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Juno wished he could have picked the order of execution. He wanted more time with the others. The knight was evil, and cruel, but far from the worst. His death would have been the swiftest, if Juno had the choice.

Terry had even mentioned, once, that he was the only one who had ever hesitated.

But that was a long time ago.

“I’m sorry,” Ser Beauchene told him.

Moonlight filtered through the slit in the stone walls. It made the knight’s skin look as ghostly as Juno’s, his reddish-brown hair faded in the glow.

Where the knight was once an imposing man, full of strength and pride, now he was soft and ashamed. No doubt he was still able to fight, but stone walls and iron bars did not care. And neither did ghosts.

Juno looked down on the man, who refused to meet Juno’s gaze.

“I didn’t think they would kill you. I should have let the king go earlier.”

Ser Beauchene covered his face.

“I never should have hurt him. I hurt you, and you didn’t do anything wrong. All you did was exist.”

Juno cocked his head.

The others didn’t apologize. Not like this.

“I abandoned my vows. I swore an oath to my king, and I failed. You were a better knight than I, Juno.”

Juno bent down. He patted Beauchene’s head.

It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t forgiveness. It couldn’t be fixed.

Juno was just ready for it to be over.

The knight startled at the touch, looking up.

They stared at each other.

“Would you stay with me? Please?” Ser Beauchene asked, his voice wet.

Juno considered.

No. He would not.

He ignored the knight’s soft crying, and pretended he didn’t regret it.

___________________

Juno didn’t go to the execution. Instead, he sat with Terry in the garden, by his grave.

Terry had finally left his rooms to sit in the sun.

“It’s over,” he said. Juno knew by now that he was talking to where Juno’s body lay. But it was good to hear his voice. “They’ll tell me any minute now that he’s gone. That they’re all dead.”

Juno nodded along, looking into the pond. He could see himself in the water.

Juno dipped his finger into it, and one of the golden koi investigated the ripples.

A soft sound came from behind him.

“Sometimes I swear I can see you,” Terry whispered. “I think I must be going mad. Juno, I-”

Juno held his breath.

“I let you die. I deserve this.”

___________________

Ser Beauchene was dead.

A weight on his chest that Juno didn’t know was there had dissipated.

He felt more solid, somehow. More… there.

In the mirror, Juno looked less like mist, and more gathered. He could now see where he ended and the air began. His funeral dress even had more color to it; his pearls were no longer dull and grey.

Juno glanced behind him, away from the mirror. 

Terry was sleeping, and Juno had the habit of checking the rise and fall of his chest. Juno had to make sure nothing happened bad to Terry ever again.

The king was fine.

Juno looked back at his own reflection.

The hollows under his eyes were gone. He was dead, and yet he wasn’t corpse-like.

Curious.

Terry shifted under the quilt. He was fretting again.

Juno went and laid next to him on the featherbed. The mattress dipped under his weight.

He fell asleep next to his Master.

___________________

At dawn, Juno got up.

He yawned, and drew open the curtains to let the sun in.

The king’s robe was draped over his armchair, and why hadn’t Juno picked it up last night?

Oh well.

Juno put it in its proper place on the hook. It was his job to clean up, after all.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Your majesty? I have breakfast.”

Annoyed, Juno went to answer the door. After so many years, didn’t they remember that Juno made Terry’s morning meal?

He opened the door.

The servant gasped. Dropped the tray.

It crashed to the floor, pot shattering and dishes spilling and the silverware echoing off the marble floor.

She screamed, and Terry woke with a shout.

What on earth-

Oh. Oh-

Juno looked down at his hands, translucent, and he was so very dead.

What had he done?

“Ghost!” wailed the servant.

Juno whirled, and Terry was already out of bed, frozen in place.

His eyes were wide and his mouth open with horror and relief all at once.

The servant had already fled, dark tea pooling on the white polished floor, shards dripping.

“Is it really you?” Terry breathed out.

Juno crossed the room in three strides, and hugged his Master.

Terry squeezed him tight, sobbing.

“You’re here.”

Juno nodded into Terry’s chest, tears rolling down his cheeks. He’d waited so long to be seen. To be held. He was dead; he earned it.

“I can’t believe it. You’ve been here this whole time. I’m so-”

Juno straightened, putting a finger against Terry’s lips.

No more apologies.

Terry smiled, then laughed. The sound was glorious.

Footsteps thundered down the hall, and they turned to see half a dozen guards, swords drawn, pulling up short at the sight of the living holding the dead.

Their faces paled.

“Go,” Terry told them, voice suddenly stern. “I’m busy.”

The king’s voice was cold, and hard, and the guards had no choice but to back away.

“Oh, Juno.” His Master nuzzled him, warm cheek on Juno’s cool skin. “I’ve missed you.”

___________________

Being dead had its advantages. People were terrified of him.

Juno could simply bare his teeth, and they shuddered. No one dared raise a hand to his Master, and even the new council looked away with shame.

The scandal of his death was not forgotten. For months, the newspapers were alight with it.

He didn’t care.

The guards eventually got used to him; the servants too.

It was easier, with them. He’d been among the staff halls for years before his death. They simply didn’t mention what happened. They didn’t dare get in his way when he returned to his work. Sometimes, they even smiled at him.

It was funny how death commanded respect in a way that being alive didn’t.

Juno patiently allowed the magicians and spirit speakers to ask him things. To demonstrate what he could do. That he could pass through walls, that he could lift objects, that he could even float in the air, feet never touching the ground.

The spirit speakers had never seen a ghost of Timorsia before. Or a ghost that didn’t pass on after the unfinished business was done.

But his work was never going to be finished.

He had a duty.

Juno watched over Terry, day and night. He would never be alone again; never be hurt again. Juno followed his Master as a shadow followed the sun.

There was no one to stop him. Juno couldn’t be killed twice.

And the tree, the blue wisteria planted over his grave, now called Eyes-of-Juno, The King’s Grief, kept blooming.

As long as Juno kept haunting the king, it would never stop.

Juno knew the signs. 

He ate so little and when he slept, he had nightmares. And he was working working working.

Papers and meeting with his new council and staying up far too late trying to fix the mess that had been left behind.

And now, late at night, Terry laid curled in bed, stripped of all his finery, and weeping.

Juno sat down on the mattress.

His master was flush, feverish red on his face over the pale skim milk of his skin.

Juno cupped his cheek. At least he could do that.

He knew now that he felt cold to those he touched, thanks to his experiments on Ser Beauchene, Chamberlain Antoine, and First Magistrate Telesphore.

It was almost a shame Spymaster Elodie had already been sentenced.

Terry did burn this time, uncomfortable in his body heat, but Juno had been through far worse for far less.

His master groaned. Juno flinched away. Was he hurting him?

Terry pawed at where he sat, his hand passing through Juno’s leg.

Master froze, feeling the featherbed.

Hesitant, Juno placed his hand on Terry’s forehead again.

Terry relaxed.

Juno couldn’t fetch medicine to soothe the fever, but he could do this.

When dawn began to filter through the curtains, Terry had finally fallen asleep.

___________________

After the execution of First Magistrate Telesphore, Juno followed Terry as he stumbled into his rooms.

He watched his Master shake, clutching the frame of the mirror.

Juno stepped forward.

Please- let me-

His fingers brushed over Terry’s shoulders, lifting the too-heavy cloak off-

He dropped it on the floor. But it worked.

Terry’s eyes flicked to him in the mirror.

He gasped.

Turned in a whirl and Juno held his breath-

Terry sank to the floor, weeping.

He still couldn’t see him.

Juno wrapped his arms around Terry and cursed the two evils still lurking in the dungeons.

___________________

Terry didn’t leave his room for three days after.

At least he wasn’t totally stuck in bed.

Juno knelt at his Master’s feet, at his favorite armchair, waiting. Praying. Hoping.

Terry sighed, fingers twitching.

Juno looked up. He missed being pet, being loved. Would Terry ever truly touch him again?

He wiped his eyes, and leaned against his Master’s thigh.

Terry inhaled sharply, but that was just from the chill of Juno’s skin. Master Terry needed it anyway; he was still flush from fever.

“Your Majesty?” came a soft voice from the other side of the door.

Terry cleared his throat. “Come in,” he said. Juno could tell it was a struggle not to sound broken.

A servant quietly opened the door.

“I’ve brought you your tea.”

A pang struck through Juno’s chest. That was his job.

Not anymore.

The servant switched out the long-cold breakfast tray for mid-morning tea, and left.

Terry didn’t move, staring into the empty fireplace.

Juno got to his feet to inspect the tray.

A small teapot, cup and saucer, honeycakes, crackers with cheese. A balsamic reduction drizzled over top. Biscuits. Even a small vase with a few Rhodanthian roses.

Juno set his jaw. It was a good spread. It stung.

He focused the best he could, concentrating.

Juno furrowed his brow and lifted the pot. He poured the steaming, fragrant tea into the delicate bone china cup, and it didn’t even rattle.

He set down the fragile pot, and breathed.

The steam shifted from his air.

He did it.

He had poured his Master a cup of tea.

Juno looked to Terry, pride surging through him.

Terry blinked, gaze still unmoving from the ashes of a fire long gone.

Juno reached for his hand.

The chill shook Terry from his thousand-yard-stare, and he sat up. His lovely brown eyes finally started to see. Even if what he saw was the tea service, and not his Juno.

Still, Juno couldn’t help but feel sheer relief when Terry picked up the cup of tea and took a tiny sip.

Terry ate half of a honey cake and two of the crackers and it felt like salvation.

___________________

Chamberlain Antoine was next.

Juno had tormented him most of the night, gleefully shoving his hands into his lungs and screaming in his face to wake him in between checking on Terry and soothing his Master back to sleep.

Terry wasn’t feeling up to watching the execution, so Juno went in his stead after managing to tuck a quilt over him and his scrap teddy into his Master’s arms.

Antoine was the one who raised the whip, the one who split his back open like cherries bursting in teeth, the one who made Terry cry over his body.

Juno gleefully watched the guards force the man into the chair.

They poured a small measure of wine into the iron chalice, followed by the poison to kill the former council member.

He smiled when Antoine shakily accepted the deadly wine, grinned when he drank a sip.

“All of it,” the executioner sharply reminded him.

Antoine stared into the swirling, dark wine.

Juno refused to wait any longer.

He stepped forward towards the chair, in between Antoine and the jeering crowd he was invisible to.

Antoine’s eyes went wide. He could see Juno, even if no one else here could.

Juno snatched Antoine’s wrist.

“Please- no-”

Forced the chalice to his lips-

Antoine gurgled as Juno poured the wine down his throat.

The iron cup fell, empty, to the stage floor. Not a drop was wasted.

Chamberlain Antoine died choking on his own spit, frothing at the mouth, staring with horror at nothing at all. 

He didn’t know why. He didn’t know how.

But he was dead, and he was still here.

He watched the funeral, curious.

Juno, or the body that used to be him, was smaller than he thought he used to be. Pale as bone china and thin as if he would shatter.

He looked nice in the dress. Terry had spent weeks on it.

The hole in the ground was near the koi pond. It was a good spot to lay him in. To rest.

Terry stood weeping as they lowered his body into the ground.

Juno shook his head. He would not rest, despite the priest’s sweet words of peace and loyalty and light and the gods.

There was Terry, and the priest, two men to lower him down, and the head chef who helped Juno get things off of the high shelves in the pantry.

Juno liked her. He didn’t know she was fond of him enough to see his funeral.

It was a nice ceremony.

___________________

Juno followed Terry back into their- no, just Terry’s- rooms.

His things, teddy bear and kennel and blanket, sewing kit and colored pencils, hadn’t been moved.

Terry lingered in the doorway, shaking with tears. He crossed the room, picking up Juno’s scrap bear.

His master clutched it to his chest, breaking into sobs, sinking to the floor.

I’m right here, Juno wanted to say, but even in death he could not speak a word.

He knelt in front of the man he loved and tried to wipe his tears-

Terry was warm- hot- to the touch. It nearly burned, and Juno did not care.

But Terry shuddered, and did not look up, and the tears on his cheek flowed and did not move.

Juno hummed a soft note-

Terry’s head jerked up, looking around the room.

Could he not see? Juno looked down at his hands.

He could see through them, to the floor, to the rug-

He could have screamed in frustration.

Instead, he balled his hands into fists, and headed straight for the dungeons, anger flaring as it never had when he was alive.

How could they do this to him- to their king- To Terry-

___________________

His murderers could see him, much to his delight.

He smiled at Ser Beauchene, who shook at the sight of him.

“You’re dead,” he choked out, huddled in the back corner of his cell.

The man wore only a threadbare shift and trousers in the cold damp of the dungeon.

He was going to be executed soon, but that didn’t mean Juno couldn’t have his own fun.

Juno nodded, still smiling.

He was dead, and no one could punish him for this.

“I’m sorry,” Ser Beauchene pleaded. “We didn’t mean to kill you. I swear.”

What good was an oath to a ghost?

Juno tested the steel bars. His hand passed straight through; a strange sort of tingle ran up his spine, but there was no pain.

And no stopping him.

The guards didn’t bother responding to the screams.

___________________

Juno felt better, after. When Ser Beauchene was writhing on the floor, after Juno’s hand slipped through his chest and felt his heart pulse hot blood in his palm.

He didn’t kill him. He just made him feel how Juno felt when he realized he was going to die.

Terry would get the honor of killing the man who beat and raped him.

Juno went back upstairs. He was bored of Ser Beauchene, and Terry needed him.

Terry was in his bedroom, an untouched tray of food on the small table next to his armchair. A book was in his lap, but he wasn’t reading.

Juno tried to pour Terry a cup of tea, but his hands passed through the pot.

Why? He could feel a man’s heart struggle and twist, but he couldn’t pour his own master a cup of tea to soothe him?

Juno turned to look at Terry.

His face was ashen and his eyes dull.

Juno knelt at Terry’s side, like he did every night.

And he waited. And waited.

Terry did not see him. He did not eat. And when he gave up an hour later, and curled up under the covers, Juno knew his Master did not sleep.

___________________

Juno had never asked himself if ghosts slept. What would be the point? He couldn’t check or ask a spirit speaker, and questions like that would only distract him from work.

But ghosts could sleep, or at least something similar. He knew time had passed when he faded back into knowing he existed.

Terry was in bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Juno sat on the mattress beside him. He reached to stroke Terry’s cheek.

He was still so hot.

Terry shivered, and turned his head. His gaze went straight through him.

Disappointment flared in his chest.

At least he could watch over Terry, even if the man who loved him didn’t know.

He could watch over Terry forever.

Forever.

Juno smiled, the first genuine one since he died.

What a perfect idea.

Terry eventually got up to use the bathroom, and Juno didn’t follow. He was dead, not rude.

Instead, he listened in case Terry needed him.

He heard water splashing, and his Master came out with the front of his hair still wet. He wiped his face, and glanced at the abandoned tray of food.

Please eat something.

It was left untouched.

Terry left the room, and Juno didn’t know ghosts could cry either.

___________________

His gravesite was pretty, he could say that much.

The freshly overturned dirt was replaced with newly planted flowers, forget-me-nots, and a blue flowering wisteria tree sapling. A white marble carved bench had been placed next to the tree, overlooking the pond.

Terry sat upon it, gazing at the fish. His hands fidgeted with his gloves.

He didn’t wear gloves much around Juno. Now he was wearing them again.

White silk gloves that covered up just past his wrists.

It hurt.

Juno sat down beside him.

He couldn’t feel the sun, or the presumably cold stone, but he could feel Terry’s hand as he placed it down on the stone.

“I miss you already,” Terry whispered aloud.

Juno looked over.

Terry did not see him.

___________________

Elodie was the first to be executed.

She was the rudest to Juno; the one with the most distaste towards his existence. He took his time with her.

She spat hatred and cruelty and then eventually offered begging and pleas.

Elodie didn’t listen to Juno’s screams, nor his Master’s, so why would he bother listening to hers?

Despite all that pain, she still feared death.

Good.

In Timorsia, she would be hanged. Unfortunately, Juno would not get to watch her gasp for breath, her legs swing or her chest heave.

Rhodanthians offered their treasonous prisoners a choice.

Poison, decapitation, or magical lightning. Laughable.

At least they were all public.

Juno stood next to Terry on the platform, listening to the charges.

Elodie stood stone-faced, but there was a wobble in her legs.

Murder. High treason. Embezzlement. Abuse of power. Abuse of a vulnerable person. Torture leading to death.

All true, but some crimes were missing. Erased, so no one alive would know the king’s pain.

Terry was pale and his face carefully blank. He was wearing makeup to hide the hollows under his eyes and pink his cheeks; his clothes were padded and formed to hide his bones.

Juno didn’t like it. He should be resting and eating and strong.

Juno looked away, to the spymaster.

She deserved this.

Deserved to be forced to her knees, deserved to have her head forced over the wood, blade shining in the sun above her.

Terry’s eyes fluttered shut when it came down.

Juno laughed when her head landed in the basket.

The fever had left, and so had the delusions, but the deep exhaustion and aches in his bones had not.

He knew he was dying, even before his Master and the nurse sat beside him and gently, softly, told him so.

“I am so so sorry,” the king had whispered into his ear, his voice cracked. “I can’t save you, Juno. Please forgive me.”

Terry’s brown eyes, kinder and softer than anyone Juno had met, were wet with unshed tears.

Juno raised a hand to his cheek. His arm was sore.

He stroked the king’s face.

It wasn’t fair. Terry needed him. Terry needed someone to brush his hair and remind him to eat and sleep next to him so he could rest-

But Juno was dying.

Anger festered in his heart; a burning ember inside the hearth of a soul he’d dedicated to this one man.

He was going to die, because he wanted Terry to live.

Now he wasn’t sure if his Terry would survive putting Juno in the ground.

___________________

Master was not working.

Juno didn’t mind.

Master Terry spent his days by Juno’s bedside, reading to him and holding his hand.

Juno felt the aches in his joints all the time now, and he struggled not to doze through Terry’s presence. He wanted to be there, to spend as much time as he could with the man who loved him.

Terry loved him.

Terry was the only person who ever loved him, aside from perhaps Juno’s mother whom he did not remember except that she was warm and sang.

It was cruel that Juno could not stay.

“Are you hungry?” Terry asked. His voice was as soft as the feather pillows he’d helped Juno sit against.

He wasn’t, anymore. Hunger seemed like a distant memory with how little it plagued him now, even as his mind silently counted all the meals he missed while sick.

Juno nodded anyway.

Terry smiled so sweetly at him when he spooned the broth into Juno’s mouth. It wasn’t crying, but it was a smile of grief.

Juno missed the happy smiles.

___________________

Terry took Juno outside when it was warm and sunny.

Today, he had made a picnic on the grass of the royal courtyard, below the shade of a cherry blossom tree.

Juno hadn’t been strong enough to get to the koi pond to see the fish. But this would do.

“I was thinking,” Terry said quietly. “That you should see the dressmaker.”

Juno peeked up at him from his place on Terry’s lap.

He’d seen the dressmaker only a few times in his years of Terry’s ownership.

“It’s tradition,” his Master’s voice was strained. “To have something new before…” he trailed off.

Juno would like a new dress. Brides got new dresses to be married in. It made sense that the dead would have a new dress to be laid to rest in.

He nodded, slow as molasses, and pretended that Terry was not nearly weeping.

___________________

The dressmaker was solemn as she passed over fabric for Master, then Juno, to feel and touch.

He rejected all the silks, opting for soft and familiar cotton.

Juno wasn’t a noble, to be dressed in lace and silks and jewels.

He was just Juno. He would die happy, but not as someone he wasn’t.

The cotton he picked was white, in an imperfect way that reminded him of the roses in the greenhouse.

It would be the first white garment he wouldn’t have to worry about cleaning. It would be white forever.

“I’ll embroider it myself,” the king told the dressmaker.

“I understand.”

___________________

Terry worked on the dress at Juno’s bedside. It was nice to watch him move the needle and threads as the birds sang outside the window.

Juno was sleeping more now, and he knew in his heart it wouldn’t be long.

Sometimes he woke up with wet eyes and cheeks, and the king’s handkerchief wiping the sorrow away.

Every time he woke up, the dress was a little more finished, with roses blooming over the hem and birds on the vines of the sleeves.

It was the prettiest dress Juno would ever wear, and still Terry’s needle moved.

“Does it hurt?” Terry whispered to him, setting aside the fabric to take Juno’s hand. “There’s no need for you to be in pain.”

It hurt, but not in a way any pill or potion would cure.

Juno weakly squeezed Terry’s hand, and shook his head.

Terry reached with his hand to stroke Juno’s face.

His fingers were so warm.

“I thought,” Terry swallowed. “Remember your king, Jason the fifth?”

Juno remembered. The Timorsian emperor had been kind to him, unusually gracious, like Juno was a kinsman and not a slave.

“He’s sent you pearls.”

Terry smiled, and it was pale like milk.

“I thought you might like to wear them. When the time comes. Something to remind you of home?”

Juno had never worn Timorsian pearls, much less pearls from his king. 

It would be nice. To have a thing from home that wasn’t a scar from pain or temporary like spices and sheeps’ cheese.

___________________

The pearls were cool against his skin, blue-green like the sea they came from.

Juno liked to twirl each one with a finger.

Terry had asked him to look at blossoms today. Branches of wisteria flowers, all of them blue but in different shades.

“Pick your favorite,” Terry offered, spreading the bundles over the quilt keeping the chill away.

Juno didn’t ask.

He knew Rhodanthians planted trees over their dead.

He picked out a delicate bloom, blue as a clear summer sky.

“It matches your eyes.”

___________________

Juno was going to die today.

He knew. It wasn’t fair.

Terry knew too. Without even trying to tell him, his Master knew that Juno was going to die.

He never felt so loved. He never felt so angry. He never felt so heartbroken.

Terry gave him a small vial of clear liquid. Painkiller, to get through the day.

Juno drank it without hesitation. It tasted like bitterness and honey.

They ate breakfast together; a savory porridge and bacon. Juno could lift the spoon himself with the aid of the drugs. He only managed a few bites of the cheesy grits, and nibbles of the rich maple-glazed bacon, so he kept to his favorite parts. They’d made the bacon chewy with browned edges, just how he liked it.

The king Juno loved then helped him out of bed. Bathed him carefully with a hot, wet cloth. Eased him into his dress, embroidered with blossoms and birds and greenery and love.

Terry carried Juno out to the garden, to the beloved koi pond. They fed the fish peas and barley grains, watching the shimmering reds and golds and whites of their scales.

Juno laid his head on Terry’s lap, enjoying the sun as Terry read to him. It was a story Juno had heard many times, a favorite, but he paid close attention to his Master’s voice. He wanted to keep it in his ears forever.

Lunch was fruit tarts and crackers with salty sheep’s cheese. The small portions were easier to lift himself and bring to his own lips.

“Here,” Terry suggested. “Have a bite of each kind.”

Juno managed a single bite of pear, strawberry, apple, blackberry, cherry-

Terry didn’t have much appetite either.

___________________

The court musicians played just for the two of them.

Music flowed seamlessly from one song to another, harp and violin and cello and Rhodanthian pipes and Timorsian chimes, and a few Juno couldn’t name.

Endless music that wasn’t interrupted by court chatter.

Terry stroked his hair and held him close and Juno was getting more tired than he’d ever been.

Dinner was a single slice of warm, rich chocolate cake, topped with cold vanilla ice cream and whipped heavy cream.

It was a summer day, and the amount of work the kitchen put into making ice cream just for him-

Juno smiled at Terry as he ate. It was the first thing he finished in a long time.

“Did you have a good day?” Terry asked him as they lay in bed after an hour of stargazing.

Juno nodded weakly.

He lay over top of Terry, his head on his chest as Terry pet his hair.

It would be soon. His breathing was slower than ever.

“I’m glad,” Terry whispered. He was so close to crying.

Juno didn’t want him to cry. Not now. Not ever again.

It was hard.

With one last effort, he raised his head.

He kissed Terry on the cheek.

He laid back down.

“I love you,” Terry told him.

Juno knew.

___________________

Announcement of Mourning

King Terrance’s beloved pet and servant, Juno of Timorsia, died in the early hours of the morning of June 30th. He was approximately twenty-three years old. The funeral will be held tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. He will be buried under a blue wisteria tree, near the royal koi pond which he loved so much. It is a private ceremony. The Crown thanks you for your consideration at this time.