This story is dedicated to Conor Joseph Keegan

February 11, 1989 - February 11, 2005

Brother of my brother’s heart.

You are missed.

All lines in italics in the following story are from the poem “Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep” (author unknown).

The story itself is a “missing scene” from my series (The Nineteen).


Do not stand at my grave and weep.

A lone figure stands under the solitary tree crowning the low hilltop, heedless of the harsh wind that tears at her clothes and knots her long raven hair. The blasted tree doesn’t shiver in the least – too little of it is left to do more than mark the hill where it had happened.

She had expected it, of course. They had both known it, though they hadn’t spoken of it. His kind never lived for that long without dying. It was as regular as the rising of the sun. Come his thousandth birthday, he would die.

And so he did.

I am not there, I do not sleep.

Angrily, she swiped at the tears on her face. She had known. As the year had rolled on, she had steeled herself for that day, even as he seemed not to think of it at all. He was like that – if something was coming that he couldn’t stop, he accepted it without the slightest flicker of distress.

She wasn’t quite that composed.

The wind chafed the pale skin of her face, lifting her angry tears to the barren sky.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

She didn’t even know why she’d bothered to come. She had no idea why she’d returned to this forsaken place, this desolate hilltop where he’d died. Her friends had begged her not to go – it had been months, she needed to let go, she shouldn’t hurt herself like this...

Unbidden, the memories came. The fire, growing insanely like a mad monster, consuming the tree, the grass, the very rocks themselves...

And her husband.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

Nothing had been left after the inferno but a barren hill, a charcoal trunk, and a haze of ash. The chalky flakes had spun in the air, clinging to the tree, the glassy crest of the hill, her clothes and skin...

Shivering, she hugged herself.

The sun’s harshly impartial rays pierced the comforting veil of night, searing her sensitive eyes. Angry tears sprang up again, directed at the universe that continued on as usual, heedless of her loss.

Turning sharply in fury, she mistook the glimmer in her vision for the sparkle of tears.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

She took two angry steps towards the ashen path down, then stopped.

She couldn’t leave yet. Something – instinct, emotion, something else – kept her on that lonely hilltop, and she knew, no matter how painful the staying, that she’d lose something if she left.

Just outside her field of vision, the harsh sun, insanely hot at this hour of the morning, burned down upon a tiny, glittering crystal.

I am the autumn’s gentle rain.

The wind, impossibly, was picking up. Where it pulled and stung earlier, it lashed and scraped. She tried to leave the hill again, but the wind lifted up her slight form and threw her backwards.

Stunned, she slipped on the glassy surface of the hill, throwing up her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the formerly fertile soil.

And then she noticed it.

When you waken in the morning’s hush,

She knew, then, that she had stayed for this. What it was, she still wasn’t sure, but that little shining stone was the key to her mad questions.

The wind, as if sensing her new resolve, lessened and died away.

The hot sun was quickly obscured by clouds, leaving only a few burning rays slanting to the earth.

Slowly, awestruck without knowing why, she stood and waited.

I am the swift uplifting rush

The clouds thickened until she wouldn’t have been able to tell that dawn had come, had she not seen it herself. The wind grabbed her and spun her around, alive in its intent.

Behind her, she could hear the hissing and spitting of boiling crystal.

The tree crumbled into fine powdery ash.

The force of the – explosion? Fireburst? – hit her a split second later.

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

Slowly, the world righted itself, and she pushed herself up to her knees. Her fingers sank into the sticky liquid ground below her, and she breathed a silent thanks that she was immune to heat in all its forms. Unsteadily, she rose to her feet.

Something brushed her face, carried on the now-gentle wind.

Opening her eyes – realizing for the first time that she’d closed them – she looked.

And didn’t dare believe.

A fiery feather floated inches from her nose.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Her whispered denial fell from numb lips. Hysterically, her mind wondered how she could feel so solidly frozen now, after that blast of fire just moments ago...

A hand, wreathed in living flame, gripped her shoulder and spun her around.

Her eyes – blue-white, like the hottest stars – widened almost comically as she came face-to-face with her husband.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

He smiled at her, the flames in his eyes a muted blue she’d never seen before. Slowly, he reached up to brush his free hand along the silver starburst in her hair.

She just stared, fully understanding why so many philosophers insisted that the senses were not to be trusted. Her hand wrapped around his wrist, gripping it almost painfully.

I am not there, I did not die.

“You’re dead.”

He shook his head. “We must die. No flame burns forever.”

“But...”

He gave her that look, the amused, smug one that she hated, the one that she’d have given anything just hours ago to see again.

But...all candles can be relit.”


The Annwn Project will be down in honor of Conor Keegan until further notice.

We miss you, my friend.