A November Witching Hour

Part IV

They had watched the elders bury her, and walk away after. She screamed for near half an hour, and went silent. He could smell her blood, the metallic scent growing stronger by the hour. It eased once she grew quiet, but after two hours she woke up. Then the smell of vomit joined the smell of blood. She started screaming again. Caedmon dragged his fingers through his black hair, and paced from one tree to another.

Cicero had told him this was necessary. She must be broken, just like he once did. Without death there couldn’t be resurrection. He had died once, the memory seared in his mind. He had been burned at the stake. But he had been rescued. By Cicero the moment before he would have suffocated. Cicero healed all his burns without giving them the profit of a single scar. That victory he saved for himself evidenced by the broken grey circle on Caedmon’s neck. She was quiet. He stopped pacing.

The others watched Caedmon in silence. They were not here to help him bear his burden, just to make sure everything went according to plan. The plan that had repeated for hundreds of years.

Caedmon clasped his hands in front of him like he was praying, resting his thumbs against his lips. He pictured his mentor, outlining his face till he could see every detail before his mind’s eye. He imagined him speaking. He heard some of their most memorable conversations again, steeling his mind to when she would wake. He looked up at the sun. Three more hours till it was dark. Three more hours till she could come to life again.

But in only an hour she woke up. This time it wasn’t screaming he heard, but singing:

“Saol na saol,

Tús go deireadh.

Tá muid beo.

Go dea.”

Her voice was barely audible, purely beautiful, and perfectly terrible like her screams could never be. He had seen her only once from afar, but his mind was like a camera and now he couldn’t delete her picture. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining what she must be feeling down in the darkness, alone.

He heard Cicero’s now unbidden voice, again. He asked if he thought the resurrection had been worth the burning. At the time Caedmon had said yes.

Caedmon ran for the tomb, his whole mind now focused on the act of lifting the stone keeping her prisoner. The others shocked stupid for a suspended moment, grabbed him a foot from the grave. Each one grabbed an arm and they hurled him backwards. She still had two more hours.

He landed face first in a pile of leaves. Caedmon stood regally, and turned to face the guardians. They flanked the stone watching him. Slowly a long knife extended out of the sleeve of the one to his right, its blade reflecting the first crimson rays of the sunset. It was hopeless. She was quiet again. He hoped she would sleep away the next two hours.

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