Rassilon leans over the claw foot tub and strokes the Flesh coated form of his wife, adjusting her wrist just so against the silver side, rubbing the fingers to bring the fires of life to the surface of her white skin.
“Soon, my love, soon,” he crows, rolling up his sleeves and kneeling, “you and I will be together again, under this sky, our descendants’ sky. And they will all kneel.”
“No my love, they will not.”
Her voice issues forth, surprising him.
Her fingers shift beneath his, snaking over his arm in entrapping vines, enveloping his shoulders, entwining his spine. Curving along the base of his strong neck.
“We are the Pythia, and you have stolen Our death from Us, Beloved,” she sings, mimicking the chorus of the Flesh, “There will be repercussions, in the afterglow. But for now,” she breathes, as alabaster tears flow down her marble cheeks, “The coin has been tossed into the sea, my love. Let us be together here. Now.”
Her hand sinks into his chest. He gasps, coughing as blood pours down his throat and dribbles over his lips in a fine, thick red wine. As his life spills away, his surprised gaze melts into something resembling a smile, and his body relaxes.
Tircosieljarminyaebim looks up, her white eyes casting into the corners of the room.
“Come out, daughters,” she calls, holding out a hand to the shadows, “I have something for you.”