The Curse of Eternity

Death Three

The Immortal Lord sits on a throne composed of fossilized black feathers, long fingers tapping an irregular rhythm against the armrest. Waiting for his Bride is a nuisance and a complete waste.

Yet, wait he must because it was a crucial part of his survival. Like a luupiina, the curse howled for it. Without a Moon's Turn Bride, his body would be consumed with invisible fire never quenched. His Immortality prevents peace he'd seek in death.

Will my bride survive more than a few days?

All too soon the great, black Currath doors swing inward admitting his servant, behind him trails a tall lump of cloak and dresses.

Gregoire bows before him and says, "May I present my Lord, your Moon Turns Bride."

"This sack of clothes?" he asks, eyeing the pile suspiciously, "What did those ingrates give me now?"

A large hood swallows the upper part of the girl's face, edges brushing the tip of her nose or where he assumed it would be. It is hard to discern because the rest of her countenance is obscured with a burgundy veil. Underneath, long azure locks stick out like lightning strikes. Its color uncommon in the human race meaning her blood most likely contains more lous'rief than the Brides before her. 

She wears layers upon mismatched layers of ugly dresses all in the same mottled browns and greys. The shapeless girl gracelessly curtsies and says, "M-My L-L-Lord," trembling voice like wind rattling leaves.

"Tell me, girl, did you choose, or were you chosen?

The girl is silent, tucking her chin into the recesses of her horrid cloak.

"Speak!" he commands, voice echoing off the black marble columns and rising like smoke from the floor.

She flinches and stammers, "I-I-I- w-was ch-chosen m-m-m-my Lord."

"Why did they choose you to be my Moon's Turn Bride?"

A few flickers of silence then, "I-I'm not su-su-sure my Lord, th-they d-d-d-did not say."

"Oh, but I am sure that you do. The villages never send any woman my way without reason and rarely does my Bride come to me of her own volition. Why did they send you?" He does not wait for a response and continues, "Did they send you because you are the most graceful dancer, or you can sing the birds from the sky? Or perhaps your talents lie elsewhere?"

The Immortal Lord knew she is none of those things, the villages have long ago ceased from sending their bright and beautiful maidens settling to send the ones they had no care for.

"Well," he snaps tiring of her silence. How odd, usually he could not get the Brides to stop babbling like drunken merchants settling in on prey.

A long flicker passes before she speaks.

"Wh-what b-better to s-s-s-serve a Dea'Mond th-th-than a D-D-Dea'mond."

"How dare you speak that way to your Lord and Master. . ."

"Gregoire enough," the Immortal Lord commands cutting his manservant's words, eyes never leaving the stuttering girl before him.

"So your people think I'm a Dea'mond? What do they say?"

The girl flinches, licks her lips, and whispers, "Th-that you a-a-a-re cursed t-to n-never walk under th-th-the suns r-r-rays. Y-You d-d-drink blood to m-m-maintain your l-l-life and n-n-none of your M-Moons' Turn brides s-s-sur-vive."