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Soft, shallow breaths. Thin skin, bruised in a couple of places. Puffy, purple undereyes, Brittle, yellowed nails that have cracked and peeled. Occasional weak coughs and blood mixed into spittle. Shed feathers littering the bedsheets. A fever that’s refused to go away for days, no, weeks. That’s all that’s left of Falin.
Marcille holds Falin’s hand on both of her own. Falin, grey and wrinkled and soft, lying on their bed. She doesn’t even have the strength to offer Marcille a smile, a glance, a hint of recognition in these final moments. Marcille presses her lips to Falin’s wrist, then the back of her hand, then her wrinkled fingers. She waits. Falin’s chest rises and falls, slowly, slower, slower. It stops. Her fingers start to go cold, only kept warm by Marcille’s own body heat.
This is what comes first, the mourning. Falin’s soul leaking out of her pores. Marcille sitting, waiting, refusing to cry, giving Falin the peaceful death she’s requested every single lifetime. It hurts, but she’s willing to bear the pain for Falin. Anything for Falin. She sniffles and whimpers but does not succumb to her need to sob.
At least Marcille knows what comes next. The monster meat, bled out but unprocessed, sitting in barrels outside. Ambrosia, pruned and tended ahead of time to ensure perfection. The spell circle that she’s memorized down to the tiniest runes is all but finished on the cobblestones they installed in the yard for this exact purpose. It’s almost time, again.
Years upon years upon years ago, Marcille told Laios that she’d accept Falin’s death if they couldn’t bring her back. That she’d stop trying. Marcille has made herself a liar, over and over, unable to let herself part ways with her wife. And Falin, for her part, has indulged Marcille’s selfish want. Again and again, with only small stipulations. Help her die quietly. Give her corpse time to cool. Mourn her while she’s gone and don’t speak of it when she’s back.
Marcille brushes Falin’s silvery bangs away from her forehead, then presses a kiss to it. Cold. She pulls back and starts tying her hair up, getting it out of the way. She strips down, it makes it easier to clean herself afterwards- besides, they’re all alone out here. Modesty is no issue here. She hefts Falin up and walks her out to the circle. Struggling carefully- Falin is heavy and sturdy despite her condition. Marcille doesn’t want to accidentally bruise her more, even if she’s about to be fully healed. It would be disrespectful.
Once Falin is in place, laying peacefully amongst the bloody patterns, Marcille opens the barrels and knocks them over. She dips her staff in the blood and finishes out the runes. She bites the palm of her hand and slams the wound against Ambrosia. It drips down the wood until it mixes with the monster blood below. The lines and symbols and circles start to glow. Falin starts to float. She’s done this so many times. She’s been here so many times.
The monster corpses bubble and flow, filling in the fat and muscle that age stole from Falin. New tissue, fresh blood, love, life, magic. It took practice to get the de-aging to occur alongside the revival. Marcille grips Ambrosia tightly then pulls it up into the air, finalizing the ritual. Falin lays there, blood soaked and still. Then, as always, she coughs up the extra blood and sits up, breathing again. Marcille stumbles over and falls to her knees beside her, using the last of her own strength to rub Falin’s back.
With air in Falin’s lungs again, Marcille can finally breathe. It was such a short time apart, but she ached and longed and fretted. But here they are, dripping red and huddled on the cobblestones. Here they are, looking much the same age. Here they are, together.