FicWad

Jack is alone. No one can save him. There is a feeling of despair upon him as he walks into the Senate House. She is not there. The morning is misty and small birds are singing. Jack stands at his office window looking out over the streets of Bridgeton. He lights a cigar and drinks whiskey out of a crystal shot glass. The air is cool and fresh upon his face. The working class from Districts Thirteen and Twenty are running about to work in trades and the homes of the wealthy. He stands on the balcony and looks out across the glistening rooftops of Bridgeton. A thick fog rises off of the river. A raven calls in the mists. The dawn breaks over the horizon making the dew on the rooftops glisten in the golden sunlight like so many fairies twinkling in the early dawn. A page walks in and hands him a letter. He cannot read the seal, for the initial is written in the Demonic language. He opens the seal and pulls a letter out of the envelope. It is written in careful print, but the handwriting is unfamiliar. Jack never receives letters written in the Vampiric Language aside from Senatorial business. He leans on the edge of his desk and studies it.

“Dear Jack,

“I regret to inform you that a dear friend and colleague has passed on. Miltaedovinatulinia, or Kerrigan, as you know her, died late last night. An accident befell her during the storms. She was struck by lightning in the apple orchard and died immediately; she did not suffer. She held you very dearly to her heart, and she thought highly of your skills and abilities as a Senator and military man. She was very close to both you and your wife, and I have sent you this letter to invite both of you to my home tonight for a wake. I could not imagine a wake for my wife without you there. My wife was fond of both you and your wife, and you are both welcome to come to celebrate her life with me and the children this evening. Funeral services will be held tomorrow morning followed by a burial and luncheon. As I know that you would be traveling quite some distance to attend, I open up my home to you for the night to facilitate your journey. I sincerely hope that you will join me in mourning.

“My fondest wishes,

“Morietur”

Jack staggers backwards into his desk, shuffles around the side holding the edge tightly, and falls into his chair. He drops the envelope and letter onto his desk and, with a shaking hand, pours himself a shot of whiskey. Morietur’s letter made him honestly ill, and he does not want to think about it. Jack smokes his cigar draped in his desk chair with his head leaning back. The bell rings to call the Senators to meeting. Jack staggers downstairs uneasily and takes his seat. It is not unusual for him to stagger into the Senate, so nobody notices that he is staggering from shock rather than drunkenness. Two chairs down, Maire is crying. Jack puts his arm around her shoulders, and, as one of the Senators reads the announcement of Kerrigan’s death, she cries into his shoulder.

The meeting is postponed until after the funeral, though only the Senatorial Generals and Maire were invited to the wake, and only Jack intends to stay after the solemn, sober, ceremonious part ends. Upstairs, Jack rereads the letter in disbelief and drinks the remainder of his bottle of whiskey in an attempt to make the paper disappear. He rubs his bleary, drunken eyes and blinks twice. The letter is still there, its red ink resembling blood ever more by the second. He carefully folds it, returns it to its envelope, and places it in the interior part of his suit coat. He dons his greatcoat, which is well-suited to the early spring weather. As he journeys down to the stables, his colleagues, knowing how close he and Kerrigan were, wish him well and offer their condolences. It is not enough. It is never enough.

He returns home to Lynn, who has not heard the news. She greets him happily and tells him that Shane is chopping wood behind the kitchen. Jack solemnly marches upstairs without saying a word to his wife and dresses himself in his only pair of black suit pants and tailcoat. He returns to the kitchen and pours himself a shot of whiskey, Shane comes inside to warm himself by the kitchen fire, as the early spring air has still enough of a wintry chill that it is making capable of making a man’s hands dangerous on an axe handle. Lynn notices Shane come in just as Shane notices Jack’s black suit.

“Jack, what happened?”

“Morietur sent me a letter. Kerrigan’s dead.”

“Wha’?” asks Shane. Lynn stumbles backward and clutches tightly to the counter for stability.

“Ye heard me. She’s dead.” He puts Morietur’s letter on the table and, with shaking hands, he lights a cigar. “Wake’s tonight. Mos’ everyone’s invited what was close wi’ her. He invited me to t’stay wi’ him an’ his childer for a proper wake.”

“’Tis nearly four now. I’ll put on me black trousers. I hope he won’t mind me Aran sweater.”

“I doubt he will. Ye’ve nothin’ else.”

“I’ll put on my black dress. I have no doubt that the Banshee women will wear black to the wake. Will Maire be bringing Jason and John?”

“I don’ ken. She didn’ say.” He inhales the smoke from his cigar and exhales it slowly in little puffs. “Wish I’d’ve gone ‘afore her. ‘Twon’t be the same wi’ out her. Firs’, there’s no Hellborn Sheehan heir to take her Senate seat and generalship. Secon’, Morietur’ll not do well wi’ out his better half. Third, ye’ll be short your highest voice a’ th’ funeral. Fourth, the war’ll go t’shite wi’out her leadin’. Fifth, her da’ll take it hard, no doubt. Sixth, her sons’ll take it worse’n their da’ an’ granda’. Wi’ that kind o’ power, the rest’ve us’ll have something’ t’fear deeply for.”

Lynn goes upstairs to dress with silent tears rolling down her face. Shane returns the axe to the chopping block and sets out in search of his black trousers. Jack attempts to hitch Blaze and Inferno to the coach, but his movements, which, as a result of the large amount of alcohol he consumed, are erratic, frighten them, which causes them to rear and stomp their hooves. Blaze knocks Jack down, and he hits his head very hard. He does not awaken until Lynn is bandaging it, by which time, Shane has hitched the horses up to the carriage. Jack clambers inside, and Lynn gracefully follows him. Shane then closes the door and swings into the driver’s seat.

They are the first to arrive at Morietur’s house except his immediate family. The first part of the wake is sober and silent. The women are crying and keening, and the men look awkward in suits that do not fit their characters. Morietur is wearing a stiff, formal tuxedo and a black capelet around his shoulders. Normally, he wears a long, black housecoat. The Devil, like Jack and Morietur, is wearing tails, though he looks less stiff and awkward. He is not a big man. He is, in stark contrast to his tall, muscular sons, short and slight. Pride, who has skin and hair as black as coal and vibrant, violet eyes, is wearing a black tunic and toga trimmed with gold. He ends up sitting with Julius Invernus, a Vampirc Senatorial General like Jack, who is wearing a plain black tunic and toga. Jack carefully avoids them, since Jack and Julius rarely, if ever, agree and find each other to be obnoxious. Jack’s wife Lynn sits with his ex-wife Mire and a fellow half-Banshee half-Demon named Kitty O’Neill, who, according to Lynn, is also the middle child of the Second Circle of Hell and the epitome of Envy. Another Banshee, Katy O’Grady, was unable to attend. Greed, Sloth, and Gluttony, as well as one of Morietur’s brothers, refused to attend, Jack’s brothers, Sean and Seamus, are sitting with Kerrigan’s first four sons. Some of her children live too far away to attend, but the enormous ground floor of Morietur’s castle is bustling with friends and relatives. Marduk, Ranrok, and Arimanthia stand detached from the group. They were not fond of Kerrigan, but they feel the need to pay their respects.

Dinner is served in the enormous dining room with its highly polished, black marble floor and walls that are half highly polished cherry wood and half highly polished, black marble. The silver chandeliers, sconces, candelabra, and candle-holders all bear black candles to commemorate the passing of the lady of the house. The guests eat a lavish meal of seven courses. First there is a winter squash soup, then a roasted duck, then grilled salmon with lemon and capers, then filet mignon with mushrooms, and a dessert of lavishly arranged fruit with chocolate and cream in which to dip it. Morietur walks down the table and personally hands Jack a bowl of very ripe, red strawberries and a dish of sweet whipping cream.

“My wife hath told me only recently that thou lovest strawberries and cream.”

“Thankee, sor.”

“I doth wish to speak with thee privately tonight after the women have gone home or to bed and the men who shalt stay are mostly asleep from the drink.”

“Aye, sor.”

Morietur resumes his place at the head of the table. Despite the large number of very dignified guests, Jack is seated far above the middle of the table. He does not drink wine. Julius is thoroughly enjoying watching Jack gingerly attempt to drink the wine served with every course. The port with the soup hardly bothers him, but the red wine served with the duck is not at all to his taste. To his surprise, he enjoys the white wine served with the salmon, but he chokes on the red wine served with the steak. The dessert is served with strawberry wine, which is the only wine he has ever sought. The entire group returns to the parlor after dinner. Jack approaches the coffin alone. The coffin is one which should belong to a child. Due to Kerrigan’s small stature, an adult coffin would be highly impractical. He hesitates. He has been to many wakes and seen many dead bodies between his two lives on Earth and his existence in Hell, but he cannot prepare himself to see her dead. He takes a deep breath and steps forward. He has seen far grimmer sights. He has seen boys hardly old enough to plough a field chopped to pieces in battle and women and children brutally ravaged and murdered in their homes in revenge for the rebellious actions of their husbands and fathers. Kerrigan appears unharmed. She is wearing her wedding dress, and her hair is arranged ornately. She does hot look like a corpse. Her skin is very pale, but that is normal for her. Jack can see her breathing. He walks over to the Devil and Morietur who are speaking in archaic Demon. The Devil can adjust his speech in order to communicate more easily with everyone around him. To Kerrigan, he always sounded very proper. To Morietur, he always spoke archaically. To Jack, he has always seemed to have a slight brogue.

“I don’ think she’s dead,” says Jack.

“Trust me, Jack, for I doth know a dead body when one appeared in front of me,” replies Morietur.

“But I saw her breathin’!”

“Doubtful, son,” says the Devil. “How much have ye been drinking?”

“Not too much, sure, wine’s hardly alcohol.”

“To humor ye, we’ll come and look.”

They approach the casket. Neither Morietur nor the Devil see her breathing. Jack does. He touches her hand. It feels cold, but she squeezes his hand. He touches her cheek, and it is warm. He asks Morietur to touch it, but he does not feel the warmth. Soon the alcohol is served and most of the guests return home. Jack, the twins, the Horsemen, Kerrigan’s twin sons, the Devil, and Morietur remain. Jack asks Death about Kerrigan’s state of being. Death ensures Jack that her soul was reaped and that she is very definitely dead. Death then consumes a few shots and passes out. His father and grandfather carry him upstairs to bed personally. Death wears a tophat and tails and has his mother’s paper-white skin. His eyes are black from end to end with no whites, and his hair is long and black and sticks up at all angles. Due to his hair, his exact height remains unknown even to him. Famine, who has blood-red eyes similar to Death’s, waist-length black hair, and the pale skin shared by his mother and brothers, is not much of a drinker, so he soon goes upstairs to sleep. War dozes on a table. He has his father’s shoulder-length red hair, but his blue eyes are like those of Death and famine. The Devil helps War upstairs. Pestilence lasts longer than his brothers. His hair is shoulder-length and white, and his eyes, which are also white, are like those of his brothers, as is his paper-white skin. He grows weary after War goes to bed and stumbles upstairs alone.

Kerrigan’s twin sons both look very much like their mother. They have her pale skin and black-and-white-striped hair, but they have their father’s blue eyes and stature. They sit alone and drink ridiculous amounts of alcohol very quickly. Jack’s brothers drink for a while and leave for home. Kerrigan’s twins take a last look at their mother and leave together. Soon, only Jack, Morietur, and the Devil are left. The Devil bids his son and the Senator a good night and departs for his castle on the same street. Jack timidly walks over to Morietur.

“Ye wanted a word wi’ me?”

“I doth.”

“Thankee for the strawberries an’ cream, by the way.”

“’Tis no problem. I am a fan of apples myself.”

“So, what was it ye wanted to talk about?”

“First, I hath heard about thy oratory prowess. I doth ask of the to make a speech at tomorrow’s funeral.”

“Sure. ‘Tis no problem.”

“There existeth an old Demon tradition that someone layeth in bed with the corpse the night before the funeral. I hath bid her my own fondest farewell already, however thou hath not, therefore, I asketh thee to lie with her.”

“Ye trust me wi’ that?”

“She is dead. What harm couldst thou do?”

“An’ the coffin?”

“Stayeth here. For a vampire, thou detesteth coffins far too much.”

“Right, so, but for a general and a father, I’ve a proper fear o’ them.”

“Indeed. I shalt bear her unto thy room.”

Morietur brings the corpse of his beloved wife upstairs and shows Jack the room. He informs Jack that he will remain downstairs on the parlor sofa, for he has yet to be able to sleep in the bed he once shared with his wife. Jack continues drinking alone with Kerrigan’s corpse. He says a toast as he grows weary and lies down next to her. For a moment, he rests his head upon her chest and hears a heartbeat. He runs donw to Morietur with her necklace, which is warm from pressing against her flesh. Morietur tells him that it is as cold as ice and that the drink has gotten the better of him. Morietur offers him another drink and the two men sit alone in the parlor, their hair like flames, their eyes like ice, discussing the late Kerrigan. Morietur runs downstairs into the basement and brings a bottle up to the parlor. It is dusty and very old, and Jack cannot read the label, but it looks like poitín. Morietur finds a towel in the kitchen and dusts it off. He grasps the aged cork between his fingers and gingerly wiggles it loose, then selecting two glasses from the cabinet.

“I knoweth that my wife hath told thee tales of this spirit. The bottle hath been enchanted, thus thou mayst drink as thou pleaseth, yet it shall never grow empty. ‘Twas served at my wedding. Be thou careful. This shalt put even thee to slumber, Mister Shepherd, but mind that it hath quite a bite of its own.”

Jack takes what Morietur poured for him and swallows it. It makes him choke and sputter. “Jaysus! Ye weren’t jokin’.”

“Easy. Drinketh without haste. Dost thou desire another glass?”

“Aye. I’m not one to turn down a drop when one’s bein’ offered.”

“Nor am I. Thou didst mean much to my wife. She always gave unto thee great praise. I oft times durst wonder why, if she hadst such an admiration for thee, didst she not marry thee.”

“She was your wife. Nothin’d stop her from lovin’ ye. She’d not so much as look at another man. In her eyes, he’d not compare to ye, regardless of who he was or what he did.”

“Ah, Jack! I canst not bear to hear what thou hast told unto me. Canst I confide in thee?”

“Sure, go on.”

“I didst unto my wife things most terrible that didst cause her untimely end.”

“Ye killed her.”

“Not as such. I oft times didst beat her and take advantage of her when she wouldst rather be held. I hath caused her many a tear and told her I didst her despise more times than I, for my many years, canst count. She was once everything to me. She was my Angel once upon a time. I knoweth thou thinkst me strange to call a literal Demon an Angel, but she hath saved me from being the empty shell of a man I once was. I hath, for many years, caused her grievous injury. She changed. She didst remain defensive of the children, however she stopped caring if I didst injure her long before the children came unto us. She once said unto me, ‘I do not care if you hit me. I no longer feel love unless I have a mark to show for it.’ She said that while I was amidst a valliant attempt neither to lay a hand upon her nor to force pleasure from her. I was incapable. I loved that woman. I loved her to death. I assureth thee, Jack, that her end was painless, for it took her quickly. I hath too much power for my own well-being. I created the storm inadvertently after what I didst do. We had dinner together that night. ‘Twas a merry occasion, indeed. She didst tell unto me that she was with child for the first time in many years. I had too much wine. I wanted her to give pleasure unto me. She accused me of drunkenness and feared for the child. I hit her for her insolence, as I hath done many times before. I then threw her into a wall for her silence. She immediately collapsed. She had a miscarriage. ‘Twas a son. Then the storms started. She was very distraught and wanted to bury the lost child, though she was still weak. She didst do so. When we bury her, thou shalt see the grave, however, as she carried the shovel back through the orchard, the lightning claimed her. I heard a most dreadful noise, like unto a gunshot at close range, and, when I went to search with the lantern, I found her dead.”

“Jaysus…”

“I hath been a terrible husband. Countless times I hath belittled her, taken advantage of her, and caused her much physical agony through my having laid hands upon her. She hath never seemed small to me except when I hath done harm unto her. For all my transgressions, I deserveth prison or worse. Instead, I shalt one day receive a vast empire. I durst wish to be claimed myself and spend the funeral being buried by her side. I hath money to spare. I hath power and influence. I hath a promise of inheritance. I hath my children, whom I love so dear to me. I hath anything I shouldst desire, and yet I hath nothing at all. I hath lost my wife.”

“’Twill be fine. I’m sill none to sure she’s dead.”

“She is so.”

“I’ll be after headin’ up for the night. D’ye mind if I smoke?”

“Goeth unto the step. I doth dislike smoke in my home. I shalt accompany thee.”

The two men and the bottle of spirits relocate to the front step. Jack lights a cigar. He pulls the bitter smoke into his lungs. They stand in silence while the ground around them crackles with late frost. Morietur coughs, and Jack inquires to determine if his cigar might be the cause of the esteemed prince’s sudden bout of ill heath. It is not. Morietur finds himself weakened in the wake of his wife’s untimely passing. She meant the entirety of the known realms to him. She is gone…

“Shite!”

“What doth ail thee?”

“Me hand. ‘Sfreezin’. Cold as death.”

“Jack thou’rt ill.”

“’M not, The Lycanthropy’s gone. Faith, ‘tis chill out.”

Jack finishes his cigar and sits by the fire. He is still shocked by the sudden death of his best friend. Morietur stays with him eating some of the fruit left over from dessert. He offers some to Jack, who accepts the strawberries but immediately regrets having done so. He runs outside and vomits as soon as he arrives. Morietur laughs quietly. Jack moans in agony. He turns to his host and apologizes. Morietur tells him that it is no problem, as some of his sons have no tolerance for alcohol whatsoever. Jack looks at the bottle in Morietur’s hands. He cannot believe that, for the first time since his adolescence, alcohol has bested him.

“Dost thou agree that, perhaps, thou hast not the tolerance which thou professeth?”

“Damn! Now I ken how she…”

“I doth not fault thee. I hath never shared this with anyone save my wife and my father since the wedding.”

“Faith! Thankee.”

“Dost thou need assistance?”

“Aye, I suppose ‘twould do me well.”

“Art thou certain thou wilt not fall ill again?”

“So long’s I stay inside away from the fire an’ don’ eat, I should be fine. ‘Twas good liquor.”

“My wife oversaw it. She was always good at making liquor. I miss her terribly.”

“I’d love to stay an’ drink wi’ ye. One more glass for a nightcap’d do no harm, but I really must sleep.”

Jack has his nightcap and stumbles up to bed. For about an hour, he tosses and turns, but he falls asleep next to his late comrade. When he wakes, he sees Morietur moving Kerrigan into her coffin. Lynn and Shane soon arrive for the funeral. Jack dons his only black suit again and stands outside smoking with Shane and watching both nobles and average citizens enter Morietur’s domicile to pay their respects to the late public figure. Morietur stands next to his wife’s body as Banshees she taught, Vampires she represented or commanded, associates, friends, and family pay their respects. When the procession is over, Morietur kisses his wife one last time and closes the lid on her coffin. The four Horsemen bear their mother’s coffin in a procession led by their grandfather. They are followed by their father and two lines of mourners who were the closest associates of Kerrigan. The other mourners stand in the yard and watch as Jack and Lynn, Julius and Kitty, Var and Maire, and Tem and Katy finish the solemn procession and take their places before the open grave. The coffin is lowered into place by the Horsemen themselves, who then climb out and take their places next to their father as the Devil begins his oration. Jack puts his arm around his wife’s shoulders because she is shivering and sobbing. The dreary, cool weather is a comfort to him.

“Dear friends, loving family, and valiant citizens, we are here gathered to celebrate the live and to mourn the passing of a woman who was very dear to us all and never left a life untouched. For those of us who knew her well, her sudden death is a terrible tragedy. For those to whom she dedicated her life to protect, the loss of such a leader is equally terrible. In these trying times, when poverty, unemployment, and war are upon us, her leadership will be missed. We admired and loved her. We must now mourn her, for we have no power to change the events which have occurred. Regardless of how much power we have as individuals or as a group, we cannot alter the past. Her fate is her own. With the glamour and charm stripped away, the loving mother, bright teacher, dedicated Senator, valiant warrior, dedicated wife, trusted advisor, caring daughter, faithful companion, and brilliant jack-of-all-trades, so to speak, is revealed to be a woman like any other. We must now bid farewell to a much-endeared gentlewoman and move forward to see if her place in our hearts may one day be filled by another or if Hell will be colder and lonelier without its princess. Rest in peace, my daughter. You shall be missed.”

The Horsemen pay tribute to their mother in turn. Death secretly hates public speaking. He takes after Morietur in that he prefers associating with nobody, but his job makes him yet more uncomfortable talking to people. His mother was not social at all when he was growing up. Most of her friends are much younger than she is, and Death spent most of his youth at home with his mother and brothers.

“What can I say of my mother? She taught me everything I know. She protected me. She was the person I wanted to become. Obviously, I am not much like my mother, but I am certainly a great admirer of her as a person. I am her eldest son. To lose a mother is difficult. Oft times, children follow their mothers to the grave. I have seen it many millions of times over the years. I doubt that this fate awaits my brothers and me, but I would it were so. A life without her guidance will be a life without any direction at all. It is akin to traversing a vast landmass with no map. Her family will survive without her, ultimately, but how many will be lost in that struggle? We cannot tell. Hell will not be the same without her. I hated having to take her. I knew since I was a child that I would eventually have to do so, but nothing could have ever prepared me for it. As grandfather said, she meant a lot to so many of us. I just wish she could have seen just how many to whom she meant so much, for there are many more elsewhere who mourn her passing, wearing their funeral garb and hanging wreaths upon their doors. They toast and remember her life, but they are too far away to be here today. I don’t think anyone will forget her, least of all my father, but as we say goodbye to this woman, we must also realize that we cannot forget her, nor can we ever hope to be the same without her here. We must move on ourselves and keep in mind what she would have wanted us to do. That way, she will forever live in our minds and in our hearts.”

War, being bolder than Death, steps forward to give his oration. He nearly falls into the grave, and his father and older brother catch him before the fall. “What can I say that my grandfather and brother have not? We loved our mother dearly. Pestilence, Famine, and I often worried which one of us would be her end. Famine is lucky. Poor as we were growing up, our parents eventually made enough money to guard against a lack of food. Pestilence and I often worried because even the gentry and nobility are not immune to disease, and, while they often hire others to fight for them, our mother did not. Many initially looked down upon her for doing so because she was a woman, but she had too much fun making life difficult for those who opposed her to notice others’ criticism. She cared deeply about her citizens and her family. It is quite sad that she would be the first of the family to go, but, for the first time since she was created, which was so long ago that most of us could not fathom the time. My fears are that without my mother, the family will fall apart, that my father will change for the worse, that he will drown himself in alcohol until he follows her to the grave, or that any combination of those things might happen. What of Hell then? It seems far too much weight rested upon my mother’s shoulders for anyone’s good, not least her own. We thought she would never die, but the day has come, and we must fight on without her. I sincerely hope that chaos does not follow her departure. She brought out the best in us, and so we must now do that for each other and for ourselves, both for our own good and for the good of our homeland, whether we were born here, came many years ago, or came just recently. I entreat you to ask yourselves, ‘What would she have thought of what I am doing now?’”

Famine is the next to speak. He brushes back his long, black hair and clears his throat. “I but wish we never had to say goodbye to this woman, my mother. She always welcomed visitors, regardless of their station, and she always offered advice, regardless of whether she was asked. She boldly did what she felt she had to do in order to keep her family and her friends, whom she considered just as close as family, alive and out of harm’s way. We must also bear in mind that she was not young. She did live a full life, longer than many of us will. We can also take comfort in knowing that she died very quickly and did not suffer. There are far worse ways to go. Starvation and disease cause one to suffer. They also cause us to suffer. I ask you how much suffering would it cause you to know that you were causing your own dear mother to spend her last days and hours in agony? I am thankful I have been spared this burden, for I loved my mother dearly, though I am also deeply saddened by her passing. Many of us hoped she might outlive us so this day, this awful day, might never come, knowing it one day would. Today is the day we must bid her farewell. May she rest in peace.”

Pestilence is the last brother to speak. He is the shyest and least eloquent, having grown up in his brothers’ shadows. He bows his head solemnly in silence before he speaks. “I do not know what to say. My mother raised me, loved me, cared for me. She gave me the best advice on my wedding night. She told me, ‘Care for her. Love her. Protect her. Do not lose her.’ My wife is everything to me because she has always reminded me of my mother. They have the same quiet strength. I wish I could have protected my mother, but that her death was an unfortunate accident was, in some ways, fortunate for me, for I did not want to see her ill, knowing that it was I who was killing her. Death is neither inherently good or bad. He is merely the end. War ends lives quickly. Famine, though as terrible as I, would probably not have to claim our mother. I feel a great release to know that she did not suffer. I am greatly saddened to think that she will be forgotten, and the lessons she taught us will be forgotten as well. I greatly admired her patience, her fortitude, and her intelligence. That she was able to survive this long with the enemies that she had is amazing. I suppose living with my father must have taught her patience and fortitude and a certain survival instinct. She raised us with little help from father. Do not mistake my words, for I love my father dearly, but he has always seen raising children as woman’s work. He spent much of my childhood away on business our out in the fields. I have always been closer to my mother, and because of this I fear for my father, for she is the only person with whom he was ever close. While any of his sons or daughters would gladly keep him company and respect him, we all worry that he will not accept us. We worry that our father will be completely lost without mother to accept and love him, despite all the love that we may give. I entreat my father not to hide. We love him very much. We do not want to see any harm come to him. We want him to see our mother in us, so that he will not be alone. We want him to find peace.”

Morietur stands stoically looking straight ahead into the rainy, dreary horizon. To Jack, for the first time, he looks like an old man. He carries himself like an old veteran, standing perfectly straight, shoulders back, arms by his sides, but there is something missing. He is no longer the fearsome figure he once was. He is now an old widower, saddened by his wife’s passing. Jack looks into Morietur’s eyes and sees that they are no longer icy, but sad and lonely. Morietur speaks after a short hesitation. He is aided to the head of the grave by two of his sons. Jack does not know their names. “I thank all of thee for coming. I seeth my wife in all of our children. I seeth her in Death when he doth play at his violin. I seeth her in War when he doth argue. I seeth her in Famine when he doth walk. I seeth her in Pestilence when he doth smile. I seeth her in the ghost of Hessitur whenever he doth take the stage. I seeth her in Lyritur when he doth let down his façade and alloweth us see his pain. I seeth her in all of our sons, and I even seeth her in Father, who changed greatly after she came to be. She was so small, so fragile, so beautiful: a work of art in opposition, fire and ice, black and white, diminutive and formidable. She was one of two, and her sister lives still, but they, too, were opposites. She hath devoted her life to me, while her sister hath devoted her life to her own pleasure. I doth doubt very much that ever I deserved such devotion. My wife was a woman with an Angel’s wings and a Demon’s spirit. She hath been the same since she was small enough to rest in the palm of my hand. As a toddler, she didst bite my eldest brother’s foot off for nearly kicking her under the table accidentally. She was always steadfastly loyal to me, to our children, and to her friends. She didst love the place of her creation dearly and as it changed and she grew older, she never grew bitter as I did. In business, she always droveth a hard bargain, as I found when we hosted or visited delegations from the nations of Hell or form other planes. She is someone whom I hath always admired, but she is also the woman whom I loved. She was the only woman I ever loved. I shalt not love again. No other woman couldst be the mother to my children, my wife, the stateswoman, the warrior, the teacher, and the gift given to me by Father. He didst try time and again to make a companion for me, and when he hadst made two identical, I dismissed one as shallow and petty and far too simple for my tastes and held the other one close to me. I did not think she would survive. I didst touch her gently, and she didst burn off mine ear. I knewst then that she wouldst one day become my wife. She hath borne me many scores of children and kept me companion many years. I now saith, ‘Goodbye, my sweet wife,’ and I doth bid her farewell in hope that she mayst finally be at peace.”

Morietur motions Jack forward. Jack had no idea that his would be the final speech. Lynn walks with him and stands by his side, drawing her shawl closer around her shoulders in the rain and wind. Jack holds her close to him, partially to comfort her and partially because he is terrified to speak. Jack feels nothing of the cold, the wind, or the rain. “I suppose I’m supposed to tell ye how I’ll miss me sister-in-law, an’ how great a person she was. That she was, a great woman, but I swear upon me own heart, she’s not gone. Did none of you see that she looks more alive than she did when she was alive? I wish her peace, whatever that might be. I shall miss her terribly. I loved her, not as a husband or a son would, but as a friend would. I, like many o’ those here assembled to mourn her death, hoped she’d never die, though I, like all o’ ye, knew she would. Morietur asked me to speak today, an’ I don’ ken why, but I do ken this: The day we forget her is the day we lose ourselves. A warnin’ take by me, never lose who ye are, for ye’ll never find yourself again, some things, once gone, are gone forever. Money can be remade, reputations fixed, houses rebuilt, friendships saved, lives changed, but what’s dead is gone, and it won’t come back. I wish this weren’t true o’ me dear friend, but ‘tis, an’ ‘tis me burden an’ yours to go on without her. A life, once lost completely, like virginity, memories, trust, and respect, can never be recovered to a previous state. Kerrigan taught me the value o’ trust and memory. Me own life taught me the value o’ life, an’ I’ve never seen much value in virginity, after all, what can ye do with it? Trust and respect, however, are what Kerrigan taught me, an’ memory will keep them alive in me. Dún do shúile, a Chiaragáin. Is iomaí lá sa chill orainn.”

The next morning, Jack returns to the Senate. Over the next week, he does not drink, and Kerrigan cares for him in his delirium. Once it passes, he still sees her. She sits next to him in the Senate and sleeps in the bed opposite his own in the little cabin in Crosspoint. If he leaves food out for her, it disappears. He finds her company disconcerting. Julius pulls him aside and asks him how much he has been drinking and if he has been taking drugs. Lynn comments that Jack took his friend’s death very hard. Jack hides in the woods and cries alone. Kerrigan puts her hand on his shoulder. He cries harder. He tries to hang himself, but the rope snaps, somehow cleanly. He tries to stab himself, but the only blade he can find is not long enough. He tries to slit his throat, but his straight razor is too dull. He tries to drown himself, but he washes ashore. He tries to shoot himself, but his revolver will not fire. He takes every pill he can find and drinks four bottles of whiskey, but he wakes up after three days with a headache and no aspirin to cure it. He meets with Death personally, but Death can do nothing for him. Death does no favors. He runs into battle with no armor, yet he is never hit. Nobody is willing to kill him, even as a direct order. He begins drinking with Morietur, if only to drink stronger spirits to make the spirit leave. He asks his sister, who is a witch, to rid him of the apparition, but she can do nothing. He tries asking Kerrigan to leave, but she says there is nothing she can do either. For nearly two months, he is haunted by her. Nobody believes him. For Jack, desperation takes over as his brothers, sister, and wife debate over his fate and his friends abandon him. He finds the battlefield a welcome diversion from the constant accusations of insanity. Julius, Tem, and Var rotate in and out as the leading commander.

Slowly, they push beyond the border. In an unconventional attack, the desperate Werewolves attack after dinner. It is a warm May evening when they are pushed back. There is a building that has been reclaimed by the enemy that contains needed supplies and paperwork. It must be opened, but it is occupied. There is a small hole in the masonry wall from the battles that won and lost the building. Jack volunteers to be the soldier to slip through the hole and open the door for his comrades. He hand-selects the men to go with him. His thin body easily slides into the narrow crevice. To enter is certain death, and he does not care. He has nothing left to lose. He crawls through the living room of the crucial house and draws himself to his full height only to unlock the door.

She is with him in that room of terror.

As the bolt clicks, he hears many feet simultaneously jumping out of bed and scrambling for weapons as they rush toward the stairs. Jack smashes the front window with a powerful punch from his right hand. The broken glass cuts his wrist, but his comrades get the message to hurry. He hurriedly drinks out of a hip flask. The whiskey tastes a bit like rusty metal and burning wool sweater, but Jack hardly notices. In an instant, he is shot in the chest. Bullets are a precious commodity, so he is only shot once with deadly accuracy.

He rests in Kerrigan’s arms as he dies, and she comforts him in his last moments. The other men can see her now, and they call to her by name He either gave her his life or can spend his death in her arms. He cannot tell which. He smiles up at Death, who sheds a single tear at the sight of his mother. Death’s hands tremble on the handle of his scythe as he swings it and claims Jack’s final breath.

The battle is lost.

For Jack, the war is over.