thunderstruck | book #2 | discontinued

X X I I I

Swirls of colours billowed across the sky above Cliona Trevil's coffin as Council members paced around the glass pod where her body lay. The pod was open and Cliona was in clear view, her body floating just above the cushioned bed of the coffin. Maksim had never been to a funeral before, but he had watched one from afar once and he knew that this was their way of sending Cliona's spirit to the afterlife.

She did not look dead. There was no longer colour in her cheeks, but there was still colour everywhere else; her hair was still as silver and gleaming as moonlight, and her skin still as golden brown as the soil where buildings turned to nature on the outskirts of Astracia. She was still beautiful, and always would be. Not even death could cause the people of Refilyn to decay. That, at least, was a comfort.

Maksim searched for Tykon through the bodies weaving around the coffin and found him facing him on the opposite side at the very front of the crowd, his face contorted into an expression of pain. He was clutching his father, though it was unclear who was leaning on who for support, and his sister held his hand on the opposite side. Maksim could not help but feel an excruciating pang of guilt at the sight, and anger when he noticed Annika standing behind him. There was a distance between him now that had not been there before, though, and Maksim hoped that his attempt at a warning had worked.

Were it not for your brother, my mother would still be alive. You and your mother created a monster, and it is I and everyone else who is paying the price. Tykon's words echoed louder and clearer now than they had the day they had been said. Maksim had been part of this tragedy. His own brother and sister had been the one to cause it. He remembered how he had lost control earlier, in Hilda's office. What if Ackmard and Erika were no longer the only monsters in the family? What if he was becoming one, too, and Tykon was simply the first one to see that?

He was about to clench his fists but instead felt something warm and soft slide into his palms. Remy had interlaced her fingers with his, the pad of her thumb stroking his skin slowly, gently, carefully. He looked down at her, his body relaxing involuntarily, but she did not look back. Her eyes were focused on the magic-filled sky, the curling patterns of reds, greens, silvers, golds, blues, and the way they dissolved into a strangely coloured fog that tainted the sky's clear pink like water after it has touched a million different paintbrushes. None of it was as beautiful as she was now, with her hair cascading in golden waves and her irises stealing pieces of the sky in place of their usual grey. He tried not to think about the red dress she was in and the way the silk hugged the curves of her body, but he could not help it when she was standing so close to him now. He did not think he would ever see her again. Having her here, her hand in his and wearing a dress fit for a goddess, was a miracle—a miracle that caused his entire body to ache, for it would not last, and all of this only made him want things that he should not want.

The Council had stopped moving around the coffin, and he saw his mother dissolve into the crowd, her hair redder than her robes. Beside her was his father, but it seemed that neither one of them wished to acknowledge the other's presence. That, he supposed, was the trouble with being immortal; those you once loved could become strangers in time, just as Tabitha was almost a stranger to him now.

The Principle Warlock shuffled to the top of the coffin, where Cliona's head hovered. She looked peaceful, at least. Some did not have that luxury. He had passed a few of the other deceased army veterans on his way through the cemetery, and wished now he had not looked inside the glass pods. Horror still lived in some of them even when dead.

"Cliona Trevils," August began, crossing his hands in front of him so that his red robes rippled, "was a great woman. She was a valued member of the Council, a wonderful mother, and a loving wife. More than all of that, she was a warrior. Her death is not one that any of us could have predicted or prepared for. She has shown survival in the face of battle, heroism in the face of evil, and light in the face of darkness. We will not forget the way she has fought time and time again for Refilyn in the Warlock Army, and we will certainly not forget the way she died for our realm.

"It is never an easy thing to say goodbye to what is constant; if this week has taught me anything, it is that. Today should not be about saying goodbye, though. Today should be about celebrating the long life that Cliona had. She accomplished much and touched many, and that is shown by the hundreds of people who come to mourn her today. That is something that should be admired. The truth is that we were lucky to have Cliona in our lives at all, and the fact that she lived for over a thousand years was a gift that we cannot scorn or regret now that she is gone. We had our time with her, and now it is time for the earth to reclaim her, for her soul to be freed so that she can bring light to new places that need it far more than we do.

"Hers is a light that we will not forget. It will not be an easy thing to lose, but nothing good ever is. Let us be brave the way that Cliona was today. Let us show her that her death was not in vain. Let us remember her for her magnificence. Let us say goodbye and find peace so that she can find hers."

August nodded solemnly, stepping away from Cliona's body. He outstretched his hands, his wrinkled palms facing her as his white magic surged first through his translucent skin and then through his fingertips. It gushed through Cliona's body like a wave until rays of blue light radiated off her—the colour of her own magic.

"What are they doing to her?" Remy whispered, watching in awe as the rays flickered like candlelight and began their journey upwards.

"Releasing her magic from her body," Maksim answered. He was quite aware that Remy's hand was still in his and dropped it slowly. "It will evaporate into Refilyn's atmosphere to join the magic of the natural world. They believe her spirit will become part of the earth we stand on and the air we breathe. That is their idea of an afterlife."

"But not yours?" She frowned. Sometimes he forgot how curious she was about it all, how well she noticed a simple change in tone or unintentional wording of something—sometimes he forgot she was not a witch but a mortal altogether.

"I do not know what I believe about death. I have not encountered it enough to think about."

Cliona's body sank back into the coffin, and August used his magic to sculpt a glass dome around her. There she would stay forever, preserved and untouched. She would never feel human contact again. Her body was bound behind glass and a spell of protection, and that was all that was left for her.

On the other side of the coffin, a tear ran down Wayde Trevils' face. Tykon's face was not so gentle: he was glaring at the coffin, at his mother, his eyes and hair a violent shade of blue and his lips sculpted into a hard line. He was not upset—he was angry. Worse than that, he was angry at Maksim.

"May you find peace in your place of rest," August said finally, placing his hands on the glass. "Farewell, Cliona Trevils."

[AN: I wrote this chapter post-nap so if there are mistakes or it's bad I apologise and will edit when I've not accidentally taken a nap beforehand lol]