Danse Macabre

Chapter 5

December 2021

Brontë was so engrossed in her story, that when a sudden noise pierced the air, she felt startled. It took her a second to realise, that it was Hornie whistling. And the whistle seemed to be of... impression?

"Look at that, first the ghosts, now Arawn the Great? You definitely can choose the company right. Not to mention yours truly."

Hornie started to giggle, and soon Brontë joined him. It was impossible not to. Hornie laughed with his whole body, pure and free joy manifesting itself. There was only one more person Brontë knew that laughed like that, with their life infectious, full of life. But that laugh, this moment only reminded Brontë what she lost. Soon enough, her laugh turned into a cry, with her sobbing cutting the air like a knife.

Her tears brought a sudden halt to Auld Hornie, who now looked at her curiously.

"I like Arawn," he said after a minute. "Just wish he let me on his bullshit before dropping things like this on me."

"Things like what?" Brontë tried hard to regain her composure. As far as she was concerned, no prince on a white horse was coming to get her, and making an ally was in her best interest. crying? Not so much.

"Unimportant right now, but I promise that I'll tell you when I can. I just have to say, it's all making more sense now. Maybe we'll get you out of here sooner rather than later."

Edinburgh, October 2023

Arawn's cold blue eyes seemed to have stared down into her soul, and she didn't know how to answer his question. Brontë Stewart was a strong, confident woman, with a sharp tongue and short temper. She was not used to feeling so unsure, especially not of herself. She took a few steps back and crossed her arms, attempting to distance herself from Arawn and trying to regain control of the situation. She noticed a surprise on his face, quickly covered up by a smile.

"Come on now, little witch. I don't bite. You barge in here unannounced, and to be frank, uninvited, and now won't answer my questions? Where did the manners go?"

"My manners are impeccable, thank you very much." Brontë hissed, her confusion turned into anger. "My friend got hit by a bus and all I tried to do was to save her."

"But you couldn't... not in a normal way."

"Normal way? What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think you know exactly what I mean." Arawn's smile was kind, almost fatherly and for a moment Brontë felt like a child, moments away from solving a puzzle. "Come on, little witch, you can do it."

"CPR... it didn't work, did it? That's why we're here? Is Jagoda-"

"Jagoda's dead."

Brontë felt as if a bucket of cold water was dropped on her. She didn't really know Jagoda, but she was someone her friend hit it off with, someone she's expected to get to know... and now someone she couldn't save.

Arawn made no effort to comfort her. He kept his distance but did not look away when Brontë was trying to compose herself.

"So she's gone? Just like that?"

"I'm a sorry little witch, this is how it is. And contrary to popular belief, I don't have much control over it."

"Don't you know? I thought that you were Arawn, God of Death. "

"I am." There was a slight tension in his voice, a tone she had not heard yet. A threat. She needed to remind herself that it wasn't Lachlan, who would spend hours arguing with her but would never hurt her. This was Arawn, a god, someone to whom her life was as meaningless as a speckle of sand was to her. And she should do better to remember that.