Two Drops More

Epilogue- The End of Mourning

Third person POV

2 months later...

Spring was slow that year.

Despite the pristine wildlife that was preserved in both winter and summer, the chill in the air wasn't showing any signs of departure, and the snowfalls simply kept coming.

It was late April, and the world had recovered from the battle; all in all, there weren't even that many casualties-two thousand perhaps. Most of the werewolves had surrendered after realising their fight was futile, and almost half of the casualties were humans anyways.

But in the royal vampire palace, a somber air still hung. It could have come from the king, who was buried in work and rarely showed his face. It did not. It could have come from the slaves, who wept openly for their fallen brethren as they still scrubbed the bloodstains off of every little surface. It did not. It could have come from any vampire in the palace, whose worry and tension was still palpable. It did not.

Without a doubt, the air came from the Palace Ghost, as the general populus had taken to calling her. She was a ghost for she wandered the palace in silence, except for occasional moans and sobs of grief. She was a ghost for her skin was so pale as to be transluscent, and her tears and red-rimmed eyes never went away. She was a ghost for she always wore the same black dress, long and mourning and made of sheer silk, and her feet were bare. She was a ghost, for she never changed.

It was a morning like any of the others, and the Palace Ghost was still wandering the halls. She did not sleep, or eat, or drink, but her hateful body was being maintained by the king. This morning, just as the one before, she stopped at the king's door and waited, for this was the moment when he came out and healed her body before they parted.

As usual, he came out of his room tiredly, bags under his eyes, face gaunt and hollow. His frame was somehow stooped, smaller than normal. She reached out her hand, which was shaking, and he hesitated.

"Felicia... I can't keep doing this anymore."

Worry ran through the ghost's veins at that.

"The magic required for this... it's too much. I'm exhausted. I can keep going, it's not that. But you... you can't. You're fading. Quickly. I told you this was dangerous, that there were risks, that I wouldn't be able to-"

He stopped and sighed. "Can you even hear what I'm saying? Come on, Felicia, there's got to be something in there that's still you! Please..."

But the ghost felt nothing.

He bit his lip almost angrily, and grabbed ahold of her wrist. She balked at his touch, but did not have the power to pull away.

He snapped his fingers and suddenly they were in a large, open field-no, the field, the field, where there was blood and death, and a body. She finally mustered the strength to pull away, and even then it was only to close her eyes and wrap her arms around herself and pretend that nothing was happening.

"Felicia!" Braith said. "Meaghan-"

The ghost shuddered at the mention of her name, pools of tears forming in her eyes.

"-is dead."

She put her hands over her ears, but she could still hear him. She couldn't block him out.

"But she is right here, too."

He touched her chin lightly, and her eyes opened by themselves. They were in the garden, or at least what was left of it. It had been destroyed in the battle, but the gardeners had been diligently nursing it back to its original health, and it showed.

Memories began to flood back to her-memories of the bench, of the kind old woman, of the rose. More shivering ensued.

But as he directed her gaze, she saw he was right-Meaghan was right there.

Next to the bench, stood a large black marble gravestone with a gold inscription: 'Meaghan Kirsten Bell'.

Tears started falling down her face.

"If not for me," Braith said dejectly before motioning to the grave. "then for her."

Suddenly, something within her broke, and grief spilled forward. She sunk to her knees by the grave and began to sob, draping her arms over the marble.

"I'm sorry..." Felicia cried. "I'm so, so, sorry... This is all my fault!"

"No, it isn't," Braith told her. "It wasn't anyone's fault. She made her choices."

"The wrong ones."

"Yes," Braith mused. "perhaps. That isn't really for us to decide, is it?"

It began to snow.

~~~

1 month later...

It didn't snow anymore in the vampire realm; only the occasional rain, which was usually soft and warm.

It was evening, and this was one of those moments of rain, and it was even lighter than usual. In the rain, only one person was still outside, hunched over a marble grave. She was tending to the beautifully kept plants there, an assortment of bluebells and tulips and forget-me-nots, all the flowers she knew were the deceased's favourite. She smiled slightly and closed her eyes in a moment of reminiscence; she had realised it did no one any good to cry over the happy memories.

"Felicia!" a voice behind her called. "Come inside, you'll get sick."

"It's alright, Tristan. I can take care of myself."

"You say that..." She heard footsteps approaching. "but you somehow manage to go completely off the rails every few months. You know we can't help but be worried."

"We?"

Felicia took a deep breath, and looked over her shoulder, before smiling. Behind her stood not only Tristan, but Maddie, Camilla, Rosie, Alex, and Chloe.

"Come on inside," he repeated with a smile.

She hesitated, but then made up her mind and stood up. "Okay."

Then, after a moment's consideration, she stooped over the grave again. Her hands fumbled around her wrist until she managed to pick apart the knot. Without looking down, she dropped her final little black ribbon of mourning on the grave. Then she stood up again and grabbed onto Maddie's hand, squeezing as tightly as she could, as if it would keep her grounded and safe on the Earth. Together, they began to walk.

Up in the palace, from a corner window in his study, Braith watched the procession with a heavy heart. He closed his eyes and sighed, imagining Felicia's hand in his. He closed the shutters on the window.

Outside, the rain kept pouring.