WnW 1.b – Memory 2

Tears streamed down my face, collecting at my chin and dripping onto my father’s pale face. His head rested on my lap. He held his hands to his stomach in a vain effort to keep his blood inside of his body. His wounds were fatal.  I knew that. Not even the King’s doctor could save a man whose insides were spilling out. My sobs came out deep and painful in my chest.

I had awoken outside of my father’s house in Kensmire. The bodies of the townsfolk were strewn around me. My clothes were in shreds, hanging off of me like pelts hanging to dry. The last hour was a haze, a half-remembered dream of hot fire and warm blood. Pitchforks and sickles lay broken on the ground, but there wasn’t a scratch on me. My body trembled from the residual emotion that had driven me. An indignant rage so great it felt as though it were God’s anger acting through me. The power I had felt was a taste I could not forget. But it was not my emotion, I told myself. Marquess Wright had bewitched me.

My father stirred. I took a shuddering breath and tried to see his face through my tears. He was smiling and he raised a bloodied hand to my face. I closed my eyes as he stroked my head. “Do you remember when you dipped your hair in the dying vat?” he asked, in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

I nodded. The colours had been too enticing to a younger me. I had wanted to bring the vibrant shades with me.

“…Always looked so beautiful with red ribbons in your hair.” His voice grew quiet and his hand dropped away from my head, his last bit of life spent.

I wept, holding him close.

I was always proud to call myself the dyer’s daughter. I may have not amounted to much, but I was content to help him in his work. We would stir the vats, trying to make the other laugh with funny faces, as if we couldn’t bear the smell. He always told me that he was proud of me and my brother. James was far more successful. He played music for the Viscount and was paid handsomely for it. But he loved both of us equally.

After what felt like days of mourning, I rose and gently lay my father down amid splinters and shattered stone. I found his coat, discarded nearby and I took it and put it on.

Then, shuffling forward with purpose, I walked towards the Viscount’s castle. I felt weak. The feeling was like when my family had endured a famine many years ago. The kind of hunger that made even moving a daunting task. That famine had taken my mother’s life.

I passed a home that was burning brightly, the roaring fire stirred the memory of the sound that had ripped its way out of my throat. There were other parts of the wrecked village that were ablaze and there were a few spent torches scattered about. The villagers must have tried to kill me with fire.

I passed a woman who still had an expression of fierce anger, her teeth bared, even with one of her arms torn clean off and her eyes bereft of life. I glared back at her, surprising myself at how easily the rage came back to me. I had been betrayed. The Marquess may have used dark magic to ruin my life, but the townsfolk readily turned our family over to the Inquisitors in response. Why? I remembered the mutterings that followed behind my back. My brotherś musical talent had allowed him to avoid working in the fields and the townsfolk were jealous of it, seeing his life as easy. I was painted with the same brush, a naive daughter who was protected by her father and his smelly work. Look how she laughs and dances, does she not know it is through our toiling that she is fed?

I stepped on a burnt corpse, with its blackened arm still clutching a torch. The crunch of the limb turning to bits of charcoal was satisfying. Why hadn’t you just left us alone?

If my emotions were colours, the strongest among them was a brilliant crimson, like the fresh blood that painted the walls I passed by. If I wanted to, I could reach out and become the beast again. I very dearly wanted to surrender to that power. But my sadness kept me in check. A soft, wet blue. The grief was my own, not the Marquess’. The further I walked away from my dead father and the fires of the ruined Kensmire, the colder the grief felt. The coldness turned the grief harder, mixing with my anger. I would kill the Marquess. That witch.

I entered under the high castle gates. The Viscount had repurposed the castle for his home, a vain gesture to the strength that fortresses like this one had once represented. 

As I crossed the courtyard, a ghostly melody reached my ears. It was the sound of a piano being played in a frenzy. It sounded like three people all trying to play at once, each having their fingers run over the others, like each had a song that must be played. The discordant sound somehow blended into its own song, haunting and strange.

I climbed the winding stone staircase to the dining room where I had been accused of witchcraft. A gash ran along the outside wall. I placed my hand into it. The wounds inflicted on the stone were deep and long, like what I imagined from tales of vengeful dragons.

The higher I climbed, the louder the music became. It bounced off the walls and put my nerves on edge. It had an unearthly quality to it and I somehow knew it was my brother playing. I reached the hallway that led to the dining room. Soldiers lay crumbled against the walls, their weapons and armour proving as effective as children’s toys. I shivered. Was no one left alive? I reached the door and slowly pushed it open.

My brother sat on a bench in front of a large piano. It was ebony black and the top was propped open, revealing a mural that had been painted on the inside depicting a martyr beseeching God atop a hill with arms stretched out towards the heavenly rays. The sounds that poured out of the instrument had such intensity they felt like waves washing over me.

James’ hands were a blur. The fingers moved up and down at inhuman angles. The movements looked… insect-like. Precision and speed that could not be accomplished by a human. My brother stared in horror and awe at his own hands, as if he was not in control of them, yet his eyes shone with the joy of a musician hearing a new, beautiful piece for the first time. His fingers that had too many joints all slammed down on the keys, ending the performance with a long, drawn out note.

A single set of hands began to clap. I turned to the dining table to see that the Marquess was sitting at the end, where he had been this morning. In fact, the Viscount and Viscountess were sitting there as well. The Viscountess’ face was gaunt and pale, with a slack-jawed expression, seeing something we could not. She was dead, although I could not see any monstrous wounds inflicted on her like the others. The Viscount’s expression could not be seen, as he was face down in his plate of food, unmoving.

Marquess Wright noticed me and ceased applauding. His face was a spectre framed by black hair and clothes. “Cecily. Glad you could join us,” he said with his slight accent. “You’re hungry, I trust?” He gestured for me to sit at the table with him. I crossed the room and sat near the other end of the dining table, next to the dead Viscount. The chair seat was soft and I sank into it, making the Marquess appear to rise taller in his seat. I looked down at the food laid out on the table. Chicken and vegetables arranged on ornate platters. Wine glimmered in crystalline goblets next to each plate. I reached out, my stomach growling, then paused as I saw the face of the Inquisitor amidst the food. He was lying on his back, robed in red. A single sharp dinner knife sat in his chest, the handle pointing to the ceiling.

I reached over the body to grab a leg of chicken. As soon as the juices met my tongue, I was reaching for more, stuffing it all into my mouth, barely caring what it was I was eating. I ate and stared at the Marquess. He returned my gaze, looking approving. Like I was a pet he had successfully house trained. Hot anger stirred in my chest and I sated it with food.

The Marquess broke the silence. “Your brother is an excellent musician. I’ve heard worse performances in the audience of the King.” His voice was fluid, seeping into my head and laying on it heavily, like honey.

I glowered at him but he didn’t seem to mind. “I am, however, much more interested in you, Cecily my dear.” He leaned forward, dark eyes wide. “You were magnificent to behold, such a powerful form. You enacted justice with ease.”

“You forced me to kill them,” I said between bites.

The Marquess shook his head. “Hardly. I gave your anger shape, allowing you to become something greater. I didn’t create that rage.” He gestured to the knife embedded in the Inquisitor’s chest. “I handed you the weapon. You were the one who used it.”

My cheeks still felt wet where the tears had made trails. He was wrong. He had changed James. He had created this entire situation. It wasn’t my fault.

Finally full, I stopped eating and sat back, clenching my hands under the table. My thoughts turned calculating. How? What magic spell gave him power over life? None of the witches I had seen burn had done anything this obvious. Surely they would have saved themselves if they had this power.

“I tried to persuade him not to,” the Marquess said, “but the Viscount was going to have you burned at the stake. He didn’t realize he was witnessing the divine.”

I needed to know more about the Marquess’ power. Otherwise any attempt I made to kill him would fail. I needed to be deceptive. So I mimicked what I had seen rich young women do to get what they wanted. I bit my lip and squirmed in my seat. “I… suppose you did save me. But what thanks could I possibly give to such a powerful man such as yourself?”

The Marquess smiled softly. “I could use a lovely maiden with a head of golden locks by my side. Why don’t you join me at my keep. We can discuss our plans there.”

I welled up tears in my eyes, which was not a difficult task. “And leave my brother behind in this desolation? I could never.”

“Yes, of course. He can come as well. You will need an escort for the event.”

I cocked my head. “What event would that be?”

The Marquess’ eyes widened as the words left his lips, “Our wedding.”