Do you have any idea how many golden ceremonial knives there are? I don’t recollect enough to narrow it down by culture. I never got a good look at the thing, either. And offering a finder’s fee doesn’t help—as with a lot of things, money complicates things more than it helps. So many fakes. So many iron, steel, even platinum daggers with gold leaf laid to leave the silver crescent edge exposed. That, that glinting in the moonlight, I remember.
The devotion and hope and love and fear, so much fear. Bite of the ropes and then the bite of the knife. Lifeblood leaking out silvery in the dim light. The blood stopped, and I didn’t. But the ritual took you instead.
So many years looking for this knife, this phylactery. And then looking for you. If you gave me this unlife, this command over necromantic energies that I was never taught to use, then let me employ them to get my answers directly from you.
But you didn’t have the knife. And you’re... gone. Your skeletal corpse holds no secrets, will not speak to me, deprives me of any closure with the culture I have forgotten across the void of years. You are, were, so content in your actions that your soul is at peace. No knife in your crypt.
I loved you so much that I would have preferred a year with you to a life without you. You loved me so much that you gave me eternity without you. Without food or rest or peace.
There are so many daggers.
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