Chapter 38 The Most Brilliant Thing
The Most Brilliant Thing
Aurora hurried back to the castle as soon as she had pulled the light over Reverie.
Today was Caspian’s burial, and she wanted some time alone with him before the observance began.
A light snow was falling, and she petted Fate and the other deer before walking around the palace and into the gardens.
She picked up some shears and found the rosebush she had planted with Caspian, then cut several full blooms from the plant and tied them together with a piece of gold ribbon.
The icy-white petals glittered in the light, and Aurora held them close to her chest as she made her way toward the small sanctuary where Caspian’s casket was waiting.
Her boots left prints in the fresh snow, and she thought for a moment how nice it might be if they stayed there forever, her final path to her great love. But they would be gone by morning, just as Caspian’s casket would be.
A small wooden door carved with planets and stars led into the sanctuary, and Aurora gently opened it to let in the light. She knew logically that Caspian would not perceive it, but it made her feel better, being able to give him a few more hours of warmth before he was placed in the earth.
Aurora stepped inside the small room. Sitting in the center was Caspian’s casket, beautifully constructed of white marble and complemented with gold hardware and crystals inlaid in the handles.
It sat on a platform covered in dozens of roses, and she ran her hand over the smooth surface before resting her forehead against it.
“Hi, Caspian,” she whispered, placing the sparkling roses atop the marble. She sat down beside the casket and leaned against it, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. “I can’t believe the day is finally here.”
Aurora knew that Caspian had worried there would be no rest for him, that even in death he would continue to serve the mountain at the expense of his own peace. She hoped with everything in her that he had been wrong and that he had found the tranquility he so deserved.
“I worry that the Sun has forgotten,” she whispered, recounting the previous night to him, the way she had taken the sled up the face of the mountain and stood atop the highest peak, the way she had seen into eternity.
She told him of her mirrors and the statue’s reflection and the story she had told the Sun, and even though it had just happened, in so many ways it felt like a dream.
Aurora was glad she had done it, and though she was scared that it hadn’t worked and the Sun had not heard her, it was of great solace to her that she had done everything she could think of to help the Sun remember.
Upon Aurora’s arrival home, Ina had asked if she should take down the mirror outside the palace entrance, but Aurora had said no.
She knew that one day, a storm or time or snow would render the mirror on top of the world useless.
But unless Aurora was certain it was no longer in place, she would continue to keep the doors to the castle open and reflect the image of the statue into the heavens.
The palace would be cold, but then again, Aurora suspected it had ways to keep itself warm.
The grief that sat heavy on Aurora’s chest made her feel connected to Caspian, and she hoped that even if she lived a thousand years, she would continue to feel it, continue to carry the painful reminder of how deeply she had loved.
Mama had said that grief was love’s reflection, and Aurora found that an incredible comfort.
She thought back to what Caspian had said in her room after he had brought her home from the cave.
He’d told her that the last thing she needed was to care for another person, but he had been wrong.
Caring for him—loving him—was exactly what she had needed, then and now.
She knew it as well as the peaks of this mountain, as well as the stories she had grown up with, and it had become a source of strength.
Just then, the sunlight outside seemed to dim, and Aurora stood. Perhaps a storm was moving in. She hoped that wasn’t the case, not on the day of Caspian’s burial. She stepped outside and looked up, but everything was as it had been when she had arrived at the sanctuary, and Aurora shook her head.
She had just ducked back into the stone building when the voice of the Sun surrounded her, laced with discernable sorrow, the sound heartbreakingly beautiful. It invaded Aurora’s senses like the scent of the freshly cut roses that filled the castle’s halls, heady and sweet. I see it now, she said.
Aurora ran outside, tears burning in her eyes. They were the words from the story her mother had told her so many times, the same story Aurora had told the Sun last night.
“You remember?” The words were barely a whisper, and Aurora swallowed hard, trying not to lose herself to the rush of relief washing over her.
It is a myth that time erases pain, the Sun said. I no longer wanted to feel it, so I chose to release it into space, let it scatter like the dust from a dying star.
Aurora felt a pang of guilt, forcing the Sun to remember something she had chosen to forget. She didn’t want the Sun to be in pain; she only wanted her to remember. But Aurora understood then that there was no disentangling the two.
But it was not worth it, the Sun said, her voice so anguished that it hurt to hear it. The love left along with the pain, and I have been trying to get it back ever since.
“Why couldn’t you?”
I was trying to fill an emptiness, but I had no recollection of what had caused it because I had let go of the very thing—the only thing—that could satisfy it. You gave it back to me, and for that I thank you.
Aurora’s tears fell freely now. The Sun remembered, and Caspian would be buried in a mountain that would retain her protection. It was everything Aurora had hoped for, and she nodded because she could not speak.
Immortality is a fickle thing, the Sun said, and Aurora took a shaky breath. It was the same thing Caspian had written in his letter, the same thing Aurora had deduced from all her reading. I once loved a human so deeply that I gave him my magic so that he could live.
“I am thankful you did,” Aurora said, uncertainty in her voice. She didn’t know why the Sun was saying this, and a knot was forming inside her, pulling tighter and tighter.
There was a long, heavy silence, so drawn out that Aurora wondered if the conversation was over. Then the Sun spoke again.
You have given me back my love, and I would like to do the same for you.
All the air left Aurora’s lungs, and she couldn’t speak. She wanted to plead, to scream into the heavens, but she was stunned into silence. She must not have understood, must have misinterpreted the Sun’s words.
My magic is in your veins, Aurora Finch. I could split your immortality with Caspian, if not for the problem of the mountain.
It took Aurora several seconds to find her voice. “The mountain?” she asked, no louder than a whisper.
The mountain needs a body. The Sun’s voice was sad, and Aurora nodded, because yes, the mountain needed a body.
It was the same understanding Caspian had come to when they had last patrolled the woods together, and it felt as if her heart dropped through her diaphragm and all the way to the snowy ground below, her hopes dashed.
Then she remembered the phlox, the flowers that had turned from gray to pink before her very eyes.
“My blood,” she said, almost disbelieving. “I can give the mountain my blood.”
The Sun was quiet for several moments, and Aurora could hardly stand it, her throat aching and her palms sweating. She held her breath for so long that her chest began to burn.
Yes, the Sun finally said, a hint of pride in her lovely voice. I believe that will work. But before you make your decision, you must understand that if you choose to do this, I will take some of your years and give them to Caspian. Your life will be shortened.
“Yes,” Aurora breathed out in a rush. She didn’t have to think about it, didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” she said again, louder this time.
You both must give the earth your blood until you are buried. Without it, the Frost will advance.
“I understand.” Aurora’s voice shook and her body trembled, so overwhelmed by the Sun’s offer. Not entirely trusting it.
Then you are decided?
“I am.”
You must bring Caspian’s body out in the open, where I can reach it. Then we will begin.
Aurora ran into the sanctuary, forcing herself to breathe, then stood behind the casket and pushed as hard as she could.
The platform upon which it rested began to roll, and Aurora didn’t let up until it left the stone floor of the sanctuary and met the soft snow.
The snow built up in front of the platform, and when Aurora could not push it any farther, she walked to the side of the casket and readied herself to open it.
Caspian had told her that the remnants of magic within him would sustain his body, but Aurora still hesitated.
She looked around to make sure she was alone, silently counted to three, then squeezed her eyes shut and pushed the top of the casket open.
Slowly, she lifted her eyelids and blinked several times before focusing her gaze.
Caspian had been right, and relief moved through her. He was still beautiful, still himself, the magic in his body preserving him perfectly. He almost looked like he was in a deep sleep, and the image tugged at her chest, thinking he would rather enjoy that.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, smoothing down his hair.
Then she climbed into the casket.