King Dom Comes (21 page)

"I'm coming for you, Shannon," he
whispered. "Do not let go. Your king comes, my love. Don't run from me. I
need you."

He released his emotion, his fear, his
pride, and his love into her. Hands touched his shoulders and back as his loyal
and dedicated men lent their own prayers and support to his effort. He could
sense the ancient connection, that tiny remnant of magic carried by his knights
that kept them bonded to him, as it trickled through his soul. Deeper and
deeper he sank into her spirit, instinctively following what he could only have
described as a twisting path to her dimming light. It was much like the image
he had seen in the water when he'd first divined her—distorted,
unrecognizable, terror-stricken. It writhed and screamed, filled with pain and
loneliness.

He did not withdraw from the pillar of
fading light. It was Shannon's essence. It was comprised of her life's
energy—and that energy was rapidly waning. Legend had it that to touch
Banshee was to come face to face with Death Himself. Dom was not afraid of
Death. No, what he feared was life—a life without her by his side. He
stepped forward, wrapped his arms around the flickering, twisting column, and
surrendered to Death. Pain, her pain, tore through him, and he raised his voice
to summon his Maker.

"Take me if you must!" he shouted.
"You will not take her! I give her all of who I am. My gifts, my love, and
my life!"

The pillar shook and bent grotesquely
around his body as his powers left him. He could hear the keening as it
vibrated through his flesh, and grit his teeth as he felt his blood begin to
boil within its mortal shell.

"Take all from me so that she might
live," he growled, clinging more tightly to the column as it began to take
solid form. "I do not fear you, Death. You are not my enemy."

Voices of the ancients rose around him as
his power was drained from his spirit. Devoid of strength, he slipped to the
ground. Feebly, he reached out his hand to the white image of Shannon's spirit,
standing next to a woman who matched the one in the painting he had seen in the
carriage. The woman smiled and offered her hand to another—his father.

"No! You can't take her from me.
Please!"

The apparitions smiled wordlessly and
stepped back, fading from view. Dom called out a final time, his pleas
desperate as he crawled towards them with the last of his strength. His sobs
filled the air as the woman and his father disappeared from sight, taking with
them the only thing that had ever given him joy. Shannon.

"Forgive me, my love," he wept,
with tears that came from a broken, powerless and very mortal man. His curse
had reached fruition. He truly was Moarte, Death incarnate, doomed to live life
without joy or love. Despair wrapped her suffocating arms around him and, like
a succubus, drained what little life remained within him. It mattered not, for
without Shannon, he had no desire to live.

"Sire," a man's voice whispered.
"Come back to us. Your people need you. King Domitri, come. Please, return
to this world."

Dom shook his head and surrendered his
final breath. If he could not be with his love in life, he would be with her in
death. They would be together, forever, and nothing more could pull them apart…

The End…

… Or is it?

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