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Something has changed.
At first, Harry thinks it is the endless fatigue he feels, which has been dragging on for days now, alongside the immense relief of having won the war. Then he thinks it must be his faulty glasses, and he keeps cleaning and repairing them, even using his Elder Wand.
Then he resigns himself to the fact that something is different about him.
It is because of what he sees: shadows, a blackness that looks like sand or perhaps steam, specks that are sometimes almost invisible, sometimes as heavy as a woolen cloak. Shadows that follow people.
He cannot bring himself to worry about it, for the moment: he has work to do, people to talk to, Hogwarts to rebuild. He puts the Elder Wand to work, tirelessly, trying to heal the castle’s wounds, to erase the horror of the war he has won – at what cost.
He is put up by the Weasleys for the first few weeks, but the atmosphere is oppressive – the pain of Fred’s death weighs heavily on him, as does the realisation of all those who sacrificed themselves to defeat Voldemort.
Eventually, he returns to Grimmauld Place. Alone, in that house, the Shadows disappear, and he breathes a sigh of relief.
***
He realises what the Shadows are on an ordinary September day. He has started the Auror training course with Ron, but unlike Ron, who uses the Floo to get to the Ministry, Harry finds it more relaxing to walk through the streets of London.
It all happens in a matter of seconds, without giving him time to react: the woman walking a few paces ahead of him, who had seemed perfectly normal until then, is engulfed by the Shadows that appear out of nowhere, enveloping her and obscuring her from his view. Harry is about to draw his wand: the instinct is stronger than the awareness that he is in a Muggle area, his heart is pounding in his chest as a rush of adrenaline courses through him, ordering him to act…
The woman suddenly crosses the road.
A car doesn’t have time to brake and hits her head-on: as if in slow motion, Harry sees the woman fly through the air, still shrouded by the Shadows, and land on the asphalt with a dull thud. The Shadows gather, thick and dense, and then vanish in a dark flash.
The other passers-by scream, crowding around the woman; the driver gets out of the car, pale.
Harry stands still, staring blankly from a distance.
He understands. He already knows what has happened; he already knows the woman cannot be saved.
The Shadows are Death, come to claim their chosen victim.
***
Harry has gradually come to understand Death.
Tiny specks accumulate within every person as time goes by. It is the sign, minute yet inevitable, that ageing is constant and ever-progressing, that the path each of us follows is but one: towards the end of life in this world.
It happened to him once again, again with a Muggle woman he met on his way to work, that the tiny specks accumulated like smoke in a specific part of her body, in this case her breast. Harry knows it is wrong but gives in to temptation: he speaks to her, casts a small Confundus charm on her, follows her and tracks her over the following days as she attends Muggle hospitals. His theory is confirmed: she is diagnosed with breast cancer, fortunately small and treatable. Harry continues to follow her throughout her treatment, and after the operation she undergoes, Harry sees the shadows disperse, vanishing from her breast. The tiny specks of ageing remain, but the woman is healthy again, her life expectancy has stabilised.
Only another time he has seen Death looming mere moments before the fatal blow: during a fight with some of the Death Eaters they are hunting down as Aurors, one of his colleagues is attacked by the Shadows. Harry doesn’t even think twice: he Stupefies him, sending him flying several metres. The flash of green light that was about to strike him misses, and the Shadows of Death vanish in a puff, unsatisfied.
“It’s a miracle,” Shacklebolt comments afterwards, patting him on the shoulder. “Your instincts are never wrong, Harry.”
Harry smiles and nods, accepting the thanks through gritted teeth, and then in the evening he returns home as he always does, tired and worried.
He goes to the bathroom, splashes water on his face, looks at himself in the mirror and grips the sink, his knuckles turning white from the force of his grip.
He studies his unblemished face, his black, tousled hair, his green eyes sparkling behind his glasses. His skin is pale, smooth, free from the grip of the Shadows, from their insidious specks.
***
The realisation of what this means gnaws at his chest, tormenting him.
He had left Ginny just the week before. He could no longer bear to see the effect of Time on her, the tiny black specks settling like a light veil in the folds of her skin.
He, so flawed; Master of Death, perhaps, even though he had renounced the Gifts, even though he had placed the Elder Wand in Dumbledore’s grave, even though he had lost the Resurrection Stone in the forest. He had failed to rid himself of that gift, of that sight, of the Immortality he had conquered.
It seemed ironic to him, on reflection: Tom Riddle’s greatest fear, for which the man had sacrificed his very soul; and by killing him, he had secured his goal, becoming immortal.
But this also made him different.
Worried for his friends, for his colleagues. Able to save them from sudden death, certainly, but not from the inevitable decay of the body.
It was a realisation that was driving him mad.
***
Harry, Ron and Hermione are at the party to mark the first anniversary of You-Know-Who’s defeat, at the Ministry. Shacklebolt has forced them to attend as key figures, and the three friends are awkwardly navigating the reception, unaccustomed to such formal events. At least, Harry thinks, he and Ron are wearing their Auror uniforms, and haven’t had to search for a suitable dress like Hermione, which, incidentally, looks as magnificent as it is uncomfortable.
Harry has just finished chatting with an Undersecretary and lets his gaze wander around the room, bored – as always, he ignores the Shadows, which form a delicate, intangible veil in such a large crowd.
He moves away from Ron on the pretext of helping himself to the buffet and, after a few steps, a glint catches his eye. He turns his gaze and sees a woman walking towards him, who takes his breath away.
She is older than him; that much is clear, even though no sign of aging seems to mar her perfect face, pale and oval like that of a porcelain doll. Her eyes are slightly slanted and black as night, and a charming smile curves her full lips. She wears a long red dress with a daring neckline, and walks with a slightly swaying, seductive and composed gait, which suggests a strong and self-assured personality.
It is not this, however, that prevents him from looking away – it is the Shadow of Death that envelops her but does not condemn her, a silvery glint that Harry has never seen before and which draws an intense and dangerous aura around the woman.
She wears Death like a fine mink cloak, entirely undisturbed by its presence.
“Mr Harry Potter, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” she begins once she has drawn close enough, extending a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Amelia Zabini.”
Harry pulls himself together just enough to shake her hand. He watches, fascinated, as the silvery Shadow glides over his skin without clinging to it, then wraps again itself around Lady Zabini’s wrist, like a bracelet, like a snake.
“I know Blaise Zabini,” he replies, feeling stupid.
Amelia’s smile widens.
“I’m his mother.”
She holds him tightly, for a few moments longer than would be appropriate. Harry feels his knees start to tremble, and he is increasingly confused.
“Pleased to meet you.”
***
“Harry,” Hermione whispers, worried, “Do you know who that woman is?”
Harry had spent the last half-hour chatting pleasantly with Mrs Zabini – Amelia, as she insisted on being called – and then they were interrupted by Shacklebolt, who forced him to follow him and introduced him to some foreign representatives whom Harry couldn’t care less about.
Then Hermione found him and dragged him away on some pretext.
“Amelia Zabini,” Harry replies calmly.
“She’s a black widow, Harry!” Hermione continues, the urgency in her voice verging on panic.
“A what?”
“She’s been married seven times, and seven times her husbands have died, leaving her vast fortunes. Everyone knows she killed them, but they can’t prove it!”
Harry can’t help himself; he bursts out laughing.
“Harry, I’m serious! I saw the way you were looking at her. You shouldn’t get involved with her! Besides…”
Harry looks at her and raises an eyebrow, amused. Hermione blushes slightly, stung.
“She’s much older than you,” she says at last. “Goodness, Blaise is her son, and he was in the same year as us at school! She must be at least forty, if not older.”
Harry places a hand on Hermione’s head, thoroughly amused by the whole situation.
“We’re at the Ministry gala, Hermione,” he reassures her. “It’ll all be over tomorrow. Even though I did have a bit of a chat with her tonight, I don’t think you need to worry. Honestly, I’ve lost count of all the people I’ve spoken to.”
Hermione glares at him and crosses her arms.
“I’m just worried,” she tells him, before turning her back on him and walking away.
Harry continues to smile, amused, and without meaning to, his thoughts return to Amelia, to the silvery Shadow that has wrapped itself around her slender wrist.
***
Harry senses her before he sees her. He follows the silvery sparks on the ground, his heart already racing… Amelia Zabini is just outside the Auror Office, talking to Bones, her boss.
They are as different as angels and demons: Bones, old, wrinkled, the dark smoke of the Shadow weighing down on her and hunching her shoulders; Amelia, her face untouched by time, proud, upright and seductive, as she cloaks herself in Death and turns to look at him.
“Ah, Harry Potter,” she says, savouring every syllable of his name, “On a break too? We were just about to go for lunch together. Will you join us?”
Harry cannot bring himself to say no, spellbound by her presence.
***
“I’m just about to go for lunch. Will you join me, Harry Potter?”
***
Harry and Ron are at the Three Broomsticks, several empty mugs of Butterbeer between them and two still full, which they hold calmly.
Ron had invited him out that Friday evening, and Harry had accepted… And he’d spent the evening watching him, sensing there was another meaning to that invitation. Ron had plucked up the courage with the help of some Butterbeer and now sighs, determined to speak.
“Mate, Hermione asked me to ask you if you know what you’re doing,” he says, and it’s clear he’s uncomfortable.
Harry remains impassive. He knows what he’s referring to: rumours of his lunches with Amelia Zabini have spread throughout the Ministry, and Harry is used to the whispers that follow him.
Until now, Ron had never commented.
“Yes,” he replies simply.
It’s pointless to explain what he feels, what he’s going through. Amelia is, yes, a beautiful woman, yes, charming, yes, very seductive. But she’s more than that: she’s a friend of Death, and Harry is drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He’s aware of it, and yet he can’t help himself.
No one would understand, because no one knows his deepest secret.
Ron visibly relaxes; he taps his mug on the table and downs it in one go, then his shoulders slump and he sinks back into his chair.
“I told Hermione, that’s what,” he says. “I said: if You-Know-Who didn’t finish him off, I doubt a woman could, however charming she might be!” He laughs, now amused. “Mate, she nearly set me on fire for that comment.”
Harry laughs with him, drinking his beer, and they spend the rest of the evening talking about Hermione, life as a couple, and their former Gryffindor mates.
***
“Harry, darling…”
Amelia reaches out and places her hand on his, on the table. Harry watches her slender fingers, the rings of silvery smoke that flicker and curve, seeking a grip on his skin. The Shadow hesitates, tries unsuccessfully to pinch him, and then retreats into a coil, wrapping itself around the woman’s slender wrists.
“We’ve been having lunch together for nearly a month now. I’m tired of being in this limbo: how about spending the weekend with me, at my villa in Italy?”
Harry looks up, follows the outline of the Shadow caressing her arm and meets her gaze, where Amelia’s expression is slightly hesitant.
Oh, she’s good, very good at what she does.
Harry smiles.
“I was hoping you’d ask me that, Amelia.”
***
The night breeze stirs the sheer curtains and sets the leaves on the trees singing, providing a background song to their lovemaking.
The stars are luminous pins in the dark, moonless sky, yet even they pale in the shifting cloak of the Shadow: darker than the night, yet silvery and sparkling at the same time.
Amelia’s body is perfect, naked and sensual, and the Shadow acts as a veil, partially concealing her generous curves from view, driving him mad.
Harry reaches out, pierces Death, grasps flesh and life. He kisses those lips as full as sin and bites them until they bleed; Amelia moans shamelessly beneath him, seeking him, caressing him. She pushes him onto the bed at last, and Harry lies there admiring the sight of her standing above him, diaphanous in the night, ethereal in the silver cloud that envelops her.
His arousal is sky-high, but Harry cannot move, paralysed by the vision of that goddess.
Amelia leans over him, her long black hair falling like a curtain, glinting with silver highlights. Her mouth closes around his erection and Harry arches his back, closes his eyes and surrenders to the woman’s expert touch.
Oh, oh, Amelia is really good at what she does.
Later, Amelia lets him go and slides on top of him, grabbing him and positioning him. She waits for him to look at her, and Harry does so, watching the point where their flesh almost meets, where the Shadow gives way and parts like a veil.
Amelia lowers herself onto him and draws him deep into her flesh with a fluid movement.
It is she who closes her eyes now; who lifts her head and arches her back, savouring the moment.
Harry grips her hips; the silvery Death recedes from his hands, allowing the passage of flesh.
He thinks, in a moment of epiphany, that she is the most beautiful woman in the world, tailor-made for him.
Then Amelia moves, and Harry thinks of nothing else, only the pulsing of their connected bodies.
***
“You’ve got some strange tastes, mate.”
“I can’t believe you’ve left me for… For… For an old woman!”
“Watch out, Harry. She’ll want to marry you and then slit your throat in your sleep!”
“Potter, ugh, why do you have to sleep with my mum?!”
“Here, take this present, it’s for you. Yes, ‘One Hundred and One Ways to Tell if Your Soup Is Poisoned’, trust me, you’ll need it, you’ll thank me later.”
“Blimey, I’m so jealous of you. Mind you, only because you’re sleeping with her! Everyone knows you’re supposed to stay away from Lady Zabini, but, well, somehow she’s managed to convince seven men to marry her, hasn’t she? Especially as they knew about her past…”
“I think the stars have aligned just right for you two to meet. Only you know what makes you happy, Harry. Trust your feelings.”
***
Hermione forced him to sit through a gruelling session of counter-spells and potions, which Harry only put up with because she’s his friend and because he wants her to calm down.
After an afternoon in which she tried everything, even forgotten spells that were supposed to warn her if he’d been placed under the Imperius Curse, and dozens of disgusting-tasting potions that were supposed to clear his mind and bring him peace of mind, she seems to give up.
She looks at him, her curly hair almost standing on end from the strain, sweat trickling down her forehead. Little Shadows creeping beneath her eyelids, into the creases of her neck, which Harry has learnt so well to ignore.
“I don’t understand,” she exclaims, after catching her breath. “You’re not under a spell. You want to be with her.”
Harry smiles.
“I don’t expect you to understand, Hermione. It’s just the way it is, though.”
Ron interjects with a sigh.
“You did what you wanted, didn’t you? Leave him in peace now.”
Hermione turns to answer him, stung, and Harry closes his eyes.
He knows he’ll see Amelia the next day, and he can’t wait to savour her skin, corrupted by Death, once more.
***
Harry feels the pressure mounting, the unspoken words seeping through the cracks in Amelia’s expression.
He knows what she wants. He’s known it from the start.
He’ll wait for her to bring it up.
He owes that much to his friends, he thinks, as his life becomes ever more intertwined with the witch’s.
***
“Harry,” whispers Amelia, the syllables of his name slipping between her moans. “Why don’t we get married?”
***
“I know what I’m doing.”
He’s lost count of how many times he’s had to say it.
Even Blaise has come to warn him about his mother.
Harry smiles, thinking of his secret, of the Death Shadows who couldn’t lay a finger on him even if they wanted to.
***
Harry remembers little of the ceremony; he is too absorbed in watching how Death looks magnificent as its silver cloak envelopes Amelia, how its coils of Shadow wrap around her head like a hood, how its sinister glow illuminates her porcelain face, curling around her eyelashes and sharpening her dark gaze.
Harry knows only that he wants to spend eternity with his bride.
***
It takes a year for it to happen.
A year in which Harry has settled into his new home, Villa Zabini - Amelia refused from the start to set foot in Grimmauld Place, and who can blame her -; where his work as an Auror sees him rise through the ranks with ease, thanks to his vision of Death and the subsequent rescues of colleagues on missions; where the nights are devoted to his bride and their intertwined bodies, to the pleasure that grows and grows and explodes into a thousand silvery sparks.
It seems like a morning like any other, but when Amelia sets the teacup down in front of him, Harry notices a dark hand overlapping hers, slender fingers with silver glints brushing against the cursed cup, then withdrawing to caress the back of the witch’s hand before vanishing in silvery coils around her wrists.
Harry smiles.
He raises the cup to his lips, watching Amelia, searching her gentle expression for the slightest change, the slightest hesitation that might betray her deception.
But Amelia is very, very good at what she does.
He doesn’t know whether to feel offended or flattered that she waited all that time before trying to kill him - too long? Or not long enough? - and he drinks, calmly swallowing the amber liquid.
“It’s sweeter than usual today, darling,” he remarks, and Amelia smiles.
Harry goes back to reading the Daily Prophet, without a word.
***
The shadow of doubt, the worry that mars her porcelain face.
Harry returns home that evening, tired but happy, and greets his bride with a smacking kiss on the cheek.
He watches her as she ponders and studies him, and pretends not to notice.
He’ll drive her mad with doubt and, with that thought, he smiles as he undresses and slips into the bath.
***
“Ooh, this soup’s tasty, darling.”
“You’re a sweetheart, Amelia. Did you add cinnamon to these biscuits?”
“This tea’s very spicy, perfect for the festive season. I love it.”
“I’ve never eaten such flavourful meat. You really are an excellent cook.”
***
Harry wakes up to the sound of the bedroom door opening slowly. He opens one eye, then the other, remaining buried in the pillows even as his brain registers the absurdity of the scene; he grabs his glasses from the bedside table and puts them on, to be sure of what he’s seeing.
Amelia is in the doorway, still in her dressing gown, though her hair is perfectly styled and she wears subtle dark make-up on her eyes and lips. She smiles, feline-like, as she strokes the handle of the axe she holds in her hand.
“I’m sorry, darling. But I must know, you understand?”
Harry chuckles.
“You know what?” he replies, calm and amused, as he watches Death loom over Amelia, the silvery hood drawing close to his bride’s ear and shaking its head slightly. “I’m curious too. Go on.”
Amelia trembles but presses on resolutely. Harry sees Death cover her hands with its own, seize the axe, and raise it above Amelia’s head.
He closes his eyes, relaxed, as if it were a dream, and feels the rush of air as the blade comes down.
***
“Mate, thank goodness you’re back. Hermione was going crazy; she wanted us to send a team to your house.”
Harry absent-mindedly scratches his shoulder.
He’s spent the last three days laughing himself breathless, because his limbs fusing back together has given him a tremendous tingling sensation.
He certainly can’t tell Ron that, just as he can’t explain the strange feeling he felt while Amelia, still covered in his blood, sat beside him and stroked his face for hours, admiring her handiwork and the miracle that, she now knows, is Harry’s life.
“Hey mate, I can’t catch a cold now, can I, or Hermione’ll be in a right panic?”
“That’s what I told her too, but, you know, she’s always convinced that your dear little wife wants to kill you.”
Harry smiles.
He needs only to think of Amelia’s slender fingers on his face, of Death cautiously withdrawing from touching his skin, and immediately the world seems a better place.
But he certainly can’t explain that to Ron.
***
It is a ritual of love, between them.
“No one has ever understood me like this, darling.”
Amelia’s hands on his body, brushing against his wrists as they bind him. They have renovated the villa and added a gloomy basement just to set the right mood for their new games.
“I love the relationship you have with Death, Amelia,” replies Harry, watching the Black Figure observe them, its cloak sliding across the floor in puffs of silvery steam. It whispers in the neck of Amelia, its chosen one, its beloved. It joins its hands with hers and, even though it cannot touch him, Harry knows it is pleased with their little deadly experiments.
“I love you, Harry.”
“I love you too, darling”.
***
“I’ve had the knives sharpened, darling. Are you ready?"
“Honestly, it’s an experiment. I’ve never mixed two such similar ingredients in a potion before! The Ashwinder’s egg should make you breathe fire, I think. I hope so, anyway. I can’t wait to find out.”
“I never thought Muggles had invented something as wonderful as electricity! The work’s finally finished today; we’re connected to the grid. Harry, darling, you must be tired after work; I’ve prepared a lovely scented bath for you. Would you like it?”
“You’ve been naughty, Harry, so this is your punishment. I mean, we’ve stopped the bleeding, haven’t we? I’m sure you’ll be able to walk even without a few toes. If you’re a good boy tonight, you can have them back.”
***
Hermione is growing increasingly suspicious.
“Harry! You’ve been ill far too often over the last year! I’m sure Lady Zabini is poisoning you!”
Harry smiles, watching the specks of Shadow burrow into her cheeks – suffocating.
When did he learn to conceal so well the deep anguish he feels every time his gift manifests itself, every time he sees his friends growing older, one painful day at a time?
Is this Amelia’s doing too?
She, who makes Death her confidante, who has drawn him into this sensual threesome, in an eternal chase where Death tries to touch him and fails, slipping away from his unblemished skin.
In return, Death has decided not to disfigure his bride. No deep-set wrinkles on her face, no dark spots on her skin. Just a veil, ephemeral and intangible, with silver highlights like the full moon in the night, and which does not truly belong to Amelia.
Are they or are they not the perfect couple?
“You have to go to St Mungo’s, Harry! You need to get… Get yourself checked out.”
“Hermione, stop it. I’m perfectly healthy, and I’m happy with Amelia. We’ve been married for two years now and I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“Hermione, leave him alone, come on. Harry knows what he’s doing.”
Hermione stands up, exasperated, and goes away.
***
“How long did her penultimate husband last?”
“Three months and twenty-eight days.”
“And Potter? It’s been two and a half years now, hasn’t it?”
“Give or take a week.”
“So I suppose there’s no need to worry anymore, is there? Your mother just wanted a handsome young man, and it’s clear Potter’s up to the task.”
“Ugh! Don’t ever say that again!”
“Well, it’s not as if you live with them and risk stumbling upon unsavoury little spectacles…”
“Get that image out of my head! Obliviate me!”
***
Amelia has been injured. The knife slipped from her hands and, somehow, left a small scratch on her forearm.
Harry sees tiny dark specks breaking away excitedly from Death’s cloak, moving towards the wound. They are fast, chasing one another, bouncing off each other. Death herself reaches out a hand, as if to hold them back, but they slip from her silvery fingers, drawn to the blood.
Harry lifts his torso, grabs Amelia’s forearm, causing her to moan.
“Don’t you dare,” he whispers to the specks, and plunges his tongue into the pool they have created on her skin, causing them to disperse.
Harry licks the wound with exasperating slowness, tasting his bride’s blood for the first time; only a faint hint of rust, for the wound is superficial. He feels her shudder beneath his touch and Amelia moans again, taken by surprise.
When he pulls away from her, Harry observes Death a few paces away, the specks having retreated into the folds of his cloak, trembling fearfully under his gaze.
He smiles.
“Amelia is mine,” he declares, and Death nods and bows, accepting defeat, sealing a new pact.
***
They make their entrance at the gala party marking the tenth anniversary of the war, and everyone watches them, admires them - whispering behind their backs; Harry knows they see them as impeccable, elegant, untouched.
Amelia rests a hand on his forearm and proudly displays two matching silver bracelets, studded with diamonds that sparkle under the lights of the hall. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry watches the coils of the Shadow wrapping around them and, turning to greet Ron and Hermione, briefly follows the trail, observing Death for a moment - no longer a cloak of tulle and velvet draped over his bride’s shoulders, but a willing prisoner, a few paces away, its head bowed in submission, bound by the wrists to Amelia, held at bay by her imposing presence.
Harry, master of Death.
And Amelia, its dearest friend, its jailer, its lover.
The one and only love of their life.
“Nice dress, Mrs Potter,” Ron remarks with a nod.
Amelia smiles – through seven husbands she has kept her name, on the pretext of not severing the bond with her son; through seven husbands she was Lady Zabini, but now that she has found him, it seemed more fitting to her to be recognised by the world and by Death as the true partner of her husband Harry.
Harry brushes her bare shoulders, leaning down to plant a light kiss on her neck; Amelia giggles as his hand glides over the black dress with delicate silver embroidery, which clings perfectly to her figure, accentuating her feminine curves.
“Thank you. Harry chose it,” she replies to Ron, who now looks uncomfortable. With an excuse, he mumbles something and returns to Hermione, who is watching them from a distance with a grim and worried look.
Ten years.
Ten years have passed and Harry is still alive. He will be for a long, long time, by his bride’s side.
Harry knows that Hermione cannot conceive of it.
***
“They’re not alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something with them. I can sense it. But, well… It’s nothing evil. Not for them, at least, I think.”
“I think you’re completely crazy sometimes.”
***
Every now and then they talk about the future.
How many more years will they be able to mingle with people without their immortality becoming obvious? How long can Harry ignore the inevitable decline of his friends, Death’s advance which he cannot stop – he tried, but managed to save only Amelia; only her, whom Death already favoured, or perhaps because she is his bride, eternal and wonderful –, the world moving on and leaving them behind?
Amelia owns the villa in Italy; they plan to move there as soon as anyone starts to notice that something is amiss. From there, they will see how to proceed. Magic will be their ally; they sometimes think of faking their deaths, of retreating into the Muggle world. To resurface, every now and then, perhaps out of nostalgia, to see how the world is doing; Amelia thinks of Blaise, of the grandson he gave her, of protecting her lineage.
Every now and then they talk about it, vaguely and indecisively, changing their minds every minute, waiting months between one conversation and the next.
It all seems so far away.
***
Death watches them, fleeting and in chains.
Always a step away, unable to touch them, gliding over their pure, immaculate skin.
She smiles, patiently.
As she watches their act of love, she recalls their perverse games that want her to be a participant, on the brink but never satisfied.
Even the Third Brother came to her, in the end.
She waits.
She has all the time in the world to reclaim what is hers.