Grail

Agresizia embraces steel, out-valoring brother Percival. Blood rushes, the lepress wakes. Boils and gauze trail away, the other’s life restored…

Agresizia’s corpse sails, christened by her brother’s tears.

But I know this: she wakes, bloodless, shining in Sarras, where she sees–”

An intercom. No more escape. 

Surgery’s done. Stable but nonresponsive. 

Her tears pool beneath his eyes; she has to dry them herself. She will never finish that damn story. She only sees his body: beautiful, calm, too fucking still. 

The doctors leave. She remains.

There is no grail in England. Only here, in this life.

Or the next.

This story has been part of Loren Eaton’s Advent Ghosts non-contest contest. Click through to see other creepy stories for the dead of the winter!