Memories...
Moonlit Reverie
In the silence, even the slightest of movements seemed to produce a most deafening sound. The airy tulle and lace of her dress felt like rigid parchment, threatening to rustle and alert those around her of her curiosity, so she dared not move; not even when the fine bones of the corset and rigid busk dug into her ribs and hips. She sat hunched by the balustrade, camouflaged against the backdrop of floral tapestry of purple, with locks of blonde tucked behind her ears.Light flickered within the halls below, welcoming the rhythmic tip-tap of shoes across the polished flooring as the final touches were made. The amber flames brought life to the ballroom, illuminating the rows of chairs stood by the ivory walls. The flames sought to banish the cold moonlight, to make way for festivities Rosalie was yet too young to participate in. In her excitement, her heartbeat became deafening, rising to her ears in a dull thud.Her mother crossed the room in stride, gliding with the effortless grace of a swan to take her seat by the ceiling-high windows on the eastern wall. Within view of her daughter's watchful gaze. Then came the aunts to sit by her, too, engaging in idle chatter and laughter before the guests were to make an entrance. In wide-eyed fascination, tears pricked at the young girl's eyes, promptly blinked away lest the gentle sobs would call her mother to her. She always seemed to know when Rosalie was crying. A mother’s intuition, she called it, so sweetly.A murmur of voices rose through the winding hallways of the estate, bringing spirit to the estate which often seemed a ghastly husk whenever the festivities had ended. Rosalie was thankful that the matriarch – her grandmother – often insisted on hosting dinners, and dances each new moon to celebrate the passing of time in near-ritual fashion. She often spoke to Rosalie about time – lamenting the age which had begun to show in her age – especially as her daughters had grown and her granddaughter now stood before her as a young lady too.The light, lilting melodies of strings and piano, carried the dancers away on a breeze of sound as they entered the grand hall. Welcomed warmly by the three daughters of the Ardenholdt family, the guests were lulled into the festivities with flowing drinks and platters of delicacies to tempt even the reluctant.“There is always something which can be offered,” said her mother often. “Humans are fickle and seldom know what it is that they truly wish for.”She watched as the guests flocked to tables and servants, to indulge in the fine offerings of the evening, pale hands gripping the carved spindles of the banister as she dared a closer look.“You must simply know them before they do,” she’d continue. “To be the one to grace another with that which they lack, is a gift. An advantage.”It was odd how mother’s words often seemed to carry with them a warning – or perhaps a lesson – that left a pit in Rosalie’s stomach. She could not yet put to words the unease brought to her whenever her mother’s red lips curled a knowing smile, or a glance found the young lady over shoulder when she spoke to another during their frequent visits to the clergy. She knew better than to question it outright.The swirl of dresses, blue, purple and pale yellow twirled across the floor below in hypnotic synchrony to the trill of cheerful music. Her aunts had long since disappeared in the sea of merry guests, but her mother sat rigid still, simply watching. The stained glass seemed like a halo around her locks of obsidian as she watched one man from afar with a drink untouched in her jewel-clad clutches. Then she rose.The chill in her eyes melted away, replaced by a warm smile that masked the predator lurking beneath. Though Rosalie could not hear the words exchanged over the ear-deafening crescendo of jubilation, she knew her mother well enough, and worry beset her round face as she withdrew from the edge of the overlooking balcony.She caught only a glimpse of her mother disappearing with the young gentleman in tow as the sea of dancers parted intuitively to her stride. Rosalie wondered who he was, but thought better of it than to dwell. She would see him soon, thought she, and the pit in her stomach only grew. She would see him, but would have little time to know him.A stifled gasp escaped her lips as icy fingers closed around her neck, stealing her breath in a silent scream. She knew better than to scream. She fought, only for a moment, thrashing against the clawed grip that exerted such unyielding strength, before quiet sobs made way for defeat.There were no words exchanged, even as she was shown to her room. It did not know how to speak anymore.An all too familiar click sounded behind the young lady, and she vented a frustrated sigh as she slumped down on the bed.“Belham,” she inquired quietly, “do you believe them wicked?”Her question was soft, laced with a feeling of deceit wrought only from the denial of her presence, as she turned her sights to the mirror by her bed to catch a glimpse of a fur-tipped tail disappearing behind the ornate frame.No answer came from the creature, only the rattle of polished glass as It fought and strained against a bubbling cackle brewing within its bony chest.
Inevitability
The unwanted touch of Fate stained the skin. A wicked taint, sick and oppressive, thrumming with authority imposed in its infancy. It ushered forth change – ever shifting, adapting and consuming – to saturate the being, sever and re-tie the strings of prophecy.It began as a mere blemish; a subtle discoloration upon the purity of porcelain skin. Yet, as days turned to weeks, the mark began to fester and grow, contorting the once delicate hand into a grotesque semblance of its former elegance.Across the pale flesh, blackened tendrils writhe and coil, etching upon the flesh a prophecy. The shadows mocked with their shifting shapes, whispering secrets she dared not comprehend. It tapped and clawed – writhed and twitched – beckoning the gaze of That Which Watches.And when it appeared – a sardonic, serpentine atrocity wrought from the veil of darkness – the air grew heavy, suffused with the oppressive weight of Fate yet again. A dread beyond comprehension, so all-encompassing, it threatened to engulf the prey entirely. It was a sickening fear, an ethereal malaise, consuming hope and resolve until naught but acquiescence remained. Yet, when the pretty prey clung so desperately to the frail thread of hope as it unravelled like a threadbare tapestry, it sought not to harm.In its grasp, one became ensnared in the gossamer web of apprehension and burgeoning resentment. Its tendrils insinuated themselves into every fibre of being – a serpentine burrowing beneath skin, sinew, flesh and bone – until its breath enveloped the heart and lungs within the fragile cage. To dance across, and then through. To slither and devour; to feast upon the fragility of the prey. Until the prey was forced to move to the macabre tune of destiny; her fragility laid bare for the voracious appetite of Fate to feast upon until she was rendered agreeable once more.So long as the strings do not snap at the mercy of her unbridled defiance.