WnW 6.c – Memory 6

The cathedral was beautifully hollow, an expanse of masterful architecture no matter where one looked. Great arches held the ceiling loftily high, with painted glass windows dripping the evening light down onto the many rows of pews that faced the pulpit. No one sat in the pews but me, twisting the hem of my dress into tight knots with shaking hands. 

People said this was a place of God, but then why did it feel so empty? I did not feel God’s presence, instead it felt like I sat at the center of a ribcage, bereft of a beating heart. If such a deity really existed, they were too afraid of the Marquess to act against him. The black robed, black haired, black-hearted man entered the holy space with unshaken confidence, the echoing heaviness of each footfall making it sound as though he were as tall as the belfry. 

The cold air stirred at the nape of my neck as he passed and I shivered. Amusement stirred in the connection between us and the air touched my neck again as he paced behind me, giving me goosebumps. Was he doing that on purpose?

I remained composed, doing my utmost to direct all my emotions into the scrunched up red cloth. All except my anger. The Marquess was used to that feeling from me at this point. Holding back on that would have been a tell that I was scheming something.

“Any more squeezing and you will wring blood from that dress, dear wife.” 

Despite my resolve, hearing his voice made my heart jump.

I didn’t turn to him as I replied, “The blood isn’t in the dress, Marquess.” I unclenched my hands and stared into the creases in my palms. “It stains our hands.”

The Marquess approached me suddenly from behind, his rings rasping on the back of the pew as his hand settled on my shoulder. His warm breath replaced the coldness on my nape and he reached around to clasp his hand in mine. “I see no blood on these hands. Any stains have been purified by the holy work we do.”

He gestured to the cathedral’s awe-inspiring depictions of faith, wrought in glass and stone. “You are helping me build something monumental. Any blood shed in effort of that goal is necessary and the pain, temporary. A child does not understand why they must be punished. But once they become adults, they realize that their upright morals and convictions were shaped by those punishments.”

“What of love?” I whispered.

“What of it?” the Marquess asked coldly.

“Can a parent not shape a child with love, demonstrating to them how to feel for others? To share an understanding of pain without spreading it?”

“Love is in the closed fist that strikes the child. Behind the pain is love.” The Marquess cupped his hands around my ears. “Listen, Cecily. Do you hear that?”

I had begun to hear the sounds already with my enhanced senses. But I let myself acknowledge what it was for the first time: a multitude of distant cries spanning the breadth of dissent and anger, steadily approaching.

The Marquess spoke, “A horde of guileless children approach. Do you think that a gentle hand will steer them onto the righteous path? Has that ever worked for you in the past, when your true form was revealed to them? They have closed their ears to love. So we must Shape them so they can hear God’s voice again.”

I stood abruptly. The Marquess seized my ears, pulling my head back so I was forced to look into his eyes which gazed so hungrily at me, desiring something. After a moment he seemed to reconsider and released me. My hands smoothed out the wrinkles I’d put in my dress and I walked down the aisle.

“I’ll go take a look and see what they’re so riled up about,” I said without looking back.

“Have your freedom, my Marchioness. Your thoughts are with me always.”

The words, the way he said them, it drew my attention. I looked back as a sly smile crept across his face. My heart beat faster. I didn’t let anything show, not through my expression and not through our connection. The cruelties the Marquess had forced me to partake in had hardened me. I would seize that coldness and use it for my own ends.

“And you are ever in my thoughts, Marquess,” I said without inflection as I pushed the cathedral doors open.

The chill of the coming winter hit my face harshly, making me tear up. The city was in the quiet hours of the morning, soon to be disturbed. The rising sun was wiping away the small bits of frost from the windows of houses built in neat rows around this city square.

I descended down the steps and crossed the square before entering into the shadows of an alleyway. My brother’s face awaited in the darkness. He sat on a pile of empty burlap sacks.

“So the time has come,” he whispered.

I sat next to him and rested my head on his shoulder. “Yes. Did you get any sleep?”

“Hah! There was never a chance. I just played the hours away.”

“I know. I heard it.”

My brother stirred in surprise. “Truly? My chambers were far from yours and the Marquess’.”

I smiled and tapped my ear which still stung from where the Marquess’ cold hands had grabbed them. “I’ve known you for your whole life. The Marquess is not the only one with whom I share a deep connection. It’s nice to know how you’re feeling by the way you play your music.”

“Oh?” James asked, wrapping me in a side hug. “Pray tell, what does our ‘connection’ tell you?”

“You’re afraid,” I whispered. My hair coiled and stretched, smoothing out James’ shirt. “Of what I know not. Perhaps the coming violence, perhaps of the Marquess’ retribution, should we fail. Perhaps you are scared I will pass away.”

“Yes to all three,” he murmured. “But to confess, I am most afraid of change. The evil I know is more comforting than the evil I do not. I’d grown accustomed to the life we had made since Father’s passing. Travel, good food, and plenty of time to nurture my art. There’s still so many pieces I wish to write and play. I am afraid to lose that.”

I was quiet.

James let out a shuddering sigh. “But it must be done?” he phrased it as a hesitant question.

“Yes.”

He took my hand. “Then I will jump into unknown waters with you, dear sister.”

I allowed myself to be still for a few moments longer. Then I felt James’ head turn as he began to hear the crowd’s approach. Many were shouting, men and women, young and old.

“He sits and does nothing!”

“He smiles gloatingly as he hears our pleas to God!”

“What is this plague? Punishment for sinners? Or something else?”

The mob marched past our hiding spot. Faces were covered in wraps of cloth, the eyes peering out so clearly full of pain. Where the skin showed through the coverings, I saw the telltale spots of the Black Death. Shouts often led to fits of coughing. Some people were unsteady on their feet, pushing forward without consideration of their ebbing lives. Flashes of desperation could be seen in their expressions. It was in my heart as well. The Plague had infected Hammond and Vincent, forcing our hand early. The crowd was large, some had come from far away to see the Marquess but… was it enough?

I spotted Hammond’s large frame, bandages adorning his head and hands.

“Time for me to go,” I said to James. He squeezed my hand as he let go. 

“This moment will no doubt be remembered forever,” he said. “I will eulogize it in song. Now show that bastard your strength.”

I nodded and stepped out of the alley and into the crowd. Wading my way over to Hammond, he gave me a small nod of acknowledgement before returning his discerning eyes to the crowd. I had seen him use his ability in the past. It was impressive to watch him work. He could tell where to prod and shove and who needed to be reined back in. He could distill a crowd’s mood, refine it and channel it in a useful direction, all with gentle words and touches that most people wouldn’t even remember as significant.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get more,” Hammond said hoarsely. “With the sickness, many were unwilling or unable.”

I patted him on the shoulder. “You did well to bring this many. You are an exemplary man, Hammond.”

His eyes looked sad. “I just wish it hadn’t come to this. I may be an atheist but I don’t like manipulating the faith of the people.”

I nodded. “Faith drove people like them to try to burn me alive. Let’s find them a real demon to burn. Is Vincent here?”

“Yes-” Hammond coughed and paused to stifle it. “I’ve set up a trigger to raise the people’s anger to its peak. A woman has brought her little girl who is ridden with plague. I’ve sown the idea that the Marquess should heal her child. It should only take a few words to her to set it all off. I can-” Hammond broke off and leaned over, coughing. They sounded wet and when he pulled away from his arm, fresh blood stained the cloth.

I rubbed his back. “You’ve done so much already. Rest. Save your strength. Let me handle it.”

He nodded and spoke quietly, “She’s near the front. Red shawl. Her girl is wrapped in blankets.”

During our conversation the mob had arrived at the city square, stopping to gather at the steps of the cathedral. The Marquess was there at the top of the steps. He raised his hands to wave to the people, a small smile playing at his lips, his eyes drinking in the sight.

I made my way through the crowd, trying hard to temper my emotions even as angry faces bared teeth and bitter words were shouted all around me. I could feel a tug on my emotions, the Marquess was telling me to come to him. I ignored it.

Looking around, I caught one final look from my brother at the edge of the crowd. He had been reluctant to join our coup at the beginning. But throughout my whole life he had never left my side. Not even after I had killed our father the night I had first met the Marquess. I would never repay that debt. He raised his hands to play invisible keys and I rolled my eyes while stifling a smile.

Vincent would be hiding somewhere in the mob. He was the key to this plan, lurking with unbandaged hands, deadly poison beneath his fingernails. I didn’t let my thoughts linger there, I didn’t want the Marquess to have any hint of our plan. It had been terribly difficult to be vigilant for this long, especially when his rats were everywhere underfoot, puppets to spread the sickness and keep watch.

A person in the crowd worked up the courage to shout directly at the Marquess, “Marquess Wright! You’ve come out of hiding! Do you see the sick and dying before you?”

The Marquess’ gaze snapped onto the man who had spoken. “I do.”

Despite the din of angry voices, his own voice pierced through clearly. I moved forward, seeking the mother.

A woman shouted at him, “You have done nothing to help our suffering! You hide away in the churches, turning away those in need.”

“Why are you untouched by the plague? Is it cowardice keeping you safe or something more sinister?” another shouted shrilly before falling into a coughing fit.

The Marquess raised a hand to his heart. He had taken to wearing a small  decorative silver cross at his breast. “I have said this many times before. God has spoken. The plague is his words of condemnation upon this sinful land and its people. He has spared me to be the humble messenger.” His mouth curled upward as he spoke. My stomach twisted. His sincerity emanated across our connection. It was a disgusting delusion. He had brought the plague upon these people.

I found the woman. Her red clothed head bent over the child in her arms, weeping as the child struggled to breathe. I waited for the right moment.

“We have prayed in atonement every day!” someone shouted.

“Even the priests are getting sick! Are they not pious enough?!” another added.

“The Plague followed you here from Dunhart! And from Fossen before that! How are we to know that you are not spreading the plague, Marquess?”

That last exclamation seemed to strike a chord within the crowd. More accusations began to be thrown, accusing the Marquess of sorcery and conspiring with demons.

There was a pang across our connection. The Marquess’ pride had been pricked. His eyes and teeth showed too much white as he responded, “Foolish rumours. Lies spread like sin from loose tongues and morals. Can you not understand what God is saying to you?”

I leaned forward, whispering in the mother’s ear. “If he truly is God’s messenger, he should show us a sign. He should heal the most innocent among us. Your baby girl.”

The woman stiffened. At once her grief poured out, loosed by the hope I’d planted in her. “Heal her!” she shouted. “Prove that God is speaking through you. Heal her!”

The demand rippled through the crowd, honing their discontent into a focused point. The cries began to unify in their chanting demand. “Heal her! Heal her!”

The Marquess waited. The chant grew into a mantra that echoed across the city’s rooftops. Then the Marquess opened his mouth and eventually the chanting quieted as the people awaited his response. 

“No.”

It was the tipping point. With animalistic cries, the crowd surged forward up the steps, intent on harming the Marquess. Blackened hands reached out. Sickly faces with mouths open, demanding to be healed of their suffering.

The Marquess looked upon them as if they were insects. He didn’t move even as the crowd reached the top of the stairs. His anger pulsed and I felt him use his foul magic.

Bodies crashed like a wave against rocks, limbs tangling and breaking upon thin air a foot away from the Marquess. He raised a hand and turned the crowd aside, sending them tumbling back down the steps. More of the sick people rose forward in outrage, seeing proof of the Marquess’ supernatural power. They clawed at him and spat, trying to infect him. I pushed through the people, using my empowered strength to pull people out of my way. I noticed that those who got close to the Marquess had become entirely blackened by disease, their body a mass of rotting bruises. He was quickening the plague.

My hair curled into a thick tendril. The Marquess looked pleased with his work. I could contain it no longer. My anger exploded outwards, with all my feelings of rage and hate coiling into my hair. The Marquess took notice. He turned, smiling wide.

I struck. The barrier that had stopped the others was there for me too. It felt as though I was pushing through hard packed earth. But I was prepared. I was strong enough. Inch by inch the hair crept closer to the Marquess. He watched with eyes bulging with curiosity as the hair slowly encircled his neck. Then I yanked him towards myself, striking with my fist.

My whole body jolted with pain as my hand broke against the barrier. Bones exited in haphazard directions as if they sought to escape my skin. Blood poured from my fist. White hot anger burned and the bones slid back into the proper place. The Marquess reached forward and laced his fingers into mine as he admired the healing process.

A hand shot out from the crowd and scratched the back of his hand.

The Marquess’ face grew still. The hair that squeezed his neck broke, a rat darting from his shoulder, its work complete.

Then he ripped free of my grip and staggered back. The crowd, seeing his weakness, surged forward once more. A wave of darkness poured out from the cathedral door, enveloping the Marquess and knocking the people back down the steps. The wave broke into innumerable rats, who began biting anything that moved. The creatures scrabbled around in eerie unison, driving back anyone who got close to the cathedral.

I transformed, growing larger, wrapping myself in my hair. The smell of the Marquess’ spilt blood grew strong to my heightened senses. There would be no escape from me.

I entered the cathedral in pursuit, ignoring the hundreds of rats that crawled over me.

The interior was entirely dark, as if curtains had been drawn along the huge stained glass windows. Yet these curtains moved. The rats crawled impossibly on every surface as if they were made of vines instead of stone and glass. The entire cathedral was alive and writhing with this scourge.

The Marquess leaned on the altar, the contents of his bag strewn across it. The books he had found from the four corners of the world, all examinations on the strangest phenomena of the human body.

He turned to me, sweat gleaming on his upper lip.

“It has been some time since I have seen you in that form, Cecily.”

I growled, low and guttural. I wouldn’t give him another word. 

“Beautiful and powerful. Deific, even.”

He gestured to his wound. “Powerful like this poison. But I can’t die yet, Cecily,” he explained as if to a child. “I’m so close. And you’ve helped me with my final steps. You gathered all these people, gnashing their teeth and wringing their fists. As for the other requirement,” he paused, gasping as he clutched his wounded hand. I could almost see the poison trudging through his veins, tearing him apart from the inside.

“You’ve shown me a new pain.” He seemed to gaze at something distant above our heads. “And with it my mind has expanded. It ends tonight. The ascension is nigh.”

Then the Marquess did something. I felt a wave ripple out from him, through me and through all the people gathered outside. A unification of anger, hatred, inner fire. The rats began to ripple with the effect, pulsing as I felt an anger of impossible purity pulse inside my head.

The Marquess made a final proclamation, “The Flood is here.”