Marbles: The Hawk Who Refused to Die a Virgin

Chapter 24. Sky Burial

Lucy and Opal stood looking up at the tallest chamber that they had yet encountered in the cave. The chamber was conical, and filigreed with seemingly endless curlicued mole text of dull gold that snaked around the chamber in tight circles.

Languin lay in state on a four foot tall plinth that rose from a smooth six inch thick circular platform of obsidian, its top and sides inscribed with the same curlicued text, only these were silver.

There was a note pinned to Languin's chest which read, "Knock three times on the black circle if you revive."

There were chains strung through four thick iron rings on each side of the platform, and the other end of the chains hung through rings driven into the top of the chamber. Four moles stood at four opposite ends of the chamber at their raising stations, which were wheels used to pull in the chains and raise the obsidian platform to the top of the chamber. The mayor stood at a fifth wheel nearer the platform in the center of the room. Languin had died five minutes ago.

"I mean I'm not going to not give this a try," said the mayor, wrapping his paws around one of the four spokes of the wheel. He pressed his head against the center of the wheel. "Raise him up guys," said the mayor.

"Your honor, a moment please!" said the northernmost mole, a strapping, piebald specimen with big splotches of black and white fur.

"Yes, Wormdaddy?" asked the mole mayor.

"It seems," said Wormdaddy, "that if we're trying to expose this elf to sunlight, we need to maximize the surface area of flesh exposed to said sunlight."

"Oh no," said the southernmost mole, who had gray fur. Just your typical mole person. "Jesus Christ we were so close. We were so close to just staying stoic, playing it cool, and lifting this poor elf up. And you could not help yourself."

"Tony this has nothing to do with what I've confided in you," said Wormdaddy. He turned back to the mayor. "I mean it makes sense, doesn't it? If he needs sunlight, and all you expose is his neck and face, and he could be flung face down by the plinth, that he could be denied the very energy he needs in order to revive."

"Dude," said Tony. "I think that given the circumstances, if we're all being totally honest with ourselves, that you must recuse yourself from the discussion about the state of undress of this unconscious elf."

"Dead elf!" said Lucy. "He's dead and we need him up there now if there's any chance that sunlight may help him."

"Guys I'm just saying!" said Wormdaddy. "I'm just saying, that if he needs sunlight on his skin, that sending him up there with a reflective mithril chainmail undershirt on is not the best medium."

"Wormdaddy this is low even for a people who live underground," scolded Tony, squinting his tiny eyes even tighter. "You've been telling me for years about how hot elves are, and how if only you could get your mitts on one, and pleading with me to put on pointed ears of claw carved fungus, and now we finally get an elf down here who can't even breathe much less consent, and you're making a full on Atticus Finch argument about how you want to drag your foreclaw down his jerkin and pop off every one of those little buttons one by one."

"Oh God forbid a confession of a fetish should come back to haunt me!" shouted Wormdaddy. "No matter what I'm into, you should still use your brain and think about the best course of care for this poor elf!"

"Best course of care?!" said Tony. "I think you're desperately trying not to let the one chance to see an elf with his shirt off slip through your claws. I think that you're trying to put the erect in resurrect."

"That's not how those words work!" said Wormdaddy. "You're putting the jerkin' in jerkin," said Tony.

Wormdaddy pointed a foreclaw at Tony, "Fuck you, Tony Mole!"