Arrow in the Quiver (Romantic Suspense)

Chapter 22 - Answered Prayers

The scent of the pine forest around me mingled with the subtler scent of the sea not far away. A distant crashing of waves punctuated by the occasional cry of a sea bird were the only sounds to carry above the whisper of trees in the breeze. Sunlight spotted the ground in wavering golden splotches. Beautiful. Peaceful. Calm. I couldn't imagine a more perfect place to give those I loved to the earth.

The first of the funerals had been held two weeks earlier as Misha and Sasha were at last able to lay their grandparents, parents, and younger siblings to rest. They had opted for an intimate ceremony – close friends and family only. Artem and I were honored to have made the cut.

Coffin-bearers brought the caskets one by one, sizes growing progressively smaller until the smallest - holding ten-year-old twins Iva and Nina – made its way into the temple. Once all eight gleaming oak caskets were laid out, framed photographs of the occupants resting atop them, the attendees took their seats, and the priestesses intoned the appropriate prayers to Panas. Sasha maintained a stoic dignity throughout the ceremony, but 'stoic' had been Sasha's default setting for as long as I'd known him. What others mistook for stoicism in Misha's quiet pensiveness I recognized as something I was all too familiar with: simmering rage. He'd tamped it down, but it was there, like a coal fire burning deep underground. Soon, smoke would breach the surface in fissures, the heat too overwhelming to bear up close.

My parents' funerals occurred last so as not to overshadow the others. I borrowed much of Misha and Sasha's quiet, respectful approach. Artem and I had put out a statement asking the media to respect our privacy, not that I really expected them to. So, when we arrived at the Temple of Panas midway between Keiva and Adassa, I wasn't at all surprised to find police having had to form a barricade to keep journalists at bay. I recognized news service logos from all over Taurrika, as well as several other provinces in the empire and even a team from Channel 1, the pan-imperial network.

What I did find surprising were the throngs of people who'd turned out. Complete strangers, one and all. They overflowed the temple lawn and continued to gather on the other side of the parking lot. Eeriest of all was the noise, or more accurately the lack thereof. The people were somber, dressed in the blues, grays, blacks, and browns of varying mourning traditions and carrying armloads of flowers to toss in the temple drive when the hearse arrived. Some, likely foreigners, brought formal bouquets wrapped in colorful plastic and secured with massive ribbon bows, a gesture I knew to be of condolence and meant more for the living. We'd brought several of those bouquets with us for the graveside service, along with a wreath of Empress Sylvia roses from some anonymous benefactor.

Throughout the temple service, I feared falling back into the same trap Misha had landed in, of undoing the progress I'd made and of auguring once again into that bottomless reservoir of my own unresolved rage. Thankfully, that didn't happen. I didn't cry. I had done my mourning in Adassa. However, as the service concluded I couldn't deny that something inside me had shifted. That feeling grew more acute as Artem and I remained behind following the conclusion of the graveside service, my parents cremated remains interned within the shared marble base of a dual grave markers. Like something deep, shredded and raw, that had been ripped open so long ago, hemorrhaging unchecked since, had at last begun to stitch together. It was still with me and would likely be so until I found my own grave, but it no longer ached as it had. The pain was finally manageable.

The grave markers were taller than I imagined they'd be. Gus had seen to ordering them. Each marker was topped with a structure resembling a house complete with miniature shake roofs and each with an internal compartment, both of which were overflowing with offerings. Enshrined in each structure was a photo of the deceased (gifts from Urriy along with other items he'd been able to recover from their building): my mother on the left, my father on the right. Their names stood out etched in relief on the common base above a shared banner that read ZIVINYAS. They'd spent a lifetime together. Now they would spend Eternity the same way.

"They met in secondary school," I felt the need to voice aloud.

Artem's arms tightened around me as he rested his chin atop my head. "Oh?"

"They were both first-years and had a lot of classes together. My father always said he knew he'd marry her even before he got brave enough to ask her name."

"He knew who he wanted to marry when he was thirteen?"

"Twelve. My mother was thirteen, older by six months."

Artem snorted. "A taste for older women. I'm glad I don't share that tendency. We might never have met."

"I don't believe that."

"You think we would have met regardless?"

"I do. I think we were meant to meet. The circumstances might not have been the same, but our paths would have crossed eventually." Gods, voiced aloud, that made me sound like a dizzy schoolgirl dreamily writing variations of "Mrs. Artem Basmajian" over and over in a copybook.

After a moment, Artem responded, "I like that, like we were destined for each other."

Mrs. Artem Artemovich Basmajian. Ohlya druzhyna Artemyivna. Ohlya Zivinyas-Basmajian. "Something like that," I agreed, leaning back against his chest. "Do you think they'd be pleased with the place I picked?"

Artem hummed an affirmative. "It's beautiful here." He took in the pine and sea scent on the wind in a glorious inhale. "And it's close enough to home that we can come and see them as often as you like. Commemoration Week is in a few months. We'll bring a picnic up."

My parents had waited so long for this, patient in an unworthy grave. I had waited just as long to at last be able to show them the love and respect I'd striven to show them in life. I closed my eyes. Panas, Lord and Guide of the Dead, hear my prayer. Please protect the souls I've at long last been able to dedicate to your care, and if possible, please allow them to send me a sign that they're well.

As if on cue, full-throated birdsong pierced the calm, a series of chirps and trills, some long, some short. My head snapped up on instinct as I searched the limbs and branches above us for what I knew would be a small, brown bird with a long tale. A living version of the gold broach I'd worn pinned to my sweater that day.

"That can't be what I think it is," Artem commented, searching the trees the same as me. "We're in the wrong part of the country."

"I know." I spun as the same bird trilled behind us.

"It's not even the right time of day."

I spotted the nightingale as it swooped down from a pine bough and followed it as its petite form flitted to my mother's grave marker, perched atop it, and stared right at me.

Chills trickled along every nerve ending from scalp to heels. "I know."

The nightingale cocked its little head before giving another series of chirps, as if it was calling to...a second nightingale. It swooped down seemingly from thin air to land on my father's marker. Then, it too stared at me.

"I've never seen them get this close to people, before," Artem whispered.

"Me, either."

Hold out your hand. They will come to you. I heard those words as clearly as if they'd been spoken aloud. My hand raised itself unbidden. Both nightingales flew to me, alighting on my palm and wrist, like they'd been waiting for the invitation. My breath caught. Each second they stayed, that raw thing inside me closed that much more.

In the trees all around us, a chorus suddenly rose. A dozen or more nightingales sang to both of us, to each other, to whichever of the gods had sent them. We're okay, they seemed to say. We're safe, we're happy, and we're free. Don't worry for us.

Then, in a flash of flapping wings and trilling song, they were gone. The forest fell once again silent save for the whisper of trees on the wind and distant crashing of the waves.

The expression on Artem's face told me he was as stunned as I was. A smile tugged at my lips as I said to anyone or anything that might still be listening, "Thank you."

Whose voice do you think Ollie heard telling her to reach out to the nightingales?