“I’ll milk this thing until it’s dead”
Ok so I lied, I’m back to using Spectral Crown again. But just for this week! Because I was on duty this weekend for work and didn’t have a chance to write anything after work on those days. Fun fact; I now work at what is basically a retreat center for school groups, church groups, and scout groups, and I mostly teach kids about nature while making sure they don’t kill themselves and/or each other. And sometimes that I involves spending the weekend, overnight, to make sure the buildings don’t burn down. It’s a fun job! I’m glad that I’m working there! But I’m still learning how to balance regular work and regular life; I’ll get to it eventually. But until I do, here’s another chapter of Spectral Crown, because sooner or later, I’m gonna run out of them. But not yet.
Here’s the previous chapter!
Spectral Crown, by Andy Sima: Chapter Thirty-One
While the ravens flew off, the dust from my explosive entrance settled around me and coated the floor. I did my best to take in my surroundings from the spot where the ravens had thrown me and could only see shattered glass and the broken window I had come in through. I wondered who had directed the ravens.
Carefully righting myself among the stained shards of glass and splashes of blood, I looked around. It was a dark room, lit only by the half-light coming in through the window, but through that light I could make out a set of shocking familiarities. The dresser and vanity at one end, the four-post bed at the other, the various desks, chairs, and fine linens, they all told me that this was a room of royalty. But the fact that it was dark, musty, and presently uninhabited told me that it was likely out of use and had been for a while. And yet, the sound of laughter and clinking tableware came from beyond the door at the end of the room across from where I sat at the foot of the window.
I stood up, doing my best not to cut myself any further and nearly fell back over as my head pounded out a drumbeat of pain. I had taken quite a nasty fall. I gripped my forehead, and my hands came away coated in blood.
Managing to gain my balance, I stumbled over to the bed, where sets of fine cloth and sheets were arranged in an even, rectangular design. I grabbed the first one I could and began wrapping it about my head. The cloth was probably worth more than I was, but it would have to now act as a bandage. So I applied pressure to the spots that would not stop bleeding and used another nearby fabric to wipe my face clean.
Glancing into the vanity mirror that sat at the far end of the room, I barely recognized myself. I was dirty, covered in soot and streaked with blood, an absurd length of drapery covering my head like hair, and my clothes were ripped at the shoulders and arms. Maynard would have been appalled, had he seen me, and probably would have had me exiled on the spot.
I took a particularly jagged bit of glass and cut the excess textile from the bandage around my head. I stumbled towards the door, physically exhausted and dehydrated, and leaned against the wooden door while I caught my breath. I once again heard the faint laughter and tinkling of plates and tableware, and I recognized it all too clearly.
From the depths of my mind, however many days ago it had been, a memory was dragged into clear view, a memory of George sneezing through a gap in the wall, and vicious, invisible forces seizing him and tearing him to bits. I shuddered at the memory and realized that if I wasn’t quiet, I would be next.
Gathering my wits, I leaned down against the keyhole of the door and peeked through. On the other side was an empty dining hall, illuminated enough that I could see the long tables, set with enough spaces to feed the entire Uradel castle. I could hear the inexplicable laughter and merriment. There was, once again, not a soul to be seen in the room.
I pulled back from the keyhole and breathed deeply. There was no other exit save this door. I could try poking at the bricks, but something in my chest told me that would get me nothing here. I would have to take my chances with the invisible things in that other room. I braced myself, made sure I was stable enough to walk, and quietly opened the door to the dining hall.
The door creaked, but only loud enough to make me nervous. The laughing and chatter went on, unabated, and I sneaked my way into the dining room, standing at the peripheries of the chamber. I quickly spotted another door set into the side of the wall and made my way for it. I tiptoed my way around the corner of the room, unnoticed by the dining spirits, and headed for my exit.
Whatever was sitting at those tables paid me no heed. As I hunched past them, I managed to pick up bits and pieces of scattered conversation. I could not recognize most of the words. Some were in my native tongue, yes, and some had accents not dissimilar to the Blestemats, but a good deal more were in languages I could not decipher.
Most of what I could understand was gibberish about economics and diplomatic relations that I had no interest in. I creeped along and soon came to the door in the wall. I breathed a stifled sigh of relief and stepped out of that terrifying room. I quietly thanked no one in particular that I had not sneezed.
I shut the door behind me and vaguely recognized my surroundings. The long, vaulted hallway before was covered with tattered, unkept tapestries and ruined, broken sculptures. There were no lit torches, and the only light came from windows high overhead. It was just like the hallways that lead to the rooms of nobility, but it was deserted by all manner of life. This area, too, had been sealed off by the prince and princess of Umbra.
I was surely close to parts of the castle where royalty slept, and maybe I would be able to find a weak point in the wall that would lead me to somewhere I knew. So I had to find a way back into the rest of the castle. At each nook and cranny I came across I would press and prod at them, systemically checking each one for deficiencies that I might be able to exploit. It was slow going but at least I was doing something more than sitting in a locked room awaiting my death.
I had found no weak points in the walls, and the hallway eventually came to an end, with a door set in it. I peeked through a slit in the doorway and finding the room on the other side to be dark and empty, I passed through. The room was identical to the one that I had been thrown into by the ravens. However, one difference in this room was that a faint heat radiated out from the far wall, and cracks of light shown through the bricks. My heart jumped. I made my way over to the wall and began pressing at the bricks.
They were warm, hot to the touch, and the light streaming from between them was blinding. I found myself yanking my hand away, as I had been burnt by the bricks. Once I pulled a brick through, into my room, I realized that the other side of the wall, was, in fact, a fireplace, lit with an actual fire.
And sitting before the fire, staring deeply into it, was my mother.
How had she gotten all the way into the royals’ quarters? I was about to shout to her, through the crackling of the flames that hid my presence, when I heard a sickly-sweet familiar voice.
“You know by now why you are here, yes, Madam Bergmann?” spoke Sorina, from somewhere outside of my view.
“Yes, I know,” my mother said, still looking into the flames.
“Good. Then you must understand that it is not personal.” Sorina giggled. “Well, no, it absolutely is. But not about you.”
“Yes,” my mother said, quietly. I saw Sorina step into view, her black dress skating across the floor and hiding her pale legs. She stood next to my mother and leaned close next to her. All I could see was her mouth, blood red and smiling.
“I appreciate your cooperation, unwilling or not,” Sorina said. “Most people put up a fight.”
“What have I to fight for?” my mother said. She turned to face her captor, eyes empty.
“Exactly,” Sorina said. And then, with one fluid motion, she lifted my mother close to her face and began to kiss her.
For a split second I was relieved, as I had expected something much worse, but the more I watched, the more horrified I became. Sorina was not just passionately kissing my mother; she was actively biting at her face, leeching blood and something else out of it. My mother drooped, arms falling to her side, and she became paler and paler.
This horrific scene went on for a few minutes, and Sorina consumed my mother. As Josefa became thinner and older, what little parts I could see of Sorina became fuller and younger. My mother emptied like a sausage casing, Sorina draining her of whatever it was the Blestemats lived on. After the cursed princess had her fill, she dropped my mother to the ground, where she clattered like bones.
“Your contribution to our wedding will not go unappreciated,” Sorina said, and made a sound that I could only assume was the licking of lips. “Goodnight.” And with a quick about face and a graceful march away, Sorina turned from the fireplace. I heard a door slam, and then nothing but a struggle for breath.
That struggling breath was coming from my mother. She was still alive!
I pulled as many bricks as I could out of the way as possible and I did my best to stamp out the crackling fire. Once the space I had made was large enough to crawl through, I skittered through on my hands and knees, ignoring the searing pain of hot embers. I made my way out of the fireplace and knelt by my mother.
I cradled her head in my hands, and prayed that she would open her eyes. She looked so much older than I remembered, so wrinkled and pale, face cut up by Sorina’s consumption. So unlike what I had grown used to. Eventually, however, she did open her eyes, and looked up at me.
“Saelac,” she said, and coughed, a smattering of blood on her mangled lips. She smiled painfully. “You came back.”
“I never left,” I said, holding back tears.
“But you did,” she said. “You climbed up the chimney.”
I swallowed back the overwhelming guilt. The tears, however, started to roll anyway. “I’m sorry, mama,” I said.
“It’s okay,” she said, and coughed again. “Sorina came for me a little while after you had left.” She had been waiting for me to leave. She knew I would. Guilt welled up within me again. “She said that she had to look good for the wedding.”
“I’m so sorry, mama,” I said. “I’m sorry I let this happen.”
“You didn’t let anything happen,” she said. She strained another smile. My mother hadn’t deserved this. No one had. And, whether she believed it or not, it was partly my fault. And someone would have to pay.
“But I did,” I said. “I did let it happen.” And as I spoke, a plan began to form in my mind. It was the beginnings of something, the formulations of an idea that might give me some leverage in this world of madness I had fallen into. Something that I could use. “Mama, I’m sorry.”
“There is nothing to be sorry for,” she coughed. “We all knew from the start that death would come for us. From the day we were born, we knew we would die.”
“But not like this,” I said. My plan continued to shape itself and something clicked into place. My heart started to beat faster. “Mother, do you hate the royals?”
“I do not hate anyone,” she said.
“But you must believe that what they did to you, to everyone, was wrong,” I said.
“I do,” she sighed. The light from her eyes was fading with every word she spoke.
“Then let me stop them from doing this again,” I said. My mother’s eyes, for a moment, regained their sharpness, the edge I had become accustomed to.
“How will you accomplish that, child of mine?” she said, wryly. “How can you accomplish anything?”
“I have learned some things, in my time here,” I said. “Not much, but enough to be dangerous. I have an idea. Do you recall those fairy tales you would tell me as a child, where the hero always succeeded through wit and not strength?”
“Yes, I remember,” she said. My chance was fleeting.
“I need you to curse me,” I said. “Curse me to immortality.”
“What?” she spluttered and coughed. “Saelac, I cannot do that.”
“You can,” I said. “Deep inside yourself, there’s an anger at the Blestemats, at the Uradels, at the world. But also at me. Use it. You have to use it. Trust me.”
“Saelac, I do not understand. You ask too much.” She was becoming paler. I held her head close to my face and stared deep into her eyes.
“You must curse me. Even if it means you die hating me, hating yourself. Please. I have an idea,” I said.
“Always a new plan with you,” she said. But in her mind, I could see wheels turning. Some emotion, stirring up from within. “I love you, and I will do everything I can for you, my one and only,” she said to me, and it was true, though nothing is as simple as that. And then her face began to contort and tears began to flow.
“I love you, too,” I said.
“You left me,” she said. “After all I had done for you. You left. Off on a new adventure. You and Simon both. Damn you. Never even gave your own mother a second thought. And now you ask me to curse you? Am I just another part of your game?” The tears were flowing, and they ran through the valleys and canals of my mother’s wrinkled face. Now, she was speaking the whole truth, and we both knew it. “Curse you, Saelac Bergmann. Curse you and your little adventures, your petty schemes. Live forever, and in every waking moment, know what you did to me. Know it and feel it. Forever and ever.” She coughed, and a rattle of air deep in her tiny frame came out with it. “I curse you, my child.” And then she grimaced, and the deathly sounds of the end of life escaped quietly. For just a moment, before her eyes faded, I think she understood. But she did not forgive me. And I did not deserve to be forgiven. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I cried freely, now, the tears streaming out of my own face as they dripped off the end of my nose and my cheeks and splashed onto my mother’s lifeless corpse, mixing with the blood that was there. I had done what I needed to do. Right? Surely this was what had to be done. There was no other way.
My tears did not reassure me.
This week was supposed to be about the last vacation I went on over the summer, to Tybee Island, Georgia, but that post may have to wait a little bit, because October is reserved for SPOOKY THINGS and the spookiest thing about Tybee Island is its questionable history, and that’s not something I can really get into in my weekly epilogue. It’ll be in a post that exists someday, though!
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