Such Sweet Sorrow (17 page)

He didn’t respond, so she continued. “When you woke me from Sheol, it was as though we had never been apart. Well, except for your banishment. But none of that seemed real to me, anymore. You didn’t seem real. Now that I’ve come to accept that I have been dead for some time, that days, months have passed, and that you have suffered on my behalf and with longing for me… I feel a terrible guilt.

“When I used your dagger in that tomb, it was because I couldn’t bear the thought of living without you. I knew the way everyone in Verona, everyone in my family would look at me if I returned from my grave. As a miracle, a gift from God. I know that must have been how they looked at you.”

He did not need to speak to confirm the truth of her statement, so she went on. “You endured it, to live. How can I rejoice in your death when you’ve sacrificed so much for life?”

Romeo closed his eyes. If not for the hard set of his jaw, Juliet would have worried that his mortal body had expired. He didn’t move for a long time.

She bent down and gently, very gently, touched her mouth to his, as she had that horrible night in the tomb. She had hoped then that some drop of poison had remained on his mouth, enough to kill her, to take her to his side again. This time, she prayed that some spark of life would pass from her to him, though she herself was dead.

If any doubt had remained to her feelings for him, it vanished the moment their lips touched. She’d meant for the kiss to be brief, but it was like coming home. Every memory had a sharper clarity. That life had not happened to a person Juliet remembered being. It had happened to her. Every emotion flooded back, and her limbs trembled at the intensity of what she remembered.

She felt, too, the space between them, the clawing, needy separation of time that had passed for him, without her. She felt it in his mouth as it opened beneath hers. He pressed his palm and splayed fingers to her back, and she was reminded at once of how small her physical body had been, how vulnerable she had felt at his side. How safe she had felt, lying in his arms, dreading the morning that would force them apart.

“I have dreamed of you every night,” he whispered when their lips parted. His nose nuzzled hers, and she giggled. She was the maiden who had fallen in love with him again. It was as though the sadness that had made them both wiser beyond their years melted away, banished by her joy.

“I was with you every night,” she told him, sniffling back a tear. “Though we were parted, though I was asleep. My heart was with you.”

It was not the most romantic reuniting of lovers the world had ever seen. When he lay her down, it wasn’t on the soft linens of her bed, as it had been the first time. Instead, the cracked, hard-baked gray clay served as their marriage bed. But every touch brought Juliet back to herself, raising parallel memories on the surface of her mind. For a beautiful, blissful moment, she knew what it was to be alive again.

“You’re not so cold anymore,” she giggled, as a drop of sweat slid down his nose.

He collapsed beside her and pulled her close. “Do you remember what you said to me, that morning that I left? When we heard the call of the lark heralding the morning?”

“I said that it was the nightingale, and not the lark. I wanted you stay, though I knew it would mean your death.” Her soaring spirit plummeted. “I should have gone with you.”

“It would have been a far greater risk to me if I had tried. But I was thinking,” he said very sternly, “that we do not have to worry about nightingale nor lark today. Our choices will be either talking raven, or talking raven.”

Juliet covered her face with her hands and laughed. “I was trying to have a serious conversation with you.”

“I know you were.” He dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. “But I do not want to be serious now. I’ve been serious for over a year, trying to find you. Things have become considerably more serious since I stepped through the corpseway. For just one moment, let us have a bit of peace.”

“You’re right.” She reached for his hand and laced their fingers together. Perhaps she was just imagining it, but it did seem he was haler than before. There was color in his face, and his voice was not so faint or far away. “There hasn’t been a day since we’ve known each other that has not been marred by some tragedy.”

“Let us not toss the happy moments aside, few though they might have been.” he said gently, stroking her hair back from her forehead.

“There will be more,” she vowed. There had to be. Though the Norn had given them no hope that Juliet would ever leave the Afterjord, she had come to life in a different way, the moment she’d opened her eyes in Sheol. Whether she escaped the underworld or not, she would not waste this second chance. Knowing where she had been before would only make every step on her journey sweeter.

“Like right now,” he mused with a smile. He pulled her closer beneath the singed ruin of her gown. “Granted, I might have preferred someplace a bit more comfortable.”

The memory of her soft bed, in her old room, caused a surprising ache of homesickness in her. “I feel like I’m becoming myself again, more and more. I know what the Norn said, that I cannot escape. But if I can, I want to go home, to see my mother and father and make amends. I want to feel the sun on my face and be a part of the world again.”

Romeo’s hand stilled on her head, and she looked up, her heart twisting at the shadows that passed over his face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, the memories of her last days pricking her mind like embers wafting off a fire. “Are you still banished?”

“No. After they learned I would live, the Prince pardoned me. But…”

She lifted her head.

“Juliet, it has been…a long time. Months. Everyone you knew believes you are dead. Our fathers called a truce for peace between our families in your name. Everyone in Verona knows you died.”

As she listened, horror slowly dawned on her. Then, as she worked to bend her mind around his words, she realized how very silly they sounded. “Miracles happen all the time, they tell us so in church. St. Dennis had his head cut off and he walked for miles preaching the gospel. Surely I can be returned from the dead.”

“It isn’t that simple.” He closed his eyes, grimacing in pain. “If I brought you back, they wouldn’t see a miracle. They would see witchcraft. They would burn me, and probably you, as well.”

“So my mother, my father…my nurse?” Tears rose in her eyes. She felt them, and that was good, she knew, because she was becoming more like herself. But she did not like the pain of this loss. It was too sharp and new, in light of the fact that she’d already said her goodbyes as she lay dying on the floor of the tomb.

It was a fearful thing, to comprehend the finality of death after the deed was already done.

Now she had a chance to reverse it all, and for what?

“I’m sorry. I never thought how it might hurt you.” He captured her hand and placed it over his heart. “I cannot give you back your old life. But I vow to give you a new one, one that is as happy as I can possibly make it.”

For this
. That was her answer, beating erratically under her palm. “I was ready to leave my family behind, to forsake everything I knew for you.”

His eyes squeezed shut tightly, and when they opened, she saw shame in his mournful gaze. “I know.”

Before he could apologize for failing her, before he could make himself feel any worse about a situation he could not have controlled, she said, softly, “What makes you think that’s changed now?”

His arms surrounded her, catching her up tightly. The bleak emptiness around them fell away. And she was whole again, with him.

Chapter Sixteen

The ravens led Hamlet for what seemed like an eternity. They were not so friendly now that he had challenged them. It was all the better, for he preferred their silence.

They came to the foot of the volcanic mountain and started up a crumbling, rocky path marked with torches. The skulls became less numerous, though some were impaled on branches that had once grown, then died, in stone crevices.

The slope crested at the mouth of a huge plateau. The mountain rose up all around, giving the round, open space the look of an arena. The bloody bones scattered about gave the same impression. Hamlet sidestepped a pile of them and walked into the center. His legs ached. He wanted to sleep, a long, hard sleep, undisturbed by fears of his uncle’s assassins or the Afterjord’s ghoulish creatures. He sighed heavily, held his arms wide open, and called, “I am here now. What do you want of me?”

It moved so fast, Hamlet had no time to fear. A wolf larger than any horse he’d ever seen leapt down the jagged rocks, snarling and foaming, its eyes blazing with hellfire.

Hamlet did not bother to draw his sword. Some cold, detached part of his brain said,
Well, this is where I die, I suppose.
But there was no fear in it. There wasn’t any room.

The beast skidded to a halt inches from Hamlet, its great paws raising dust into the air. The monster panted, its back arched in battle ready posture, but it did not move to slay him.

Now, the fear set in. Hamlet would have much preferred to have met his end before he’d had time to really think about it. He couldn’t help but notice the length of the wolf’s teeth.

“H-hello…” Hamlet put out his hand, foolishly. He wouldn’t have tried to approach a stray dog in the street with an outstretched hand; it was an invitation to a bite, and this creature was like to take his whole arm off in one snap of his jaws.

“Bow, Viking,” the wolf said. After the ravens, it shouldn’t have surprised Hamlet to hear an animal speak.

Still, it took him a moment to recover from the shock. When he did, his mind whirled. If he were to face his destiny and become the king his father had wanted him to be, he would not bend to any creature, no matter how fearsome. “I do not bow. I am a prince.”

“And I am a god-slayer,” the wolf huffed, steam billowing from his black nose. “Or will be, at the end of time.”

“You’re Fenrir.” Hamlet jerked his hand back. He recalled the stories from his childhood, and that the god Tyr had lost his hand to the fabled beast. Hamlet was certain a mortal would not fare better.

“Few still know my name.” The wolf sounded sad and weary. “But knowledge of my lore beats in your blood. You have the heart of a wolf.”

“In your story, the wolf is the villain,” Hamlet reminded him cautiously.

“The difference between villainy and heroism lies in the way the tale is told.” Fenrir moved slowly, and Hamlet backed up. “You needn’t fear me, boy. When I want to kill you, you will know.”

“That’s very comforting.” There was an intelligence to this creature that had been lacking from the stories Hamlet’s mother had told him. Fenrir was a beast, a mindless monster grown so big that even the gods feared him. But as the wolf slowly circled him, Hamlet realized the falsehood in that.

Fenrir’s graying black fur rippled over his lean frame. “You’ve come looking for the key, and you’ve gotten further than most.”

“Have I?” Hamlet eased his toe beneath a discarded femur and lifted it, weighing it against his palm. “It looks like others have gotten at least this far.”

“I said most, not all,” Fenrir reminded him. “You’ve gotten further than all of them, because I have not killed you outright.”

“I’m honored.” Hamlet still held the bone, tossing it nervously from hand to hand. It was a strange sort of comfort; someone else was with him. He was not alone, even if that someone was deceased and in pieces and parts dashed about.

“What brought you to the Afterjord?” Fenrir’s low growl became accusatory and hostile. “Why come here? For glory? For power?”

“I don’t need glory. I already told them.” But when Hamlet jerked his thumb toward the two ravens, he saw they were gone. He was alone. He swallowed and faced the wolf again. “As I was saying. I don’t need glory. I’ll be king one day.”

“King! As if being a king were about glory!” The wolf laughed, an odd chuffing sound that sent more curls of steam from his nostrils.

“To be the king, one must be a servant,” Hamlet said, repeating words he would have done well to remember the first time his father had said them. “I am here in the service of someone who needed help.”

“You were forced here. You made no decision of your own.” Fenrir resumed his pacing. There was an agitated energy about him; it radiated in waves like ripples on the surface of water. “You don’t know what it means to command men, to rule worlds.”

“No, I don’t,” Hamlet admitted. “But I fear I’m beginning to get a sense of it.”

“You can’t collect the keys without learning. You can’t leave here without changing fate. You lack humility if you assume you can do this without changing yourself in the process.” Fenrir snarled. “Many have tried to take the key from me. What makes you think you will succeed?”

“Because I’m not here for the glory the others sought.” Hamlet knew it was a test, and that the wolf would not hesitate to end him for a wrong answer, but he could only give the beast his truth. “I need the key to return to my world. So that I can avenge my father and become the king he wanted me to be. Perhaps to become the king he wished he’d been. I cannot do that if I am trapped in the Afterjord, and while my kingdom is not suffering now, it will. If I had been brave enough to challenge Claudius none of this would have come to pass, but it has. I now need the key, so that I may right things.”

“As I will slay Odin at the end of time, so you shall face your own Ragnarok in Midgard?” The answer seemed to intrigue the wolf.

Hamlet felt the corner of his mouth twitch and forced himself to refrain from a smug grin. Smugness seemed out of place here, when such a ruthless creature was showing him honesty. “I would never compare myself to so great a legendary hero.”

One of Fenrir’s brows lifted. It struck Hamlet suddenly how human animals could seem, even when they were not talking mythological beasts.

“You sent for me,” Hamlet continued. “Why?”

Fenrir’s eyes scanned the gray sky. “You were with others. I didn’t want them to intervene.”

“Intervene? It almost sounds as though you were afraid of taking on the three of us.”

Fenrir did not appreciate the humor. “Are you calling me a coward, mortal?”

“A bad jape,” Hamlet said quickly. “I would never think of applying that word to you. You’re a villain of legend.”

“So, our stories are not as forgotten as I imagined.” Fenrir settled back on his haunches. “And what if I told you that it would please me to maul you where you stand, and suck the marrow from your mortal bones?”

“I have no doubt it would please you, but would it serve you?” Hamlet dropped the bone and spread his arms wide. “You sent for me. I can only imagine you needed me for a particular purpose.”

“For the moment, yes,” Fenrir conceded. “I want to help you on your quest.”

“What do you gain if I do?” Hamlet asked.

“An escape from my fate. You are familiar with my story. Pray, what happens at the end?”

“You die in Ragnarok. You kill Odin, but you are slain in turn. Everything dies. So why would you care to help me?”

“Everything dies…but if a mortal wields power over death, does that still hold true?” Fenrir’s slow blink displayed his nonchalance on the topic.

“So you’re proposing that by changing the laws of nature, you might avert your destiny?” It was a comforting thought, one that made everything seem possible.

It was too seductive to be trusted.

“The role set aside for you brings you to your doom, and pain to those you love. There is no way for you to avoid it, and yet you plunge forward, taking everyone you love with you.” Fenrir mused. “If you could change that, would you?”

The hairs on the back of Hamlet’s neck rose. “What do you mean, doom?”

“You think you can save your friends? Their destiny is to be parted.” Fenrir’s head lowered, and he growled in his chest as he spoke. “Everyone you love dies. Unless you change that.”

He thought of his father. He thought of the vision of Ophelia.

“You’re wrong.” He shook his head. “I don’t love. I’m too arrogant and selfish to love.”

He thought of Romeo, and of Juliet.

He thought of Horatio.

Fenrir snarled. “Say it often enough, and you’ll probably believe it.”

“How do you know I am worthy to wield the power of these keys…Is any mortal worthy? Can any mortal be trusted in matters of life and death?” His shoulders slumped. “I am not asking to be all powerful. I’m just trying to help someone who was so desperate and alone and sad that he would do anything to bring his lost love back.”

“So noble of you, to risk your own life for another’s lost love.” The wolf sounded bored. His muscles tensed.

He would spring and kill him, Hamlet feared.

“Your father was a great king, and what did it earn him? Death. For your birth turned over the hourglass, and Claudius’s time to seize the crown was short. Your birth marked the end of your father’s days.” Fenrir chuckled. “Mortals. Every man and woman who journeyed into this arena thought they were different. That they were the hero of a legend yet to be written. Well I tell you, they were not. But you could be.”

Hamlet’s mind whirled. If he collected the keys, he would be able to walk between the worlds freely. What better way to avenge his father’s death than to revoke it completely? The king could return to his throne. Denmark would become more powerful than any other kingdom.

“Then give me the key.”

“It is not mine to give away.” The wolf sounded disappointed at that.

“Then all of this was for nothing? I’ll just live on, ruining lives all around me?” The words were bile in Hamlet’s mouth.

“You can take the key, but I cannot give it.” Fenrir’s enormous paw flexed, the black claws scratching at the dirt.”

“I must fight you?” Why hadn’t the wolf chosen Romeo? Was he not the better fighter?

A leader does not lead by the sword, but he may wield it in defense of his people
. King Hamlet had been wise, and his son despaired of ever matching him.

“We are alike, you and I. We are harbingers of destruction.” The wolf settled down, his bushy tail curled around him. “You can change the course of mortality and rescue your friends. Or you can die here.”

Hamlet’s mind raced. Fenrir had a destiny in the lore of the end of the world. “If I take the key and rescue a mortal from death, I will be changing all that has ever been written.”

“We are old legends, wisps of memory. Bedtime stories, fables. We are no longer worshipped. When there is no one left to remember the old gods, the pantheon dies. Ragnarok
is
coming but not as we expected. And I will not fall to the blade of some unworthy god.” Fenrir’s eyes narrowed to glowing yellow slits. “Even if it means tearing apart the laws of this world and the next.”

“So…you’re committing suicide, then? You’ll just let me kill you and I’ll take the key and be on my way?”

“Killing takes a piece of you, every time you do it. I am but a shade of my former self, and I am living for what? For the chance to commit one last, glorious murder at Ragnarok. Fie on that, I say.” The wolf rambled now. “No, boy, it won’t be murder that you do, nor will I murder myself. You will fight me, and you will win, because you must.”

“And if I don’t?” Hamlet didn’t want to think about the heaps of rotting bones and scraps of flesh all around him, the bloody stains on the rock.

“Then you will walk from this battle ground. You may take two steps. Perhaps three. But you will go no further.” Fenrir pulled himself up again, swaying on his legs that did not look so powerful as before. “Come, boy. Fight me.”

Hamlet drew his sword. His fingers trembled around the hilt.

“I have one last question!” he called as the beast tensed to spring. Fenrir blinked slowly, and did not make his lunge, so Hamlet continued. “What of my friends here in the Afterjord? The Norn said Juliet couldn’t return to Midgard. But if we have all of the keys—”

“Romeo and Juliet have been marked from birth to love each other across impossible barriers. Nothing you do can change that.”

“But if I had all of the keys, I could change things. Couldn’t I?” Hamlet shouted, his arms aching from holding his sword at the ready.

But the beast did not answer him. Jaws snapping, he charged, and Hamlet did what he knew he must.

…

A loud caw broke the air.

Juliet looked up. Beside her, Romeo still slept. She did not disturb him.

She’d donned her gown again, though the front of it was stiff and itchy with blood. She gathered her skirt around her as she rose, looking about for a sign of black wings against the darker sky. In the distance, she spotted the figure of Hamlet by the white of his shirtsleeves.

“He came back,” she breathed, joy and terror warring in her breast. “He came back.”

She dropped to Romeo’s side, shaking him gently. “He’s back! Hamlet is back!”

Romeo’s eyes opened slowly, and he blinked in confusion. He pushed himself up on his elbows. “What?”

Juliet pointed toward the horizon. Romeo’s eyes widened. He got to his feet and found his clothes, his boots, and hastily put them on. He stopped in the middle of buckling his belt to lift his arm and wave.

It had seemed strange to her to think of Romeo as friendless; in Verona, he’d been popular with everyone. Well, everyone not named Capulet. It must have caused him much pain to leave that life behind. Though he’d traveled with Friar Laurence, it was much different to having friends of one’s own age. As much as Romeo professed to annoyance at the prince, he was as close to a friend as Romeo had at the moment.

“Here, take this.” Juliet helped Romeo to straighten his doublet, and they walked out to meet Hamlet.

It was the ravens reached them first, cawing and crowing as they came.