Nothing More to Say 

by Moonpearl

 

Tags: Human x Nonhuman, Fantasy, Persistent Courting, Bard Protagonist, Spider Love Interest, Aloof Love Interest, Protagonist Falls in Love First, Love Before First Sight

Content warnings:

 

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Once upon a time –

As all good stories do begin –

There lived a bard named Nightingale

Whose voice could silence any din.

 

Common russet was his hair,

Pale and freckled was his skin;

Yet when they saw his bright blue cloak,

The people whooped and grinned.

 

For our bright bard was a traveller,

Singing as he journeyed on.

He saw himself as an unraveller,

And left all much to think upon.

 

In times of peace, he spoke of loss;

In times of loss, he questioned hate;

And often did his noble song

Lead rebellion to a tyrant’s gate.

 

And then one day, before a crowd,

Going through the motions

Of some summer love ballad,

He was struck by his lack of emotion.

 

His trembling fingers stilled,

The rhythm went astray,

While in muted wonder, he did mutter,

“I’ve nothing more to say.”

 

🕸

 

The grey expanse of stone split open the bleak white landscape, its tough walls aloof to the wind’s persistent caress. Crowned towers lifted their heads high in rebellion against the clear, infinite sky. The windows yawned with intimate darkness. Even the ancient, weathered door spurned the constraint of a portcullis, caution cast aside in its certainty that there would never be an onlooker to catch it in the scandal.

This had to be the castle of legend – Nightingale felt it in his bones.

He had searched for four moons, only stopping to gain new leads or restock his supplies when they dwindled. Many had begged for a song or tale from him, but his mind was set, and the people swiftly melted away as he pressed north. Soon, he had come to this land without life or landmark – and after wandering for many weeks, even he had begun to doubt.

But this – this keep pierced his heart at first sight and convinced him that destiny had called him hither.

Unfortunately, there was no drawbridge to guide him across the river that served as a moat. Who knew if one existed at all? If he turned away from the castle now, even just to follow it, he feared he would never find his way back.

Fortune favours the bold!

With a breath to steel himself, he flung his cloak back and charged at the river.

 

It was unexpectedly dank inside. When Nightingale opened his eyes, a spartan interior of raw stone and sparse, crude bookcases was all that greeted him. The floor he lay on didn’t even have a rug to spare him from its damp chill.

His clothes were mercifully dry, by means unknown. He pushed himself stiffly into a sitting position so he could scan the room more thoroughly – but, for all its vaulted ceilings and colossal width, there was only oppressive darkness. No fire, not even a candle, burned in the room. It was as if the faint light of the books alone held the gloom at bay.

He drew himself to his feet, noting the unsettling lack of echo. A tall tunnel bore into the wall behind him. Its entrance was framed by thick webbing, draping itself boldly across the ceiling and spreading out along the floor like an overenthusiastic welcome mat. He didn’t cherish the thought of meeting the team of spiders responsible, but there seemed to be no other exit.

His first step onto the carpet nearly landed him on his face. It was silky, not sticky, and the complicated weave tangled around his shoes at the slightest provocation. He cautiously pressed onward to the mouth.

The tunnel, like the hall, appeared to go on forever. Yet here he could make out a glimmer of light at the end. The scent of stew – so close to his mother’s own, he could taste it – wafted down the cavern. The longer he focused, the more he swore he could hear her, humming her favourite lullaby, setting the dinner plates, cooing to the dog. His brother’s throaty laughter was a ghost in his ears.

It was only when the fangs flew at him that he realised he was walking forward.

He leapt back, his foot sliding. The landing was soft but his lungs burned. He scrambled, desperate for purchase on the smooth webbing, but it only ensnared him the more he struggled. He braced for the strike, glanced back to watch in horror–

But the spider simply stood, front legs raised, fangs bared.

He waited, hardly daring to breathe. The beast easily filled the tunnel – that alone was enough to keep him frozen. The arm-length fangs were starkly outlined against a bright flash of red on its underside. He hoped, against the rapid beating of his heart, that the fruitless waving of its legs meant it couldn’t see him.

Slowly, slowly, they lowered. Nightingale’s breath caught in his throat.

This was no mere overgrown spider. Where the eyes should have been, a man’s corpse-white torso melded with the shiny black head. The body was gaunt, little more than flesh stretched over bone, and without a scrap of cloth to hide it. The face was young, perhaps beautiful, but his eyes refused to rest on it; his heart seized in fear each time he tried. He had the quick impression of dyed red lips, two milk-white eyes, and a mask carved from bone and painted at the edges with flowers. His long, stark white hair was bound in a rope braid thick enough to hang yourself.

“Silly songbird. Fly home now.”

The voice was so shrill, it ripped through his nerves like claws. Clamping his hands over his ears did nothing. The sudden peak of pain dissolved his thoughts and darkened his vision.

He was sorry to scream, but he had to.

Once upon a time, a good prince was born to an evil king. The king detested his son’s nature and made his life hell on earth. Even so, when the prince learned that the king’s new allies were part of a dark cult, he warned him for the sake of the kingdom.

He was dismissed.

That kingdom fell to rot and ruin by their hand. The cult spared only the prince. To “thank” him for speaking out against them, they cursed him to become a hideous monster with a voice so wretched, it would make ears bleed. He was doomed to live alone, his words of wisdom rejected by everyone, until…

Nightingale checked his trembling hands. No blood.

There was hope.

“I apologise, my prince…” He urged his weak body to at least sit up. “You caught me by surprise.”

He still couldn’t look him in the eyes, but he settled for collarbone level. The arachne shook his head and shooed him with his hands.

“Thank you for bringing me here. I thought it would be a brisk swim, but clearly didn’t make it…”

A head shake to confirm it. He shooed again.

“Please, feel free to talk, my prince. I’ll bear it. I want to know you better.”

“Keep me a stranger and flee.”

To his credit, he didn’t cry out – though he clenched his hands so hard, it almost drew blood. He tried again to lift his eyes to his face. No luck.

“I have come to love you.”

“I know. You wouldn’t have plunged headfirst into ice water if you didn’t.”

He was stunned, both by the pain and the misunderstanding. The prince didn’t seem to reconsider his notion even in the awkward silence.

“You misinterpret me, my prince. I have come so that I can fall in love with you and give you my voice, so the curse can be broken.”

“You misinterpret me, bard.”

“Nightingale. My name is Nightingale.”

He sighed, slicing his fangs through the webbing below. The tangles trapping Nightingale’s hands slackened. He quickly pulled them free.

Before he could address the prince again, he turned his abdomen to him and retreated into the burrow.

“Won’t you at least give me a chance!?” he called helplessly.

“I am.”

 

Nightingale wasn’t sure how much time passed after that, but the prince never did throw him out. He continued telling him to leave from his burrow and then, at some point, saw fit to shimmy out and wander the hall – always with his back turned and at a distance from him.

He was remarkable to behold, once you grew used to him. His great height gave him a certain air of dignity and authority, and his long legs carried him like a swan over the bookcases. His legs and carapace were a delightfully glossy black, while his lighter, more matte abdomen had even a touch of plum to it.

In contrast, the ghostly white of his human half was bewitching. His long, silky braid hung so low, it bounced teasingly back and forth between his legs when he walked. He had elegant fingers and a gentle, deliberate manner of picking things up. When he glanced back, the curve of his shoulders and the wisdom in his eyes left Nightingale all too aware of his racing pulse.

Now that he’d gained a little resistance to the pain, he even swore there was a mournful melody to that voice.

Perhaps the prince was right – perhaps destiny had captured his heart for this man, even before they met. It only made him twice as determined.

“My fair, mysterious, angelic prince, I beseech you again – take my voice and be free.”

He looked up from the book he’d been reading six aisles ahead of him. Whenever Nightingale suspected he wasn’t listening, it always turned out he was.

“These epithets keep getting longer and less honest.”

“They’re as honest as the sun is bright! If the world only knew how it was denied your beauty, it would weep until the seas consumed it.”

“The weeping comes after they’ve seen my face.”

“Because it is the closest to divinity they will ever see! Who could resist shedding tears of joy?”

He simply rolled his eyes and waved him off with one hand, returning to the book. But determination burned in Nightingale – he would see this man recognise his own beauty, even if it killed him. He grabbed his lyre from the ground.

“Sweet prince, my days as a bard are over, but you bring one last song to my lips. Let me serenade you with my praises – not to demand your heart, but to be the mirror you have thus far rejected. Mermaids envy your hair, silver like the stream flowing under moonlight; starlight is mundane next to your luminous smile; onyx pales next to your night-touched legs, and is but sand compared to your tender strength; your voice–”

“Is a violin played by a toddler, very pissed off at her mother.”

But a smile touched his eyes as he spoke, sending a rare glitter through them. Nightingale’s lips were stilled more by that radiance than the interruption. Divinity, mesmerising and all-consuming – he could be nothing else.

“Then take mine, my angel.”

“No.”

“I’m not asking you to love me – I know I’m plain–”

“I wouldn’t know. I can’t see well.”

The revelation almost, almost stopped him in his tracks. Luckily a bard was used to improvising around these hesitations.

“But there is so much waiting for you in the world! Forests, cities, great blue skies… I can imagine you running across the hills of Procencia, the sunlight setting your hair to starlight, the heady scent of lavender catching in–”

“I can’t run well either.”

“Skipping.”

“I can’t jump at all.”

“Frolicking at a gentleman’s pace! There is so much beauty in that place. The villages there retain the charm of their long history, and you can step into one and feel like you’re centuries in the past. The wine is unrivalled. The people? Friendly to all. You can hardly stop to talk to someone without being invited to dine with their family that night – and if you can’t make it, they say you must come tomorrow. Before you know it, you’ll be sitting at the table, surrounded by laughter and acceptance from what should be strangers.”

His heart warmed with the memories of his many, many friends there. Émeric had welcomed him in off the street for the two months when he’d wanted to study a nearby ruin for a tale he was composing. Every time he passed by, he stayed a little longer, and little Gabin and Katia would glue themselves to his waist to stop him from leaving. It had been years since his last visit. By now, they would be pouting, sulking teenagers. Would they still race each other to meet him when he stepped through their gate?

“Or, if the sun isn’t to your taste, there’s Istla. The landscape there is flatter, but no less green, and the sun doesn’t rise at all in winter. There’s this phenomenon called an aurora, where the sky is filled with floating ribbons of light, shimmering in green, blue, purple… I watched it from a natural hot spring the first time I was there. I really believed Heaven was descending.”

“So beautiful?”

“I have still never found the words to do it justice. And all this can be yours, to feel, to see, to be moved by, if you only take my voice from me. Don’t feel the need to spare me – there could be nothing more glorious than to–”

“Ah.”

His eyes flew open. He’d been so enthralled by his own speech, he hadn’t noticed the prince moving. He was two aisles closer now and facing him, his human body tilted forward so that their eyes were almost on the same level – and the gap between them even smaller. Horror strangled any scream he might have made.

“This is about glory. Of course it is.”

A colder fear set in. He shifted his grip on the lyre.

“I’m sorry, that was terrible phrasing,” he said quickly.

“But it was honest.”

He wanted to deny it. To convince them both that he had come for noble intentions, out of admiration or to right a wrong. All his wooing would go to waste if the prince felt used, and there would be no clawing back from it. No one wanted to be a means to an end.

Worse, the crushing pain would set in any second, and he couldn’t bear to see it on this man’s face. He wanted to run in, utter a few poetic words, and cure the wound before the weapon struck. Such a gentle man ought to be spared the brutality.

But those pale eyes reflected only his true self: a cold, selfish wretch luring his prey with a song.

He lowered his gaze.

"I'm a fool, and I'm unworthy of you. I understand if you hate me."

The prince scoffed.

"You really think I'm some thin-skinned maiden, don't you?"

"I don't doubt your manliness, Your Highness, but men have feelings too. I can attest to that."

“Glory-seeking heroes are supposed to conquer the monster, bard – not lay themselves down in its predatory embrace.”

“I’m no hero and you’re no monster. I’m just a bard with nothing more to say to the world. My voice has carried my messages to the people for all these years and, selfishly, I want it to serve one last, noble purpose. I can think of nothing more worthy than to free a victim from unjust tyranny.”

The arachne sighed, resting his chin on one pedipalp. Nightingale dared to lift his eyes to his face. There was no anger, no pain; only soft, exasperated resignation.

“Azrael. If you must have a pet name for me, make it Azrael.”

 

From that day forward, Azrael was warm to him. He would never come within three feet of him, but he would sit – or maybe lie – at just that distance from him, glancing across at him from time to time while they spoke. Nightingale was numb to the pain from his voice now, and he would sometimes speak as many as four sentences without stopping.

With every word that dripped from his scarlet lips, Nightingale fell deeper. The light in the prince’s eyes danced when he described the outside world to him – it was all he wanted to hear about. When he laughed, he threw his head back without restraint, and his pedipalps drummed the ground. He swore he could feel those tremors in his soul.

He studied him secretly in their moments of silence, imagining what it would be like to reach across and unwind his braid. There must be a touch of the wild under that sophistication. More and more, he wanted to free it.

Only one thing called his attention from his companion.

"Is it me, or is it getting colder, my dear Azrael?"

"The light is fading."

He was right. As Nightingale cast his eyes about the room, he realised he could only see half as many bookcases into the dark as before. The floor was slicker and damper, too, now that he focused.

"The winters must be harsh here. How do you bear them?"

The prince offered only an enigmatic smile. Though the dark bothered him, no topic was worth pursuing that didn't draw speech from his companion.

"Will you tell me about a ball you attended?" Azrael asked.

"Of course! Let me recall one befitting your magnificent presence."

He was rewarded with another quiet chuckle to set his nerves alight.

"Let's see… Once, on a balmy night in Viella, the Grand Duke was hosting a grand ball for his daughter's debut. She was the kind of beauty a man would lay down his life trying to win, and every noble house, big or small, had dispatched a small army of eligible bachelors to try their luck. Unfortunately, one of the bands lost their cart wheel one mile westward. When the Grand Duke heard I was in town, he sent his swiftest servant scampering down the road to meet me…"

Azrael listened with a soft smile, that heart-stopping dreaminess clouding over his eyes again. Occasionally, he would lift a pedipalp in surprise, or wag a spinneret to a description of a waltz; Nightingale leaned into whatever element drew a reaction from him. As they reached the end, he was shocked to hear him humming a lilting, joyful waltz of his own.

It was… Danse Macabre?

“… It goes without saying that, as beautiful as our young debutante was, she couldn’t hold a candle to you, my love.”

“Yet you didn’t court her for yourself?”

“Do I strike you as some sort of playboy?” he asked with a laugh. “Besides…”

He glanced around before leaning forward conspiratorially. There was no one to overhear, but Azrael leaned closer, just as hoped.

“Can you keep a secret?”

“I’m the best secret-keeper in the world. I take them all to the grave.”

“When I was taking my break in the gardens, I happened across quite an intimate scene between the lady and her maid… I don’t believe any man could come between that.”

Azrael’s delighted chuckle was a symphony in its own right. He did seem to like this sort of thing: love blooming in hidden places, old enemies uniting against adversary, friends beating the odds. They were simple, predictable tastes, but Nightingale found them utterly charming.

“You must have had lovers,” Azrael said. “Flirting takes practice, and you’re very skilled.” 

“I have no one waiting for me, I assure you.”

“Yet I foresee pews full of mourners on our wedding day.”

Nightingale almost choked on his own tongue. This man was so forward, it was dizzying sometimes.

“You’re proposing marriage!?”

Azrael gave him a blank look. “You’re wooing me. I know you’re dishonest, but to think you were planning to hit and run…”

“No!” His voice cracked unattractively. He cleared his throat and tried again. “To hope for your hand was too much for the likes of me. My intentions stopped at– I mean, I would never have let myself dream– But I would be honoured, no, the happiest man in the world, if you would take my voice and take me–”

“Go home.”

And, though he expected it, his spirits still sank when Azrael turned from him and picked up a book. He admired a learned man, but he couldn't deny feeling jealous of those tomes. If he only had something to say, he would pen an epic that would steal his hands and eyes forever.

"Your friends and fans will be sad, you know."

He assumed he was talking about his voice. They always came back to this topic.

"If they truly care for me, they'll respect my decision."

"Then what about your mother? Don't you want to tell her you love her one last time?"

"She knows I love her."

"It's not the same. She carried you for nine months, risking her own life to bring yours into the world. Your first cry was her first reassurance that you lived. She was a good mother to you – does she not deserve some say over what she gifted you?"

He couldn't help but laugh.

"And I thought I was the dramatic one! It's only a voice, dear."

"Parents are plagued by nightmares of their children falling silent. They rush from their beds and ride through stormy nights just to know they still speak. Would you doom your parents to a waking nightmare?"

"They'll get over it."

His pedipalps balanced the book while his fingers turned the pages. Even with such emotionally charged speech, his face was placid. Nightingale watched him half-patiently.

At last, Azrael looked at him again.

"Aren't you afraid of giving up, little songbird? Most people fear the end."

"Of my bardic life? I have nothing more to say. There's glory in going out with dignity and purpose. Far better than to struggle on as a shadow of yourself, besmirching your reputation with pitiful failure."

“Is that what has you tongue-tied? The fear of disappointing others? Of disappointing yourself?”

He hesitated. In a way, he wasn’t wrong, but the way he phrased it… It wasn’t quite right.

"Then what about the glory of perseverance? I thought all the best bards were known for that.”

"There's meaning to the end,” he countered. “The great Elrond Laedrel wrote all his works by the time he was nineteen, and he's considered a legendary master."

"Nineteen? Are you sure he didn't grow up, realise he'd been too vocal about views he no longer held, and decided not to out himself by writing more? Or maybe he switched to a pen name for privacy?”

Azrael watched him closely.

“Are you sure you want to believe that a person can say everything they could want to say about everything, ever, by the foolhardy age of nineteen?"

He averted his eyes.

"Then consider Drina Abbetine,” he tried again, “the great actress who stopped suddenly in the middle of a play and never performed again. Her tale is mysterious, enigmatic, timeless–"

"Fictional."

"Yes, but it carries a message. A great one that tells us there is meaning in silence."

“It’s like roses, isn’t it?”

Nightingale couldn’t help but turn to him, his confusion plain on his face.

“They poison the ground wherever they grow, so that any rose that tries to follow after withers before it can compete with their ghost. Tell me, dawn-breaker, who glorified your silence to you? What do they gain when you lose everything to me?"

He was speechless – not swayed, but caught off-guard by the intensity of Azrael's belief. There was a deep conviction in his eyes that scared him, like staring down at a long drop when you teetered on a cliff. He wanted to grab hold of a lighter subject.

"What about the author you have there?" He tried to keep his tone jovial. "Did he never give up?"

"It remains to be seen."

Azrael placed the book cover up between them.

It was one of his.

 

The light dimmed until barely a book could be seen. This wasn't so bad, as it kept Azrael's eyes on him and brought him to sit mere inches away, but the cold was unbearable. Though the arachne spun him several cloaks of dry silk at his request, the damp passed straight through them and left his toes numb.

The only heat was Azrael. His ruby lips were hypnotic, the splaying of his legs lascivious; Nightingale was undone by the erotic flash of red under his chelicerae. The mask was all that he wore, and Nightingale had practised removing it in his mind a thousand times, running his fingers across its spider lilies and Aztec marigolds, and then the bare skin beneath.

He couldn't have been alone in temptation – he'd caught Azrael lingering on his lips several times.

"This winter is unforgiving. Won't you kiss me, my dear, and end my suffering? For your lips are the very gates of Heaven."

“Many a true word said in jest…”

Still, he was met with an indulgent smile. Nightingale was preparing another poetic plea when, suddenly, something slammed into him. The room reeled, the ceiling came to a stop above him – something crushingly heavy pinned his legs. He bit back a cry and fought. It bore down on him.

"Don't kick my lungs!" laughed Azrael.

He had pounced. Literally pounced on him! His chelicerae were pinning his hips, while his legs were prisoner to the sheer weight of him. The longed-for braid settled against his side as the arachne leaned down.

"I thought you would say no,” he managed breathlessly.

"I can, if you ask me to."

No, never. He captured the braid in his hand while he had the chance. It was smooth, like spider silk, and just as easy to trap yourself in. Azrael’s pedipalps crept under his shirt. They were soft, if unnervingly powerful, and sent a delicious cloud of adrenaline through his veins.

But the biting chill was enough to knock the air from him.

"Are you… Are you always so cold?"

"No. Sometimes I'm a burning fire. Sometimes I strike so fast, they don’t feel me at all."

Azrael relented long enough to reach up and loosen the silk strands securing his mask. Nightingale's mouth watered. It slipped off to reveal…

Eyes. Six more pale, pearlescent eyes. One on either side, four above. They reflected his own face back at him, white as a ghost and–

No, on second glance, each one showed a different him. He was a baby in the top left, a young boy two over, a gangly teenager just below… The final eye showed him as he was now, eyes closed, expression empty, floating weightlessly.

Azrael traced a line down his chest tenderly. He shivered.

"Are you happy? You've courted your own demise."

He forced a shaky smile. He wanted this. He knew he did. This burning in his chest was passion.

"I’ve never doubted for a second. Take my voice and I will be your husband."

The icy fingers traced his lips. He could barely think.

"Then I claim your voice as my own…"

Nightingale braced himself as he leaned down. His heaven-sent lips would be his at last. Tears pricked his eyes. Tears of joy.

"And I loan it to you indefinitely."

His eyes flew open. Azrael's face was hovering above his, close enough to smell his sweet, earthy breath, but still too far to reach.

"No. I don’t need it. I have–”

“Too much to say. You speak so much that the first time you were vaguely lost for words, you thought you were done forever. You know, when normal people stop talking, they take their turn listening instead…”

“I won’t marry you if you don’t take my voice.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to cry myself to sleep.”

He bristled, even as his chest heaved in vain to draw in air. He tried to sit up. Nothing happened.

“Why are you so against being saved!?” he choked out. “Don’t you deserve happiness? A chance at life?”

“Those are my questions to you. Even at the end, you’re still spinning stories for yourself… Admit it: the prince is a fairytale.”

“I love you even so!”

Defying the numbness, he reached up to cup his cheek. After two failed attempts, Azrael held his hand in place himself. There was that mesmerising dreaminess in his eyes again, magnified now that he could see them all.

“I know.”

The arachne sighed.

“But it’s not an honest love. You, who tremble when you face me… You, who can’t even say my true name…”

He wanted to say he wasn’t trembling, but they could both see it.

“You want glory? I’ll offer you a bargain I’ll give to no one else. You can have my hand in marriage – if you pay my expensive dowry. I want a thousand new songs and poems, and a thousand more after that. I want you to walk to every place your feet can take you before our next meeting and bring them to me in the form of words. I want you to learn more about me, so your love can mature.”

“How can I do that if you’re not with me?”

“Oh, I’m always nearby. Look for me where the cradle falls silent and the mother howls, where famine turns field to graveyard, where the faith of all men falters.”

“And where do we meet at the end?”

“I’ll come to you. One day, when your body is too broken or frail to house you, I’ll call your name. Then church bells will chime and, if you still wish it, I'll be your husband for eternity."

He swallowed. The darkness was closing in, leaving only the arachne lit like an angel. The last of his courage failed. It was panic burning inside him, he admitted. He wanted to claw at his throat, wanted to scream, wanted to shove him off and run. He couldn't conjure the faintest image of glory now.

“How cruel a man you are…” He forced himself to smile. “To speak of a wedding and give me a farewell.”

“One day you’ll realise that this, too, is an act of love.”

He pressed a soft kiss to his hand. The sharp cold drew a cry from him.

"Now, all you need to do is…"

 

"... Wake up, lad."

"He's gone, Rufus. He's in the arms of an angel now."

Nightingale drew a hungry breath. His lungs warmed with hearth smoke and heady wine. The next gulp brought spice, furs, and the mustiness of ancient stonework.

"He's stirring!"

"By God…!"

He was swaddled in soft, dry blankets. A slightly lumpy pillow propped up his head. With some struggle, he opened his eyes to two older men, one broad and muscled, the other tall and thin. A small stone room lay behind them.

They gave a cheer more suited to the audience of a jousting match.

“Welcome back, lad!”

“A miracle!”

“Get him a drink.”

They helped him sit up and drink a cup of mulled wine. The cinnamon tingled on his tongue, the cheap, sharp wine pouring life down his throat, sweeter than any lover’s kiss. He gulped it down greedily.

When he’d had two and was watered enough to speak, he hoarsely asked, “Where… Am I?”

“Reunited with the land of the living!” the stockier man said with a grin.

“You’re in Fort Meida, an outpost in the snowlands. Kenneth and I were on watch when we saw you jump headfirst into the frozen river. What were you thinking?”

“I… Was going to swim across?”

Rufus tutted. “Swimming in frozen water is something else altogether. The cold knocks the air out of you right away.”

“Something wanted you to live, young man,” said Kenneth, leaning forward with a wag of his finger, “because you were caught on a block of ice just under the water when we got to you. If you sank any further, or the current swept you away, well…”

He spread his hands.

It was now that Nightingale noticed his own sky-blue cloak dripping dry in the corner of the room.

“You didn’t see… A man?” he asked. “A sort of man? By name of Azrael?”

Rufus and Kenneth glanced at each other, their eyes gleaming with excitement.

“No one sees the angel of death but the dying, lad. Looks like he said it’s not your time.”

An angel… He took a deep breath of the burning firewood. “Azrael” had been no angel – nor a monster. He could still vividly remember the shine of his eyes, the sharp pain of his lips on his hand…

He glanced down at it. There, on his left ring finger, was a stain as black as ink injected into the skin.

It was a ring. A simple, unassuming band, perfectly joined, perfectly placed. Where a centrepiece stone ought to be, there was an elegant silhouette: a masked spider.

He smiled.

Sweet Death, there is beauty in you. I’ll prove it.

“Gentlemen… Dear rescuers… You’ll never believe the story I have to tell.”

 

 

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Author's Account:

Moonpearl

Author's Note:

A tribute to Birdy, inspired by a disagreement we once had over whether it was glorious or terrifying to put down your pen forever.

For those curious, Death’s spider species is Atrax robustus – the Sydney funnel-web spider. It’s infamously touted as one of the most dangerous spiders in the world thanks to the male’s venom being able to kill a man within 15 minutes. While they do have a pretty strong bite (and large fangs), no deaths have been recorded since the development of the antivenom in 1980. They’re also… Pretty comical. Can’t see well, can’t run for long distances, can’t climb smooth surfaces, and are just overall delightfully grumpy little buggers.

I guess, in theory, you could evade Death with a very deep plastic moat.

If you’d like to learn more about them, I recommend Bugs and Biology’s “Brazilian Wandering Spider VS Funnel-web - WHICH is more DEADLY?” for an educational roasting of the species.