He felt the stiffness that had taken over her body as his thumb softly brushed her cheek, and then a hitched breath escaped his nostrils. The weight of death began to alter her, but he still saw her as beautiful as ever. He continued to gaze at her—as he had in the past days— maintaining the faint hope that she would awaken and tell him that it had all been nothing more than a terrible dream.
Yet, her lips didn’t move.
Her face remained still.
Her body showed no movement. There was only deathly stillness.
The last of her blood faded from his system, yet the magic of their bond remained, a living presence inside him. The bond’s constant demand for Charisma’s blood caused him an agonizing open wound he couldn’t heal because she was no longer alive. The gods involved in a bonding ritual suffered a distinct consequence when a bond was dissolved by something other than the magic that created it. And that was eternal pain.
That specific page, detailing this information, remained unseen by Charisma. No. He knew that if he had shown it to her, she would have forbidden him from proceeding. He knew, from all that he’d learned about her, that for her, her own well-being would never come at the expense of others.
“. . . Eros?”
Although he heard Artemis’s soft voice, he did not turn around to look at her, nor did he give her a response. In the grips of his darkness, he was forced to remember the time his closest friend had intervened and stopped him from using the Oracle’s Stone. He might have been able to find and rescue Charisma, but only if Artemis had not intervened. The idea continued to pound and remained at the front of his mind.
“How are you feeling?” she began, her steps approaching him. “Athena and I spoke, and she believes she has a way to alleviate your pain.”
“I do not wish to alleviate my pain,” he cut it, his voice sharp.
“Eros. . .”
“Please refrain from speaking about me any longer. Should you wish to offer your last sentiments for Charisma, you are welcome to do so.”
Artemis drew nearer, her breathing becoming more measured with each step towards the stiffened body of Charisma. Eros noticed the almost inaudible gulp escape herthroat, and saw her fingers begin to twist together, a tell-tale sign of her fear that he recognized instantly.
“What is it?”
The goddess cleared her throat. “She should have a proper funeral. It’s been two days.”
No—it is impossible for me to let her leave. I cannot accept that I will not see her again, he thought, the anger building up inside him, and making it impossible to utter the words out loud.
He made a conscious decision to stay silent as he was keen on protecting his friend from any potential harm. He was aware of how he had lost all self-control on the day his darkness had come back.
“Please let her body and soul finally be at peace,” she continued, and Eros sensed her hand getting closer to his back in an attempt to touch him.
As he listened to her words, he maintained his silence and slowly leaned forward, attempting to avoid her touch. Even though he could not bear to let go of his beloved Charisma, Artemis was right. Charisma deserved a burial. Still, he was unable to bring himself to accept it.
Until now, as the situation forced him to do it.
He leaned over her lifeless body, and the scent of death filled his nostrils as his lips met her forehead. The coldness of her skin sent a shiver through his body, and a final, broken whisper escaped his lips.
“Take her.”
And the last pieces of his soul broke once more.
Fourteen-thousand four-hundred seconds.
Two-hundred-forty minutes.
Four hours.
He measured the agonizing time in increments since Artemis had taken Charisma’s body, from the individual seconds to the mounting minutes, ultimately culminating in the accumulation of hours. He had forgotten how much of his pain found solace in counting—but now that his shadows were back, he remembered.
The house seemed to resonate with the lingering memories of her laughter, as well as the playful responses she once gave him. His lips almost curved into a faint smile as he thought back to all those moments. Refusing to accept the reality of losing her, just like he had lost Psyche, was foolish of him, and he knew it. And now, the final moments with Charisma were all that remained for him.
The powerful bond surged through him, bringing back a flood of memories that he found impossible to push away. He surrendered to the magic’s desires, a passive vessel for its will.
As if succumbing to the weight of his emotions, he allowed his body to sink into the sofa, and with every breath, he seemed to absorb another dose of the sorrow that permeated the atmosphere.
