Death was a formidable foe, demonstrating that even powerful mages, for all the magic in the world, were no exception to its life-taking talents. The living could plead, delay, or veer from its deadly chokehold, but ultimately, Death would collect. It did not bargain or atone for its fatal dealings. It waited for nothing. Youth or ripened age – mortal, or supernatural, Death was an unbiased conductor that orchestrated the end of souls, but when it came for the heart ... it was almost too cruel; an affront to mortality; its wake of grief the price one must pay for choosing to love.

            But Death could not have Elle. Not in this lifetime.

            As Don thundered through the night, his massive horse beating a violent groove through the forest, not once slowing for a respite, he was consumed by a brooding rumination of old and new what-ifs.

            What if he had fought harder? What if he had just told her he loved her? What if Veda had deceived him and had been working with Sera all along? What if he hadn't been too late? What if he could bring Elle back from the dead? What if he couldn't? What if ... what if ...

            The idea that things could have turned out entirely different based upon a what-if was an agony that enhanced his grief. That said grief was an enormous, burning entity of indescribable pain rooted at the center of his core. It was so intense that it transcended his utmost injuries, exceeding every heartache and memory he had ever endured. Paired with the haunting specters of his past, his multitude of mistakes and failures, and the prospect of living life without Elle ... it was more suffering than he could internally bear. There weren't enough words to describe the depths of his sorrow. It was an anguish he could not live with. A fate, barring his scarred visage and insufferable curse, worse than death itself.

            Caged within his arms, bundled tightly in his damp cloak, his fingers stroked her icy cheek reverently.

            Don didn't have the advantage or knowledge of magic, he abhorred it as much as he abhorred physical touch, but he would give anything to feel the gentle touch of her curious fingers once more, to hear her sweet voice, even if it meant availing himself of the very thing he loathed. There was no space in his broken heart to believe otherwise.

            When one pulls a tortured soul from the underworld, they return as ... something darker.

            Veda's statement arose to mind like a warning, reminding Don of the risks when tampering with death, but Elle was nothing like Sera. Wickedness had not inhabited her heart. She had been benevolent to a fault. Wholesome, and unbelievably perfect. He refused to believe that she would be anything other than at peace in the afterlife.

            But her peace was his utter devastation. Was it monstrously selfish of him to want her back? Arguably ...but the heart wants what it wants, and he would decimate mountains to see it done. He would focus all of his energy on restoring Elle to life, no matter how long it took, whatever the cost – if he had to bear more scars or sprout horns – if it meant becoming the quintessential villain, then he would gladly perform as such in the honest light. And when he had exhausted every resource and strategy known to man and otherworldly – when there was nothing left but his restless demons, he would relent to his inner turmoil and move as one.

            It was a decision Don had come to terms with earlier. Death would not be so quick to fetch his soul. His end of eternal suffering was unclear, so why not embrace it? Two decades of rampant fury, immeasurable remorse, and injustice swelled beneath the seams of his scarred flesh. The sole purpose of Sera's curse was looming to fruition and there wasn't a chance in hell that he could survive another four seasons, much less a decade, of this miserable existence and maintain his sanity. Sera's perpetuation of loss and loneliness ensured that. It fed a madness in him that was rapidly gaining momentum, and he saw no other alternative but to accept his beastly moniker.

            The world thought the worst of him, so why not satisfy their exaggerated opinions?

            He could almost hear the sharp shrill of Sera's laughter – mocking him, gloating about the victory of her impenetrable curse, and how, at last, it had brought the Rossetti Beast to concede to defeat.

            And she would be right.

            Don felt defeated.

            There was no incentive to be righteous, not anymore. No gentle to balance the aggression. He'd had a taste of sunlight and the idea of forging ahead in darkness, without her, was a condition he was unwilling to shoulder. He had lost everything; why did he have to lose her too? He knew he was capable of violence ... and now there was nothing to prevent him from indulging those tendencies, nothing but a modest grain of hope, a fragile belief that he could resurrect Elle.

            It was the only thing that kept him from the mercy of his madness.

            Don knew not if Veda or Sera lived, but judging by his unaltered appearance, he could only assume, somehow, the latter at least had survived the fall.

            It was a refreshing thought amidst all the overwhelming grief. Hungry for war, his rage was a familiar slow burn ... a comfort to his unsated revenge. A watery grave was too kind for a de Ceville. He wanted blood – mage blood, and if Sera was alive, there would be no place on earth where she could hide; no spell powerful enough to revive her a second time. He would see to correcting that mistake by killing the elder first. If they lived, they would elude death for the last time.

            But the height of his revenge would not come in the form of inconceivable torture, although maiming was imminent and indeed an integral part of exacting his retribution – no, the pinnacle of his revenge was loving a woman that his former lover could never aspire to be, and he would be sure to impart that explicit detail before ripping her black, conceited heart from her chest.

            Don resented Death for taking his nymph, but next to his demons, it was a tentative alliance that would abet in sending his enemy back to the nether world ...alongside her traitorous sister. He would not rest until every de Ceville was eradicated from the world and he would make it his life's mission to ensure that no other mage could harm another living soul. Let Sera's impending – or present, death serve as a reminder that if anyone dared to employ magic, they would answer to the Rossetti Beast.

            Hunting the otherworldly would become his new favorite pastime. It would not relieve his despair or slake his demons, but it would be enough to taper the rage, at least until he found a means to break free of Sera's curse.

            That was his ultimatum for fate. Anyone that wielded magic, was an extension of his enemy, and he would make an example of them all. If he could not have Elle ... if fate saw fit to keep her from him, then his prey-to-be would reap the consequences. They would suffer tenfold as a whole for taking something precious from him.

            Every. Last. One. Of. Them.

            Don breathed a sigh of relief when his portcullis came into view. He hollered out to Givens, his tone urgent as he clutched Elle to his heaving chest.

            Seconds later, the iron lattice groaned as it was raised, admitting him entrance.

            He launched into the courtyard and wrenched on his reins, his horse whinnying as they came to a rough halt in the mud.

            As he jumped from the saddle, his sore muscles and shredded back screamed in agony. Although he had wounds that needed tending, no matter how fatal they were, Sera's curse would not permit a demise. That was a courtesy his enemy was not inclined to give ... but still, infection was a son-of-a-bitch.

            Ives emerged at his side, ready to take his horse. With his cowl plastered to his shoulders, the boy took one look at his open face and blanched, horror and shock registering in his wide, guileless eyes before they flicked to Elle in his arms.

            Next to his scars, drenched in blood, Don knew he depicted a disturbing sight.

            Making no move to cover his face, he motioned with his chin to the narrow straps. "Loosen his reins and walk him briefly. Make sure he is given a thorough wash and ample water."

            His eyes downcast, Ives nodded jerkily. "Y-yes, my lord." As he led the fatigued animal to the barn, Don vowed silently to give the magnificent beast a proper name.

            He owed him that much.

            Equipped in metal armor, Givens surfaced from the dark. His man-at-arms paused midstride, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword as he surveyed his battered, bloodied exterior. Either Don was horribly unrecognizable from all the blood and grime, or his serviceman was well practiced in schooling his expressions for he hardly flinched. "Fucking hell ... what happened to you?" his eyes dropped to Elle. "The young miss ... I left her with her family. Is she –"

            "Givens," Don croaked, his throat cinching around a knot of emotion. "Go to the village. Find me a healer. Whatever their asking price, agree to it. Give them whatever they want. Just get them here and quickly."

            Aware of his past and knowing his deep aversion for all things supernatural, indecision flashed in the old man's eyes, but mercifully he curbed voicing his thoughts, gave a curt nod, and bounded for the barn.

            He was in motion when Givens stopped halfway, asking over his shoulder. "What about her family?"

            Don had forgotten about Elle's family, and then he remembered her flaxen-haired sister and wondered if the girl had reached the village, unharmed. If she had, she would likely tell them everything that had transpired. The family ... or the village, would come looking for Elle. It was only a matter of time – time he did not have before an angry horde was beating at his door.

            "I see no reason that they should recognize you, but if they do, tell them nothing." Don peered down at Elle; her face pressed against his shoulder. "She has two sisters ...both are fair-haired like their mother. Should you only see or hear of one, then you are to go to the forest and recover her body ... after you bring me a healer. Do you understand?"

            "Yes, my lord."

            Once Don was inside, he swept past a startled Edmund and sprinted up the stairs and through the dark corridors, palpably aware of how cold and dreadful the passageways felt. It was as if Death trailed his heels, taunting him.

            Kicking his door wide with his boot, he crossed the room and placed Elle on his bed, then gently removed the layers of cloak from her body.

            Brushing wet strands of hair from her face, "I'm coming for you, my darling. Death cannot have you; I'll make sure of that."

            His eyes dragged over her, assessing every inch of visible harm. Her alabaster skin had waned to a wraithlike gray. The number of scratches and bruises marring her features were harsher in death, the discoloration a manifestation of violence but it was the fatal wound beneath her ribs that struck a vengeful chord in his raging heart. Her perfect lips were unerringly still and a faded blue, the chilling hue attesting to how far-removed her soul was from the physical world.

            A color he had relayed once to her, that should have incited calm and remedy, suddenly took on a whole new meaning. It enraged him. If Don had to describe it again, he would tell anyone willing to listen that blue was just as much his enemy as death. It was an uninviting shade of failure and finality that tinged her stationary lips. It was her tattered and sullied dress. It was the bleak, unbearable tomorrows that emphasized her loss in a world that shined exponentially less bright. It was that defining hour, as he clasped her cold, limp hand, where his modicum of hope nearly crumbled beneath an onslaught of doubt and despair, wringing a mournful cry from his throat.

            He was drowning in all of the unrelenting, brutal blue.

            Buckling to his knees, his hands fisted the coverlets as grief swarmed in, usurping his rage. He pleaded with God to spare her. Vowing to relinquish his oath of vengeance and violence if he could just restore her shy smiles and searching touch. Give back his lone rose.

            Only it wasn't God that answered his desperate pleas.

            "My lord?" came a trembling whisper at his back.

            Don raised his head and turned to find Lucy hovering at the threshold of his room, her watery eyes as big as saucers and her hands wringing in her skirts.

            The shadows of the room passed over his gory face, likely cutting a gruesome image, but the maid's eyes never deviated from the bed.

            She took a small step into the room.

            He tensed, his hackles raising. "If you touch her..." Don warned, an inhumane growl rumbling deep from his throat. "I cannot be held accountable for what I may do."

            Lucy froze, startled by his forbidding tone, her mouth falling open as she finally beheld his blood-soaked face. "I would never ... she is ..." the maid fumbled to find the right words, choking back a sob. "...was my friend."

            Don shifted away from her, closed his eyes, and exhaled a breath. "Forgive me, I ..." Not trusting his voice to shake, he wavered, a what-if rearing to the forefront of his pain. "If I hadn't sent her away, none of this would have happened. I could have ... should have protected her. I was a fool."

            He didn't know what else to say. On his knees and at the mercy of God, urging the Almighty to grant him a boon, he had no comforting words to offer the girl.

            The trajectory of his future depended on Givens finding a healer.

            And what if he didn't?

            "No ..." Don growled, banishing the intrusive thought, his fists clenching until pain fired through his forearms.

            He couldn't think like that.

            A soft shuffle behind him, and then a gentle, mollifying touch on his shoulder. Like a feral beast, his muscles tensed, the impulse to pull away strong. "My lord ... if you would let me, I think I can help."

            "There is nothing you can do," Don replied, hanging his head despondently, damp hair falling loosely over his forehead. "I need a healer. I need magic. I need ... a miracle."

            "I am the former," Lucy replied gingerly.

            He reared upright, twisting to gape at her. "What?"

            "My mother ..." she drew in a stuttered breath, fearful of his reaction. "My mother was a healer. She scribed her remedies and brought them with her when she came to live here. I have studied them all these years in secret."

            She has already acquired the element of fire, extracted from your former maid, Ivy.

            Don's eyes narrowed, "Your mother was also an elemental."

            Lucy gave a hesitant nod. "Grudgingly, yes. It was not something she entrusted to many and it was a gift she scarcely used."

            "A gift?" he seethed, "I would hardly call it a gift."

            She seemed to shrink in size at his palpable rage. "My mother was an experienced healer." Lucy continued cautiously. "She was well-versed in the use of herbs, medicinal machinations, and she had healing hands ... as do I."

            "If my memory serves me right, was it not your father who was initially ill? Was it not the same illness that eventually took your brother? If she was such an accomplished healer, why did she fail to save them both?"

            "My father was weak from the disease. Despite her best efforts, his body would not respond agreeably to her remedies. And my brother's illness was not from natural causes. It was shaped by dark magic, and we both know that de Ceville power is virtually unrivaled. A mere healer cannot undo a potent spell; it is practically impossible."

            "You have been practicing these remedies under my roof?"

"I can assure you my intentions have always been pure. I am not as skilled as my mother, but –"

"What is it that you think you can do? Are you saying you can bring Elle back from the dead?"

She gave a tentative nod, "I have experimented with elixirs and tonics that have proved successful."

"That hardly constitutes experience." Don replied, "Forgive me, but resurrecting the dead seems like a monumental undertaking, especially for an amateur. You are wasting my time."

"I would have no faith in my healing remedies, were it not for what I know." Lucy stated, "You forget who and what Elle was. Her body was designed to absorb and amplify power ... that goes for healing properties as well."

Don stiffened, "How do you know what she is? Have you known all along?"

She shook her head, "I did not know at first, it was just shortly after you sent her home that I ... felt her essence."

Elle emanates a vitality that is inviting to those who brandish magic. There is an engaging essence about her that is palpable, discerned only by magic wielders.

Veda's cloaking spell. Once Sera had broken it, it had exposed what Elle was to the otherworldly.

"You do not wield magic ... how could you sense her?"

"In a sense, what I can do, is nothing short of magical."

"How did you know about the Elemental Host?"

"It was chronicled in my mother's records. I honestly believed she was a falsehood, that is until just a few days ago when I felt her."

She is common knowledge among my kind, namely in that, her body gives life to other energies when the right components are applied.

Everything Veda had told him was true.

Is there a way to separate Elle from what makes her the Elemental Host? A way to eradicate the part that makes her an integral component in all of this? To prevent others from hunting her, using her as your sister intends to do?

There is a way. The elder mage had said.

How? Tell me. He could remember his desperation.

Death.

Don's shoulders sagged as he turned away from Lucy. "I'm not sure a healer, experienced or not, could do the impossible."

"If her body hadn't already absorbed healing properties, then no."

He met her eyes, unsure if he had heard her correctly. "What do you mean? What healing properties?"

"I put healing properties in her tea."

He took a step back, "You what? Why would you do that, not knowing what she was beforehand?"

Her gaze shifted to where Elle lay in the bed and she shrugged her shoulders. "I wanted to strengthen my healing abilities. She was blind ... I had hoped to restore her vision, at least, in some capacity." She fell quiet, her chin trembling with emotion. "And also because she grew to become my friend."

Don couldn't believe his ears. "But her vision ..."

"Naturally, I thought I had failed but her lack of vision was not from natural causes, I realize that now. It was the result of a spell, a spell that could not be counteracted."

Heedlessly, his heart surged with renewed hope. He enclosed the space between them and gripped the maid's forearms, afraid to hope, afraid to believe what the fiery-haired girl was telling him. "The healing properties, will they work?"

She stiffened in his bruising vise. "If she is truly the Elemental Host, then any healing properties she ingested, should in turn redress death."

"You're saying she can be resurrected?" His grip tightened, his heart soaring. My God, let it be true. "Are you telling me she will live?"

Lucy winced and he at last loosened his grip. "I'm saying it is a possibility. This has never been done before ... never documented. I know not what to expect. I gave her a little at a time, but her body could already be responding to my efforts. I will continue to work with her in the meantime. If it proves successful, it could be days, even weeks before she wakes. It is up to fate."

Don turned to face Elle, his eyes searching for any signs of life.

Fate. He thought. No way would the stars align, and cultivate their love, only for them to be cruelly separated in death.

That wasn't fate. Fate was forever.