The Mortal And The Wicked-- ONC 2023

Chapter 25; To death's final song

For perhaps an hour after the events within the hall of mirrors, Lucy and the Baron wandered throughout the carnival as it slowly decayed, searching for any sign of Azrael.

Yet even as they walked the sky began to grow light at its eastern edge, filling their search with a sense of urgency. And when at last all other possible places for which a Lord of Death might retreat to had been exhausted, it was the Baron suggested that suggested the most reasonable of final options.

Directly upon Azrael's throne.

For while Lucy had taken 'The darkest reign of the thorn' to refer to Azrael himself, perhaps it was another portion of the riddle that had been achingly obvious. Thus, there was a little room for argument and the two made their way to where the game had all begun.

Upon reaching the tent, they found it as decrepit as the others, the black velvet tattered in places.

It filled her with a sense of dread.

"I think I ought to go alone." Lucy murmured.

"Whatever for? Supposing we need to tackle him to the ground-- are you saying you could do something such as that on your own?"

"I..." her words trailed off to an aching silence. Unspoken words hanging like mist in the air, wrapping themselves around the two. The guilt and shame of what Lucy had done to cause the Baron's arrival to the carnival latching claws upon her heart. And though she knew she could never tell him, there was a sense of responsibility upon her that said that this final step was hers to bear alone. For she could not put him in further danger now that they had come so close to the end.

"I simply need you to stay here." She replied finally.

"But what if you--"

"Stay. Here."

The Baron offered no further argument, perhaps sensing the urgency in her tone, and taking a deep breath Lucy walked into Azrael's tent.

He was sprawled across the thorns; a pitiful shadow of what the Lord of Death ought to be. His dark locks plastered to his forehead, slick with beads of sweat. His tunic, unbuttoned to nearly the navel, was wrinkled and torn on places where it had snagged upon the brambles. His once pale lips now stained dark with what Lucy guessed was wine.

He hardly looked up as she entered the tent, his eyes dragging themselves around the room in a sluggish manner. Yet when at last he gazed upon her face, a drunken leer tugged at the corners of his mouth, his words slurring terribly as he spoke.

"Come to get your final key, my lady?"

The key in question, she saw, was displayed fully upon his neck; a dark shape of twisted iron that filled her with a sense of foreboding.

He had made no attempt to hide it. For he knew as well as she did that this was his final stand, and it was all coming to an end now.

Stepping forward, Lucy marched directly up to the dais upon which the throne of thorns sat, a twisted and blackened mass who's branches stretched upwards and out like broken fingers.

"I've won your game," she said, her voice ringing out like a bell in the cavernous and decaying space. "I've solved your riddle. I've found every key. Now let the Baron go."

She watched then as Azrael tilted his head back to look at her, his teeth glinting in the half-light as his lips were pulled back in a taunting grin. "You have not won the game yet, my dear. For you have not yet retrieved the final key." He stood then, taking a lurching step forward till they were merely an inch apart, his form towering over her. "And what makes you think I ought to simply give it to you?"