Page 111 of His Atonement

And just as I feel our bond deepen, feel it hit a new level of completion as she becomes a part of me, I feel it coil then pull taught in a sharp tug that tears through my entire body. It is a pain like none I've experienced before, pain from a wound that will never heal.

My darling mate just took her last breath.

Every inch of me splinters into tiny shards as Frankie goes limp, as her chest no longer rises and falls, as her body instantly cools.

I can feel my fucking heart shatter, feel it break just as though someone drove a knife into my chest, twisted it then did it again and again, and that is when I fall apart.

I cradle her to me as I cry, try to get as close as possible as I rock us and sob, curse The Maker and The Destroyer, The After and The End.

For hours and hours I mourn my mate alone in our room, cry until I physically have no more tears to shed and even then I just hold her lifeless body well into the morning light.

* * *

With dawn upon us, I begin the ritual I have only once performed, one I swore I would never perform again.

I stand from the bed, empty and hollow, already a shell of myself, then look at my mate now at rest before I move to the nightstand and check off the last bullet on her list.

The final list.

The final bullet.

A bullet straight through my heart.

My steps are just as heavy as my broken heart as I walk to the bathroom and gather the items Frankie meticulously set out for me, the linens and oils I will use to anoint her body.

Thor watches with silent curiosity as I reposition my mate, laying her in a way that allows me to worship her body one last time.

Lemongrass for purification, to expel any impurities from the spirit before it becomes one with the universe.

Sage to cleanse both body and spirit, rid the departed of any negativity they may harbor from life or the moment of death.

And rose water, the most prominent trait in my scent. Rose water to heal the heart, heal emotional wounds created by death and strengthen the love one had for themselves as well as others so they may continue that love from afar.

A beautifully ironic thing indeed.

Once her body is coated head to toe in the oils, I move to the wardrobe and remove my mate’s requested clothing, the fabric she wished to be buried in.

Her favorite pair of panties—purple and black lace boy shorts with little silver skulls all over them—and an oversized t-shirt that has a portrait of Lil Wayne smoking a joint on it.

It's my t-shirt actually, my t-shirt Frankie essentially stole as soon as she discovered it when she went cutting up my clothing all those months ago.

My mate has requested she be buried in nothing but my shirt and her panties, and because it was one of my final directives issued by the love of my life, I will comply without hesitation, though I'm sure others would question it.

Fuck them anyway.

After I dress her, I take the cloths made very literally from linen—created by fibers of the flax plant stem my sister conjured for me without a clue as to why—and tie them loosely to avoid bruising, but tight enough that they don't fall off of her joined ankles, knees, wrists, throat just above the collar bone, and over her eyes.

I anoint each strip of linen with the same oils, whisper the words for safe passage from this life to the next, speak in the Old Language the blessings of the dead and protection for the heart, spirit, body, and soul. The soul that is safest where it currently resides for now.

A single tear rolls down my cheek, plummets from my chin to Frankie's perfect lips before I lean down and kiss her one final time. "I love you, my darling girl."

Like a fucking robot, I walk back to the wardrobe and remove a black tank top and black basketball shorts—another request made by my mate on my behalf because she knows how all clothing irritates my skin, the way my hypersensitivity becomes excruciating under certain fabrics. Frankie did not want me to be any more distressed than she knew I would be, therefore instructed me to wear my most comfortable clothes in order to mourn her, especially since the mourning process over one’s mate in fae culture is customarily no less than a week. Personally, though, it will be a lifetime.

I slip on my black flip flops, another thoughtful suggestion by my wife, then grab the linens dyed in black, anoint them in the oils as well, then wrap one around each of my wrists and biceps, and a final one at my throat because she is my mate.

And because he is not to be left out per my sappy request, I loosely tie a black linen around Thor's neck because he has lost his mum, then stick him in the baby carrier Frankie insisted I purchase for him. It is a wrap she had to teach me to wear so that Thor could go riding or walking with us whenever we wished.

With our baby strapped to my chest like an idiot, something I don't care about in the least at the moment, I take an unsteady breath before I lift Frankie from our bed and begin my most morbid march to the holiest place on the grounds, and brace myself for the shit storm that is no doubt about to rain down on my head.

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