The Chronicles of Van Deloney-Chapter 23: A BLESSING OR A CURSE

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IT WAS  three months—twelve long, still weeks—since Desmond had begun searching, and still not a trace of Charlotte had been found. The days drifted by like mist above the moors, elusive and grey, filled with unanswered questions and fruitless wanderings.

Beneath the embers of the little drawing room of Normaine, there remained the breath of freshly brewed tea. Zephyrl, long faithful and already growing weary of their stretched stay, asked gently, turning toward his master, "How much longer are you going to stay in this sleepy countryside, Master Desmond? Didn't you tell His Majesty that you would set off for GERANIA for matters of grave importance? Surely, he must be getting anxious by now, considering that you have been lying to him."

Desmond accepted the offered porcelain cup, letting warmth seep into his fingers as he gazed at dancing steam. "Leave? Not yet. I have not found her."

Zephyrl raised an eyebrow as he headed towards the tall shelves filled with dusty tomes. "What is it about this woman that so firmly binds your steps here? Is she worth the postponement? Your attention might not be better paid toward hunting for your brother."

A shadow crossed Desmond's face—something like sorrow and reminiscence. He cast the cup down lightly with a soft click and spoke in a voice that was half lost in memory: "Charlotte... No. Lady Charlemaine Beatrice Van Deloney. She is not meant to be pursued by me; on the contrary, she is dearest to him-my brother. I saw the moment he laid eyes on her: he was entranced. And, not by beauty alone. There was something else—something sacred."

He turned toward the desk, where papers lay scattered like fallen leaves. "The Deloney name carries with it an ancient yearning. For generations, they have longed for a daughter who would ensure the activation of the divine gift-the blessing from their god. The eldest daughter... She was a silent hope, never called, never chosen. But the youngest... Charlotte... indeed she is almost there. Her time is coming."

Zephyrl paused his idle rifling through the tomes and turned his head over the shoulder, thoughtful. "These gifts the nobles hold in such esteem... they are both a curse and a crown, are they not?"

Desmond gave a faint nod. "Just so. Each noble house is granted one sacred blessing. Once awakened in a son, it is called the Urael–a beacon of clarity and divine strength. But when bestowed upon a daughter, this blessing is termed the Noctis–a light hidden in shadow, singular in nature, and one that bestows fertility upon the next heir of the gift." He lapsed into silence, leaving the atmosphere in the room thick with unuttered truths. Outside, a wind stirred the trees, like restless spirits, compelled to whisper secrets that only the blessed could ever hope to understand.

"Very well," said Zephyrl, with a faint soaked steel in his voice as he unpacked a certain book from the shelf and flung it across the table. His indifferent yet intrigued gaze landed on it as if considering a niggling question. "What is this?" he asked, seemingly uninterested.

"A tale of grim reapers," was the answer, delivered with slight indifference.

Desmond raised an eyebrow and said skeptically, "Are you offering me a children's story?"

Unfazed, Zephyrl exhaled frostily, "No," he replied, a coldness to his tone and something sharper lurking beneath. "But perhaps you should listen for a while before forming your opinion?" On that note, he began telling the story, filling the air with distant yet fascinating drama of the legend.

Long before the hours began to mourn, and the gaslights flickered as the souls wept, under crimson eclipse, Velmordana spoke in murmurs about the Twin Reapers, servants of not man, but of the Veiled Lady, death goddess who ruled the stillness between heartbeats.

Jack and Jill were born in the stinking alleys of Blackwharf under a crimson eclipse, orphans marked by the divine. They shared everything: grief and hunger and a city bent on giving them the twisted lullabies of an unkind embrace. However, what truly set them apart was their gift: the ability to witness the threads of mortality in every living thing; when touched, they could unravel them.

Their gift was the very thing that caught the eye of many.

On the eve of the Blood Moon, when the plague carts rolled, and prayers turned hoarse, the Veiled Lady herself descended, in the form of a mourning dove dressed in ashes. The twins were auctioned unto her in contract: in exchange for their eternal servitude, they were promised never again to feel the pangs of hunger, cold, or fear-given that they would exist eternally in states never knowing peace, love, or the soft embrace of death.

Thus did Jack and Jill become her Reapers.

Jack–tall, solemn, clad in black silk with silver braids, monocle alight with the glimmer of judgment for each soul. Jill–bright red, as radiant as the sun-set rose, twin braids coiling like ropes of fate; her every smile swathed a dagger in velvet.

The twins came wherever death didn't fulfill its course, sometimes to save and sometimes to exact a mockery of mercy. They danced spread among the fogs and the fires, their dulcet, childlike laughter scattered around like broken melodies in a crushed music box. People learned soon enough to bolt their doors and leave offerings while shadows loomed unusually still.

But the tragedy is that they remembered everything-now. 

Every one of the weeping mothers whose children they served.

Every lover that turned still as they kissed.

Every single scythes were turned against those begging them not to.

And last and most-worst-they remembered each other.

For the Veiled Lady bound their souls to balance. If one wept, the other bled. If one fell down, the other rose. Their relationship was unbreakable; it was yet forbidden to touch as kin, to speak out as siblings.

It is said that when the first grave in Velmordana was desecrated and did not want to rest, Jill cried so much that Jack gouged out his monocle and plunged it through his own heart only to have immortality bestowed upon him, cursed, while her scream was the last sound before silence.

Even now, on storm-lashed nights, should you listen intently in the alleys of Blackwharf, you can hear the rustling of twin cloaks and twin braids, braided not merely in hair, but also in grief and shadow. And should your eyes discover them, Jack with his feathered hat and bleeding eye, Jill in her crimson gown smiling through tears—

This content is taken from fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm.

Don't run.

They are not cruel.

They are tired. 

Tired of being death's most faithful children. 

"And what of it?" Desmond scoffed, crossing his arms and legs defiantly. "I find it hard to believe such things even exist. And if they do, they certainly are long dead. The grim reaper George talked about was just a figment of his imagination, a mere delusion."

With quiet grace, Zephyrl stepped behind Desmond, a shadow leaning in close, his voice a dropping conspirator's whisper.

"Your Highness, they do exist. What if I told you I have seen it with my own eyes? Haven't you heard of the fire at Dire Grove-the manor that was consumed? For it is there that I dwelt sometime before coming here to serve you."

Desmond's furrowed brows indicate a light tension in his voice. "What plans are brewing this time?" The cold gaze of Zephyrl turned aloof. "Oh, nothing serious . I'm just giving my opinion on that death's head called George. They could actually be the ones I saw." He shrugged carelessly and returned to the very distant voice while turning and standing before his desk, the thing appeared to be closed to him.

"Zephyrl," called out Desmond's clear and commanding voice, "you know well my intention is to erase from existence, not to entertain any ideas of reapers." His words were like ice, every syllable heavy with authority. His gaze pierced through Zephyrl, cold and unyielding, as he clasped his hands before him, resting them together with a deliberate calmness.

For a moment, silence settled in the room, thick and oppressive. Then, Zephyrl, with a faint, mischievous grin curling at the edges of his lips, tilted his head ever so slightly. "If that is your wish, Your Highness..." he said, his tone betraying a playful yet dangerous undertone. "After all, I was merely following your orders." His serpentine eyes, glinting with something unreadable, fixed on Desmond for a brief moment before he added, "Should anything arise, I will be sure to inform you first."

In the air hung Zephyrl's words, and without waiting for a response, he turned and left Desmond alone at the study table. The door closed softly behind him as he stepped down the stairs with controlled strides toward the kitchen. There, he removed his gloves according to the grace of one who is accustomed to handling things of delicate worth; then washing his hands slowly, the soft sound of water filled the silence about him.

As his fingers glided over the porcelain tea sets, he suddenly halted his movement. For upon his right hand dark evidence stuck out clearly: a symbol of the crow's wings and eye. A gasp caught in his throat for a moment, spiraling backward in time and space: never to leave behind a place he could never truly leave behind.

He breathed out a sigh, holding the words back in murmurs burdened with bitterness and resignation.

"They call their gifts blessings... but mine was a curse."