"The stories they tell of you, do you no justice, my king." The high priestess showered him with praise as she moved closer.

  Antares did not look away from the corpses, "The Church will no longer charge a fee for the dead."

  There was a moment of silence in the air as his words faded into the darkness.

  "Is this a decree, or a favor?" she asked softly.

  "Does it matter?"

  The coldness of his words pierced straight through her, her entire body shuddered at the sharpness of it. From the moment she saw him, she had held out belief that she could show her worth, that she was not like the others that had come before her. With no word of their arrival, she had little time to carry on their conversation from the castle. She had hoped Antares would see her value but most importantly; That she sought more, so much more than she had achieved. Choosing to carry them through some of the oldest halls of the church or regaling the young one and him of tales of old. Despite all of that, it mattered not. Three words. That was all that it took to remind her of her standing, of her worth in his eyes. In the shadows of the room and importantly behind her veil, a smile only known to her crossed her face.

  The high priestess bowed deeply, "By morning it will be done."

  From the darkness emerged Cyrus once more, "I found him." He wiped tears from his eyes.

  Antares offered him a warm smile and nodded in approval. The high priestess followed first and then Antares followed behind them both. It was only a short walk from the entrance, and yet still the sight of the corpses carefully placed on the stones numbered greatly.

  Long before men used stones to build monuments of worship, they first used to build tombs for the dead. The cracks on the stones were as deep as they were ancient. Death clung here strongly, in many ways, there was no greater offering than the constant intake of the dead awaiting the Weeping Chambers. Countless humans and Stygians had all found themselves here. The power that remained that congealed below here was heavy and intoxicating. As they walked along in silence, Antares ran his fingers across the stone slabs one by one. It had been long since he had been this close to death, a familiar taste sat on his tongue. His eyes gazing upon the corpses as they lay rested. Lives once full and lived, now dead and forgotten in the dark. The Stygians had prided themselves on their death rituals being far more sophisticated, but to the young king it did not matter. For it did not change the fact that the dead stayed dead. What was done to their body meant nothing to them.

  "Here," Cyrus pointed.

  They all stopped and looked over the body of Dijkstra Locke. He was frail, sickly. Mere skin barely holding itself to bone. His hair, a faded brown, eyes closed and yet still sunken. With just one look Antares could tell his death was a slow and painful one. And still he seemed at peace finally. The young king placed a hand on the man's arm.

  "I thought I told you to live a long and honor less life Dijkstra Locke." Cyrus was surprised by the softness of Antares' voice.

  "Shall we begin?" The high priestess asked.

  Antares turned to Cyrus, "May I...?"

  The question shocked both the priestess and Cyrus, for the very King of the Stygians to ask for permission so respectfully. Cyrus, still in awe, nodded.

  Antares reached over and ever so carefully and lifted Dijkstra. Had the king not been looking at him he would have thought he hadn't carried him. There was no life in the body, there was nothing. Regardless, Antares carried him with as much grace as he could muster.

  The chanting first came from the high priestess, not that long after Cyrus joined her and both began chanting in unison. Antares knew how to get to the Weeping Chambers and went on his way with them in tow. As he carried Cyrus' father, he allowed his thoughts to flow back to their last meeting, from there he went even further back to his meeting with the boy's mother. His life and theirs all entwined together, he wondered what his own people would say if they saw him as he were now; a Stygian king carrying the body of a lowly human peasant.

  The audible sounds of crying and the shortness of breath that came with the prolonged action broke the deafening silence. Words struggled to pass through the continued falling of tears, a sadness felt like no other. They had made it to the Weeping Chambers. A stone arch opened to an expansive room with nine doors carefully spread out between them. Each door was adorned with various ashen veils. Even as the light of the candles flickered, barely illuminating the area, the glow from them was not diminished in the slightest. Following the veils they reached up all the way to the ceiling, meeting in the middle. It was difficult to see, but above they converged to cover a mural of a being who was not meant to be seen. And yet looking at the ceiling, one's eyes could not help but be drawn to the very floor itself. Where here a mural of The Mother as large as it was detailed carefully sprawled on the floor.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The sheer size of it intrigued Cyrus; he had never seen a mural of this size before so close and certainly not on the floor. It was a captivating enough sight that the boy nearly stopped chanting. He found himself and continued to follow the high priestess, who had not once stopped chanting. Although he did not speak, he studied the mural as they walked towards one of the veiled doors. Tens of thousands of years had passed since the building of this room, even Cyrus could tell that much. The faded mural of The Mother was enough proof. Much of it was gone, over time due to thousands upon thousands of weary souls carrying the dead across to the chambers. But Cyrus could still gleam enough of The Mothers visage to commit to memory. He took in her hair and how it blew in the winds, her hands and how she cared for the dead all around here. But most importantly, what he did not want to forget, was the indifference to death that was engraved in what was left of her face. It reminded him of Her.

  The veiled door was slightly open and Antares calmly pushed his way through. With only a few steps they all were within the room. Opposite them sat a marbled statue of The Mother. Her face hidden behind a shawl, in her hands she held a pitcher that continuously poured sparkling water into a basin below her feet. On the walls were a language that had long since been lost to time, the first language of men. The words of the First. He could not read them, but through some way that he was not sure of , he felt the power that arose from the words. Cyrus could feel the magic, and as he continued to chant with the high priestess he grew more confident.

  Antares laid the body down on the tile floor. Slowly he took the veil off of him. Cyrus looked away, but with all his might, he willed himself to look back. This was for him. This is what he desired and so he looked at the barren lifeless body of his father, Dijkstra Locke, and spoke the words with even more assuredness. Antares rolled up his sleeves and took a cloth by the basin. He moved closer to the statue on his knees. Unsure of whether her gaze was on him or on the body that lay before her, Antares studied the statue with but a glance. He recalled a time he had thought he buried deep within himself, a time when the winds were softer and carried with them the scent of thunderstorms. He remembered as storm filled eyes read to him of the practices of the last rites. He plunged the cloth into the basin, soaking it completely in water, then he rubbed it across the marble feet of The Mother. He brought the cloth across Dijkstra's body, he hesitated for a moment. More memories wormed their way into his mind; memories filled with blood and tears. But in that moment, he felt her hand over his, like she had shown him many times before. For a moment he could see her golden hair flowing next to him. But he forced himself not to look, for he knew if he did she would be gone. She moved his hand towards the body and he began to wash him. The softness of her touch gave him confidence. The smell of the sea and cloudburst filled his nostrils. He could almost taste the past. Almost taste her again. As the high priestess and Cyrus continued to chant, Antares washed Dijkstra, softly and with a kind of compassion the young king was unaware he possessed. And so they continued like that for a time, each one of them consumed by their part in the ritual.

  "It is done," The high priestess clasped her hands together and bowed once more to the statue. Cyrus followed suit and she smiled. "You did well, little one."

  "T-thank you," Cyrus was embarrassed by her words.

  "She is right, Cyrus." Antares covered Dijkstra once more, "You have done very well."

  The boy held back tears, "So... So what now?" he turned to the priestess who had already gotten to her feet.

  "Now," she began. "The king and I will leave, and you will remain here with your father."

  Before Cyrus could ask, she had already made her way out of the chamber. He turned to Antares for an explanation.

  "This will be the last time you will ever see your father." The king placed a hand on his shoulder, "So talk to him. About everything, anything, things you wished to tell him, things he should know. Tell him of your dreams, of what you have done today. But most importantly, tell him what you will remember."

  Antares did not let Cyrus respond. The young king followed the high priestesses' example, and left the chamber. Closing the door behind him. For some time they both stood there in silence, both of them waiting keenly. No words yet were exchanged between them. And as the silence grew longer, it was broken by the audible crying of a boy who lost his father. Those wails carried with it so much sadness and yet Antares could not help but smile, for despite all of that, the love that flowed in those tears was far stronger. The boy cried on and on, with no end in sight.

  The king and high priestess soon turned to each other both finally ready to address the events of the night. When in the distance the rhythmic clanking of metal wrung out. They both turned to see a soldier stumbling out of the darkness. The man had been running for some time as he collapsed on the floor within the presence of the king. His infantry armor awkwardly held him together. He looked up to see his king staring at him unamused.

  "A thousand apologies my Lord King." The soldier rose to his feet and bowed deeply.

  "What is the meaning of this? I thought I was not to be disturbed," Antares demanded.

  The soldier flinched, quickly taking out the letter from his pocket. "My Lord King, Lord Regent Casspien commanded me to bring this to your attention immediately."

  The mention of Casspien drew Antares attention to the letter. For him to do this, meant it was of great importance. But his absence raised more questions than answers. Antares looked at the letter before taking it from the soldier. It was a black envelope with a red wax seal. He could not immediately tell where it was from, but he knew it was not from anywhere within Iliad. He reached over and took it from the soldier.

  "You may return," Antares waved off the guard.

  Without hesitation the guard left promptly. The high priestess, curious by the events, turned her attention back towards the king. His expression startled her, all night he had remained stoic as his people were known to be. So to see his face so unsettled, her curiosity only grew.

  "What is it, my king?" she asked softly.

  Antares first looked at the letter with shock but then with intrigue , "It is a letter from the Queen of the Nephilim, Enrieta Zxyphor."