How Shadows Turn to Ash

Chapter 15: Octavia

The walk back from the dungeons was slow and silent.

"Would you like to come?" Dainn asked when he took her back to her room.

Octavia sighed, looking over her shoulder. "Come where?"

"The cremation." Ah. Octavia turned, eyes flicking to Dainn's hands. Right. He seemed to be the only one in this castle with fire magic. She hadn't given it too much thought, but she supposed it made sense that he would be the one to cremate the bodies. "You could say goodbye."

The words were taut enough that she knew the kindness was forced. Still, she supposed it was kindness, nevertheless. She looked over Dainn's shoulder, where she could see a piece of the sky. She missed her freedom.

"No," she answered. Dainn nodded and turned to leave. The torches all burned brighter as he passed, his magic causing sparks in his hands. Octavia shook her head, marching into the room and slamming the door hard behind her.

The next day was the ceremony.

They all journeyed to the Eternal River on horseback. Octavia was heavily guarded, and Antonia left in the dungeons. Lord Savoy's ceremony had been this morning. The Revolutionaries all joined, honoring their so-called fallen comrade. It was hard for Octavia not to show her disgust at the lies surrounding her, knowing they kept to this façade of pretending Savoy was one of them even after his murder.

Friedrich had been silent throughout the ceremony, expression almost regretful as he placed the grayed ashes in the garden. Octavia wondered if it was part of the act to pretend Savoy was something he wasn't. Maybe that was how they would put her to rest one day, pretending she was some loyal wife to whatever Revolutionary she ended up with.

Now, they all gathered on a muddied bank, the water swirling over a few large rocks as leaves floated down from the trees around them, getting caught in the current as they landed.
The Eternal River had been made by Octavia's great-great-great uncle. Antonia, ever the historian, had told her the story many times.

Their uncle had been exceptionally talented with water magic and commissioned a river to be dug around the country in a perfect loop. Water magic kept it running despite no hills or oceans to keep things moving. It felt fitting for her father to watch over this river alongside her uncle. It was one of the few places she knew he liked to venture outside the castle.

"Are you ready?" Nema asked. 

Octavia swallowed the knot in her throat and looked at the urn they were heaving over. It wasn't as nice as it should be. There had been an urn placed in their palace specifically for her father's death. It was a beautifully intricate glass that melted between red and black with gold trim. It would have been lost along with everything else in their palace.

The urn they had picked out here was a plain, white vase that could have once had a job holding flowers instead of her father's remains. One could argue that she should be grateful that they were allowing this ceremony at all. Dainn would probably say as much.

But in truth, the Revolutionaries had no choice but to give her father a proper send-off. If they didn't, her father's spirit could become lost, which never led to anything good.

"Ready," Octavia answered Nema, bracing herself.

Friedrich nodded from beside Nema, raising his hand, and everyone fell silent. A single note from a cithara echoed over the river, filling the silence as Nema accepted a glass bottle and popped off the lid. A blue light trickled out. Nema placed one palm over the top, allowing the magic to sink into one hand and then the other. Soon, the magic had spread up her arms, dousing her hands in chalky blue.

She put her hands together, and the water stopped moving.

That was Octavia's cue.

One. Two. Three. Breathe.

She stepped forward, feeling eyes all turn to her as Nema began whispering, her voice in tune with the cithara playing as she righted her robes, stepping from the bank into the water. She repeated her chant, and Octavia approached her father's urn.

One. Two. Three. Breathe.

Forcing her hands to remain steady, Octavia grabbed the urn, trying to steady her heart as she lifted it. It was heavier than she thought, but she refused to let herself falter as she turned to where Nema was still chanting. She walked forward to the edge of the water.

One. Two. Three. Breathe.

She held the urn out for Nema to take. Nema whispered something to the ashes before slowly pouring them in a circle around her. Her palms burned blue, and the water swirled. Octavia watched with a heaviness in her chest as the dark sprinklings moved.

That was her father. Her brows came together. It was hard to wrap her head around the idea that those charred pieces of gray had once been brown hair and orange eyes. She had been held by these pieces of dust. Loved by ashes. In a way, a piece of her had been burned alongside these cinders... or maybe it was the other way around, and the only parts of her father that weren't withered embers were her, Antonia, and Trajan.

Nema lifted the urn in the air, and at once, the current of the water came back, swishing ashes away. The cithara played one final note that felt like a trembling cry, and it was over. Nema stepped out of the water and grabbed the glass bottle, pressing her palm against the top so the magic slipped out of her hands to be stored once more.

That was it. Octavia hadn't expected more, but she had hoped some peace might wash over her. None came. Only two traitorous tears that she couldn't quite keep in. She cleared her throat, fighting for composure.

"Goodbye, Father," she whispered to the water and turned away.

One. Two. Three. Breathe.