this is the last chapter of the first novel in my book series The Tortured Side of the Sword.
I hope you enjoy <3
tw// intense angst, lots of grief, tiny bit of body horror
it's rough, guys
Brielle takes care of her. Somehow, while managing her own astronomical grief, Brielle manages to keep her alive. She gently drags Ivy out of bed, tells her to shower, and makes sure she eats enough.
Ivy couldn’t be more grateful, but it makes her feel guilty.
She picks aimlessly at her plate, tines of the fork just rearranging the food. It’s mindless, an intentionally wasteful use of time. It’s all she can bear to do when the idea of eating makes her stomach roil.
The rest of the dining hall is muted, conversation drowned by everyone’s sadness. The beginnings of silence are tense, strained, like someone dancing on the precipice of crying.
“I don’t need you to take care of me anymore,” Ivy blurts out.
She winces, hating how strong the words sound.
Brielle flinches too.
“I-”
“What I meant was,” Ivy rushes to correct herself, dropping her fork onto her relatively untouched plate, “I shouldn’t be what you’re focusing on right now.” She swallows, trying to clear her throat.
Brielle leans forward, elbows coming to rest on one of the many long tables in the dining hall. She bites the inside of her cheek, contemplative, careful, cautious as she chooses her next words delicately.
“Ivy,” she starts, voice already cracking, “you know that I thought of you and the twins like my children. It’s really, really hard not having them here– it’s hard with my husband and son so far away.” The woman has to clear her throat. “But I’m not going to lose you too.”
She smiles sadly, slowly reaching out a hand to cover Ivy’s.
“You’re slipping into self-destructive habits and there’s no way on Tella that I’m just going to let you go like that.”
Brielle’s eyes flash.
Ivy’s water.
“It’s okay to cry,” the woman across from her says, tender as always. “I’m here. It’s going to be alright. We’re going to get through it.”
Tears beginning to pool in the inner corners of her eyes, Ivy looks to the side, trying to make sure no one is watching her. Of course, everyone is absorbed in their own meals and muted conversation.
The floodgates open.
Ivy’s vision swims, blurred by liquid grief as her shoulders shake.
Brielle stands up and walks around the end of the table to the girl’s side. “Do you want to go somewhere else, darling?”
Her heart cracks.
Ivy nods, and she’s led away. Gentle hands steer her out of the dining hall and down the many long hallways in the estate. Warm-colored wood tries to comfort her, but all Ivy can think about is racing up and down these very same corridors with her friends.
They’re not coming back, she reminds herself, trying to stop the onslaught of memories that only serve to hurt. They’re not coming back and there’s no use in believing anything else.
Eventually, Brielle opens a door, leading both of them inside before she shuts it again.
Ivy drops down like a stone onto the couch she’s nudged towards, barely registering that they’re in one of the drawing rooms. She lets herself sink into the plush cushions, body melting into the corner.
Brielle sits down right next to her, arm outstretched in an invitation.
Ivy sighs and falls into her embrace, their sides pressed together as Ivy tucks her head into the crook of Brielle’s neck.
The woman brushes aside Ivy’s red hair, pulling her closer.
“Do you want to talk right now,” Brielle asks, carefully breaking the silence, “or do you just want to stay like this in silence for a bit?”
Ivy considers both options.
Her teary eyes fall shut as her muscles start to relax.
“Can you talk?” Her voice sounds broken. “I don’t want silence.”
From her spot tucked into the woman’s side, Ivy feels Brielle nod, feels her chest rise and fall with every breath. It’s calming, grounding.
There’s a second of suspenseful silence.
“In the weeks right after we took you three in, you were all really skittish,” Brielle begins, every syllable spoken softly and Ivy smiles at the memory. “Claire and I were scared you’d never open up.”
She combs a hand through Ivy’s hair, fingers grazing Ivy’s scalp.
Brielle continues her story and Ivy listens, lets the memories heal her heart.
“Your hesitation made perfect sense, of course, given the way you all grew up. Still, we were worried you’d never be able to call this place home,” the woman admits, still slowly running her hands through Ivy’s dark orange locks. “It took a bit, but you three fit perfectly into our massive family.”
Ivy smiles, knows the other is doing the same.
“Do you remember Theo?” Brielle asks, pausing her ministrations as she waits for an answer. When Ivy nods, she starts again. “Well, how could you not?” she laughs. “You were so sad when he left,” the woman whispers. “You cried for days.”
“We were together,” Ivy mutters. “Of course I was sad when he left.”
Brielle hums. “The point I’m trying to make is that even when you lose people you really, really loved, you can move on. You’re going to get through this– we all are.”
Ivy scowls. “I don’t think I ever really loved Theo, but there’s no doubt about whether or not I love my friends.”
The tears start pooling again and she doesn’t bother trying to wipe them away.
Brielle’s hold on her tightens. The woman presses a gentle kiss to the crown of her head.
“I’m sorry, darling,” she whispers into her hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Ivy trembles, bottom lip quivering as she tries not to cry. But with every circle Brielle rubs into her back, her resolve breaks more and more.
She cries, can’t help it.
Gods, Ivy thinks as she sobs into Brielle’s shirt, I’ve done this too much recently.
A dumb question, born out of heartbreak and grief, waits on her tongue. It’s been there, waiting, for three days now.
Brielle notices, whispering a quiet encouragement.
Ivy draws in a stuttering breath, trying to gather herself enough to ask. “Are you–” her voice breaks. “Are you sure they’re never coming back?”
She sobs harder at the punched out sound of Brielle’s heavy exhale.
“Yeah,” the woman whispers, and it sounds like she hates her own words. “Someone saw it happen.” She twirls a lock of Ivy’s hair around her finger, lets the gentle waves of auburn curl around her finger.
Ivy cries harder.
The sobs echo in her empty heart.
Normally, Lilith and Derryn would hold her close when her eyes make riverbeds out of her cheeks. Normally, they’d trace the threadlines on her shirt. They’re not here, though– haven’t been in a few days.
Their absence will forever be unfamiliar, Ivy knows.
I miss you, sounds lame, pales in comparison to the gaping hole their deaths have left behind. Ivy says it in her head again, I miss you.
One more time, hoping Siles passes it on.
I miss you.
Brielle holds her together and it only makes Ivy feel worse, knowing she’s making a broken woman keep yet another soul’s fragments from shattering into smithereens too small to recover.
Ivy tries to wriggle out of the woman’s hold, tries to stop the tears and put enough air into her lungs to sit up and move away.
You’re hurt too! she wants to scream, would carve it into Brielle’s skin if that would work.
Brielle doesn’t let her go.
Ivy’s sobbing turns ugly as she thrashes, chest heaving as her lungs empty, can’t get filled again. The lack of air is dizzying, disorienting and she only fights more, head whipping around so hard something in her neck starts to hurt.
She fights and fights and fights, trying to throw off the strong arms around her.
They tighten, squeeze even more air from her lungs.
Ivy gets ready to scream.
A hand covers the crown of her head, practically pets her hair and someone whispers reassurances in her ear.
Brielle.
“Shhh,” the wonderful woman coos, holding Ivy even tighter and bringing her onto her lapas her wild attempts at escape become weak shoves. “Ivy, Ivy, Ivy.”
Ivy stops fighting her, falls limp and just whimpers.
Brielle shushes her again and Ivy finally hears how her voice cracks.
They sit in silence, two people picking pieces of themselves from a sea of glass shards. Every attempt at recovery only hurts them more.
“I’m sorry,” Ivy says, throat raw from all of the crying. “That was unfair.”
The silence remains and she fears she’s lost another someone.
Brielle stays and Ivy doesn’t feel as lonely.
“This is gonna hurt for a long time, kiddo,” the woman says, heavy acceptance weighing down her shoulders and her words. “Trying to handle everything on your own is a suicide mission. Let me help you.”
Ivy trembles, exhausted and vulnerable. “What about you? You loved them too.”
Brielle sighs and Ivy feels the exhale on the top of her head. “I did.”
“Focus on yourself,” Ivy tries to argue. “You’re hurting.”
“Everyone’s hurting right now, baby,” Brielle counters swiftly, kindly. “Khal won’t leave his room and Nico won’t leave Clover’s bedside.” She runs her fingers through the girl’s hair again, finding comfort in the repetitive motions.
“I know how your heart works, Ivy, and leaving you alone is dangerous.”
Ivy looks down at her hands, watches her fingers shake as she realizes what the woman means. I don’t think I’d get that low.
Something in the back corner of her mind disagrees.
She screws her eyes shut tightly, banishing the evil thought.
“To be honest,” Brielle starts, “making sure you’re okay keeps me going. I’m being a little selfish, staying with you instead of doing anything else that’s required of me.” She kisses Ivy’s forehead, spills all her love into the gentle press of lips to skin. “You’re helping me right now, love.”
Ivy lets herself smile, lets herself get baited into the easy reassurance.
“What’d you do without me?” she tries to joke, wiping away leftover tears.
Brielle kisses her head again. “I don’t want to have to figure that out.”
Both of them let the silence hang for a few moments, let it soothe and heal wounds that will always leave ugly scars.
Lilith and Derryn won’t leave Ivy alone. She feels obsessive, maladaptive with the way she can’t stop thinking of them.
“They’re parents won’t know,” she whispers, burying her face in the crook of Brielle’s neck. “All the way in Lazia– there’s no way to tell them.”
Brielle sighs, hand coming to rest on Ivy’s shoulder. Her fingers twitch, creating little folds in the dark-green fabric. “They haven’t known anything about their children for years.”
Grief makes you vicious.
Ivy doesn’t stop to think about her words.
“What if Julien was dead and you didn’t know?”
Grief also makes you mean.
Brielle shoves Ivy to the floor, getting up from the couch as her gray eyes blaze. “Don’t you dare bring my family into this!” She hisses, features twisting as she jabs an angry finger in Ivy’s direction. “My son is perfectly fine.”
Ivy lifts her head up from where she fell, guilt pooling in place of her tears.
“I’m sorry,” she whimpers, all but begging for forgiveness.
Brielle shakes her head firmly, not meeting the girl’s eyes. “No,” she answers and there’s not even a ghost of her gentle nature left behind. “You were right, Ivy. You are being unfair. I tried to help you, and you just turned around and said–” she cuts herself off.
Maybe overwhelming emotion is to blame, instead.
“Everyone is hurting right now. Amia is missing, so Khal’s losing it, Nico’s afraid Clover’s not going to make it through the night, Lilith and Derryn aren’t coming back, Claire’s worried all of this was for nothing and I have to tolerate your miserable presence because I’m terrified you’re going to kill yourself!”
We’re all falling apart.
Brielle’s eyes are blown wide, brows furrowed and her whole body rises and falls with each heavy breath she takes.
Ivy blinks.
“I’m not going to do that,” she tries.
“I don’t believe you,” Brielle shoots back, monotonous and sad as she turns away, making her way towards the door. Hand hovering above the doorknob, she speaks.
“Later today, there’s going to be a Mourning Ceremony for everyone we’ve lost, if you want to make it.” She chances a look over her shoulder, and Ivy feels like crying again when the hinges creak as they’re moved.
Brielle’s already half out the door. “If I don’t see you at dinner, I’m assuming the worst.”
Ivy just falls back onto the floor, a dull thunk echoing through the room when the back of her skull connects with the thin rug beneath her.
She stares at the ceiling.
Her heart stays empty, cracks already splitting the fragile thing.
The dark whorls in the wood up above distract her, even as the sounds from outside float through the walls.
Ivy stays there on the floor.
Time passes.
She couldn’t tell you if it was seconds, minutes, days, or years.
Eventually, she hears people sing, sitting up slightly and walking to the door to open it. It’s difficult to take those ten steps with limbs that feel like they’ve been casted in concrete and a body that’s fragility could rival that of glass.
Ivy recognizes the melody of a classic mourning ballad and realizes hours have passed.
She sits down in the hallway, leaning against the wall as she lets the tune and harmonies of beautiful grief soothe everything angry inside of her.
She doesn’t feel like dragging herself up to join them in the dining hall.
I’ll mourn you from here, Ivy promises her friends.
She closes her eyes, head falling back against the wall.
Being a Ghost Girl may be a great gift, but with it comes a load of responsibilities her lithe shoulders feel too narrow to carry. And yet, she finds a quiet sort of enjoyment in Spirit-speaking.
“Only special people are chosen for this job, Ethel,” Mother Nyx likes to say when she senses her child’s growing displeasure.
Ethel imagines the immortal woman saying it as she walks along the sidewalk, bags heavy in her arms. She suppresses a shudder as a memory resurfaces: Mother Nyx’s sharp features shrouded in dark anger as she inked a fifth Tally into the book on her desk.
Ghost Girls are not true immortals; with only ten lives to their names. Mother Nyx keeps a count of her girl’s lives, drawing a line to represent each failure and sacrifice. She takes it upon herself to remind each of her children’s proximity to death’s doorstep. The woman claims her warnings are caring, but Ethel has only ever found them malicious, a calculated sort of torment, because with every warning, a challenge follows.
“Be grateful as you continue to carry out your duties.”
She is grateful- somewhat, at least. She is grateful for the ghosts she has had the pleasure of speaking to and for the endless stories she’s learned as a result. She harbors no hard feelings towards the many beautiful sights that come with being a Ghost Girl.
What Ethel will forever hate is speaking to new ghosts, for every conversation she’s been forced to have with one ends with a heart that’s been ripped out of her chest. The newly-dead are always vengeful and angry. Every encounter with one traps Ethel in a fight for her lives.
Ethel is walking home from the grocery store when she sees five lines carved into the sidewalk, every single one too straight to be natural. She nearly falls, blood freezing in her veins. The girl almost drops the bags in her arms in surprise, but begins to run home nonetheless.
A new ghost, she thought, consciousness tinged with alarm. It’s nearby.
Mother Nyx, when leaving her cruel reminders, does so in the form of lines scratched in plain sight. Mortals would look the other way. Ghost Girls would know instantly what it meant; Mother Nyx was angered by one of her children’s failures and was ordering them to battle a new ghost as both a chance for redemption, and as a punishment.
The first time Ethel saw a line clawed into the wood of her dingy apartment’s door, decades ago, when she lived someplace else, she didn’t realize it was a Tally.
Locks of hair darker than a raven fall from the loose ponytail they were tied into when Ethel begins to walk as quickly as her plentiful amount of heavy bags will let her.
If Ghost Girls were not meant to be such well-kept secrets, she thinks bitterly to herself, I’d use my wings to get home. I’d leave before I earn another Tally.
Ethel no longer takes joy in her work, but she will always love her wings. Darker than even her hair, the feathers stretch far. When she unfurled her wings for the first time, decades ago, Ethel thought they could block out the sun itself.
I could’ve saved Icarus, she once said, silver eyes sparkling with the sort of eagerness only children have. I could have kept the sun’s rays at bay.
In the decades since then, though, there has been no Icarus to save.
She keeps a journal listing every old delusion hiding behind the guise of being a dream.
Ghost Girls are not heroes, it says on the first page in her loopy, cursive handwriting. You do not exist to save people.
Heroes have colorful capes. Ghost Girls have night-black wings that reveal the death they all have to work with. Heroes carry noble burdens, tasked with keeping people alive and safe. Ghost Girls are servants of the afterworld itself, ferrying wandering ghosts to where they are supposed to be.
Ethel wishes for her wings as she runs home.
A few people look over, gazes tainted with confusion, for why would she be running? No one sees a predator, something chasing her down like prey, but she runs like it all the same.
Mother Nyx’s words never fail to repeat themselves when Ethel needs them least.
Do not run from a job, Ethel. If there is a new ghost, you must face it head on. Even in her head, the immortal woman’s voice carries the eternal weight it always does. You are a Ghost Girl for a reason, my dear.
But lately, Mother Nyx hasn’t seemed all that wise. Her wisdom hasn’t seemed all that worth following, so Ethel keeps running.
Her sneakers pound against the sidewalk, a steady rhythm almost faster than her racing heartbeat. Her footfalls are war drums, announcing a fight she desperately doesn’t want to happen. Ethel runs. She runs even as her shins scream louder with every impact. She runs even as the ache in her legs toes the line between pain and agony,
If a few apples or boxes of bandages fall out of her bags on the way, she doesn’t notice.
Before Ethel can turn the corner onto her street, the familiar shriek of a new ghost pierces her pounding ears.
She curses under her breath, dropping her groceries onto the pavement. The girl mutters an incantation under her breath, a simple jumble of words that hide her and any damage from other gazes.
The new ghost rounds the far street corner and Ethel goes still.
Translucent silver projections of the people they once were, ghosts are breathtaking. Their eerie and otherworldly beauty rather haunting to even seasoned Ghost Girls. Ethel thinks that new ghosts have a rather ugly sort of beauty, if that’s even a thing.
Chancing a glance over her shoulder to check and make sure that the incantation worked, Ethel takes a breath, conjuring images of great birds to her mind and calling upon the eldritch power burrowed deep in her gut.
Ravens, eagles, vultures, and flocks of starlings flying in impressive formations.
Ethel exhales deeply, the corners of her lips turning upwards at the faint sound of feathers flapping behind her. She doesn’t dare look back, not yet, not until she knows her wings are ready to carry her into the sky.
I may never save Icarus, but that doesn’t mean I can’t become him.
With a war cry loud enough to shake the cruel world, Ethel shoots forward, black feathers carrying her farther than her tired legs ever could.
The new ghost whirls around, its grotesquely twisted face right in view. Eye sockets stretched downward with distress, and cheeks streaked with permanent tear stains, irises red with new-ghost-rage.
Swallowing any terror threatening to freeze in her veins, Ethel draws out an old fountain pen from a hidden pocket in her shirt and mutters another incantation. A crystal blade appears in her hand the second she finishes the last syllable.
Ghost Girls are not heroes.
Your sword is your savior; never part ways with it, is written below the previous in the running list in Ethel’s journal.
Soul Blades should be sacred things. More beautiful than sunrises, more elegant than the most regal of monarchs, stronger than pride of lions, Ethel believes that Soul Blades should be kept in museums for little kids to gawk at, eyes wide with wonder, instead of wielded against death itself.
And yet, because she doesn’t want another Tally to be scrawled in Mother Nyx’s book, Ethel draws her sharp features into something even sharper. Countenance shadowed by fierce determination, she throws herself into every ruthless slash of her weapon,
But new ghosts are not infamous for no reason.
Just corporeal enough to cause painful damage, the ghost rakes its nails, long and sharp like claws, down Ethel’s side in an effort to throw her off. It works.
Ethel screeches, scrambling backwards, giving herself a few heartbeats to breathe. She looks down at her abdomen, at the blood welling up from the deep wound, staining her cream-colored top at the side and the collar. The garment is ruined, she knows.
Just another thing I hate about this, a voice grumbles in the depths of her mind. Yet another thing completely ruined.
New ghosts are quicker than she ever remembers, though, and Ethel’s breath is ripped from her lungs as a gash is clawed along her body before she can attempt to defend herself anymore.
Clenching her jaw to avoid screaming in agony as the life in her body starts to ebb away from the sound in her side, the Ghost Girl twists to avoid another deadly swipe before lunging, silver sword hilt gripped tightly by scarred fingers.
Mother Nyx, despite every other reason Ethel hates her, is grateful for her training.
Her crystal blade strikes true, sinking right into the new ghost’s translucent chest,
The effect is instantaneous as always. The new ghost’s body begins to glow, sad blue shade giving way to a more cheery cerulean. All the tension fades from it, figure shrinking into itself. Claw-like nails return to normal, tear stains fading, and eyes losing their horrifyingly distorted quality.
Ethel steps back, withdrawing her sword. She sways on unsteady, tired feet, trying to blink away the fog and dizziness that comes with exhaustion and the first stages of death. Exhaustion sets in even faster and she crashes to the ground, pain sparking up her knees as they hit the asphalt.
The new ghost tilts its head, curious about the winged being dying before it.
A lover of epics and legends, Ethel thinks back to the tale of Icarus, marvels at how the Roman poet, Ovid, would describe her in his Metamorphoses.
Would I be a fallen angel? The Ghost Girl muses as her vision begins to blur. Or would I be an ambitious fool who’s ego couldn’t handle the reality of her own limitations?
Distracting oneself from one’s impending death by mentally recounting famous Greek myths is a rather foolproof strategy, Ethel learns as her blood pools onto the street, collecting in little puddles in between the thin cracks of the road. She falls forward, cheek slamming against the unforgiving surface, brain rattling in her skull.
If nothing else hurt, if she weren’t more than halfway to having another Tally under her name, she’d whimper at the crunch in her cheekbone. She’d shake her head fiercely, surely giving herself even more of a concussion, just to force some clarity back behind her eyes.
The new ghost has calmed down, though, and Ethel doesn’t have the strength to fight any longer, so she lets go, succumbing to the cold and comforting embrace of death.
Far, far away, in an office in the sky, Mother Nyx scowls as she inks a sixth Tally under one of her student’s names. Ethel. Name scrawled in the kind of classy cursive only queens could have, six straight lines underneath.
And though she knows Ethel cannot hear, Mother Nyx utters a warning all the same.
“Four lives left, little one,” she drawls from her office in the stars, far too menacing for an immortal with the title of “mother”.
If Ethel spends more than a minute with a still heart, she’d never know.
Eyes flying open as she surges forward, gasping for breath. The mid-day sun burns her eyes and she squints, lips curled into a grimace. Eyes narrowed against the offensive brightness, she scans her surroundings.
“Uhm, hello,” the ghost says, voice soft with hesitation. “Are you okay?”
Normally, she’d lie. Normally, Ethel would paint on a smile, push herself up off the ground despite the residual ache where her wounds once were, and insist that she was perfectly okay.
Am I okay?
She laughs, the sound bitter and rough, at the pure absurdity of everything in her tumultuous life. “I will be,” she says by way of an answer. Ethel looks up at the ghost. “What’s your name?”
The ghost hesitates. “Grace. My name is Grace and I died a few hours ago.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Grace.”
Grace tilts her head to the side, the picture of confusion as long hair falls over her shoulders. “Isn’t that something you say to the family of the deceased?”
Ethel shrugs. “I guess, but it was your life too, right? You’re allowed to be sad for the life you lost.”
Something in her heart twinges at that, perhaps commenting on the irony that she was the one to say such a thing, that she deigned to speak about mourning the loss of opportunity, freedom, and normalcy.
But Grace has gone silent. “I suppose you’re right,” she whispers. “I don’t- I don’t remember much of the last hour, but I thought you had wings before.”
The Ghost Girl looks over her shoulder then, slightly disappointed by the lack of black feathers stretching far behind. “I did have wings. They’re gone now,” she responds shortly, pulling herself to her feet. “I also had a sword, but it’s gone now too.”
Grace is quiet once more. “Did I hurt you?” she breathes, shame bleeding through each word. “I’m sorry if I did.”
“You did. It wasn’t your fault though, Grace. You were a new ghost. New ghosts hurt people. I’ll be okay.” Ethel’s response is automatic, not an ounce of genuine feeling or emotion behind it.
“I’m still sorry.”
In her decades of Spirit-speaking, in her countless years of helping ghosts pass on to the Afterworld, never has a ghost apologized for their violence. Not sincerely, at least. Grace is the first ghost who’s apology manages to strike a chord in Ethel’s heart.
“If I may ask, Grace, how did you die? Who is grieving you now?”
Again, Grace goes quiet, far gentler than the majority of the other ghosts Ethel has ever dealt with.
“I died in a car accident. My best friend was in the driver’s seat, but I know she’s fine.”
“She lost you,” Ethel points out. “If you were best friends, well and truly, she’s not going to be ‘fine’ for a while- same with your family.”
A single, silvery tear slips down Grace’s cheek, falling from her chin. It fizzles out in the air before the translucent drop of melancholy can hit the road. “I had so much more time left. We were supposed to have a whole life by each other’s sides,” she sobs. “I ruined her dream.”
Ethel steps forward, opening her arms and pulling Grace’s ghostly body into an embrace. “She would never blame you. Never, never, never.” She frowns sympathetically as the young ghost trembles in her hold. “You’re a good friend, Grace, and I know she knows that too.”
“I wish I was better.”
If her heart breaks then and there, if she earns another Tally because of the pure impact those five words have, she wouldn’t be surprised.
But Ethel has to mask her shakiness once again to soothe a spirit, has to hold back the hurricane of thoughts and feelings raging in her heart and mind in order to do her “sacred” job of ferrying the dead.
She hugs Grace tighter.
“Don’t get attached to them, Ethel,” Mother Nyx loved to remind her. “You are simply there to help them pass over to the Afterworld, nothing else.”
You are not their therapist, Ethel wrote in that special black journal when she got home.
She disregards that for a moment, though, to comfort the shaking spirit.
“You are very kind,” Grace whispers, words breaking off at the end, voice too weak to handle the heaviness of heartbreak and loss. She hides her face in the spot where Ethel’s neck meets her shoulder. “Thank you.”
“If life had lined up differently,” Ethel starts slowly, “I think we could have been good friends.”
Grace exhales deeply, something sad and broken having been soothed inside her soul. Her eyes fall closed and her body begins to fade even more, figure shrinking with every passing heartbeat.
Every Ghost Girl knows what this is; a Passage.
Every Ghost Girl has grown accustomed to the sight of pain leaving a ghost’s face as they begin to pass over.
Not every Ghost Girl watches this moment of healing with envy. They don’t wonder how it would feel to be comforted in the same way, every internal wound eased with simple words, but Ethel does and it makes her feel like even more of a failure.
Ethel’s arms pass through the ghost’s body as she fades even more, fades so much she’s invisible.
Ignoring any pangs of melancholy in her traitorous heart, Ethel chants the Passage incantation, the ancient words that allow a ghost to move on to the Afterworld. Just another string of syllables she must remember and recite.
Goodbye Grace, the girl thinks quietly to herself. You would have been a great friend.
Ethel picks up her groceries and continues her walk home.
Ethel knows the bookstore like the back of her hand, could easily navigate it with her eyes closed. She’d done it once, when an old friend had challenged her. She did it flawlessly. The friend had tried it too.
They left with a few scrapes and bruises and a heart warm with laughter.
Occupying the first two floors of an old brownstone, Hawthorne’s Book Shop was kept well-lit. Every wall was occupied by mahogany shelves stretching all the way to the ceiling. The rolling ladder is creaky, but it’s fun to use. Every time a new customer walks in, Ethel has to stop herself from pointing out the little intricacies of the store.
“Look up,” she once whispered to a little boy whose eyes were already wide with excitement the moment he’d walked in the door with his father. “Do you see the birds and flowers?” Ethel pointed up at the top of the bookcases, where richly-colored wood was carved into intricate nature scenes.
The little boy smiled widely when he saw. Ethel grinned at his joy, listening as he giddily told his father to look up too.
When the two came to check out a few minutes later, Ethel learned a little more about their life simply by listening as she gift-wrapped the novel the father had picked out. He was getting it for his wife. It was her birthday. The little boy just got a book because he loved to read.
If Mr. Hawthorne, who had been unboxing a new shipment of books a little ways away as Ethel worked the register, noticed the girl slip in an extra few bookmarks into the family’s bag, he didn’t say anything.
He loved his bookstore and every little detail of the cozy space, even the too-kind employee he had hired just a few months ago.
Ethel loves it too, loves the smell of books surrounding her as she shelves, dusts, and organizes. Loves the beanbags in every little alcove of the store, waiting for a reader far too eager to read a book they’d selected from the countless shelves to wait until they’d arrived back home.
Music plays softly through speakers set into the ceiling, every single song coming off of a playlist that Ethel carefully curated.
Phoebe Bridgers croons softly as Ethel sets up the little counter at the back of the store. She sings along, words just barely discernible as she plugs in the electric kettle. Garden Song is melancholy, that’s for sure, but it’s a peaceful accompaniment to arranging and organizing all the different tea bags in the clear container, she finds.
“They’re gluing roses on a flatbed. You should see it, I mean thousands.”
She pauses for a moment, listening for the deep male voice hidden beside Phoebe’s. He starts some of the lyrics milliseconds earlier, just enough to be heard.
Ethel returns to organizing the tea bags, mentally checking off each different kind.
Rooibos, Earl Grey, Chamomile, Lemon and Ginger, English Breakfast, and Green tea.
The sound of an opening door makes her look up, over her shoulder, towards the front of the store. Mr. Hawthorne walks in, eyes crinkling as he smiles. He sets two big boxes on the floor near the register, exhaling heavily when they hit the ground.
“Good morning, Ethel!” He says, cheery as ever, despite the early hour. “How are you?”
Ethel walks over, sitting down on the floor. “Morning, Mr. Hawthorne,” she says back, beginning to open the first box. “I’m doing alright,” the girl answers, trying not to think of the faint scars on her torso. “How about you?”
Mr. Hawthorne smiles even wider. “My family is coming to visit next week. Maisie and I are setting up the house so everything goes well.” He looks at Ethel, watches as she takes out books from the box and stacks them on the floor beside her. “Bringing that box up to the counter might be better,” he suggests, gray eyes sparkling with mirth.
Stifling a groan at the soreness in her body, Ethel stands, bringing the stack of books with her. Mr. Hawthorne hefts up the box she was unpacking, it lands on the wood surface with a heavy thud, cardboard bending under the weight of the many pages.
Distantly, Ethel hears the song switch to something by Lana Del Rey. It’s too early to know which song, she concludes with a note of disappointment.
Cardboard flaps are folded out of the way as Mr. Hawthorne takes out the rest of the books, assembling two of his own stacks.
“Lots of historical fiction today,” he remarks. “Those books have been getting really popular online, so I ordered a bunch. There’s more boxes in my car, these are just display books.” The final book is withdrawn and the man drops the empty box back on the floor. “I think the shipment of Young Adult novels is set to come in tomorrow.”
The keyboard clacks as Ethel types in the password to the bookstore’s computer, nodding her acknowledgement. The screen opens to the store’s inventory logs. She clicks her way to the right page, blindly picking the first book off of the nearest stack.
The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue is heavy in her hands as she types it in.
“I think this book is my favorite,” she says suddenly, setting it to the side and picking up another one. “I just always liked the characters.”
Mr. Hawthorne looks over to see which story she was referring to before nodding thoughtfully. “Schwab has a beautiful writing style.” He pauses, contemplative. “If I recall, though, Addie LaRue is quite sad, right?”
Ethel hums. “It definitely is, but it’s sad in a way that makes you think.” She picks up the next book, types it in the system too. “I like Greek Mythology for the same reason.”
The man tilts his head, taking in this new little bit of information she has given up. “I didn’t know you like the old myths,” he finally says. “What’s your favorite story?”
“There are so many,” Ethel starts, “I can’t choose.”
She has a favorite, of course, but sharing it feels too personal.
“That makes sense,” the man concedes. He walks away from the counter, deeper into the bookstore. “By the way, Maisie is going to swing by later to drop off some stuff quickly. Do you want anything?”
Ethel shakes her head, touched by the Hawthorne couple’s kindness. “I’m good, thank you. I’m just going to finish putting everything into the system before putting everything away.”
“Bless you,” Mr. Hawthorne gushes. “I don’t know how this place would fare without you.”
It’s a compliment, Ethel knows that, but she can’t help the guilt that rings in her heart. One day, in a few years’ time, she will have to find a new job, a new place to live. Someday not far beyond the horizon, she will pack up and move, because eventually, it will be taken note of that she does not age. It will be noticed that time’s cruel hands will skip over her.
Mother Nyx will arrange a new apartment and Ethel will do the rest.
She moved to Riverview five years ago. It will likely be a year, at most, before she moves again.
Just once, I’d like to be able to truly have a home, someplace endless.
I think London would be nice. She thinks of Addie LaRue. Or maybe, New York City.
Ben Hawthorne knows nothing of Ghost Girls, though, so Ethel just smiles and feigns flustered pride. It works. She’s gotten good at hiding her misgivings. Practice makes perfect, after all.
Mr. Hawthorne turns and walks out of the bookstore. Through the windows, Ethel watches out of the corner of her eyes as he opens his car door.
Ethel continues adding books to the system.
---
The sun has passed its highest point in the sky when Ethel runs into another ghost.
The electric kettle is four cups of water emptier than it was at the start of the day and tea packet wrappers have found new homes in the trash can by the counter. The playlist has looped a few times. It’s been switched to something else, something that isn’t fresh enough in everyone’s mind to be annoying.
Ethel kneels down, fibers of her black leggings catching on the edges of the wood floorboards where her knee touches the floor. Holding back a few books from falling with one hand, she slides in five new books one by one. Already, the new titles look familiar, emerald, ruby, amethyst, sapphire, and onyx blending in with the others.
The girl rises to her feet, knees popping as she stands. Her head swims, the space behind her eyes throbbing as the blood rushes to her head. Groaning in annoyance as she rubs the bridge of her nose, Ethel turns around on her heel to go back to the storage room and grab more books to shelve. She stumbles backwards at the sight of silvery translucence, the floating figure of a ghost having startled her.
New ghosts would be violent, wandering ghosts are the quiet ones.
Under her breath, she whispers the concealment incantation.
To others, it will continue to appear as if she is adjusting the books on the shelves, dusting mahogany surfaces, anything normal that isn’t talking to a ghost.
“Hello?” she hisses, because sound is harder to hide, its fluctuations too unpredictable even for eldritch magic. “Can I help you?”
That was rather unfriendly, she remarks in the safety of her own headspace.
Fortunately, the ghost is not scared off by her less-than-warm greeting. It turns its head, revealing the face of an old man, wrinkled features twisted into the picture of melancholy. “You can see me?” His voice trembles.
If Ethel wasn’t used to the desperate hope of a wandering ghost being seen for the first time, if she was any younger, any more inexperienced, she might have cried. But Ethel is used to being a Ghost Girl, has grown into her dislike of the responsibility.
“Of course I can,” she replies. “What is your name?”
The ghost’s face falls, expression darkening with the added weight of more sadness. “I wish I had done more, had put myself out there more so people would know my name already,” he confesses, because death has a way of pulling the truth out of people.
“What do you mean?
He gestures to the books on the shelves, as if they hold the answers to everything.
“I wanted to be an author. I could have been a good one too,” he pauses, too lost in the memories to continue for a moment, “but I gave it all up to pursue a different career, one that’d make my family happy.” He smiles sadly, because such oxymoronic combinations have the power to exist in this cruel world.
Ethel knows what she needs to ask, knows what questions will make this ghost realize just enough about himself to be able to move on to the Afterworld, but it’s humiliatingly ironic.
Hesitation isn’t an approved option, so she asks anyway. “Why did you prioritize their happiness over yours?”
“Because I didn’t think I had another choice.”
I think I’m going to be writing down something new in my journal tonight.
Floundering for a proper response, Ethel hums, trying to sound contemplative instead of caught off guard. “Did you at least enjoy your life a little bit?” she tries, inwardly cringing at how pathetic it sounds.
“No.” Dejected, the ghost falls a bit, hovering closer to the floor. “There were some good moments with the people important to me, but I was miserable.”
Ethel is taken back to the memories of the people she considers important, the ones who have made her feel more seen than a microscope ever could. A childhood best friend who felt more like a sister, a group of friends in college that never failed to make her laugh, and another friend who she met later on. A partner whose love she’ll forever miss.
“I suppose people you love can always make you feel happier.”
The ghost sighs. “They may make you feel happier, but they can’t make you be happy. That’s something only you can control.” He looks at the books again, wistfulness clouding over his eyes. “I realized that a little too late.”
A dead man’s life can be ruined no further than it already has been, Ethel realizes as she prepares to ask a more personal question, steels herself against the horror of being vulnerable. Just ask.
“How do you know when you’re too late?” she chokes out. “To be happy, I mean.”
The answer is far simpler than the question, she finds.
“When you’re dead. Spend every second of your life trying to be happy,” the ghost urges. “I will simply have to exist knowing I didn’t do that.”
Ethel should be helping him pass on to the Afterworld, but she has a feeling he’d have a more peaceful time if she lets him heal with time.
“You’re okay with wandering alone? Okay with dealing with your struggles?”
He nods. “I think it’s the price I have to pay for wasting my life.”
There are more questions Ethel desperately wants to ask, more guidance she seeks, but being a Ghost Girl isn’t supposed to entail learning from the dead, that’s for historians, archaeologists, and mortals too concerned with the past.
She is neither a historian, an archaeologist, nor a mortal, so Ethel swallows down her questions and apologizes instead.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”
The ghost laughs, the sound’s bitter amusement grating against Ethel’s ears. “There’s nothing you could have done to help me, I’m afraid.”
“Well….” Ethel looks around the bookshop. Anxiety leaps into her throat at the sight of a woman walking past, but logic subdues it. She doesn’t see anything unusual. Calm down.
“Well,” she starts again, having regained the words, “You’ve already wasted your life, so try not to do the same with your death.” She smiles. “Explore. You’re limitless like this.”
A mug of hot coffee waits on the small, wood table. Its strong scent is carried into the air with the steam. Ethel breathes it in with a grimace as she spreads the strawberry jam on the second slice of toast.
She hates coffee, finds it too strong, but it keeps her awake, so she drinks it anyway.
From her speaker sitting on the marble kitchen counter, plays a slow guitar song. The girl listens closer, picking out the lyrics and trying to identify what exactly she’s listening to. After a few seconds of stillness, she recognizes it as Last Words of Shooting Star by Mitski.
“And while my dreams made music in the night, carefully I was going to live.”
In a New York University hoodie that’s probably a size too big for her and a pair of athletic shorts she’s taken to wearing around her apartment, Ethel takes her plate of toast and sits down by her coffee, taking the warm mug in her hands.
On the wall across from her, hangs a photograph.
She’d taken it herself, a decade ago. She’d taken her phone from her pocket and snapped the photo of her lover dashing across an open meadow. Their figure in the distance was blurry, but it made looking at the memory a little less painful to look at.
Mitski’s voice fades away, replaced by something more masculine.
It startles Ethel out of her reminiscing.
She doesn’t bother trying to recognize the song this time, just takes a bite of toast.
The seconds continue to slip by and Ethel eats her breakfast. It’s a sad excuse for a meal, she’d admit, but the strawberry jam is just sweet enough to counteract the awful bitterness of her coffee. Even with the added milk and sugar, it’s horrendous, but collapsing in the middle of the day doesn’t sound very appealing.
Ethel takes a sip from the mug, grimacing. Her next bite of toast acts like a chaser.
This feels awfully backwards, she laughs to herself before repeating the cycle yet again. Sip of coffee, bite of toast. Sip of coffee, bite of toast. Sip of coffee, bite of toast, over and over again until she’s finished breakfast.
Only when the song changes again does she snap out of her daze. Ethel looks up at the clock on the wall, the silver numbers, hands, and outside frame set against a white background.
To the tune of If I’m Being Honest by Dodie, she cleans up.
Ethel hums along as she rinses her plate off in the sink, watching crumbs and tiny splotches of strawberry jam disappear under the faucet’s stream of water. She sets it down in the sink, moving slowly because it’s too early for the loud sound of dishes clinking together.
The white mug she merely rinses, just enough to get the coffee out completely before walking over to her electric kettle. Socks against the gray, hardwood floor make steps soundless as boiling water is poured into a now-clean cup.
The girl doesn’t bother reading the label of her tea bag, just drops it in.
With a mug full of a far less foul drink, Ethel makes her way to her living room, sitting down carefully so as to not spill her tea.
Dodie’s voice fills the quiet space.
“How did I get here? It’s all so quick and I feel sick.”
The corners of her lips quirk downwards with displeasure. Ethel reaches into the pocket of her hoodie and pulls out her phone, quickly unlocking it and switching to her music app to change the song to something less relatable.
Before she gets to truly enjoy a second of peace, though, someone rings her doorbell.
Frown deepening, Ethel sets her steeping tea down on her living room table and walks to her front door. Because she’s heard enough horror stories, she takes a moment to peer through the peephole in the solid wood.
An exasperated groan falls from her lips at the sight of her visitor before she can stop it.
Ethel opens the door. “What on Earth could you possibly want?” she asks, every word dripping with obvious impatience.
Mother Nyx smiles. “That’s no way to welcome someone into your home, is it?” The woman’s dark eyes gleam, pools of obsidian set against shining pearl. Everything about her is flawless, from the angular cut of her sharp cheekbones to the crisp lines of her well-tailored black suit.
Mastering the art of intimidation requires you to pay attention to detail, Ethel remembers being told by the very being before her, remembers writing it in her journal when she got home.
Sighing, she steps aside, opening the door wider. “Come inside, I can make you a mug of tea, if you’d like.”
“That’d be lovely, Ethel. Thank you,” is the saccharine response.
The two women enter the apartment. Mother Nyx sits on a stool at the kitchen island, Ethel just walks to the counter to prepare the tea she offered.
Frustration boiling hotter than the water in her kettle, Ethel reaches up and grabs another white mug. She fills it silently, and for a fleeting moment, she wonders what would happen if she simply walked out of her apartment, if she spent the rest of the day in the park.
Maybe Mr. Hawthorne would let me stay in the bookshop even though it’s a Monday.
“You know,” Mother Nyx starts, a teasing lilt to her voice, “you don’t have to make that for me if you don’t want to.”
It takes an alarming amount of self control to keep from hurling the mug at the woman’s face. Ethel clenches her teeth and grips its handle tighter, watching as her knuckles turn white. “What kind of tea would you like?” she manages to ask without snapping.
“Do you have black tea, by any chance?”
Ethel doesn’t dignify the question with an answer as she plucks the tea from its container. Refusing to make eye contact, she rips the packet open - perhaps a tad more violently than necessary, she concedes - and lets the tea bag fall into the hot water.
It feels like a resignation of something when she slides the mug across the island.
The girl opens her mouth to speak, to attempt small talk, but she’s cut off.
“Let’s not bother with the pleasantries, my dear, we have important matters to talk about and I am a very busy woman.”
Is it possible to break your teeth from clenching them together too hard?
“What important matters are you talking about?”
Mother Nyx looks down at her tea for a brief moment, looks back up again to finally meet Ethel’s eyes. “You’ve been awfully careless recently.” She blows on the tea, pauses for a moment to watch how the steam dissipates. “There are six Tallies under your name- six. That means you have only four lives left.”
Ethel looks around the counter, searching for something to occupy her hands. The bottles of soap next to the faucet are far too clunky and the not-quite-dirty-but-not-totally-clean fork isn’t good enough either. She settles for a black pen, reaching out to grab it.
Click. Click. Click.
“Ethel-”
“What?”
And Ethel draws away, backs up the slightest bit because Mother Nyx hates being disrespected. She tries again. “What?”
It’s not much better.
“Ethel.” Mother Nyx’s eyes blaze with anger.
Ethel wonders if their darkness inspired her name.
“You are being entirely careless. In a fight with a new ghost last week, you lost a life. It should not have been a fight where that happened.” The woman leans forward, making up for the little bit of separation that Ethel created. “So tell me, child, what happened?”
The truth is, nothing happened. There were no true moments of hesitation; Ethel didn’t stop to contemplate everything she was doing, surprisingly.
“Nothing. Gr- the ghost was simply too strong. What more do you want to hear?”
Mother Nyx’s eyes narrow at Ethel’s slip up. “Did you learn the ghost’s name?”
“No.”
She wishes lying was easier.
“Why did you learn the ghost’s name?” Mother Nyx asks, because she’s always been unnervingly good at sniffing out her children’s lies. “You know you’re only supposed to help them pass over.”
Click. Click. Click.
Ethel wonders if her pen will snap.
“A Passage can only occur if a ghost feels at peace enough to move on. I learned Grace’s name because I thought it’d make her feel more seen!” The girl takes a steadying breath. “Wouldn’t you want that little bit of connection before you moved on to the Afterworld?!”
Mother Nyx is terrifying in her resolute calmness. “Darling,” she starts to placate, sticky sweetness in her tone, “I am an immortal, I don’t think about my death.”
I think about mine, because it’s going to happen eventually.
“I have four lives left.”
“Yes, child, and it’s a problem.”
“What happens when I have none left?”
For the first time since she appeared at the door, Mother Nyx is caught off guard. “Excuse me?”
“What happens when a Ghost Girl dies?” she tries again. “Where do we all come from?” Ethel sighs, forcing her shoulders back down. “The least you could do is answer a few questions.”
Mother Nyx blinks. She takes another sip of her tea. “What would you like to know first?”
I didn’t think it would be that easy.
Ethel’s voice is shaky, but she is sure. “The beginning; I want to do this right.”
“Alright.” Mother Nyx shifts, getting more comfortable on her stool. “You are a Ghost Girl and Ghost Girls are the daughters of the stars and the sky, made in the image of mortals.” Her gaze is piercing, impossible to look away from. “I was born alongside the dawn of humankind. If Mother Nature was real, I'd be hers. Mother Nature and Daughter Death.”
Mother Nature, Daughter Death.
Annoyance boils hotter. “That doesn’t answer anything.” Ethel draws the point of the pen across the soft skin of her other palm, watches with mild fascination as it makes its mark. “How did I come to exist?”
The woman sitting at the counter massages her temple with one hand, annoyance evident. “You and your sisters were born from supernovas, black holes, sunrises, and shooting stars- celestial phenomenons.” She blows on her mug of tea before taking another small sip. “Even I don’t know exactly. This sort of ancient magic is never straightforward.”
Ethel lets herself take in this information as she walks back into her living room, just to pick up her abandoned mug of tea, leaving the black pen behind on the kitchen counter. Her drink has cooled a lot since her last sip, she discovers with a slight frown, but the rich flavors are pleasant still, so she takes another drink.
The girl walks slowly on her way back, perhaps too wary of spilling anything on her gray floors. Her free hand finds a home in the big front pocket of her hoodie and she sits down at the island, only a single barstool in between her and Mother Nyx.
“What happens when a Ghost Girl is on her final life?” Ethel asks, breaking the tense lapse in silence. Softly-playing music was the only thing keeping them from total silence. “What happens after the final death?”
Mother Nyx’s eyes narrow, revealing more of the bronze makeup dusted on her eyelids. “The final life is the same as all the others. You don’t age, don’t wither away.”
“And the final death?” Ethel keeps pushing, staring intently at the woman before her.
“You die as any mortal would. There is nothing special about it.”
“Nothing special.” I like the sound of that.
Ethel finds herself daydreaming of that final death, of what’d it feel like to simply die instead of spending a few minutes asleep. Sure, the temporary death of a Ghost Girl isn’t actually a short nap, but it might as well have been.
Mortality teases her, darts just within her reach before scurrying back with an expression of devilish glee. To capture it would require trapping it, an arduous task.
“Can Ghost Girls only die violently?”
Mother Nyx frowns, collected mask falling away to reveal a countenance clouded with suspicion. “Why are you asking all of these questions, Ethel?” she asks slowly, warily, watching the girl’s expression for flashes of emotion.
But Ethel is too entranced by her dream of truly existing temporarily to hear the question. “Is there any way to become mortal- to be normal?”
The notion of normalcy, curious musings of mortality tip Mother Nyx over the edge. Her tranquil facade breaks, falling from her face like water sliding off of smooth stones. It’s awfully unsettling, toeing the line between scary and terrifying.
“Ethel.”
The Ghost Girl is startled from her daydreaming, color draining from her face as her eyes go wide.
When Mother Nyx speaks again, her voice is deeper, almost demonic. She sounds every bit like Mother Nature’s child, Daughter Death.
“What is it you want?” she asks, because she knows Ethel well enough to understand that she wouldn’t just ask the questions she had been without a purpose.
“I-” Ethel begins, fingers trembling against the hot surface of her white mug.
“Answer the question!”
Daughter Death, aided by pure terror, is far too good at drawing out confessions from even the most tight-lipped of people. She smiles, exposing gleaming teeth, revealing canines a bit too sharp to appear human. The grin is not genuine.
“Answer the question honestly, my child.” The words are too sweet, dripping with honey- the artificial kind that makes you feel gross.
And gross she feels. The truth is disgusting, but she shares it all the same.
“I don’t want to be immortal. I want to have a home, friends I don’t have to abandon after a few years, maybe a pet. I want to be a mortal.”
tw// war, death, blood, gore, and other potentially triggering content
For the second time that week, Zira Sevaan finds herself on the battlefield, sword straight through a soldier’s heart. She kills enemy after enemy as war rages on around her. The sounds of weapons clashing and shouts of pain act as the grim accompaniment to something even more horrid. Bodies belonging to both sides fall to the ground with heavy thuds. She realizes, absently, that the God of Death will have many new souls to add to his kingdom.
For a fleeting moment, it’s haunting for Zira to realize that only her sword is keeping her alive. It’s thrilling, though. Exhilarating, to fight and kill to the grim songs of war. A dark orchestra playing her favorite songs. The sounds of blades hitting metal armor were the timpanis. The screech of metal against metal; a broken violin played by an over-eager child. The screams of pain; the final addition to the chilling symphony of battle. They are the choir. The group of eerie voices added to punctuate the instruments.
Zira likens the soldiers to dancers in a ballroom as avoids another deadly strike.
Combat is a dance the young girl knows too well. Leaving your life on the line should not have been normal, but it was. Zira knows that her life has been anything but ordinary, but if it gives her a few more minutes alive, she’d pray her thanks to the gods above every night. War was designed to break and kill, not challenge and thrill.
If Zira dared to look away from the blade hurtling straight for her throat, she’d see that no one else was mirroring the feline grin curving her features. She stays focused in favor of living. The smirk only grows when her sword gets soaked in blood once again.
Movements swift and deliberate, Zira spins around to face her next opponent. The orchestra playing the sonatas of carnage swell as she slashes with the graceful strength and regal accuracy that only warriors in myths are said to possess. The girl does not falter, does not hesitate for even a heartbeat. For to do so would be giving in to Siles’ beckoning hands. Zira would much rather betray everything she holds dear than surrender to the God of Death. Much rather give up her place on this battlefield than hand over her soul on a silver platter.
Throwing herself to the side to evade another attack, her boot collides with a piece of armor. The girl doesn’t need to risk a glance to know it’s worn by a body that will never move again. The metal sings to her, though, and Zira knows by now not to resist a battlesong. Reaching out with ferrokinetic powers honed over years of brutal training, she makes the plate of armor into a shield just in time to save her life. She’s awarded a few more breaths for this, at least.
The woman - the soldier - in front of Zira looks as somber as the death all around. Her pale green eyes don’t shimmer with the excitement of facing a new challenge. Zira can see the resignation and resolve that seems to weigh her down with each lackluster attack she blocks. With each second their fight continues, though, more cracks form in the useless facade. Every new crevice reveals the defeat hiding beneath.
Zira has seen this expression on many faces. She has seen defeat and hopelessness darken many gazes. It does not change in death. The faces of the corpses littered around her were still contorted in faces of pure terror. Those were the ones she killed. Their blood painted her blade, splattered across the royal circlet on her forehead.
Zira spares a precious second to observe the enemy soldier’s form. Adrenaline pumps the blood in her veins even faster as she notices that the woman’s technique is breaking down with the weight of exhaustion on her armored shoulders. Her opponent, just another target to strike down, slashes viciously at the girl’s head.
“Move away from the blade just enough to not get cut. Any more, and your form will break down. You will lose speed. You cannot afford to lose speed.” Wise teachings repeat themselves in Zira’s head.
The other soldier is surprised by just how quickly Zira recovers. The girl slashes her blade, forcing the enemy back again. She is on the offensive once more, in control of a fight she was always sure to win.
“Always stay on the offensive. Push your opponent back enough to disorient them. Make them trip over your own feet.”
And Zira remembers that there is one more element to the symphony she is far too familiar with. A teacher who has guided you through the precise steps. The moves that must never be forgotten on the battlefield’s bloody ballroom floor. Their advice is absolute, to be followed without fail. To disobey would mean to fail. When it comes to the dance of death, failure means that you will join the corpses on the ruined earth.
“Above all else, finish the fight.”
All it takes is a decisive stab into an area left exposed by broken armor.
The royal warrior girl hears the same muffled thud, when her dying opponent’s body hits the ground. It is unremarkable. Unceremonious. Just another body. Another casualty in this war far bigger than the years she’s lived. Finally allowed a few moments to breathe, Zira takes a closer look at the now-dead woman’s armor. And it becomes clear that, like Zira, she was of a much higher rank than the others all around.
A badge, dented and half covered by its wearer’s blood, is set into the breastplate of the silver armor. Ordinary, common soldiers do not have a badge. Their armor is plain. Simple sheets of metal meant to provide suitable protection. The body in front of Zira, though, is the last wearer of armor etched so intricately with graceful whorls. The scratches and dents make it difficult to tell, but even still, Zira knows that her most recent kill is no ordinary soldier.
Someone else notices the body at her feet. The sun decides to betray her, shining its bright rays right onto the surface of the insignia badge. The rebounding flash is nearly blinding. A beacon to another casualty.
The soldier is shocked; eyes widening. He seems to suddenly realize, in this moment, who lays dead before him. His leader, sergeant, general, whoever. The one who is meant to guide him. Zira watches as emotions flash behind his tortured gaze. She watches as he dashes away.
Moments later, a voice rises above the din. It is commanding, firm. It grabs the attention of those it needs to. Zira notes it reminds her of thundering drums. Another soldier she doesn’t recognize yells out a command.
“Retreat!”
The ultimate surrender. A white flag in the form of words. An official announcement of giving up. The command that tells Zira she has gained ground for her kingdom once more. This battle is over now. Of course, it was always destined to end eventually.
Zira walks back towards camp, away from the bodies she leaves littered across the bloodstained earth, and thanks the gods above for… nothing really. She knows her prayers of gratitude are purely ritual, a habit picked up from the soldiers she’s spent so much time around.
Though she is the highest ranking fighter for the kingdom of Imani, Princess Zira Sevaan doesn’t call out to her own forces. They simply, perhaps blindly, follow her lead, walking back to camp. Those who cannot walk themselves wait until they can be moved on the cots stacked in the medical tent. And the dead? They will be collected and buried back home. Zira will return to her office and begin writing letters of condolence to their families. As is customary.
Paused at the top of the ridge, Zira looks down once more at the fleeing army. She has to remind herself that this battle does not matter. It is simply another stalemate. The Lazian forces have retreated, but they have not given up. Next week - or in two days time, if they are quick - they will attack once again. And once again, Zira Sevaan will look down to see the blade of her sword dipped in blood the color of molten rubies. It is the routine. The way of a warrior.
◄ ◆ ►
The water turns a murky red as Zira washes away the blood and dirt from her hands. She grimaces, trying not to think about what is matted in her dark brown, braided hair. She doesn’t touch the cuts on her face yet, saves them for later.
The scrapes on her skin should sting. Her body should be aching, but she feels no pain yet. It will set in later, when she is back home. When she is finally back in her chambers, alone, in the quiet of night, she will start to hurt. Her muscles will begin to throb and pulse with pain and every tear in her sunkissed skin will burn. But for now, she is numb. This is normal for her.
She watches the aftermath of the battle. Just below the camp, below the top of the ridge, soldiers help the wounded. Perhaps they are friends, providing a shoulder of support as the painful walk back is made. Or perhaps they are simply part of the same group. Others are carefully lifted onto stretchers. The Healers will tend to them immediately. Motionless bodies still carpet the ground. Their faces are frozen. Blood has long stopped gushing from their fatal wounds.
Later, as the sun sets, she will gather everyone to the center of camp to honor the dead. General of the Army and Princess, Zira will lead them all in a silent vigil. At first, when she was too much of a novice to lead the few minutes of mourning, the vigils would claw at her heart. Tears would threaten to fall. She has seen too many vigils, led too many, to care anymore. Now, she just appreciates the pretty sunsets.
“General Sevaan.” A voice breaks the princess from her thoughts and she doesn’t have to look to know who it is.
Zira turns her head. “Colonel Arrowood.” She notes that the colonel is favoring one leg, exhaustion drawing down the young woman’s pale features and dulling her dark brown eyes. The princess makes a mental note to reevaluate the colonel next training session.
Arrowood salutes her general, a closed fist touching the badge set in her armor, head inclined in respect. In the back of her mind, Zira wonders if that respect is genuine, or if it’s purely muscle memory, saluting to your senior officer.
Zira knows the people she’s around, knows the colonel well enough to know what her next question means.
“May I offer my thoughts about the battle, General?”
Here, on the outskirts of a battlefield, the royal circlet on the Sevann girl’s head means nothing. Here, she is only a general. Perhaps that is why she likes it better here, anyway.
“You may.”
The Colonel hesitates before she speaks, perhaps finally sensing the gravitas of her previous words. She measures the severity of her next ones too. “You have caused a problem, General.”
Caught off guard, Zira arches an eyebrow. Only seventeen, she is too used to all variations of confrontation, but this bold accusation is surprising. The girl almost doubts her own ears. She keeps her face impassive, however.
It is both brave and foolish, the way Colonel Arrowood continues to speak.“Your actions will have diplomatic repercussions.”
It doesn’t take long for Zira to connect the dots and conclude that the colonel is talking about the woman- the soldier she just killed. The enemy are never people, she has to remind herself. To recognize your opposition as a person is to weaken you. She knows that weakness is failure. Everyone knows that failure leads to death.
“You killed a general.”
“I will deal with it.”
The Colonel still speaks freely, her authoritative and reserved tone having faded with every daring word she speaks. Her stiff movements have become more relaxed. “Her Majesty will not be pleased.”
From years of practice, Zira has learned how to speak clearly through gritted teeth. How to quickly relax tensed limbs, as well. “Her Majesty should be grateful that I will be the one tending to such a pressing issue.”
The colonel takes a step too far, always one to push the boundaries set against her. “She would also punish you for your insolence.”
“Just as I should do to you, Colonel.” Zira takes a step forward. The colonel takes a step back, purely out of reflex and that reflex gives the princess all the edge she needs. Fear is a powerful tool and she uses it well. A tense silence hangs in the air as the world seems to wait for her next words.
“I want a status report delivered to me before sunset. Casualties, injuries, and supply index.” The years working beside the queen have given Zira countless opportunities to use the cold, authoritative voice she hears so often.
The princess turns around sharply to leave before she can receive any form of protest once more. Internally, she curses at the sharp pain that explodes in her ankle with the abrupt movement. But Zira has never been one to show weakness, so she grits her teeth and walks as if the world will always bend to her will.
She walks past the medical tent, not even sparing it a glance.
The general walks right to her own tent, letting the sounds of the busy camp drown out her thoughts. Pained groans and cries are not muffled by the canvas flaps that serve as walls. Orders whispered from inside reach her ears as well. Commands to fetch clean water, fresh bandages, supplies for sutures.
The inside of Zira’s tent, like all the others, is boring. It is bigger, but no more decorated. War is not a place for luxury. She has a small cot and a place to put my armor and weapons, just like every other higher-ranked officer.
Tables and chairs for meetings occupy the extra space. Maps, scrolls, letters and extra daggers lay strewn about on the wooden surface. Metal pieces for planning are almost hidden by the papers. She sweeps them all off of the table and into the large chest they were first taken out of.
Zira turns around at the sudden sound of footsteps. Her brown eyes catch on the pale blue armband on the person hesitantly stepping into her tent. An apprentice Healer stands just inside the tent flap. “G-General?” She stutters, refusing to meet my eyes. “I was sent by the Healer to tend to your wounds.”
Zira nods and sits down, beckoning the girl to approach.
The apprentice stops right in front of the general, scanning her body for visible injuries. “Can you please remove your armor?” The tremor in her voice remains.
Zira smiles, amused, when the girl begins to fidget nervously. The princess’s lack of response is mistaken as anger.
The apprentice girl takes a step back from her patient, giving space. Zira blinks, allowing the steady awareness of metal to re-emerge from the depths of her consciousness. Using the ferrokinesis she considers to be part of her soul, Zira peels the plates of armor away from her body.
The apprentice watches with wide eyes as the armor goes to rest on the armor stand. She refocuses herself with a firm shake of her head.
“I’m guessing the blood on your tunic probably isn’t yours,” the Healer-in-training muses, hazel eyes scrutinizing every bloodstain on the princess’s white tunic. The particularly dark crimson spot near the collarbone catches her attention.
Zira offers a miniscule nod. “Most of it is not. I have a small gash on my shoulder.”
The general tenses out of instinct when soft fingers graze her skin, pulling aside the neckline of her pale garment. When those same fingers ghost over the still-gushing wound, Zira hisses.
The apprentice reaches into the leather satchel slung across her body, pulling out supplies that she lays on the table. Strips of cloth, a flask of water, a metal tin, bandages, and a small box. The princess wonders what’s inside, curiosity never failing to pull at the threads of her thoughts.
“Are there no actual Healers that can attend to me?” Zira demands when the girl removes a needle and spool of thread from the small box. The question is spoken under the guise of anger and disdain, anything to mask the fear roiling inside of her.
She already hates the tapestry of scars marring her skin. Everything sounds like just a small price to pay in exchange for less time hating herself in front of the mirror. Zira hates too many things about herself, but it’s impossible not to when everyone else hates those same things too.
The apprentice Healer flinches. “N-no, General. I’m sorry. They are all busy tending to the soldiers in critical condition. But I can absolutely call one of them over if you want me to.”
Zira makes a mental note to ask the queen about deploying more Healers to the battlefronts. “That will not be necessary, thank you.”
Her open skin stings when the wet towel makes contact. The apprentice winces at her reaction, tense frame betraying her fear. She takes the needle and thread and prepares to suture the wound.
“This is going to-”
Zira does not take kindly to being patronized. She snaps back a harsh interruption. “I have gotten stitches many times before. Just get it done.”
The apprentice Healer nods nervously, positioning herself next to Zira’s arm. With a steadying deep breath, she grabs the princess’s shoulder firmly with one hand. Zira feels the first prick as the other girl stabs my skin with the needle. Feels the pull as the sides of the wound are pulled together.
Zira tenses again at the sound of footsteps.
“Name and rank,” She calls out to the person standing outside. The apprentice freezes, resting her hands in her lap as she waits. Only one stitch is done, her job far from finished.
“Sergeant Reznor. I have the status report the Colonel told me you requested.”
“You may enter.”
A young man enters the general's tent. His eyes flicker to the apprentice Healer at Zira’s side, the neckline of her tunic pulled off of her shoulder, the partially-stitched wound. “I can… come back later if right now isn’t convenient.”
Zira waves him off, “No need. The report is important.” She signals to the apprentice that she can continue her work. The needle pricks the princess’s skin again.
Sergeant Reznor begins his status report. “We deployed 500 soldiers in today’s battle. Eighty-six died on the battlefield. Nineteen are in critical condition with very slim chances of survival. One hundred and fifty more are eligible for medical attention. The remaining two hundred and forty are fit for combat.”
The numbers are more promising than the last battle. Some of the tension in Zira’s chest fades with that little bit of reassurance.
“Very well. What about supplies?” The royal general asks, ferrokinetic powers itching to stop the needle from puncturing skin over and over. The apprentice girl finishes stitching up her patient. She quietly puts the supplies away in the little box and grabs the bandages.
“We will need to replenish our supply of arrows, shields, and various armor plates.” The sergeant thinks for another moment, recalling all of the information. “Also, you have received mail from Her Majesty.” He pulls out an envelope which he walks over to hand to Zira. The royal seal stares back at her; sword and antlers set into the red wax.
As the apprentice wraps her patient’s shoulder in bandages, Zira slips her finger under the top flap of the envelope and breaks the seal. She forces down her own dread of reading the queen’s letter.
The princess’s name and titles are printed on the top line, scrawled in familiar cursive. Zira unfolds the letter, looks it over. She sees only three paragraphs of words and finds that strange. The queen doesn’t send letters while her daughter is deployed unless it is deemed absolutely necessary. Zira knows whatever’s in the letter is urgent. Dire, even.
She reads on as the Sergeant waits. The tone-less words elicit no reaction from their recipient. The letter is refolded and returned to its envelope moments later.
“Her Majesty has requested that I return to the palace as soon as possible. I must attend an important meeting tomorrow morning.” Zira stands up as soon as the apprentice Healer steps back, fixing her tunic. “I will leave as soon as we end the vigil. Tell Colonel Arrowood that I will need her to return with me as well.”
The apprentice bows her head to me before scurrying out. Zira rolls my shoulder - forward, back, forward, back - testing it out. The muscle burns, but the stitches hold strong. The girl did her job.
“Is there anything else you need, General?” The Sergeant asks his superior. “The sun is just beginning to set. The vigil will begin in mere moments, we just need you.”
Zira summons her sword in its scabbard and fastens it to her waist. “That will be all for now, Sergeant. You may return to your team.” He salutes and turns to leave her tent. She follows right behind him as he opens the tent flap and walks out into the camp. The bottom edge of the sun has already been hidden by the horizon.
All of the healthy soldiers have gathered in the central part of camp, facing the setting sun, facing the edge of the cliff that overlooks the battlefield. Eyes snap to the royal general as she walks through the crowd towards the edge of the cliff, boots making a steady beat against the earth. She stops at the edge of the cliff and turns to face each and every one of her soldiers.
“Ladies, Gentlemen, and brave people gathered on this ground, tonight we hold a sunset vigil. A silent ceremony honoring those who gave their lives today on the battlefield just below this cliff. Join me in taking a knee as we remember our fellow soldiers.” Zira knows this script by heart. Most of the soldiers do too, she’d bet.
The general draws her sword and stabs it into the earth, before taking a knee and bowing her head towards the hilt. A chorus of metal clinks, crude bells, as every soldier takes a knee, heads bowed. The sky turns to scarlet as everyone stays silent. Some close their eyes. Others let their tears fall to the earth. Tears stain the earth differently than blood, Zira muses.
They wait in silence until the sun disappears from the sky, leaving it an inky purple. Heads lift from their bowed positions. Everyone rises to their feet, returning to whatever they were doing before the vigil began.
Zira returns to her tent and begins gathering everything for the journey back to the palace. She rolls up all of the maps and slides them into map cases. Moving hastily, she packs her armor and extra weapons before walking towards the transport car that waits at the edge of camp. Other soldiers will load her things into another vehicle.
Colonel Arrowood is already waiting next to the transport. She salutes as soon as she sees Zira, snapping to attention. “General, are you ready to leave?”
The princess nod wordlessly at the Colonel and steps inside the vehicle. She follows and closes the door. As soon as both women fastened into the seats, the hulking transport vehicle takes off. Back towards the palace, towards the queen, towards Zira’s… home.
Hills flash by as the party drives past. Soon, houses dot the landscape. The transport moves swiftly, making quick work of the ground it needs to cover. Zira lets herself look out the small windows as the journey continues. It’s nearly impossible to see the houses now, in the dark of night through the tinted windows. She can still see the moon, however, and the little pinpricks of light that are stars. The Colonel watches her general for a few moments.
“If you have something to say, Colonel, do tell. Seeing as you can barely contain yourself, it must be rather interesting.” Zira turns her focus away from the scenery, staring into the colonel’s light brown eyes will cool curiosity.
She watches as her mind visibly blanches, shocked by the princess’s sudden comment. “I was just wondering if you think the diplomatic issue will blow up into even more conflict.” She asks about the War; Zira isn’t surprised. Everyone is concerned about it, these days. Perhaps they are right to worry. The kingdom of Imani is fighting the Second Continental War, and Lazia has proved to be a much greater threat than anyone initially believed.
“It is possible,” Zira decides to admit. “Her Majesty and I will be working to make sure that any further tension stays away from the battlefields and contained to the summit rooms.”
The Imanian military force is anything but weak, though. Zira doesn’t doubt for one moment that they could defeat Lazia in war if the cautious walls of diplomacy came crashing down and the war got really serious.
“Lazia is going to put up a fight. They will demand retribution for your crime, General.”
“I have dealt with Lazia many times before and I am more than capable of doing the same again.” Zira slings one leg over the other, the perfect picture of confidence and nonchalance all at once. “Do you doubt my abilities, Colonel?”
“Absolutely not, I am simply reminding you that this situation will be a challenge different to the others that you have faced.” Colonel Arrowood speaks carefully, as if treading on glass.
Zira’s patience wears thin, fraying like old rope. “Her Majesty recognizes that I am more than capable to handle matters such as this, you would do well to remember that, Colonel.”
Colonel Arrowood crosses the line with the next words that fall from her mouth.“Her Majesty would punish you for such insolent speech.”
Zira snaps. “I have half a mind to do the same to you.” Oh, how she wishes to shut the Colonel up. “I suggest you back down or you may find your position at risk, Arrowood.”
Even before she sees the defeat in the other soldier's eyes, Zira knows she’s won. The general returns to looking out the window as the transport passes by little villages. Out here, far away from the palace, the homes are small, run down. The roofs are crumbling. The people are dirty. The streets are littered with garbage. That is life here.
Silence and exhaustion make the rest of the ride quick.
A recorded message plays through the speaker embedded in the roof of the transport.
“You have reached your destination.”
Zira steps out of the transport and pauses for a heartbeat, simply breathing as she takes in the Royal Palace. The giant structure is daunting to some, understandably. The three story stone building to ornate carvings, huge pillars, giant windows stare down at anyone who enters. She is no exception as she ascends the huge flight of stairs to the double oak-wood doors.
The doors are opened by the servants inside. The queen welcomes her daughter back with fury the next day. Maybe more, certainly nothing less.
Being a Ghost Girl may be a great gift, but with it comes a load of responsibilities her lithe shoulders feel too narrow to carry. And yet, she finds a quiet sort of enjoyment in Spirit-speaking.
“Only special people are chosen for this job, Ethel,” Mother Nyx likes to say when she senses her student’s growing displeasure. “Be grateful as you continue to carry out your duties.”
She is grateful- somewhat, at least. She is grateful for the ghosts she has had the pleasure of speaking to and for the endless stories she’s learned as a result. She harbors no hard feelings towards the many beautiful sights that come with being a Ghost Girl.
What Ethel will forever hate is speaking to new ghosts, because every conversation she’s been forced to have with one ends with a heart that’s been ripped out of her chest. When the newly-dead is particularly vengeful or angry, it ends with a Tally under her name in the book on Mother Nyx’s desk.
Ghost Girls are “gifted” with partial immortality; ten chances at life. Their tenth death is final and they are left to become ghosts of their very own. Mother Nyx, a true immortal, keeps a count of her girl’s lives. She finds enjoyment in reminding them of their proximity to death’s doorstep. The ancient woman prefers to enact her cruel teasing by leaving marks scratched in places she knows her selected girl would see.
The first time Ethel saw a line clawed into the wood of her dingy apartment’s door, she didn’t realize it was a Tally.
This time, though, is different.
When Ethel sees five lines, this time - too straight to be natural - carved into the sidewalk on her way home from the grocery store, she nearly falls, blood freezing in her veins. She nearly drops the bags in her arms in surprise, but starts to hurry home nonetheless.
The Ghost Girl knows by now that when Mother Nyx leaves her little reminders, ghosts are near. When ghosts are near, it’s her job to deal with them.
Locks of hair darker than a raven fall from the loose ponytail they were tied into when Ethel begins to walk as quickly as her plentiful amount of heavy bags will let her.
If Ghost Girls were not meant to be such well-kept secrets, she thinks bitterly to herself, I’d use my wings to get home. I’d leave before I earn another Tally.
Ethel no longer takes joy in her work, but she will always love her wings. Darker than even her hair, the feathers stretch far. When she unfurled her wings for the first time, Ethel thought they could block out the sun itself.
I could’ve saved Icarus, she once said, silver eyes sparkling with the eagerness only a child has. I could have kept the sun’s rays at bay.
In the decades since then, though, there has been no Icarus to save.
She keeps a journal listing every old delusion hiding behind the guise of being a dream.
Ghost Girls are not heroes, it says on the first page in her loopy, cursive handwriting. You do not exist to save people.
Heroes have colorful capes. Ghost Girls have night-black wings that reveal the death they all have to work with. Heroes carry noble burdens, tasked with keeping people alive and safe. Ghost Girls are servants of the afterworld itself, ferrying wandering ghosts to where they are supposed to be.
Ethel wishes for her wings as she runs home.
A few people look over, gazes tainted with confusion, for why would she be running? No one sees a predator, something chasing her down like prey, but she runs like it all the same.
Mother Nyx’s words never fail to repeat themselves when Ethel needs them least.
Do not run from a job, Ethel. If there is a new ghost, you must face it head on. Even in her head, the immortal woman’s voice carries the eternal weight it always does. You are a Ghost Girl for a reason, my dear.
But lately, Mother Nyx hasn’t seemed all that wise. Her wisdom hasn’t seemed all that worth following, so Ethel keeps running.
Her sneakers pound against the sidewalk, a steady rhythm almost faster than her racing heartbeat. Her footfalls are war drums, announcing a fight she desperately doesn’t want to happen. Ethel runs. She runs even as her shins scream louder with every impact. She runs even as the ache in her legs toes the line between pain and agony,
If a few apples or boxes of bandages fall out of her bags on the way, she doesn’t notice.
Before Ethel can turn the corner onto her street, the familiar shriek of a new ghost pierces her pounding ears.
She curses under her breath, dropping her groceries onto the pavement. The girl mutters an incantation under her breath, a simple jumble of words that hide her and any damage from other gazes.
The new ghost rounds the far street corner and Ethel goes still.
Translucent silver projections of the people they once were, ghosts are breathtaking. Their eerie and otherworldly beauty rather haunting to even seasoned Ghost Girls. Ethel thinks that new ghosts have a rather ugly sort of beauty, if that’s even a thing.
Chancing a glance over her shoulder to check and make sure that the incantation worked, Ethel takes a breath, conjuring images of great birds to her mind and calling upon the eldritch power burrowed deep in her gut.
Ravens, eagles, vultures, and flocks of starlings flying in impressive formations.
Ethel exhales deeply, the corners of her lips turning upwards at the faint sound of feathers flapping behind her. She doesn’t dare look back, not yet, not until she knows her wings are ready to carry her into the sky.
I may never save Icarus, but that doesn’t mean I can’t become him.
With a war cry loud enough to shake the cruel world, Ethel shoots forward, black feathers carrying her farther than her tired legs ever could.
The new ghost whirls around, its grotesquely twisted face right in view. Eye sockets stretched downward with distress, and cheeks streaked with permanent tear stains, irises red with new-ghost-rage.
Swallowing any terror threatening to freeze in her veins, Ethel draws out an old fountain pen from a hidden pocket in her shirt and mutters its incantation. A crystal blade appears in her hand the second she finishes the last syllable.
Ghost Girls are not heroes.
Your sword is your savior; never part ways with it, is written below the previous in the running list in Ethel’s journal.
Soul Blades should be sacred things. More beautiful than sunrises, more elegant than the most regal of monarchs, stronger than pride of lions, Ethel believes that Soul Blades should be kept in museums for little kids to gawk at, eyes wide with wonder, instead of wielded against death itself.
And yet, because she doesn’t want another Tally to be scrawled in Mother Nyx’s book, Ethel draws her sharp features into something even sharper. Countenance shadowed by fierce determination, she throws herself into every ruthless slash of her weapon,
But new ghosts are not infamous for no reason.
Just corporeal enough to cause painful damage, the ghost rakes its nails, long and sharp like claws, down Ethel’s side in an effort to throw her off. It works.
Ethel screeches, scrambling backwards, giving herself a few heartbeats to breathe. She looks down at her abdomen, at the blood welling up from the deep wound, staining her cream-colored top at the side and the collar. The garment is ruined, she knows.
Just another thing I hate about this, a voice grumbles in the depths of her mind. Yet another thing completely ruined.
New ghosts are quicker than she ever remembers, though, and Ethel’s breath is ripped from her lungs as a gash is clawed along her knock before she can attempt to defend herself anymore.
Clenching her jaw to avoid screaming in agony as the life in her body starts to ebb away her side, the Ghost Girl twists to avoid another deadly swipe before lunging, silver sword hilt gripped tightly by scarred fingers.
Mother Nyx, despite every other reason Ethel hates her, is grateful for her training.
Her crystal blade strikes true, sinking right into the new ghost’s translucent chest,
The effect is instantaneous as always. The new ghost’s body begins to glow, sad blue shade giving way to a more cheery cerulean. All the tension fades from it, figure shrinking into itself. Claw-like nails return to normal, tear stains fading, and eyes losing their horrifyingly distorted quality.
Ethel steps back, withdrawing her sword. She sways on unsteady, tired feet, trying to blink away the fog and dizziness that comes with exhaustion and the first stages of death. Exhaustion sets in even faster and she crashes to the ground, pain sparking up her knees as they hit the asphalt.
The new ghost tilts its head, curious about the winged being dying before it.
A lover of epics and legends, Ethel thinks back to the tale of Icarus, marvels at how the Roman poet, Ovid, would describe her in his Metamorphoses.
Would I be a fallen angel? The Ghost Girl muses as her vision begins to blur. Or would I be an ambitious fool who’s ego couldn’t handle the reality of her own limitations?
Distracting oneself from one’s impending death by mentally recounting famous Greek myths is a rather foolproof strategy, Ethel learns as her blood pools onto the street, collecting in little puddles in between the thin cracks of the road. She falls forward, cheek slamming against the unforgiving surface, brain rattling in her skull.
If nothing else hurt, if she weren’t more than halfway to having another Tally under her name, she’d whimper at the crunch in her cheekbone. She’d shake her head fiercely, surely giving herself even more of a concussion, just to force some clarity back behind her eyes.
The new ghost has calmed down, though, and Ethel doesn’t have the strength to fight any longer, so she lets go, succumbing to the cold and comforting embrace of death.
Far, far away, in an office in the sky, Mother Nyx scowls as she inks a sixth Tally under one of her student’s names. Ethel. Name scrawled in the kind of classy cursive only queens could have, six straight lines underneath.
And though she knows Ethel cannot hear, Mother Nyx utters a warning all the same.
“Four lives left, little one,” she drawls from her office in the stars, far too menacing for an immortal with the title of “mother”.
If Ethel spends more than a minute with a still heart, she’d never know.
Eyes flying open as she surges forward, gasping for breath. The mid-day sun burns her eyes and she squints, lips curled into a grimace. Eyes narrowed against the offensive brightness, she scans her surroundings.
“Uhm, hello,” the ghost says, voice soft with hesitation. “Are you okay?”
Am I okay?
Normally, she’d lie. Normally, Ethel would paint on a smile, push herself up off the ground despite the residual ache where her wounds once were, and insist that she was perfectly okay.
She laughs, the sound bitter and rough, at the pure absurdity of everything in her tumultuous life. “I will be,” she says by way of an answer. Ethel looks up at the ghost. “What’s your name?”
The ghost hesitates. “Grace. My name is Grace and I died a few hours ago.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Grace.”
Grace tilts her head to the side, the picture of confusion as long hair falls over her shoulders. “Isn’t that something you say to the family of the deceased?”
Ethel shrugs. “I guess, but it was your life too, right? You’re allowed to be sad for the life you lost.”
Something in her heart twinges at that, perhaps commenting on the irony that she was the one to say such a thing, that she deigned to speak about mourning the loss of opportunity, freedom, and normalcy.
But Grace has gone silent. “I suppose you’re right,” she whispers. “I don’t- I don’t remember much of the last hour, but I thought you had wings before.”
The Ghost Girl looks over her shoulder then, slightly disappointed by the lack of black feathers stretching far behind. “I did have wings. They’re gone now,” she responds shortly, pulling herself to her feet. “I also had a sword, but it’s gone now too.”
Grace is quiet once more. “Did I hurt you?” she breathes, shame bleeding through each word. “I’m sorry if I did.”
“You did. It wasn’t your fault though, Grace. You were a new ghost. New ghosts hurt people. I’ll be okay.” Ethel’s response is automatic, not an ounce of genuine feeling or emotion behind it.
“I’m still sorry.”
In her decades of Spirit-speaking, in her countless years of helping ghosts pass on to the Afterworld, never has a ghost apologized for their violence. Not sincerely, at least. Grace is the first ghost who’s apology manages to strike a chord in Ethel’s heart.
“If I may ask, Grace, how did you die? Who is grieving you now?”
Again, Grace goes quiet, far gentler than the majority of the other ghosts Ethel has ever dealt with.
“I died in a car accident. My best friend was in the driver’s seat, but I know she’s fine.”
“She lost you,” Ethel points out. “If you were best friends, well and truly, she’s not going to be ‘fine’ for a while- same with your family.”
A single, silvery tear slips down Grace’s cheek, falling from her chin. It fizzles out in the air before the translucent drop of melancholy can hit the road. “I had so much more time left. We were supposed to have a whole life by each other’s sides,” she sobs. “I ruined her dream.”
Ethel steps forward, opening her arms and pulling Grace’s ghostly body into an embrace. “She would never blame you. Never, never, never.” She frowns sympathetically as the young ghost trembles in her hold. “You’re a good friend, Grace, and I know she knows that too.”
“I wish I was better.”
If her heart breaks then and there, if she earns another Tally because of the pure impact those five words have, she wouldn’t be surprised.
But Ethel has to mask her shakiness once again to soothe a spirit, has to hold back the hurricane of thoughts and feelings raging in her heart and mind in order to do her “sacred” job of ferrying the dead.
“Don’t get attached to them, Ethel,” Mother Nyx loved to remind her. “You are simply there to help them pass over to the Afterworld, nothing else.”
You are not their therapist, Ethel wrote in that special black journal when she got home.
She disregards that for a moment, though, to comfort the shaking spirit.
“You are very kind,” Grace whispers, words breaking off at the end, voice too weak to handle the heaviness of heartbreak and loss. “Thank you.”
“If life had lined up differently,” Ethel starts slowly, “I think we could have been good friends.”
Grace exhales deeply, something sad and broken having been soothed inside her soul. Her eyes fall closed and her body begins to fade even more, figure shrinking with every passing heartbeat.
Every Ghost Girl knows what this is; a Passage.
Ethel’s arms pass through the ghost’s body as she fades even more, fades so much she’s invisible.
Ignoring any pangs of melancholy in her traitorous heart, Ethel chants the Passage incantation, the ancient words that allow a ghost to move on to the Afterworld. Just another string of syllables she must remember and recite.
Goodbye Grace, the girl thinks quietly to herself. You would have been a great friend.
Ethel picks up her groceries and continues her walk home.
character's present: Zira, Ivy
tw:: n/a (in my opinion)
“Do you think I’m selfish?” Zira asks suddenly, breaking the silence far too brutally.
Ivy hesitates before she answers, for she is still used to weighing her words before responding to a princess. Zira is not a princess anymore, and Ivy can speak freely, so she does.
“Yes.”
Zira nods, a soft smile playing with the corners of her lips. “I agree,” she says, much softer compared to the question seconds before.
Confusion carves Ivy’s countenance, furrows her brows, makes her frown. Surprise hides behind her eyes, because she thought Zira was prideful, too prideful to admit to having a flaw.
“If you knew, then why’d you ask?”
Zira smiles, satisfaction behind it. “Because it’s nice to know that I’m right about who I am, sometimes.”
Because I thought I had lost that sense of self, goes unsaid. Because I'd rather know I'm not a good person, then be a fool and believe myself to be kind.
Ivy knows that Zira is fed up with being told lies about herself, of having her independence stripped away.
character present: Zira, Ivy
tw: death mention, heart attack mention
“Your father,” Ivy begins timidly, and Zira finds herself grateful that the redhead didn’t reduce him to just a king. “Did he really die from a heart attack?”
Zira sighs. “Yeah.” She wants to say more. She doesn’t know what she’d say, though. Doesn't know how to convey years of grief.
Ivy just blinks, momentarily speechless. “I always- I always thought that was just a coverup, that something else happened and you royals just didn’t want us citizens to know.” She plays with the fraying edges of her sleeve, fingers shaking with anxious energy.
“It seemed crazy,” she continues, “to think that a king–” There it is. “–could die because of something so… simple.”
Bitterness and pain sharpen Zira’s voice, giving each word more purpose than a dagger, more power than poison. “Believe me, Ivy, I still can’t believe it sometimes.” The girl clenches her jaw as a violent shudder wracks her body, as if punishing her for her vulnerability.
“He was my dad.” Another tremor shakes Zira’s shoulder. “Everyone always said he had a heart of gold.”
That precious kindness was not supposed to fail him.
