Necromancy In D Minor ✔️

Purgatory's Dirge

Trapped in the dark again. Octavia stretched out on her back, and inhaled deep, the scent of roses and morning dew easing the tension in her body. Her skin registered the cold, but she didn't shiver, nor break out with gooseflesh.

This was her purgatory, where she went when she used too much necromancy at once. A place to rest and recover and possibly get stuck in one day when she reached her limit. Necromancy wasn't free after all.

At least, this time, she had company. Seated across from her, was a likeness of herself, drawing staves and notes into the ground with a glowing, white finger. Octavia recognized the song—the Night-Blooming Rose. The song that could've ended this mess had a better necromancer played it.

How long had they been sitting here? Octavia wondered. Days? Weeks? Years? No matter how long the time, it always seemed to go by in a matter of minutes.

"Why are you still here?" her likeness asked. "Look at you, you're wasting away. How long do you think you can keep this up before it kills you?"

She prodded the raw wounds around her wrists, but felt nothing. "However long it takes."

"Stubborn as usual." Her likeness breathed a laugh and stared up at the black expanse. Soft words filled the darkness, carrying a musical cadence that dashed away the cold, replacing it with warmth as soft and inviting as sunshine after a night-long blizzard.

The other Octavia rose and brushed her hands on her dress. "Time to go. Don't get yourself killed out there, please."

Octavia cracked her eyes, expecting the darkness of her jail cell, but found a haze of colours instead. They came into focus, their edges pulling together into sharp curves and angles. A basket of flowers affixed to the wall hung over her head and blankets covered her from neck to toe, soft and fluffy, like a cloud against her skin. Gone was the scent of dust and waste, replaced with lilies. A pillow, just as heavenly as the linen, cushioned her head.

The rooms only other furnishings were a small table where the High Priest sat, and a couch with crumpled blankets on it. Octavia shifted her gaze to him.

His jacket hung from the back of his seat, the gold thread glinting in the sunlight streaming through the lone window. Discolouration marred his copper skin just above his eye where his wound was healing. He held his body rigid, the muscles in his shoulders bunched and his back ramrod straight. The book of poetry she'd given him was in hand and his eyes flitted over the page as he read:

"Black-winged minstrel

Serenade me through my sorrow

So I may fly upon the melody..."

Octavia smiled and joined in: "And find my eternal tomorrow."

The book slipped from his grasp, landing on the table with a thump, and his head swiveled her way so fast, it was a wonder it didn't fly from his shoulders. "Octavia."

"Hi," she said.

He turned to face her fully, the rigid tension in his shoulders remaining. A myriad of emotions flickered through his gaze, darkening the warmth in his eyes. He opened his mouth, closed it again and his lips fell into a frown.

There was much to be said, about what happened, about Hedalda's future. About them. But even Octavia didn't know where to start. Her memories of how she landed in this bed were stilted images, blurred at the edges with some shadowy faces and figures. The netherborne the priests, trees growing from someone, a giant, flying beast. The memories were scattered like a hundred pictures across the floor of her mind, and she had not the strength to sort through them.