The Tyrant's Tomb

My eyes were too blurry to see properly. “I—I’ve never reincarnated,
Don. When I became human, that was different, I think. But I hear
reincarnation is peaceful. Beautiful.”
The dryads and fauns nodded and murmured in agreement, though their
expressions betrayed a mixture of fear, sorrow, and desperation, making
them not the best sales team for the Great Unknown.
Lavinia cupped her hands around the faun’s fingers. “You’re a hero, Don.
You’re a great friend.”
“Hey…cool.” He seemed to have trouble locating Lavinia’s face. “I’m
scared, Lavinia.”
“I know, babe.”
“I hope…maybe I come back as a hemlock? That would be like…an
action-hero plant, right?”
Lavinia nodded, her lips quivering. “Yeah. Yeah, absolutely.”
“Cool…. Hey, Apollo, you—you know the difference between a faun
and a satyr…?”
He smiled a little wider, as if ready to deliver the punchline. His face
froze that way. His chest stopped moving. Dryads and fauns began to cry.
Lavinia kissed the faun’s hand, then pulled a piece of bubble gum from her
bag and reverently slipped it into Don’s shirt pocket.
A moment later, his body collapsed with a noise like a relieved sigh,
crumbling into fresh loam. In the spot where his heart had been, a tiny
sapling emerged from the soil. I immediately recognized the shape of those
miniature leaves. Not a hemlock. A laurel—the tree I had created from poor
Daphne, and whose leaves I had decided to make into wreaths. The laurel,
the tree of victory.
One of the dryads glanced at me. “Did you do that…?”
I shook my head. I swallowed the bitter taste from my mouth.
“The only difference between a satyr and a faun,” I said, “is what we see
in them. And what they see in themselves. Plant this tree somewhere
special.” I looked up at the dryads. “Tend it and make it grow healthy and
tall. This was Don the faun, a hero.”