In a smaller sack, I had brought swan down and bundles of herbs to line the sides of the cool, damp hole until it was soft and sweet-scented.
Next, I took Accolon’s heart from its box and blue silk wrappings, his heartsong choral in my senses.
With the other hand, I drew out the Shroud of Tithonus, and laid both precious objects in my lap.
Pulling my mind inwards, I let the warm shimmer of my healing reach out for the Shroud’s crackling silver vitality, until the two forces met and entwined, braiding together in connection.
I want this, replied the pound of my own heart. I need this.
I did not have to prick my finger to know. The blood in my veins was gold.
With my father’s knife, I slit both my palms. The blood sprung forth, molten, gilded, so full of power it carried its own halo. No pain clouded my senses, only a lively heat and the rush of control. I had time to do exactly as I wished.
I picked up Accolon’s heart and held the cool marble to my breast, curving myself around it as I had all those years ago.
Returning the heart to flesh was a moment’s work, barely a breath before it reverted to its dark-red chamber, as weighty and muscular as the day I had taken it, jewel-like, from his chest.
The heartsong grew louder than any I had heard, a soaring symphony rising to the invitation of my blood, the threads of his life strong and ready. All I must do was draw them forth and weave his song into the essence of a living person, while the Shroud of Tithonus rebuilt what was missing.
I bore up Accolon’s heart before me, hands dripping gold.
Gently, I placed him on the Shroud of Tithonus and drew the bleached linen corners together, weaving and tucking until it was neatly contained, nestled as close to the object of resurrection as possible. One last time, I held my Gaul’s singing heart to mine, then committed him to the ground.
The bolt of blue silk followed, a touchstone between worlds.
Next, with the help of a marshalled breeze, I gathered the fallen willow leaves into the hole until they formed a silver-green mound.
Finally, I lay on my stomach and stretched my hands through the leaves and down into the earthen chamber, pressing my bleeding palms to the Shroud’s surface.
As the force of healing joined with the ancient magic of life, I closed my eyes and spoke my chant, cultivated and refined over hours and days and years of work.
Words that were clear as Llyn Glas and sharp as a peregrine’s talons, and as powerful.
The moment felt endless, suspended between the realms of life and death.
And then, it was over. Weakness raced through my limbs, my breath catching in warning that I had lain there too long. My body, my mind, had given as much as it could.
I pushed up to my knees, breathing hard, vision dizzied by magic and exhaustion, the high noon light dancing off the lake in shards. An ache burned deep in my hands, so I dragged a thumb across each of my palms, fusing the lacerations shut.
It was too much: the excess of blood I had sacrificed and the final act of healing myself combined to overwhelm the last of my strength. My senses reeled into a freefall, and I collapsed sideways onto the soft grass.
*
My eyes opened slowly, blinking at a rose-gold sky through the parted willow fronds.
The sun had begun sinking towards the horizon, painting a coruscating path across the lake’s surface to the foot of my prostrate body.
Astonishingly, I felt restored. What seemed like fainting had become the deepest sleep I had ever known.
I eased myself upright, remembering where I was and why.
My hand rested on the filled hole, but the leaves looked undisturbed, the air around the lake still and silent.
Water rustled against the shore in the amplified peace, amidst birdsong and blue-green flashes of the last dragonflies.
I could even discern the trickle of the streams that fed the lake from the high valley sides.
All seemed to be entirely as it had been.
Rising, I paced cautiously around the willow. Aside from mine, there were no footprints in the soft ground, no living entity in sight beyond an industrious blackbird picking at fallen apples. The clothes and boots were exactly where I had left them.
I followed the lakeshore, trying to stave off the rising tension in my gut, dipping in and out of the empty forest until I reached the rocky valley cliffs and could go no farther.
I did not shout his name. If he was there, I would have sensed him. His presence would have swooped through the dusk and alighted on my heart like a falcon to glove.
If he was here, I thought, he would have seen me beneath the willow and stayed.
Halfway back to the burial site, I started running. At the hole, I fell to my knees, scrabbling desperately at the leaves. The formula, my chant, everything was correct, but perhaps it had not fully taken hold. I would retrieve the heart and the Shroud and try again.
The edges of the hole remained undisturbed.
My delving hands raked through the detritus to find the Shroud, the blue silk or glinting residue of my blood, Accolon’s heart; any scrap of a failed process that could be begun again.
Nothing remained but a small pool of water, glimmering at the bottom of the hole from the damp soil and dew.
“No,” I whispered. “Anything but this.”
Once again, I had failed. Years of work, sacrifice and wavering hope, dissolved without leaving a trace. I had fought and I had lost. The battles, the war, everything.
A choked cry escaped me, and I gave it breath, letting my voice gather strength until it was a Fury’s howl around the valley.
Another scream followed, and another, cries of injustice and frustration.
I would not weep for this; if I let one tear break free, then it was a kind of acceptance, a pathway beyond my anger and despair. And I would not move on.
Throat raw, I fell to silence, the lake drawing my blurring gaze. It looked tranquil, deep, comforting—a healing place, for rest and peace. The lake would take all of my losses, my failures, the pain from a thousand cuts, and wash it all away.
I moved closer, until my toes touched the edge. If I could not bring Accolon to me, then perhaps there was another place, another realm, where I could find him. An endless blue abyss where we would meet again, and stay together for eternity.
I took my boots and cloak off and left them on the shore.
The water was still cool and invigorating, but offered no shock to my bones as I waded in up to my thighs, then felt my waist engulfed.
Either it was warm for the time of year, or else I was already numb.
When the depth reached my shoulders, the lake bed gave way, a sudden shelf dropping off to its true, immeasurable depths.
Without hesitation, I stepped into the deep.
Llyn Glas welcomed my silent plunge, rushing over my head with ease.
My skirts, my hair, once a dragging weight, now swirled about me, trailing bubbles.
Curling my body into a gentle arc, I let myself drift down, imagining the cool, clear liquid in my throat, my lungs, flowing between my bones, until I became part of the water as its essence was already part of me. I too would be of the lake.
But as much as I tried to sink, the water would not take me.
My body fought against my stillness, limbs churning in resistance, pushing upwards towards air, seeking breath.
Years ago, under streaks of sun, Accolon had taught me how to swim in these same waters, and I could not unlearn it now, could not forget how he had shown me how to survive.
I broke the surface with a crying gasp. My soaking gown should have been dragging me down, but my legs and arms were strong, the water bearing me aloft in defiance of my giving up.
Treading my feet, I took in my surroundings: the towering mountainside; evening light fiery on the treetops; the gentle sway of the willow fronds. A sudden shadow passed between the tree’s arched parting, catching in my clearing vision.
A tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped out from under the willow and stood at the edge of the lake, clad in a vibrant blue.
I blinked, then again, dozens of times, but still the figure stood there, casting its gaze around lazily as if just waking from sleep, the faded sun anointing the sculptural angles of his face. An elegant hand came up and pushed long dark hair off his forehead.
It couldn’t be, yet I knew every piece of him, every line and shadow and the way he moved, as if it were written upon my own soul.
Accolon.