Dirty is thy halo,
Filthy are thy lies,
I beg that they know,
The nature of ye demise.
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CHAPTER 7: KNOW YOUR PLACE
“There you are,” he wheezed. “My dearly beloved...”
“I am here,” she answered in soft, reassuring tones. “I am right here.”
In the dimly lit sanctum of the Ossein Basilica, the Wire-Witch sat beside the deathbed of the old Lord of Bones. The room, filled with the musty scent of age and decay, was a testament to the aeons that had passed since its creation. Dust-laden tapestries depicting battles and forgotten lore adorned the hardened walls. Their threads frayed and colours faded, bleached to the pale, left only the ghost of a memory upon them.
The only light emanated from flickering candles, casting long dancing shadows that shed glimpses of the two nobles — the two would-be Gods. The bed, an ornate relic of a bygone era, lay draped in tattered silks, holding the husk of a man who had outlived near all else, all aside from the divinity of the Immortal and, now, his forbearer, the Pilgrim reawakened.
As the Lord of Bones lay there, his body more akin to a desiccated husk than that of a man, his breaths were shallow and infrequent. Yet there was an unsettling sense of endurance about him, as if he could yet reach out and transcend the very concept of death. His skeletal frame was adorned with old robes that matched the tattered and frayed age of the sheets that supported him but now hung loosely over his brittle body. A mask hid the truth of his inhuman visage with the gently smiling spectre of a man. His skin, akin to parchment, clung tightly to him with each laborious breath, a testament to his unnaturally prolonged existence.
Beside him, the Wire-Witch — starkly contrasting her husband’s frailty — sat with an air of restrained energy. Enhanced by the intertwining of flesh and intricate wires, her form radiated a vitality almost out of place in this mausoleum-space. The vibrant colours of her wires and the healthy depth of her amethystine flesh stood in defiance of the gloom. However, her empty eyesockets did not reflect the turmoil of emotions within her as her gaze turned to the Lord of Bones. A war raged in her heart — a cacophony of guilt, determination, and even a flicker of hope. Hope, hope that the awakening of the Pilgrim could finally bring her the freedom she yearned for. To resurrect a being capable of defying her mother-creator — the Immortal — and break her hold over the world. But with the Pilgrim’s awakening, a plan long in motion had reached a point of no return, leaving her to grapple with the weight of her actions and the impending upheaval they would bring.
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It had been a ten-day since her visit to the Vat-Mother of Acetyn, to her sister. The Wire-Witch could not help but feel it was a mistake to reveal as much as she had. Yet how could she have not hoped her sister would understand? Was she not the worse off — the imprisoned, the mutilated?
It was in this solemn setting that the Wire-Witch contemplated revealing her every machination to the dying lord. They had been allies by cause and by marriage for centuries. Though she was often the absent lady — the much cursed Least Lady, the Witch-Queen — she was more than just an erstwhile consort of the ancient Lord of Bones.
The Lord of Bones turned his head, the eyes beneath his mask finding her. The Wire-Witch could not meet his gaze. Perhaps he could see the stain on her heart. If he could not see it, maybe then he at least suspected. For years she had been the hidden hand guiding the Axiamati, a cult born from the very heart of her husband’s guard. These disloyal followers were now poised to overthrow the Lord of Bones. It was just a matter of time.
Breaking the silence, voice trembling with vulnerability, the Wire-Witch spoke. “My Lord, in these twilight hours of your reign, would you recount once more the tale of your ascent to power? The story of how you, in the shadow of the Pilgrim fallen, rose to become the ruler of greater Acetyn?”
She met his eyes now with her empty sockets. His gaze, though sunken, still held the remnants of a once formidable presence. The request stirred something within him, a memory from the depths of his long and tumultuous reign.
“Where you not there, My Lady? Remember you not the discord?”
“After all these years, I now realise that I never asked you to tell me what role you played.”
“Nor I you.”
“I always felt it was better left unspoken. The horrible things that happened...” The Wire-Witch tutted her tongue. “What a pitiful pair of old fools we have become.”
“Mineself more than you, My Lady.” The Lord steadied himself with a breath, looking upon her. “Despite every passing day, you remain as beautiful as that day you first came to me.”
“That I cannot help,” she said, her back straightening. “Not my blood, nor my birth.”
“Nay,” he laughed weakly from behind his smiling mask. “Yet it has been my good fortune, all the same.”
The Wire-Witch reached out and put her hand on his. He weakly squeezed her fingers in return.
“I would like to hear it, all the same.”
“All the same,” he whispered. “Very well. Let me tell the tale of Lord Centric Hash...”
“Yes.” The Wire-Witch leaned closer, whispered from between her chrome teeth, encouraging him on. “Tell me of him. Tell me of Lord Centric.”