Of Wives and Women

“What is Mommy like?”

Caius turns to look at his daughter. She’s still tiny, but her hair has already grown like a weed, long and golden and dancing behind her as she gazes up at him with eyes equally as golden. The locks are as crazy as she is, and even more stubborn, refusing to stay neatly groomed after Cauis spent nearly an hour every morning trying to get it right. Ophelia is five now, with pale skin and curious eyes, and she’s looking at him expectantly.

“You don’t have a mother,” he answers, looking back towards the porcelain grasped between his sudsy hands. “You know this.”

Ophelia makes what sounds like an acknowledging hum, as she hops down from her stool, carrying her plate over towards her father. 

“All the other kids in class have mommies,” she says, unsatisfied with his answer. “So I should have one too, right?”

“Child,” Caius speaks disapprovingly, taking one glance at her plate before motioning her back towards the dining table. “Finish your vegetables. They’re good for you,” he says, ignoring the issue for as long as he can.

Ophelia whines in disgust but obeys regardless, skipping back toward the half-polished willow-wood table. One of the many abandoned projects Caius has had to leave behind after being left alone with his daughter. He flicks his eyes toward the food-stained bedsheet acting as a last-minute tablecloth and sighs again, feeling the golden jewelry attached to his septum flare. No child should live in a house like this; a hollowed-out home inside of a giant rotted tree covered in vines, dead leaves, and flower petals, with a million incomplete renovations. But Regan saw to it to leave him alone with their child, and Caius’ full-time job became pretending she never existed. Renovations became second thoughts compared to work and child-rearing.

“I told them that I grew up from the ground,” Ophelia says with her mouth full, legs swinging while in her chair. “But they didn’t believe me.”

“What do those kids know?” Caius scoffs, abandoning the dishes for now and drying his hands off on the brown, originally white, towel on the counter next to him. “They’re all too busy worrying over perfecting lousy magic instead of pursuing real careers. They’re idiots.” He pulls the other dining chair next to his daughter and sits before wiping the grease from the side of her mouth with the calloused pad of his thumb. The lot of them are bad influences, worrying about stupid magic tricks instead of focusing or learning to read. Ophelia would be better off if she never gained a single speck of magical talent.

He knows it’s a stretch, but he knows how the town looks at Ophelia like she’s something to be afraid of. No amount of magical abilities would change that.

“But they can all do magic Papa!” Ophelia scolds in a way only a child can, with a loud screech fading into a giggle. “Why can’t I do it too? You said I came from a big magic flower!” She throws her hands up and apart, trying to imagine how large a flower would need to be to hold her as she is now.

“Magic is hard to use,” he answers because it's the only way he knows how. He’d rather not get into how he hopes she decides never to use magic. “It takes a long time to master.”

“Do you think I could do it?” Ophelia asks, and the slight tilt of her head makes him wish she wasn’t so much like her mother.  Obsession with magic must run in her bloodline. Ophelia looks just like her too, Caius hardly looks related to her. 

“You can do anything, Ophelia.” Caius smiles. It’s the first time he hasn’t lied this evening. “You just have to work hard. You’re still young.”

Ophelia’s eyes glimmer like liquid honey, sweet and bright. Her smile is brighter, wide, and beautiful despite her missing front tooth. Caius smiles back. He can't help it; something about having a daughter breaks down a man’s stoicism. He pats her head, hand nustling her hair that sat neatly between her twin horns, still growing in.

“Go wash up,” he breathes out as he returns to an upright position. “Then it’s bedtime.”

“But I’m not sleepy!”

“Hush. You say that every night and then you’re gone in a minute. Now go get clean.”

Ophelia mumbles words of reluctant compliance under her breath as she hops down from her seat and heads toward her bedroom; a cramped hole carved in the upper levels of the tree, just spacious enough for a bed and dresser. Her descending steps are heard before she is seen, jumping with both hooves as she rounds the curved staircase, holding her linen towel, soap, and nightgown. 

“Be safe,” Caius yells toward her as she skips out the door and toward the spring on the edge of their property, a small cave hidden behind untrimmed bushes and canopies. “And wash behind your ears!”

“Okay, Papa!” The spring was close, barely a hundred feet behind their home, but he couldn’t help but worry about her. Normally he would follow her, but Ophelia had insisted that five was old enough to do these things alone.

The last five years have been stressful, Cauis thinks once he’s alone. He slumps back against the wicker chair, ignoring the loud creak as he trusts it to hold his weight. His head falls back against his will, eyes locking with the ceiling before they close, a sigh pushing past his lips. 

He remembers the day Regan left like it was yesterday.

The rain was falling hard, pounding against the bark outside that was far too rotten for Caius to have faith in its structural integrity, but it had been available and he had turned it into a home, like his father had before him. He’s alone in the house. The silence was deafening, no baby babbling, no wife humming a daughter to sleep. Instead, his wife sat still in the storm, soaking in their garden. The plants were alive and thriving, the dirt speckled with white little flowers. The rain had been plentiful. Occasionally, her silence broke and shattered into a cry, but that rain hid her tears.

Caius didn't blame her, of course, he had shed a few tears himself. Though he couldn’t let her hurt herself over something that wasn’t her fault. 

Ophelia had died a month earlier. She had been taken and killed as revenge for the group of criminals that Regan had arrested, and she was buried under the garden. There was always a risk for a member of the Guardian’s Enforcers, but they had never expected this. Caius had been the one to lay Ophelia to rest – Regan couldn’t bear to watch. Caius had tried to erase his mind of the sight of his dear daughter in that state, her short life violently snuffed before it had even begun, but it was little use. The community gathered to give them moral support, but only a few people witnessed Ophelia’s silent service. Not even Regan’s coworkers came to pay their respects. That hadn’t surprised him.

Ever since the dirt was settled Regan had been sitting there, staring quietly at the slight mound of earth, the only sign that something that was once alive was rotting under it. New grass had started to grow, small flower buds poked from under the surface and Caius watched as his wife ripped them out with fists clenched so tight she cut into her palms with her fingernails. They hadn’t spoken more than a word to each other in days. Regan was always the one who started the conversation, the one who always had an opinion, something to say. Caius didn’t then, and he wasn’t any closer to having something to say now. He had noticed her decline since Ophelia’s birth, a lonesome, empty look behind her eyes, an emotion he couldn’t quite place.

Caius sighed and turned away from the window. He couldn’t watch her deteriorate anymore tonight. 

It had hardly been a minute then when he heard the door fly open, and several loud footsteps marched through the entryway. He turned around.

It was Regan, soaking wet and holding a bundle in her arms. He could smell the mud still, even now. The dirt under her fingernails was almost black, and thin roots tangled themselves around her arms like an unraveled ball of yarn. 

Then there was the blood. 

“Papa!” 

Caius opens his eyes. He feels his body jolt against his will, his muscles tensing as the door swings open, the home groaning defiantly around its rusted hinges like a death rattle. He only calms once he realizes it’s his daughter, long curls dragged down by drying water.

“Welcome back,” he breathes, sitting up and stretching his arms out, his back popping. “How was your bath?”

“A creepy crawly fell in with me,” Ophelia giggled, crawling up into her father’s lap. “And the water was cold.”

“Poor baby,” he smiles. Ophelia beams at him, and she’s warm against his chest as he stands up, holding her close. If he closed his eyes to focus he could feel her heartbeat, like an eagle in a sparrow’s cage. She was alive, a beautiful living thing, a shared sin. He didn’t have his wife, but he had Ophelia. 

“Can you tell me the story about my flower again?” Ophelia mumbles against his skin, yawning as she nuzzles into the crook of his neck. It’s a lie he’s told her so many times it has become the truth.

“Of course, love,” Caius says, knowing she would be asleep before he reached her room. “It was the prettiest flower I’ve ever seen.”

⊱✿⊰

It was only a matter of time before things went wrong. 

Caius was in the dining room when it happened. His sister had come to visit, a lovely ignorant woman who had driven him nearly mad already. He’d expected that his family of carpenters would have intense opinions on how he constructed their ornate dining table, but it irritated him to no end regardless. 

“And these flowers you carved,” Niav screeches, on her knees as she examines the details with her leather measuring cloth, the measurements penciled in messily along the length of it. “They’re uneven by an entire centimeter! Father would be turning in his grave.”

“It’s a good thing he was cremated then, isn’t it?” Niav’s brows are so furrowed that the veins in her forehead are nearly popping off of her skin, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if her horns had fallen right off her skull from the intensity of her glare. 

“You bring shame to the Macintyre name. Shame.”

He didn’t remember why he had even considered inviting his sister to help him, given that a scolding was almost inevitable. As the eldest, Niav had inherited their family’s carpentry business in the next town over, and Caius had thanked the Guardian every day for it. He wanted nothing to do with his father’s establishment, but woodworking was still in his veins. Niav reaches her hand out for the carving knife Caius is holding, and he tosses it to her with a huff. 

“I only wanted assistance with the staining,” he grumbles, and he can feel her eye roll without having to see it.

“Silence, Caius,” she growls back. “I will not have my niece be forced to look at your abhorrent detail work, you dryshite. We’ll get to the staining once it doesn’t make my eyes bleed to look at.”

Caius didn’t bother to reply, crossing his arms and looking towards the new carved window, larger now to watch his daughter while she played. It was to keep her safe as much as it was to ease his nerves.  Ophelia was in the yard keeping herself entertained with the doll Niav had brought her. Her tenth birthday had come and gone, and though his family hadn’t been able to travel on that day, his sister would never miss a chance to spoil her. Caius would never tell her how much he appreciated her affection for Ophelia, though.

“Caius,” Niav calls and Caius turns from his daughter. “Be useful and lift up the back legs for me.” And he did.

Then there was the scream.

It was unlike any noise Caius had ever heard. There was no animal he knew of that had a call quite like it. No noise he’d ever heard Ophelia make ever came close, even on her worst nights. 

“Ophelia!” He yells  before he even can think. The tools clatter as they hit the floor, the table falling to its side after he lets go. 

Quick flashes of horrific things appeared in his mind. A bear had gotten her, a mountain lion held her throat in its teeth, the criminals that had attacked her as an infant had returned. Every horrible outcome was a possibility for him, but it was none of them.

When he flew from the home, the blood covering Ophelia’s face made him freeze in his tracks, his eyes straining so wide he was surprised they didn’t fall from his skull.

“Ophelia…”

She turned and growled at him, blood thick like mud on her cheeks. Clots of it dropped to the dirt with a wet thud, torn flesh between her teeth. Her canines were sharp now, sharper than they had been when he watched Ophelia brush her teeth that morning. Her eyes were wild, a ring of red around her gold pupils, separated like oil in water. 

He looks down. There’s an animal below her, he can’t begin to identify what species it is ― was. The poor creature is only viscera now and it twitches as though it is still alive, its guts hanging like ribbons from Ophelia’s small hands, her fingers stained with blood. Shredded bits of flesh and fur were wedged under her fingernails, and she turned away again to continue destroying her prey.

“By the Guardian,” he heard Niav whisper, a tremble in her voice. “What is she doing?”

Caius moves to grab his daughter once his body remembers he’s not frozen, and lifts her from underneath her arms. Ophelia flails and screeches, an animalistic noise that rips from her throat and echoes, startling some birds in the trees around them. 

“Ophelia!” He yells, hoping to snap her out of whatever rage she was in. “Relax, child!”

Her gown is drenched in red, rippling down the white ruffled fabric like sunlight against the water. He doesn’t have time to lament the dress however, when Ophelia starts snapping her jaw towards Caius, trying to sink her fangs into him next. She lunges for his forearm, twisting awkwardly, and Niav screeches as she watches.

“What is wrong with her?” She screams, as if Caius would have an explanation. 

“No biting!” He scolds, fighting her small but deceivingly powerful body into the house, quickly grabbing her jaw and using his free hand to pin her to the ground face down. She squirms against him like she’s fighting for her life, and gets a few good kicks in before Caius has her in a strong enough hold to stop her from making any significant damage. 

“Caius,” Niav pleads, running in behind him, her arms flailing as she looks around for any assistance to give. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” he huffs, catching his breath. He grunts as Ophelia kicks him again, a hoove shot right in the ribs. “This has never happened.”

So they simply sit in silence. Both are too stunned to speak, and Ophelia has started to calm down, he thinks. Her breathing has slowed and she must’ve gotten tired of fighting because her legs are flat against the floor, only moving a bit when she tries to weakly wiggle from his hold on her wrists.

It’s only then, in that heavy silence, that he realizes Ophelia is crying.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, voice thick with sorrow. He can’t even begin to imagine what she is thinking. “I’m sorry.”

“Hush,” he soothes, loosening his grip and moving one hand to stroke her blonde head. “Silence, it’s alright.”

“I’m sorry,” she cries again, louder this time. “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry Papa.”

The blood on her body had smeared on the floor, a horrific scene of gore that trailed from the grass into the dining room. She had fibers of viscera in her hair, and Caius grimaces as he tries to remove them. 

“Am I bad?” Ophelia asks, and Caius shakes his head. 

“No,” he answers quickly. “It was an accident, you’re alright.” He looks to Niav, who is clearly shaken but returns his gaze. “Fetch us some water, please. We need to clean her up.”

Niav nods quickly and runs for the spring, nearly kicking the rested tin bucket that sat by the garden as she went to grab it. While she gets the water Caius helps Ophelia up, checking her skin for any injuries he may have inflicted. Aside from a few darkening bruises on her arms she seemed unharmed.

“I’m sorry,” she cries still, large tears sliding through the paste of blood on her face. She repeats it again and again, and grips onto her father’s shirt like a lifeline. “I’m bad, Papa. I’m sorry.”

Caius shushes her gently, holding her against his chest. His clothes would surely be ruined, but that was of little consequence. He runs his fingers through her hair, and kisses the crown of her head.

“You’re alright, child,” he breathes, soothing himself in the process. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” she sniffles, voice trembling as she tries to talk. She chokes on a sob and inhales sharply. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to.”

He hears the hurried thuds of Niav’s hooves as she carries the bucket inside, some water flying up over the rim and creating small puddles on the floor. The bucket makes a loud clunk as it hits the ground, and Niav turns to retrieve a hand towel from the counter before she joins the two on her knees. She dunks the linen into the clear water and rings out the excess.

“Ophelia, darling,” she hums, a motherly tone vibrating from her. It wasn’t a surprise, she had three kids of her own. “Look at me.”

Ophelia listens, as she always does. Her eyes are wet and sad, a red ring still lining her irises like a solar eclipse. As Niav takes the wet cloth to her skin, Caius examines her closer. Her eyes are bloodshot, her pupils are narrow and almost trembling. She looks so frightened, it nearly stops his heart. He kisses her head again. 

By the time Ophelia is nearly clean, the water in the bucket is red. Bits of gore float at the top, and Caius turns Ophelia toward him so she won't see it. Niav lifts the bucket and empties the blood mixture onto the grass outside. 

“Papa,” Ophelia whimpers, her skin clammy in his hold. “I don’t feel good.”

Her face is pale, and he’s not sure if the droplets running down her skin are from the rag or her own sweat. She swallows, then lurches.

“Bucket! Bucket!” Caius alerts, and Niav throws the bucket inside the house, the dented metal banging on its way to his, and he holds it up to her just in time.

He rubs her back with a grounding hand as she empties her stomach into the bucket, gagging and choking painfully, tears spilling down her cheeks. She gasps and heaves, he lets her hold the metal in favor of brushing her hair back. 

“Let it all out,” he whispers, and takes a peak over her shoulder. Her vomit is red, an acrid mixture of the gore she’d ingested, which isn’t surprising. Her poor stomach must’ve been in knots with the way she’s trembling. Her pale fingers are still stained with blood, and they tighten around the rust as another wave of nausea courses through her, and she vomits again.

“I’ll take care of her,” Niav says, nudging his shoulder as she sits in front of Ophelia. “Go fetch a doctor.”

Caius feels his teeth grind. “I can’t do that,” he says.

“Idiot, she needs help!” She pleads, and Caius’ head drops.

“I can’t,” he declares. “I can’t get a doctor.”

“Why not?” Niav yells, and Ophelia flinches. Caius flashes his sister a desperate look. One that he hopes communicates the severity of the situation.

Niav blinks at him, not understanding for a moment before her face falls. She frowns.

“Right.” 

Niav had been more understanding of Caius’ predicament, once he had to explain to her why the daughter he had told her was dead was very much alive. While she did have some horror at the situation, she held no malice toward Ophelia — it was all out of the girl’s control, after all. 

The village didn’t feel the same. They would outright refuse to treat her, he knew they would. They avoided their part of the woods like the plague, only ever stopping by when they needed Caius to fix something for them. They would only ask at night, when Ophelia was asleep. Out of sight, out of mind. To them, she was a monster, and any of them discovering her acts today would only be justified in their hatred. It had already taken him years to get Ophelia proper schooling with the other children, he couldn’t risk it.

“Am I dying?” Ophelia asks, turning to look up at her father for any sign of impending doom. He smiles at her and shakes his head.

“No, child,” he promises. “You’re just in shock. Get changed and lay down. You can rest in my bed.”

Though weak and clearly in pain, Ophelia smiles. She always loved sneaking down the stairs to sleep next to her father. Niav takes her up to her room, and Caius stands, lifting the bucket up by its old wooden handle and carrying it toward the spring. He dumps the mushed contents onto the ground outside the cave entrance, and walks in to flush out the remaining blood and phlegm with the water that pools against the rocks.

He’s unsure where the stream’s origin is, though Ophelia had asked. He assumes it’s from up north, where the earth rises and splits into jagged mountain tops and water-breathers thrive in the secluded lakes, but he had never made the trek up to check. He supposes it didn’t matter, he was thankful for the haven it provided regardless.

Once he’s sure the blood is gone he returns to the house, where Niav is tucking Ophelia into his bed. A cold rag is pressed to her forehead, and she’s still pale though some blood has returned to her face, her cheeks a soft pink.

“Get some rest, sweetheart,” Niav soothes, running the backs of her fingers over her closed eyes and cheeks, down the bridge of her nose and back up to her eyes, until Ophelia’s breathing slows. 

“I’m sorry about this,” Caius says, and Niav shoots a glare his way.

“I don’t want to hear that from you,” she huffs, standing and pulling the curtain closed that separated his bed from the dining room. “I want you to figure out what happened.”

“We can’t eat meat, Niav,” he explains. “Regan isn’t a faun, but—“

“That’s not what I meant, Caius.” Niav pinches the bridge of her nose. “Do you know anything about resurrection? About what it does to the body?”

Caius thinks for a moment. “Nothing.”

But he knew someone who did.

Once the sun set and the twin moons shone, Caius left the house. He pulls his coat tight around him; though the mornings were warm the nights could be exceptionally cold. He walks into the woods, until the house is out of sight and all he can see for miles are rows of trees towering over him and seeming to rise for miles. He walks until he finds the trees he was told to, two giants collapsing into each other, twisting themselves together with branches, holding one another in a lovers embrace.

At those trees, call for me. I will be there.

He speaks her name.

“Regan.”

He waits for a moment, then calls for her again, his voice echoing around him. He thinks for a moment that she had tricked him, that she had forgotten their promise. Then a twig snaps behind him.

“It’s been a while,” she says, and he turns. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten me.”

Regan was there, standing in the night like a spirit. Though it had been a decade she looked not a day older than he remembered. Her pale skin shimmers in the moonlight, and her cloak sways in the breeze. The red of the fabric was almost blinding. He had seen enough red to last a lifetime.

“It’s Ophelia,” he swallows. There’s so much else he wants to say, but he won’t. “I need you to be honest with me.”

“What’s wrong?” She asks, and though she tilts her head in confusion she’s smiling. She was always smiling.

“Today she…” Caius trailed off, finding himself struggling to explain it all. “She devoured it. An animal. Ripped its guts out.”

Regan’s smile falls, only slightly.

“I thought I had done enough,” she speaks, and though it seems more to herself her voice still carries. 

“What have you done?” He questions, the words thick on his tongue. They nearly choke him. “What have you done to our daughter?”

Regan looks up at him again and her smile is back. That damned smile, like she knows something he doesn’t, like she’s proud. Her hair is short, blonde strands flat against her head. She pushes a lock behind her sharp ear. 

“I did what was necessary,” she answers. “And I will continue to do what’s necessary. For Ophelia.”

“You turned our daughter into a monster.” He’s sweating. “You’ve ruined her.”

“I saved her,” she retorts, eyes so fiercely golden that it makes him lightheaded.

“She’s bloodthirsty,” he argues, shaking with the admission. He never thought he could fear his own daughter. He loved her more than life itself, and yet he shook.

“She will be fine, Caius,” Regan promises, stepping closer to him. He flinches as she reaches up to place a white hand to his cheek. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“And how will you do that?” He’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

Her smile grows, her eyes squinting with it. 

“Just keep her safe, love,” she grins. “Leave the rest to me.”

“Why can’t you just tell me?” He begs, and though he towers over Regan he feels small, helpless like the animal Ophelia had consumed. “Please.”

Regan pulls him down, always having power over him. Even now, as she holds his face and kisses him, he can do nothing to resist her.

“It’s better you don’t know,” she whispers against his lips. “I promise.”

Caius doesn’t know how to answer. He feels himself give up, his body drained, and he rests his head on Regan’s shoulder. She scratches the base of his horns, like he’s a pet.

“I miss you,” he says, and he regrets it immediately. Though it’s the truth he cannot ignore her actions, how evil she really is. But he loves her still.

“I miss you both,” she answers. “Everyday. And I know that one day we can all be together again.”

“But—“

“We will, Caius.” She speaks like her words are the law of the land. Her voice is like a siren’s, so soothingly beautiful he’s sure she will be the death of him one day. “Until then, I will continue my work. And when Ophelia comes to find me, then we can be happy.”

“She won’t,” he snaps, retreating from her hold. “I won’t let her.”

Regan places her hands in front of her. Her small frame is drowned by red, the cloak swaying like an omen. She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“She won’t have a choice.”

Caius is shaking when he returns to their home. He can’t feel his fingers as he unclasps his cloak, but he can hear Niav’s hooves click against the floor. The curtain that separates his bed from the entrance pulls back, and she looks at him expectantly.

“Well?” She asks. “Did you see her?”

Caius presses his lips together. “Is Ophelia asleep?”

“She’s out,” Niav nods. “She hasn’t moved an inch since you left.”

“I saw her,” he answers, and sighs. “It was useless though. She never tells me anything.” Niav looks displeased with his response, but he thinks that’s to be expected. He’s upset too.

“That damn woman,” she groans, crossing her arms across her chest. “She has done nothing but destroy your life.”

“Niav—“ he tries to argue, but he’s not sure what he wants to say.

“Don’t defend her,” Niav frowns. “I told you from the beginning that she was trouble. She’s lucky she’s hiding ‘cause if she had to deal with me—“

“Niav, enough,” he demands, then sighs. “Enough, please. It’s been a long day.”

Niav looks up at her brother. She’s shorter than him, but she’s older. Her eyes hold wisdom that he hopes one day he can possess. For Ophelia’s sake. 

“Right,” she concedes. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Niav turns her head to gaze out the window. The moons are dimmer, the sun peeking her head over the horizon. They’d been up all night.

“I should go back,” she explains,  placing a comforting hand on Caius’ arm while she grabs her coat that’s hanging next to his on the carved wooden rack. “Árón will be expecting me.”

“Tell him I say hello,” Caius says. “The children, too.”

“Of course,” she hums, sliding her coat on, the cool night air slowly warming the earth, pushing a comfortable breeze through the door when she opens it. “The children miss Ophelia. You should bring her to Egreine, they’d love to see her.”

“I’ll consider it,” he nods, and watches as she steps down onto the roots, which form a bumpy staircase toward the grass. “Ah, wait!” He calls despite himself.

Niav turns to him. The morning dew is crystallized on the grass, speckles of red shining amongst them. Caius swallows.

“Do me a favor?”

Niav's eyes widen at his request, and she hesitates for a moment. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

It had taken a month, but Niav had come through. Caius felt his heart pound as he heard the approaching wing flap of the delivery bird, who held a parchment letter in its talons, a wax seal of the Macintyre family crest stamping it shut. Ophelia sits in the house, practicing her wood carving at the table with a block of oak and some beginners tools. She’d seemingly forgotten her bloodthirsty tirade overnight. Or she had decided to pretend it hadn’t happened. Either way, Caius was happy to not talk about it.

“Ooh,” she exclaims when Caius enters the house. “Mail! Can I give the bird a treat?” She jumps down from her chair, clicking her hooves in excitement. 

“Sure,” he nods, distracted, and watches as she opens the cabinet where they kept dried fruits. She grabs a wrinkled plum and heads outside to feed it to the hawk. Caius opens the letter.

Caius, 

I think I found what you were looking for. You better be thankful, the Enforcers nearly caught me. I’m not sure if this will help though.

Regrettably yours,

Niav

Caius scoffs at his sister’s elegantly penned yet brief writing, but his heart continues to pound. Folded inside the letter is an old page of a Witch’s journal. Which witch it was he couldn’t say, but he hadn’t cared enough to familiarize himself with the works of the magic world. He simply couldn’t be bothered. The page is yellowed, and he’s afraid it might crumble apart in his hands. It had to be a century old, at least.

The owner of the writing and the age of the paper was irrelevant, but the content was not. And as he read it, he felt his stomach drop.

Analysis on the process of Resurrection:

This coven’s findings concur with the ruling of the Supreme Sorcerer. Through numerous trials and experiments, it is evident that the cost of resurrection is too great on a moral and physical basis, as well as directly contradicting the Guardian’s fundamental values of the lives we live. The process of resurrecting a physical body is not a single cast spell, nor is it adjacent to the standard magical practice of a spell only affecting the caster directly.

Resurrection requires numerous, continuous sacrifices of bodies greater than the spell’s host. This process can corrupt both the caster and the subject of reanimating, and there is no other way to keep said subject alive. If the caster fails to offer enough blood, the reanimated could turn into a horrible beast. Until the powers that be are satisfied with the sacrifice, the caster would commit themselves to sin, making them the enemy of the people and the Guardian.

Caius folds the paper closed again, fingers trembling. Though he’d expected as much, reading the truth was a different matter entirely. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to cry or vomit, or both. All he knew was that resurrection was taboo, it wasn’t talked about. It was easier to ignore it.

“What does it say, Papa?” Ophelia asks, tugging on his pant leg. Caius looks down at his daughter, wonders how many people have had to die to keep her alive. Wonders how many more faceless Regan would snuff out until the price had been paid.

The worst part was that, perhaps, Caius could live with knowing Ophelia could survive if those he didn’t know would be the ones to suffer. The thought burns him like the acrid taste in the back of his throat.

“It’s adult stuff,” he lies, partly. “Go back to carving.”

“When will I be an adult?” She huffs but hops back into her chair, attempting and failing to carve a realistic flower out of the wood.

How many people would have to die to give Ophelia another decade? A hundred? A thousand?

“Don’t hurry to grow up,” he scolds, like his parents used to do to him. “Enjoy every day. One day you’ll be my age and you’ll wish you could be young again.”

Ophelia giggles at Caius calling himself old, and he thinks, for a moment, that he would let the world burn to keep that sound alive.

He and Regan were both sinners. He shared the blood she spilled, though he would never know the dead’s names or faces.

For Ophelia, he thinks, as he strokes the blonde curls between her horns, it’s worth it.

⊱✿⊰