Beyond death
The crown sat askew on Death's head. It was a terrifying coronet, with wicked, sharp points and gothically beautiful engravings. Cadmus Peverell couldn't look away from it, and he would never forget it. Nor would he forget the tall, imposing figure that it rested upon or the bony length of Death's fingers as they reached into the stream and plucked a pebble from its depths.
Death loomed over him, their burlap robe billowing in the wind. The lank folds of the robe released a putrid, rotting odor that engulfed Cadmus. It oozed into his nostrils, choked his lungs, and made his eyes water. Sweat beaded on his neck, but he remained stock-still and ramrod-straight.
Death reached out a hand.
Cadmus may have been an arrogant man, but he was also intelligent; he kept his own hand far from the frigid brush of Death's skin as the figure dropped the small, dark stone into his palm. Backing away from the ominous figure, leaving his brothers by the riverbank, Cadmus clutched his salvation in his fist.
Cadmus bent low over his horse, the cool night wind battering at his ears and seeping beneath his clothes. He could see the whites of his horse's eyes as it tossed its head, could hear its sharp and labored breaths, but he pushed the beast faster. Anticipation burned in his veins.
By the time he arrived home, his cherished horse was heaving and dripping with sweat. Impatience swirled in his gut, making him uncharacteristically neglectful of his horse's welfare. He barely took time to untack him before rushing into the house.
Cadmus slammed the door behind him and shucked his cloak, fumbling with the leather ties in his haste and leaving the garment on the stone floor. Neatness was the furthest thing from his mind in the face of his desperate desire to use the Hallow.
He rushed through his dark, dusty cottage, panting as he tripped over the woven hearth-rug. He slashed his wand at the unlit fireplace, and flames danced to life in a burst of smokey warmth. His pulse pounding in his ears was the only sound in the silent room as he slowly uncurled his fist and stared down at the seemingly innocuous stone. It had left harsh red indentations on his skin, bright and obvious beside the black stone.
As if the instructions had been implanted in his mind, Cadmus turned the stone thrice. He held his breath until spots danced in his vision.
When his Lizabetha appeared before him, still dressed in the loose, square-necked gown she'd been wearing when she died, he staggered back against the door. His stomach swooped and roiled, leaving him nauseous and feverish. Overwhelming elation sent the room spinning, and he pressed a hand to his heart, as if he'd be able to stop the organ from beating its way out of his chest.
"My love…" Cadmus whispered. His voice croaked as if he'd had to pull the sounds from the depths of his soul. He couldn't look away from her, from her upswept black hair and the tantalizing curve of her neck. Her lips were as full and inviting as they had been in life, and she brought a delicate hand to her mouth when she saw him. Her wondering eyes roamed over him, and he felt her gaze as though it were a brand.
"Cadmus?"
He closed his eyes as her lilting voice washed over him, but then he quickly snapped them back open. Disbelief churned in his gut, making his hands clammy. His wide eyes roved over her as he trembled. If she disappeared on him again, he'd be truly lost.
"Darling, what am I doing here?"
"You've come home to me," he rasped. He closed the space between them in a single stride, anxious from a burst of unrestrained need, and reached out to gather her into his arms.
To his horror, his hands passed through her as though she were mist, shadows. Cadmus stumbled and fell to the floor. His knees smarted against the unforgiving stone, but he barely noticed the pain as he whirled to look at her, scrambling backwards as he did so.
Lizabetha was looking down at her hands, twisting them to and fro. She looked down at her body, too, and grabbed her skirts, twirling soundlessly as though she were dancing.
His heart was a stampede behind his ribcage, but he forced himself to focus. To actually look at her. In his initial delight, in his complete amazement, he'd failed to notice how hazy she was. Now he could see the hearth through her torso, and the flickering flames illuminated her shimmering aura.
"What am I doing here?" she repeated, no longer dancing.
"I-I have found a way for us to be together," Cadmus replied. Oh, how he'd missed her. He slowly pushed himself to his feet and approached her cautiously. "Not even death will part us, my love."
He held his palms out, and she rested her transparent hands over his. She was neither cold nor warm, and even though she appeared like a ghost, there was no substance to her, no icy weight.
But she was there, right in front of his eyes, and as his gaze roved over her features, he decided it was enough.
"Would you like to walk with me today?" Cadmus asked of his beloved. He rose from the wooden chair, securely tying his cloak and tightening the leather straps of his breeches.
Lizabetha stood at the small kitchen window, gazing into the forest beyond. The dying afternoon sunlight danced through her in beautiful yellow rays; she cast no shadow on the floor. She was still clad in the same square-necked gown, but her expression had gone dull, gloomy. Her spirit had deteriorated rapidly in the fortnight she'd been back with him.
Being able to speak to his love, to see her face, had renewed his strength. But she appeared sapped of all hers, and the sadness in her eyes felt like a dagger to his gut. She seemed…other, an outsider. She was silent most days, saying little and doing less.
Cadmus had been unprepared for her death, and when an opportunity presented itself to bring her back, he'd leapt at it. Watching her stand silently in front of the window, it became obvious to him that he would never accept her passing. He was a wizard, for Merlin's sake. If he couldn't find a way to bring her back to him, then what good was the magic in his veins, the wand in his hand? It'd be reduced to a fancy piece of wood and him to one of those tricksters who so cleverly manipulated the cup and balls.
"My love?" he questioned. She tilted her head to look at him, her hair shifting over the nape of her neck. Cadmus took a step towards her. "A walk?"
"Not today," she whispered.
She turned back to the window, and Cadmus slumped back into his chair.
He watched her.
A week later, Cadmus was once again in that chair, and his beloved still stood before the kitchen window. It was past twilight now, and both he and Lizabetha had been statues since the sunrise. He'd given up asking her questions, given up on trying to converse with her at all.
She'd been silent for ages now, and it had driven him to near madness.
Cadmus slouched deeper into his chair, all his stiff muscles aching. The strength and happiness he'd felt at her reappearance had waned as quickly as it had come. His hands continued to pass through her as if she were smoke, and the few times she had rested her palm on his jaw, he couldn't feel her warmth.
He had thought that to look upon her would be enough, but he'd found it to be a rare kind of torture.
Cadmus remembered how they used to dance. How Lizabetha would break every rule of seemly behavior and thread her fingers through his hair. She'd never chided him for stepping too close in his eagerness and squashing her satin-covered toes beneath his heavy boots. She would just tilt her head back and laugh, loud and unrestrained, uncaring of the looks she drew. She'd never been more alive than when she danced.
So now, when she'd gone silent and cold, his insides had curdled. All hope of his happy reunion had withered to dust.
"Can you please say something?" he begged, voice hoarse.
Lizabetha turned to stare at him. He imagined her as she would have looked, backlit by the moonlight. In reality, she blended into her surroundings, and the moonlight reminded him that she wasn't really here.
"I love you," he added.
Slowly, her lips quirked. Just a small tilt, a sad tilt. "I love you, too. And you know I long for you and for the life we would have had. But this is not life, darling, and I am not alive."
"But I brought you back," he urged. "You're here with me, and I know I can find a way for you to stay. I can make you whole again."
She turned back to the window, and he barely heard her response. "I am whole. I am just not here."
The sun woke Cadmus, and he blinked blearily. He straightened in the chair and rubbed the crick in his neck. His beloved Lizabetha was still a solitary figure by the window.
He shuffled out the door towards the stable, where he collected a length of rope from a hook. Cadmus brushed his hand down his horse's neck before opening the stall door. He untethered the beast, and as his horse nudged at his shoulder, Cadmus inspected the rope for weaknesses.
With a final pat for his horse, he ensured both the stall and stable door would stay open to allow the beast to leave and headed back to the house.
Lizabetha didn't look at him when he entered the house. A week ago, curiosity tickling him, he'd gone to stand behind her to see what she was so interested in out the window. All he saw were bare, spindly trees bowing in the wind—brown leaves blowing across the frost-bitten grass.
She'd looked up at him over her shoulder, and her answer had left him with even more questions. "The trees look as though they're dancing, do they not?" she'd whispered. "I can't dance here."
He'd never wanted to touch her as badly as he did then. He'd felt consumed with longing, but at the same time, so utterly hollow.
He'd reached out to her, even though he knew it was impossible, and tried to pull her into his chest, tried to grab her arms or clasp her cheek or grip her hips. He'd failed, of course, and through his haze of desperation, he saw his own emptiness reflected in her pale eyes.
Cadmus paused momentarily to look at her, squeezing the scratchy rope in his fist, before he grabbed the wooden chair that had become his permanent seat and dragged it into the other room.
He needn't look upon her in this…half form any longer. He'd be with her soon. Truly with her.
Cadmus stood before Death once again. The figure's crown was still crooked and terrifying, but their cloying scent was no longer overwhelming. In fact, Cadmus didn't notice a smell at all.
Behind Death, solid-looking and no longer coldly transparent, stood his Lizabetha, and he only had eyes for her. When Cadmus gripped her hands, she was warm, whole, and with an exhilarated laugh, he spun her into a dance.
thank you for reading!
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Skywalker404
Skywalker404 Credit/loverloverlover
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