[FICTION] Myth Re-examination: Sleeping Beauty
Preface: The following piece is an excerpt from a re-examination of the fairy tale Sleeping Beauty. The point of view is from the perspective of the youngest of the fairy godmothers who will bestow on the titular princess one of three gifts that will eventually shape the course of the princess' life.
The ceremony was the last place King Stephen wanted to be, that much was clear. He sat stiffly with his hands clasped together in his lap. With transepts to the east and west and the nave of the Great Hall extending to the south, his throne was located in the center of the rotunda directly beneath the high ceiling of the dome of the Great Hall. The placement of his throne was a symbol of his prestige, meant to set him above his people.
Natalie's cradle, directly to his right, was adorned with flowers and lace. He stole brief glances at her as if to reassure himself that she was still there. There had been rumors that he had grown inconsolable in the days leading up to her birth. In circles of political gossip and even among his closest advisers, they said that it was altogether reasonable yet unwarranted for such anxiety. But the Queen died in childbirth, and the King was bitterly vindicated.
The High Priest swung his censer about while droning on in prayer. His acolytes followed him dutifully with candles in hand and bells that were rung in rhythmic response to each pause in the incantation, which was probably about devoting life to the Gods. The language in which the High Priest conducted the Naming Ceremony was an old one by the standards of men, said to be the father of all language. Alicia had never bothered to study it seriously, so the nuances of the prayer were lost on her. Not that she, or anyone else in the Great Hall for that matter, particularly cared.
After the High Priest had finished spreading the musky incense in three circles of the rotunda, his acolytes reverently relieved him of his censer before returning to their seats in the western transept. The High Priest made his way to the pulpit on the western side of the rotunda, and from there sermonized in the common tongue, although this made little difference in the amount of attention he received. In a small way, Alicia was impressed that he could make the joy of life and morality such a dull centerpiece.
When he was done with his sermon, he made his way to the cradle. From his robes, he withdrew a small knife, pricked his thumb with the blade, and pressed a drop of blood onto the brow of the child, naming her with the power of his blood and the Gods as witnesses.
Finally, the High Priest was done. He returned to the western transept where his acolytes awaited him. There was a song played on the enormous pipe organ that rang out loudly, accompanied by singers in the eastern transept. Alicia could practically feel the focus of the audience shift back to reality at the signal of the conclusion of the Naming Ceremony.
King Stephen rose from his throne as the final notes of the organ died away.
“My good people, it was my late wife’s wish that the kingdom could share in our happiness. Let our joy be yours, for here before you is not only our child but also our future. It is to this child that we entrust our legacy and it is to her that we impart our dreams of a stronger, more prosperous kingdom. Let us rejoice on this day for the hope she brings. In honor of my dearly departed Queen, let the Ceremony of Gifts commence.”
As if to balance the protracted ceremony of the High Priest, King Stephen had kept his speech short. That someone who was infamously loquacious would say almost nothing on such an important ceremony was remarkable even to Alicia, who observed the characters of the kingdom's politics from a distance.
In total, there were roughly twenty noble houses intending to bear gifts, along with Alicia and her three sisters, Estelle, Elizabeth, and Helena. Alicia and her sisters were tasked with blessing the princess, as agreed in diplomatic talks months prior. The nobles, now being announced by their respective heads of houses, promised spices, bright colored silks, high born steeds, slaves and servants from the ends of the earth, finest aged wines, and so forth.
Nearly all of the gifts were brought in procession down the nave of the Great Hall, regardless of how large or unwieldy they were. One noble house promised a carrack, and as a way to partake in the spectacle of the procession also presented an exquisite model of the ship encased in glass. Yet, while they looked among themselves to exchange signs of satisfaction or displeasure, Alicia noticed the King was hardly paying attention to the ceremony.
“Estelle of the Fair Folk bestows a blessing of lush, golden spun hair on Princess Natalie,” called the king's herald.
Whispers swelled the hall. Alicia had prepared herself for this, for the stares and the naked sense of wonderment and repulsion, but none of the nobles had approached the cradle. The break from ceremonial norm was glaring.
Estelle approached the cradle. She laid her hand on the brow of the child, murmured her blessing, and returned to her seat.
“Elizabeth of the Fair Folk bestows a blessing of music on Princess Natalie.”
Elizabeth turned to Alicia. “Helena is weak. You will need to walk her to the cradle,” she said as she got up to present her blessing. Alicia wrapped her arm around Helena, whose skin had taken a pasty yellow color.
“I feel wonderful,” Helena said. Alicia turned Helena's face toward her own, and placed her palm against the fairy's forehead. Alicia could feel her trembling, her skin as hot as stone scorching in the summer sun.
“You're delirious.” Alicia said. “We need to get you home.”
“Helena of the Fair Folk offers a gift of dance on Princess Natalie,” the herald announced when Elizabeth was done.
“My turn,” Helena eagerly rasped as she struggled to her feet. Hurriedly, Alicia walked ahead and forced her arm around Helena's. Helena used Alicia's body as a way to push herself forward. The cradle seemed to move out of reach with every step. Helena was panting with exertion. Every face seemed to be a wolf. We gave servants and horses and silk and gold and loyalty. What do you have to offer? A sick fairy, and blessings worth nothing. Words and witchcraft.
They stopped in the middle of the rotunda some distance away from the cradle. Alicia tried to guide Helena forward, but was met with resistance.
“Helena,” Alicia said under her breath, “what are you doing?”
Helena remained quiet and was rooted to the spot.
“Come on, just a little further. We're almost done,” Alicia pleaded. Helena turned to her.
There was something significant about the way she looked at her, and Alicia found herself trying to decipher the meaning, the way her grip tightened around her arm.
Centuries later, in her twilight years, Alicia found that she could always recall her sister in this moment. She would find it shameful that she remembered her in this way, that she couldn't imagine her strong, or kind, or formidable. All she would be able to see was Helena as she was now, burning with fever, delirious, pained, hardly able to walk, rheumy eyed. This, and her plea:
“Don't look.”
There was a low and harsh rumble that filled the air, a tremor in Alicia's body that culminated in a muffled blast of thunder. Her shield pendant flared briefly with a calm blue flash of light and she felt a rush of static on her skin as it struggled to protect her. It could not stop her from being thrown across the room. Alicia hit the floor and tumbled helplessly until she met the wall of the rotunda. The pendant shattered and was completely spent.
She couldn't tell how long it was before she began to hear properly again. Dimly at first, then louder as she regained her senses. The sound was like wind buffeting her ears, percussive and unintelligible and somehow far away. The sound clarified. She heard voices, a chorus of men and women as they tried to flee the hall, hands and fists slamming on the main door that refused to open. They searched for another exit, finding those too were sealed.
Alicia got up slowly, trying to gather a sense of her surroundings. She tripped over spilled wine and blood. There was moaning and coughing among the rubble. There were also bodies here and there, pieces of them. Alicia got up again, swaying. Miraculously, she had been thrown clear to the west wall while keeping possession of all her parts, as far as she was aware. Something wet was running down her face. She numbly wiped it with the back of her hand. Faintly, there was the smell of rotting meat. She needed to get back to Helena.
The entire chamber had been swept up in a tempest. The tables of food that had previously lined the hall, along with the chairs and assortment of gifts, were blasted to the ends of the nave and transepts. Those of the King's Guard who had survived the explosion had taken up position beside King Stephen and the crib of the infant princess, leveling their halberds and shields at the danger of which all were now witness. There was a call to stand ground, to hold their line. Alicia's gaze fell upon the spectacle.
In the middle of the floor was Helena. Her skin was melting and sagging. Helena’s right hand jerked upward, her index finger pointing at her forehead. She thrust her finger in, sinking it to the knuckle. The finger began to cut through her clothes, skin, and flesh, all the way down to her stomach. Helena’s hands grasped the opening of the incision and pulled it apart. A patch of her skin and dress tore free in her own hand, and the stench of decay infested the air. Undaunted, she flung the patch of skin away, re-gripped the opening anew, and tore at herself. Bits of Helena fell to the floor, revealing the flayed, rotting corpse underneath.
The corpse fell over its own remains, its twitching arms and legs leaving greasy stains on the marble. The Great Hall was filled with the sound of the bump and tap of its flailing limbs. It attempted to crawl its way to the cradle. It slipped, scrambling in its own juices. It got up again, and made a haphazard dash towards the King's Guard.
They advanced to meet it and with practiced brutality, impaled it through the stomach with their halberds. The captain called out to his men, and they pushed on, stabbing repeatedly. The corpse's feet slipped on the ground, then slid to a stop.
The corpse righted itself, coughing and wheezing with laughter as if relishing their terror. It broke the haft of the weapons with a downward strike, stumbled forward, and struck one of the men in the chest. His breastplate caved in and crushed his innards, leaving him coughing blood. He fell backwards against his companions. To the man standing beside him, the corpse reached out to slap him in the face. His neck and jaw broke with a crack, and his cheek was pulverized. His limp body was thrown a small distance away. The corpse jumped on the man behind him, wrapping its legs around his waist. The guard fell and the corpse began tearing away at his neck with its teeth. He struggled briefly before his arms and legs fell limp. The corpse whirled about in search of its next victim.
Alicia had seen enough. She had never relished the act of murder, but it roused her from her shock; it gave her focus. She was familiar with scenes such as this, and she had acted with surety in the past. Helena was dead. Nothing could change that, and there was no time to dwell on it. There would be time enough later, but now, Alicia allowed herself to slip into the pattern of her craft.
Numbly yet surely, Alicia began to move. She made her way to the edge of the room with light steps to avoid the debris. In her path, there were several fallen guards who had not survived the explosion. She salvaged a dagger from one of their corpses. Estelle and Elizabeth were close by. Elizabeth was lying in Estelle's lap with a shard of wood protruding from her abdomen. Estelle's hands were red, the sleeves of her dress stained by her attempt to stanch the bleeding. Alicia moved on.
She could clearly hear the sound of breaking bones as she hid behind one of the columns that lined the perimeter of the rotunda. The corpse had made quick work of the Kings Guard and had begun to eat them. Using its fists as a club, it cracked the breastplate and sternum of one of the bodies, and then forced the chest open to reveal the organs underneath. Eagerly, it tore out the heart, lifted it above its head, and squeezed the blood into its mouth. It gave the heart a small bite and, finding it lacking, tossed it aside before opening another body.
Alicia made a mental inventory of all she knew. To call it a corpse might have been an underestimation on her part. Clearly, there were visual elements of polymorphy and necromancy about the creature, but a polymorphed undead alone would not have been able to create an explosion such as the one before without damaging itself; the layers of magic upon the thing were multitudinous and intricately woven. It also possessed great strength, as seen by how easily it had dispatched the Kings Guard. And, though there were no overt signs, Alicia could feel it possess a cunning if not outright intelligence that suggested a consciousness that would have been lacking in a golem or similar construct. The most important piece of information of all was that they had taken Helena. This foe would not be easy prey.
Regardless of what the corpse was or how it came to be, what was certain was that the window to engage was closing fast.
Alicia cut away her dress and the excessive frills around her neck and sleeves with the borrowed King's Guard dagger. Feeling the wetness on her cheek grow bothersome, she wiped at it with the back of her hand and, finding blood, stanched the wound with a headband made from the excess of her gown. She abandoned her cover and made her attack.
Alicia activated the two series of ancient scripts etched onto her back as scars of a blood magic ritual, releasing a wave of pleasure pain from there to the tips of her fingers. The first series was for a needle of dull black metal the length of her arm that coalesced into orbit around her. It was a supple blade, thin for piercing and sharp enough to cut a hair falling upon it. The second series was for Wind Step, to convert her mana into strength and speed. She plucked the hilt from where it was suspended and leaped. A low hum filled the air around her as she closed the distance in an instant. Deftly, she delivered a diagonal slash to the corpse from hip to neck.
A white hand deflected her sword. She felt the contact of her blade on meat, but had not expected resistance beyond that. Instead, the blade simply slid across it without cutting it whatsoever. The unexpected resistance pushed her to the ground and she fell into a roll to compensate for the momentum of her dash.
When Alicia slid to a stop, she turned to face the corpse. Skin was beginning to grow on the corpse, starting at the hand and slowly creeping up the arm, growing like hoarfrost on a window's edge. It lifted the offending hand up to its face, wondering at the long and delicate fingers. The newly formed skin was smooth and unblemished, and was the color of pearl. The corpse turned its head toward Alicia, grinning.
Alicia crouched and summoned mana in her core for another assault. Fine, she thought, I'll cut off your arm before you can make any more. Then I'll take your head.
Alicia made another dash at the corpse. Almost joyously, the corpse ran to meet her, its arms flapping about, its laugh grating. She feinted, stopped short of its flailing limbs, and struck the boarder of skin and open flesh.
Again, her sword glanced off the milky skin.
Alicia quickened her blows. The world seemed to whirl around them, reorienting with each of their steps, their strikes, their dance. All she could see was that insufferable, taunting grin. She landed a kick, managed to pull the corpse off balance, even crushed its windpipe with a resounding snap of her elbow. But for every blow she landed, the skin crept onward, covering the torso, the stomach, the legs. It seemed none of that mattered. There was only the skin growing, and her hope waning. No matter what she did, her sword was always met with the flash of skin. The growth was accelerating.
Her breath grew heavy. Despite her onslaught, the corpse bore no mark on its body to showed for her efforts. Her arms grew heavy, her legs felt stiff and unresponsive. Alicia made for a weak downward strike at the base of its neck and the corpse captured her wrist in its hand. She struggled to free herself briefly, and finding no escape, dropped her sword, caught it in her other hand, and thrust it directly into its throat, feeling her sword grate against the corpse's spine.
For a brief moment, Alicia met the eyes of the corpse, seeing its face for the first time at the end of its metamorphosis. The round eyes were green flecked with gold, framed in thick dark lashes. The corpse stared, watchful and unperturbed, making no move to free itself or counterattack.
She attempted to pull the sword back, but it was lodged in the neck firmly. She abandoned it there and began to scratch at the corpse's eyes and face. The corpse knocked her free hand aside, pulled the sword out on its own, and sunk it into Alicia's thigh. Alicia let out a feral scream. Pain blossomed in her leg like liquid fire. A cannonball of panic and nausea struck her gut. The corpse, with its irrefutable strength, continued to push the sword through until it was embedded in the floor, pinning her there. Alicia could do nothing but scream.
The corpse bent down to kiss the sword's pommel. From where its lips had touched, rust formed and raced down the blade. There was a high whistle that grew in volume and pitch until it died in abrupt silence. The connection between Alicia and her sword was severed. There would be no summoning it back to the ethereal plane. Softly, the corpse spoke, “Stay right there.”
It stood gracefully. All of the blood that covered it fell away to the floor to form a pool at its feet, revealing it's nakedness, its pearl white skin, night black hair, and doe-like green eyes. The corpse was beautiful. She was beautiful, this thing that killed Helena and ate the King's Guard. The blood at her feet quivered, disturbed by a tremor in the ground, turned black, then leaped up to wrap the woman in a flowing cloak.
Alicia disobeyed. As the woman turned away, Alicia, for the final time, grasped the hilt of her dead sword. In despair, she realized there was no dislodging it. There was only one thing left to do.
Bracing one hand on the hilt on another on the other side of her impaled leg, Alicia tore herself free. It was slow. The weakness of her exhaustion, the pain, all of it stood in the way of her freedom. What pain. What glorious pain. The mess of her wound was pumping out blood dutifully along with the frantic beating of her heart. Her screaming transformed into exhausted and pathetic sobbing. With a final pull, Alicia ripped her leg free and began to crawl.
The woman had stopped. She stood there immobile, watching with distant interest as Alicia left a trail of blood behind. She watched as Alicia pulled herself along, all the way to the hem of her cloak.
“Give her back.”
Alicia gripped the cloak as tightly as she could.
“Give her back.”
Alicia felt her headband loosen and her hair fell across her face. The woman took the free cloth and used it as a tourniquet on Alicia's leg. Alicia whimpered as it was tightened, having lost the strength to do or say more.
“Be still. You have to watch.”
The woman rose, and turned to King Stephen.
Alicia saw recognition in King Stephen's face. In a strange way, Alicia could sense that he had resigned himself to destiny, and in this she felt she was merely an audience member to the events unfolding now. She wondered how he had lived with this inevitability for so long, how he had not gone mad anticipating this meeting.
“Hello, Stephen.” Her voice was low.
“What are you doing here Selena?” Stephen demanded with a wavering voice.
She chuckled. “I suppose you can call me that for old time's sake. But you know that I go by another name now. Perhaps the stories had not reached you?”
“They have. You are still Selena to me.”
Selena smiled disarmingly. “Bold. You evoke intimacy we both thought dead. You haven't changed much in twenty years, aside from your hair and mustache.”
“Everything has changed. What are you doing here?”
“I was lonely,” she pouted. She walked cat like towards the cradle and Stephen placed himself in her path. “Am I unwelcome, the one to whom you owe your life, the one whose deepest secrets you know best?”
“I know why you are here, Selena. I won't let you do this.”
“Why do you say that? If you know why I'm here, you know nothing you do will stop me.” Selena continued her path until she came face to face with Stephen. She pressed forward, and Stephen was pushed back until he could go no further. They had reached the cradle. Gently, she reached out and took his hand.
“You're shaking.” She placed his hand on her cheek and closed her eyes to savor his touch. She kissed his palm. “Don't be afraid, Stephen. You don't have to be strong anymore.”
“Please, Selena, don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.” Stephen began to cry. “You don't have to do this. You don't. Just let her go. Please, let her go.”
Selena's hushed him, pulled him to her bosom, and whispered in his ear.
“No.”
She pushed him aside.
Selena knelt beside the cradle and reached out to touch the baby, gently stroking Natalie’s face. With utmost care, she lifted Natalie from the cradle and held her.
“Four blessings secured for the heir of the kingdom. I wonder what must have been given in return. The Fair Folk do not part with blessings lightly, much less to a human who may one day make war on them. If I remember correctly, Helena had intended to bestow the gift of dance, but that absolutely won't do in these circumstances.
She paused to make a show of pondering.
“I know just the gift.”
Selena placed Natalie inside the cradle. She straightened, threw her arms wide open to the onlookers of the court.
“I, Selena, of no folk.” She giggled. “I, Selena, of no folk, do depart on Natalie a gift. Let her have golden spun hair so lush that true gold cannot compare. Let her have a voice so beautiful, stones and ogres will weep upon their hearing it. Let she have a wonderful life with many friends, many suitors, and a wonderful father,” Selena announced to the huddled masses by the walls, the emptiness of the Great Hall.
“But our lives and fortunes are fickle things, for before her eighteenth birthday, she will prick her finger on a spinning wheel. Yes, she’ll do that, and die a horrible, agonizing death.” Selena smiled proudly, then frowned. “No. Too morbid. Let me think.” Selena tapped her finger on her chin.
Stephen placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Selena.” It was all he could say.
“Let me finish.” Stephen's hand fell away and he crumpled to the floor.
“Let her life be sweet, yet let it be so only that she may more intimately know her pain. On her eighteenth birthday, she will be betrayed by the one she loves most. Let her suffer a pain beyond all her reckoning and knowledge. Let time move for her as years for each day. Let her gain no rest from sleep, quench not her thirst, taste not the food in her mouth. And in her final days, let her pass with the knowledge that her life will have been the culmination of her father's sins, that he is the progenitor of her woes, that he is to blame for the wickedness which will have been brought upon his kingdom, and that she had been brought into this world as simply the vehicle for his punishment. Let it be so. Let it be so. Let it be so.”
All was quiet and still.
And then, Selena spoke with brevity and lightness.
“Well, it seems I have overstayed my welcome. To all the fine people here, thank you for your time. To dear Estelle and Elizabeth, please cultivate your tastes. To Alicia,” Selena said as she turned her green eyes on Alicia, “do pick a good gift. And to you, Stephen... Goodbye.”
The darkness of her cloak enveloped her, making her a black mass, which then sunk to the floor and returned to blood, expanding outward. Selena was gone, leaving nothing else behind.
The ceremony was the last place King Stephen wanted to be, that much was clear. He sat stiffly with his hands clasped together in his lap. With transepts to the east and west and the nave of the Great Hall extending to the south, his throne was located in the center of the rotunda directly beneath the high ceiling of the dome of the Great Hall. The placement of his throne was a symbol of his prestige, meant to set him above his people.
Natalie's cradle, directly to his right, was adorned with flowers and lace. He stole brief glances at her as if to reassure himself that she was still there. There had been rumors that he had grown inconsolable in the days leading up to her birth. In circles of political gossip and even among his closest advisers, they said that it was altogether reasonable yet unwarranted for such anxiety. But the Queen died in childbirth, and the King was bitterly vindicated.
The High Priest swung his censer about while droning on in prayer. His acolytes followed him dutifully with candles in hand and bells that were rung in rhythmic response to each pause in the incantation, which was probably about devoting life to the Gods. The language in which the High Priest conducted the Naming Ceremony was an old one by the standards of men, said to be the father of all language. Alicia had never bothered to study it seriously, so the nuances of the prayer were lost on her. Not that she, or anyone else in the Great Hall for that matter, particularly cared.
After the High Priest had finished spreading the musky incense in three circles of the rotunda, his acolytes reverently relieved him of his censer before returning to their seats in the western transept. The High Priest made his way to the pulpit on the western side of the rotunda, and from there sermonized in the common tongue, although this made little difference in the amount of attention he received. In a small way, Alicia was impressed that he could make the joy of life and morality such a dull centerpiece.
When he was done with his sermon, he made his way to the cradle. From his robes, he withdrew a small knife, pricked his thumb with the blade, and pressed a drop of blood onto the brow of the child, naming her with the power of his blood and the Gods as witnesses.
Finally, the High Priest was done. He returned to the western transept where his acolytes awaited him. There was a song played on the enormous pipe organ that rang out loudly, accompanied by singers in the eastern transept. Alicia could practically feel the focus of the audience shift back to reality at the signal of the conclusion of the Naming Ceremony.
King Stephen rose from his throne as the final notes of the organ died away.
“My good people, it was my late wife’s wish that the kingdom could share in our happiness. Let our joy be yours, for here before you is not only our child but also our future. It is to this child that we entrust our legacy and it is to her that we impart our dreams of a stronger, more prosperous kingdom. Let us rejoice on this day for the hope she brings. In honor of my dearly departed Queen, let the Ceremony of Gifts commence.”
As if to balance the protracted ceremony of the High Priest, King Stephen had kept his speech short. That someone who was infamously loquacious would say almost nothing on such an important ceremony was remarkable even to Alicia, who observed the characters of the kingdom's politics from a distance.
In total, there were roughly twenty noble houses intending to bear gifts, along with Alicia and her three sisters, Estelle, Elizabeth, and Helena. Alicia and her sisters were tasked with blessing the princess, as agreed in diplomatic talks months prior. The nobles, now being announced by their respective heads of houses, promised spices, bright colored silks, high born steeds, slaves and servants from the ends of the earth, finest aged wines, and so forth.
Nearly all of the gifts were brought in procession down the nave of the Great Hall, regardless of how large or unwieldy they were. One noble house promised a carrack, and as a way to partake in the spectacle of the procession also presented an exquisite model of the ship encased in glass. Yet, while they looked among themselves to exchange signs of satisfaction or displeasure, Alicia noticed the King was hardly paying attention to the ceremony.
“Estelle of the Fair Folk bestows a blessing of lush, golden spun hair on Princess Natalie,” called the king's herald.
Whispers swelled the hall. Alicia had prepared herself for this, for the stares and the naked sense of wonderment and repulsion, but none of the nobles had approached the cradle. The break from ceremonial norm was glaring.
Estelle approached the cradle. She laid her hand on the brow of the child, murmured her blessing, and returned to her seat.
“Elizabeth of the Fair Folk bestows a blessing of music on Princess Natalie.”
Elizabeth turned to Alicia. “Helena is weak. You will need to walk her to the cradle,” she said as she got up to present her blessing. Alicia wrapped her arm around Helena, whose skin had taken a pasty yellow color.
“I feel wonderful,” Helena said. Alicia turned Helena's face toward her own, and placed her palm against the fairy's forehead. Alicia could feel her trembling, her skin as hot as stone scorching in the summer sun.
“You're delirious.” Alicia said. “We need to get you home.”
“Helena of the Fair Folk offers a gift of dance on Princess Natalie,” the herald announced when Elizabeth was done.
“My turn,” Helena eagerly rasped as she struggled to her feet. Hurriedly, Alicia walked ahead and forced her arm around Helena's. Helena used Alicia's body as a way to push herself forward. The cradle seemed to move out of reach with every step. Helena was panting with exertion. Every face seemed to be a wolf. We gave servants and horses and silk and gold and loyalty. What do you have to offer? A sick fairy, and blessings worth nothing. Words and witchcraft.
They stopped in the middle of the rotunda some distance away from the cradle. Alicia tried to guide Helena forward, but was met with resistance.
“Helena,” Alicia said under her breath, “what are you doing?”
Helena remained quiet and was rooted to the spot.
“Come on, just a little further. We're almost done,” Alicia pleaded. Helena turned to her.
There was something significant about the way she looked at her, and Alicia found herself trying to decipher the meaning, the way her grip tightened around her arm.
Centuries later, in her twilight years, Alicia found that she could always recall her sister in this moment. She would find it shameful that she remembered her in this way, that she couldn't imagine her strong, or kind, or formidable. All she would be able to see was Helena as she was now, burning with fever, delirious, pained, hardly able to walk, rheumy eyed. This, and her plea:
“Don't look.”
There was a low and harsh rumble that filled the air, a tremor in Alicia's body that culminated in a muffled blast of thunder. Her shield pendant flared briefly with a calm blue flash of light and she felt a rush of static on her skin as it struggled to protect her. It could not stop her from being thrown across the room. Alicia hit the floor and tumbled helplessly until she met the wall of the rotunda. The pendant shattered and was completely spent.
She couldn't tell how long it was before she began to hear properly again. Dimly at first, then louder as she regained her senses. The sound was like wind buffeting her ears, percussive and unintelligible and somehow far away. The sound clarified. She heard voices, a chorus of men and women as they tried to flee the hall, hands and fists slamming on the main door that refused to open. They searched for another exit, finding those too were sealed.
Alicia got up slowly, trying to gather a sense of her surroundings. She tripped over spilled wine and blood. There was moaning and coughing among the rubble. There were also bodies here and there, pieces of them. Alicia got up again, swaying. Miraculously, she had been thrown clear to the west wall while keeping possession of all her parts, as far as she was aware. Something wet was running down her face. She numbly wiped it with the back of her hand. Faintly, there was the smell of rotting meat. She needed to get back to Helena.
The entire chamber had been swept up in a tempest. The tables of food that had previously lined the hall, along with the chairs and assortment of gifts, were blasted to the ends of the nave and transepts. Those of the King's Guard who had survived the explosion had taken up position beside King Stephen and the crib of the infant princess, leveling their halberds and shields at the danger of which all were now witness. There was a call to stand ground, to hold their line. Alicia's gaze fell upon the spectacle.
In the middle of the floor was Helena. Her skin was melting and sagging. Helena’s right hand jerked upward, her index finger pointing at her forehead. She thrust her finger in, sinking it to the knuckle. The finger began to cut through her clothes, skin, and flesh, all the way down to her stomach. Helena’s hands grasped the opening of the incision and pulled it apart. A patch of her skin and dress tore free in her own hand, and the stench of decay infested the air. Undaunted, she flung the patch of skin away, re-gripped the opening anew, and tore at herself. Bits of Helena fell to the floor, revealing the flayed, rotting corpse underneath.
The corpse fell over its own remains, its twitching arms and legs leaving greasy stains on the marble. The Great Hall was filled with the sound of the bump and tap of its flailing limbs. It attempted to crawl its way to the cradle. It slipped, scrambling in its own juices. It got up again, and made a haphazard dash towards the King's Guard.
They advanced to meet it and with practiced brutality, impaled it through the stomach with their halberds. The captain called out to his men, and they pushed on, stabbing repeatedly. The corpse's feet slipped on the ground, then slid to a stop.
The corpse righted itself, coughing and wheezing with laughter as if relishing their terror. It broke the haft of the weapons with a downward strike, stumbled forward, and struck one of the men in the chest. His breastplate caved in and crushed his innards, leaving him coughing blood. He fell backwards against his companions. To the man standing beside him, the corpse reached out to slap him in the face. His neck and jaw broke with a crack, and his cheek was pulverized. His limp body was thrown a small distance away. The corpse jumped on the man behind him, wrapping its legs around his waist. The guard fell and the corpse began tearing away at his neck with its teeth. He struggled briefly before his arms and legs fell limp. The corpse whirled about in search of its next victim.
Alicia had seen enough. She had never relished the act of murder, but it roused her from her shock; it gave her focus. She was familiar with scenes such as this, and she had acted with surety in the past. Helena was dead. Nothing could change that, and there was no time to dwell on it. There would be time enough later, but now, Alicia allowed herself to slip into the pattern of her craft.
Numbly yet surely, Alicia began to move. She made her way to the edge of the room with light steps to avoid the debris. In her path, there were several fallen guards who had not survived the explosion. She salvaged a dagger from one of their corpses. Estelle and Elizabeth were close by. Elizabeth was lying in Estelle's lap with a shard of wood protruding from her abdomen. Estelle's hands were red, the sleeves of her dress stained by her attempt to stanch the bleeding. Alicia moved on.
She could clearly hear the sound of breaking bones as she hid behind one of the columns that lined the perimeter of the rotunda. The corpse had made quick work of the Kings Guard and had begun to eat them. Using its fists as a club, it cracked the breastplate and sternum of one of the bodies, and then forced the chest open to reveal the organs underneath. Eagerly, it tore out the heart, lifted it above its head, and squeezed the blood into its mouth. It gave the heart a small bite and, finding it lacking, tossed it aside before opening another body.
Alicia made a mental inventory of all she knew. To call it a corpse might have been an underestimation on her part. Clearly, there were visual elements of polymorphy and necromancy about the creature, but a polymorphed undead alone would not have been able to create an explosion such as the one before without damaging itself; the layers of magic upon the thing were multitudinous and intricately woven. It also possessed great strength, as seen by how easily it had dispatched the Kings Guard. And, though there were no overt signs, Alicia could feel it possess a cunning if not outright intelligence that suggested a consciousness that would have been lacking in a golem or similar construct. The most important piece of information of all was that they had taken Helena. This foe would not be easy prey.
Regardless of what the corpse was or how it came to be, what was certain was that the window to engage was closing fast.
Alicia cut away her dress and the excessive frills around her neck and sleeves with the borrowed King's Guard dagger. Feeling the wetness on her cheek grow bothersome, she wiped at it with the back of her hand and, finding blood, stanched the wound with a headband made from the excess of her gown. She abandoned her cover and made her attack.
Alicia activated the two series of ancient scripts etched onto her back as scars of a blood magic ritual, releasing a wave of pleasure pain from there to the tips of her fingers. The first series was for a needle of dull black metal the length of her arm that coalesced into orbit around her. It was a supple blade, thin for piercing and sharp enough to cut a hair falling upon it. The second series was for Wind Step, to convert her mana into strength and speed. She plucked the hilt from where it was suspended and leaped. A low hum filled the air around her as she closed the distance in an instant. Deftly, she delivered a diagonal slash to the corpse from hip to neck.
A white hand deflected her sword. She felt the contact of her blade on meat, but had not expected resistance beyond that. Instead, the blade simply slid across it without cutting it whatsoever. The unexpected resistance pushed her to the ground and she fell into a roll to compensate for the momentum of her dash.
When Alicia slid to a stop, she turned to face the corpse. Skin was beginning to grow on the corpse, starting at the hand and slowly creeping up the arm, growing like hoarfrost on a window's edge. It lifted the offending hand up to its face, wondering at the long and delicate fingers. The newly formed skin was smooth and unblemished, and was the color of pearl. The corpse turned its head toward Alicia, grinning.
Alicia crouched and summoned mana in her core for another assault. Fine, she thought, I'll cut off your arm before you can make any more. Then I'll take your head.
Alicia made another dash at the corpse. Almost joyously, the corpse ran to meet her, its arms flapping about, its laugh grating. She feinted, stopped short of its flailing limbs, and struck the boarder of skin and open flesh.
Again, her sword glanced off the milky skin.
Alicia quickened her blows. The world seemed to whirl around them, reorienting with each of their steps, their strikes, their dance. All she could see was that insufferable, taunting grin. She landed a kick, managed to pull the corpse off balance, even crushed its windpipe with a resounding snap of her elbow. But for every blow she landed, the skin crept onward, covering the torso, the stomach, the legs. It seemed none of that mattered. There was only the skin growing, and her hope waning. No matter what she did, her sword was always met with the flash of skin. The growth was accelerating.
Her breath grew heavy. Despite her onslaught, the corpse bore no mark on its body to showed for her efforts. Her arms grew heavy, her legs felt stiff and unresponsive. Alicia made for a weak downward strike at the base of its neck and the corpse captured her wrist in its hand. She struggled to free herself briefly, and finding no escape, dropped her sword, caught it in her other hand, and thrust it directly into its throat, feeling her sword grate against the corpse's spine.
For a brief moment, Alicia met the eyes of the corpse, seeing its face for the first time at the end of its metamorphosis. The round eyes were green flecked with gold, framed in thick dark lashes. The corpse stared, watchful and unperturbed, making no move to free itself or counterattack.
She attempted to pull the sword back, but it was lodged in the neck firmly. She abandoned it there and began to scratch at the corpse's eyes and face. The corpse knocked her free hand aside, pulled the sword out on its own, and sunk it into Alicia's thigh. Alicia let out a feral scream. Pain blossomed in her leg like liquid fire. A cannonball of panic and nausea struck her gut. The corpse, with its irrefutable strength, continued to push the sword through until it was embedded in the floor, pinning her there. Alicia could do nothing but scream.
The corpse bent down to kiss the sword's pommel. From where its lips had touched, rust formed and raced down the blade. There was a high whistle that grew in volume and pitch until it died in abrupt silence. The connection between Alicia and her sword was severed. There would be no summoning it back to the ethereal plane. Softly, the corpse spoke, “Stay right there.”
It stood gracefully. All of the blood that covered it fell away to the floor to form a pool at its feet, revealing it's nakedness, its pearl white skin, night black hair, and doe-like green eyes. The corpse was beautiful. She was beautiful, this thing that killed Helena and ate the King's Guard. The blood at her feet quivered, disturbed by a tremor in the ground, turned black, then leaped up to wrap the woman in a flowing cloak.
Alicia disobeyed. As the woman turned away, Alicia, for the final time, grasped the hilt of her dead sword. In despair, she realized there was no dislodging it. There was only one thing left to do.
Bracing one hand on the hilt on another on the other side of her impaled leg, Alicia tore herself free. It was slow. The weakness of her exhaustion, the pain, all of it stood in the way of her freedom. What pain. What glorious pain. The mess of her wound was pumping out blood dutifully along with the frantic beating of her heart. Her screaming transformed into exhausted and pathetic sobbing. With a final pull, Alicia ripped her leg free and began to crawl.
The woman had stopped. She stood there immobile, watching with distant interest as Alicia left a trail of blood behind. She watched as Alicia pulled herself along, all the way to the hem of her cloak.
“Give her back.”
Alicia gripped the cloak as tightly as she could.
“Give her back.”
Alicia felt her headband loosen and her hair fell across her face. The woman took the free cloth and used it as a tourniquet on Alicia's leg. Alicia whimpered as it was tightened, having lost the strength to do or say more.
“Be still. You have to watch.”
The woman rose, and turned to King Stephen.
Alicia saw recognition in King Stephen's face. In a strange way, Alicia could sense that he had resigned himself to destiny, and in this she felt she was merely an audience member to the events unfolding now. She wondered how he had lived with this inevitability for so long, how he had not gone mad anticipating this meeting.
“Hello, Stephen.” Her voice was low.
“What are you doing here Selena?” Stephen demanded with a wavering voice.
She chuckled. “I suppose you can call me that for old time's sake. But you know that I go by another name now. Perhaps the stories had not reached you?”
“They have. You are still Selena to me.”
Selena smiled disarmingly. “Bold. You evoke intimacy we both thought dead. You haven't changed much in twenty years, aside from your hair and mustache.”
“Everything has changed. What are you doing here?”
“I was lonely,” she pouted. She walked cat like towards the cradle and Stephen placed himself in her path. “Am I unwelcome, the one to whom you owe your life, the one whose deepest secrets you know best?”
“I know why you are here, Selena. I won't let you do this.”
“Why do you say that? If you know why I'm here, you know nothing you do will stop me.” Selena continued her path until she came face to face with Stephen. She pressed forward, and Stephen was pushed back until he could go no further. They had reached the cradle. Gently, she reached out and took his hand.
“You're shaking.” She placed his hand on her cheek and closed her eyes to savor his touch. She kissed his palm. “Don't be afraid, Stephen. You don't have to be strong anymore.”
“Please, Selena, don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.” Stephen began to cry. “You don't have to do this. You don't. Just let her go. Please, let her go.”
Selena's hushed him, pulled him to her bosom, and whispered in his ear.
“No.”
She pushed him aside.
Selena knelt beside the cradle and reached out to touch the baby, gently stroking Natalie’s face. With utmost care, she lifted Natalie from the cradle and held her.
“Four blessings secured for the heir of the kingdom. I wonder what must have been given in return. The Fair Folk do not part with blessings lightly, much less to a human who may one day make war on them. If I remember correctly, Helena had intended to bestow the gift of dance, but that absolutely won't do in these circumstances.
She paused to make a show of pondering.
“I know just the gift.”
Selena placed Natalie inside the cradle. She straightened, threw her arms wide open to the onlookers of the court.
“I, Selena, of no folk.” She giggled. “I, Selena, of no folk, do depart on Natalie a gift. Let her have golden spun hair so lush that true gold cannot compare. Let her have a voice so beautiful, stones and ogres will weep upon their hearing it. Let she have a wonderful life with many friends, many suitors, and a wonderful father,” Selena announced to the huddled masses by the walls, the emptiness of the Great Hall.
“But our lives and fortunes are fickle things, for before her eighteenth birthday, she will prick her finger on a spinning wheel. Yes, she’ll do that, and die a horrible, agonizing death.” Selena smiled proudly, then frowned. “No. Too morbid. Let me think.” Selena tapped her finger on her chin.
Stephen placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Selena.” It was all he could say.
“Let me finish.” Stephen's hand fell away and he crumpled to the floor.
“Let her life be sweet, yet let it be so only that she may more intimately know her pain. On her eighteenth birthday, she will be betrayed by the one she loves most. Let her suffer a pain beyond all her reckoning and knowledge. Let time move for her as years for each day. Let her gain no rest from sleep, quench not her thirst, taste not the food in her mouth. And in her final days, let her pass with the knowledge that her life will have been the culmination of her father's sins, that he is the progenitor of her woes, that he is to blame for the wickedness which will have been brought upon his kingdom, and that she had been brought into this world as simply the vehicle for his punishment. Let it be so. Let it be so. Let it be so.”
All was quiet and still.
And then, Selena spoke with brevity and lightness.
“Well, it seems I have overstayed my welcome. To all the fine people here, thank you for your time. To dear Estelle and Elizabeth, please cultivate your tastes. To Alicia,” Selena said as she turned her green eyes on Alicia, “do pick a good gift. And to you, Stephen... Goodbye.”
The darkness of her cloak enveloped her, making her a black mass, which then sunk to the floor and returned to blood, expanding outward. Selena was gone, leaving nothing else behind.
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