The Bane of Cecily

WARNING: This story contains gruesome character deaths.

Cecily arose from a nest of furs and stretched freely in the mid-morning breeze. The sounds of her gentle fluttering echoed softly throughout the bedroom, catching the attention of the nimble maids that served her. Cecily glided from bed to vanity. 

“Where is my boy?” The princess took a comb to her knotted hair. Fair Winifred shook her head and pointed toward the heavy, wooden door. Cecily giggled, “let him in.”

A four-legged creature trotted into the room, carrying the scent of wild oak on it’s massive paws. The beast lumbered on past the princess and curled up in the warmth she left behind, blending into the white pelts scattered about the bed. Leof had been her father’s best hunting hound before his vibrant fur shed into a dull white. One day he was sleeping in the old stables and the next he’s falling into Cecily’s loving hands. Now he spends his days wandering the castle grounds, usually followed by her twin brothers. Leof’s a faery dog, they say. He’s taking us to see the glowing stream! What glowing stream, Cecily knew not of but if it kept them from pestering her with questions she’d tell them it was to the left of the crystal forest. 

Winifred gathered the princess’s long locks in her hands. “Princess?”

“Yes.” Cecily listened to the doves cooing outside.

“What's happening? In the castle, I mean.” 

Cecily glanced up at the young woman and answered softly, for Winifred was such a flighty thing, “the king intends to make a man a Lord today. It’s a celebration.” Relief soothed the lines out of her face, restoring Winifred back to her reserved beauty. 

“Which will it be today?” a weathered voice called out. Alvina stepped out from a side room, swaying forward delicately. She was an older woman with thick brown hair plaited against her scalp and a light blue veil cascading down her back. It’s color had dulled over time, much like Leof’s fur. 

“The red,” Cecily hummed. The sun peeked in and out of her hair. Before taking to the wardrobe, Alvina stood a while longer in that spot. Cecily had already turned towards the windows, memorizing the lyrics of the outside world. As she had done as a child. No longer was she so small but Alvina sometimes saw that little girl, legs dangling over the stool, singing to the light that streamed through that very window. As she presented the red gown to the princess, Cecily stood and instantly towered a foot over the maid. It took everything out of her not to frown at the image, at this woman who no longer needed her guidance, and would one day send her off to the countryside. 

She gingerly stroked the gown, the red fabric pooling in between her fingers like a river of red roses. Cecily was a bit of a red rose herself, with silky skin and the ability to make anyone who beheld her feel cherished.

“Thank you, Alvina,” she spoke in a voice barely beyond a whisper, staring directly into the old maid’s hazel eyes. Alvina understood suddenly that she had allowed too many doubts to surface on her face, but none too many that Cecily’s smile couldn’t coax away. The maid worked a bit more diligently after that. Though she did so with a confident smile.

Red devoured the princess in one magnificent swoop. Alvina and Winifred brought forth a veil of silver chains, jeweled with scarlet rubies and draped it over Cecily’s unfastened hair. When their tinkering commenced, nothing remained of the frizzy-haired princess. Cecily had become a fallen star. With one final twirl, and a kiss on the snout for Leof, she departed for the throne room. 

The first person she saw stood beneath a stained glass window at the far end of the room. Her complexion grew paler by the day, off-set by the hundreds of lively colors draped around her figure. Cecily could stand the woman next to a marble sculpture and not know the difference, even if only one of them had nursed her since she was a babe. If Cecily was a fallen star, then her mother was the moon. No eyes ever drifted from the queen's silver serenade. She could command wolves, Cecily thought. She had before.

With only the one window, the throne room relied on candles to devour untamed shadows. Pedestals of flickering candles rooted deep into the stone tiles, birthing forests of yellow wax. Children stood beneath them, the two young princes amongst them, catching the hot substance on their fingers before chasing each other with clumpy hands. As Cecily made her way through the crowd of courtly admirers, she couldn’t help but press closer to the wooden pillars that held this entire hall above their heads. Standing beside them, nearly inconsequential compared to their hulking strength, relieved the cloak of pressure secured tightly around her shoulders. When she entered this room, she was no longer Cecily–the girl who sings to hunting hounds–for her face was that of the bountiful hills and her voice belonged to the people who reaped them. She wouldn't be caught with candlewax on her hands, that was for the pups.

“Mother.” Cecily reached the top of the staircase, breathless from the ascent, and extended a hand to her mother which the queen folded neatly into the palms of her own. She placed a kiss atop her daughter’s brow and whispered something that lit a smile upon both their faces. Before Cecily could respond, a hand grazed her shoulder and she turned to see her father’s chest. He pulled the two of them into a tight embrace, his hair immediately falling into Cecily’s hands.

“Cecily,” her father said.

“Yes.” She stared up at him once free, finding her mother still leaning patiently against his shoulder.

“I want you to stand beside your mother today.” 

The words were like a mourning dove’s lullaby. She glanced between them both, reading the pride that brightened their eyes as if even their souls refused not to witness this moment. To stand beside the queen was an honor like no other. It was like standing next to the Gods, close enough to hear the moon whispering. Though the platform where the throne sat was the highest point in the room, it was not where the monarch exclaimed declarations. It was a position of status, to observe and be observed back. Her mother had watched decree after decree from this stone podium. Her eyes belonged to the crown and she had served as faithful sentinel for as long as Cecily could remember. Suddenly, Cecily was overtaken by a chill. She took one uncertain step back. 

“Cecily,” her mother uttered with a voice of velvet. She saw her parents standing there and all was expelled, sanctity returned to her body. The princess nodded a small, significant acceptance. After all, the role of the sentinel was nothing compared to standing at her mother’s side.

The king kissed them and descended the stairs. When he who would become a lord entered the room, Cecily was pleasantly surprised to find that he was beautiful. As a sword might be beautiful, she gathered, or a polished hammer. Unlike herself, he did not look so inconsequential as he passed by the stoic pillars. In fact, he looked as though he could take the place of one and yawn as he did so. She was glad to be up on the platform but a tiny part of her wished to be the one granting him his lordship.

The man took a knee before the king and Cecily couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t supposed to be bowing before anyone. Nevertheless, he did. Everyone grew silent as the title was administered and when it was done, he who would become a lord did just that.

Then the real celebration began.

Tables of golden cups gleamed where they sat, treasure beneath candlelight. A harp hummed soulfully, strung by a woman with hair that tickled the floor. When she opened her mouth even the seraphim paused to listen but the people in the hall joined hands and danced. She sung and it was an enchantment that rattled the ancient boards in the rafters. She sung and echoes of her voice became the blood of the night. The candles twisted when she raised her voice, mimicking those who stepped into the center of the room and transformed into carnal apparitions with one desire: Flee. Flee into the rhythm of the song and the spirit of pleasure. Dance until the stone carried emblems of the night’s ecstasy. 

Cecily descended into the fray. She spun like a hawk diving through the air, wings widening before hitting the ground. She passed from partner to partner, her talons sliding gleefully between them until catching onto the petite, white feathers of a swan. Her body jolted with the sudden force but before she had a chance to catch her breath she was swept once again into the air. The princess looked up and saw the newborn lord. He was not only beautiful but utterly captivating. He possessed an angular face with eyes like sizzling, molten iron and golden hair slicked back into a long trailing veil, a few strands freed from the movement of his body. 

How brazen, she thought and tightened her grip around his hand. 

They dominated the floor, pushing further and further into one another. It was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. An onlooker saw a cocoon of fabric, a flash of drapery, but never enough to form a vision and when the music shifted so did their bodies. Moments later the two faded into the crowd with Cecily leading the departure. She pressed herself against the columns and breathed deeply. The fresh lord simply stood silently, watching her as he watched everything. 

“What is your name, my lord?” Cecily asked over the chorus of people.

He handed her a silver chalice. “Osric.” 

His voice shocked her. It carried the same power trees did when caught in a horrible storm, cracking and creaking so violently that it hurts to take a breath for fear of it being the last. Cecily looked away, found her brothers sipping from a single chalice they shared. The poor cup was smushed between their hands, both of them vying to own it’s silver excellence. She spotted Alvina peeking out from behind a nook, whisking away a couple of golden chalices for Winifred and the others. 

She wondered aloud, “how did you become a lord?” 

Osric clinked his cup to hers, yet said nothing. 

Cecily, who mistook the curve of his lip for a grin, drowned her giddiness with a sip of wine. She cooed, “I’m very good at keeping sec–”

Whether it be intuition or a signal from some divine overseer, Cecily immediately closed her mouth, whipping her head swiftly to the right. Her metal veil clattered to the floor.

There was a shout then Cecily came upon the sight herself. Burne, the littlest twin, laid motionless aside a puddle of froth. Her father reached him before she could and, scooping him into his mighty arms, began to shake him with such force Cecily called out in tears for him to cease at once. But her father simply turned the boy over, raised a fist, and swung down hard onto his back. Burne’s little body made a thwack noise but there was nothing to throw up, nothing clogging his airways. Before the queen’s scream could pierce the trembling atmosphere, Ailen fell into his sister’s hands. His eyes were far too large than they should have been and he was drenched in sweat. He tried to speak but he trembled so mercilessly that no sound other than his frightened grunts could escape his mouth. Then, in one big release, his body flopped and then he too became motionless.

Cecily had no words, no thoughts, no concept of time or space or what day it was. There was only her little brother sagging limply in her arms—dead.

Her mouth grew dry and she couldn’t hear over the pounding of her own heart but she still picked out the panicked voices of those who said:

“What’s wrong, Your Majesty? What has happened?” 

Her father’s hand splayed open in front of her. It twitched and twitched, drenching his embroidered sleeves in the vomit. She watched, frozen, as he managed to touch the edge of his finger to her heel before losing that which powered his every stride. Her father was dead, dead before she could even register that he had fallen. 

Then, like a lyre in a catacomb, her mothers voice found her. Cecily slid her brother’s body to the floor and rushed toward the sound of that lyre. People were gathered at the bottom of the stairs but Cecily meandered through them, not caring who she slammed into in the process. She caught her mother, who was tumbling down the stairs, and held her in her lap. She couldn’t tell if those were her mother’s tears or simply hers that had dripped off of her cheeks. 

The queen opened her mouth to speak and Cecily felt her lungs shudder at once. 

“No,” she told her. “Please, mother, don’t speak.” 

Still, the queen tried. She tried to lift a hand to her daughter’s cheek but her muscles tightened beyond extension, she tried to focus her eyes on Cecily’s face but couldn’t keep her head up, she tried to remain among the living but whatever affliction had taken the princes and the King was closing in on her. 

“Shh.” The princess sniffled. “Shh.”

She softly pried the silver chalice from the queen’s right hand. It smelt like the hills after a long rain, sweet and faint. 

Hundreds of eyes were on her. She knew that if she stood up she’d fall to the floor. But there was no royal left standing. Despite the phantom hands pushing upon her shoulders, trying with all their might to pin her to the ground, she stood. As tall as an oak tree. As bright as a beacon. 

Cecily doubled over and hurled. Fire licked up her torso, igniting her soul as if she’d been hoisted into a sizzling iron cauldron. She desperately patted at the flames but felt nothing for she had devoured the flame and it was smoldering the insides of her veins. Smoke lounged in her lungs, lava piled up in her heart like gravel, and soon her hands collapsed beneath her. Cecily had the vague sensation of rolling and watched the hall spin as each step crashed into her spine. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Finally, the world halted. Somehow, by some mercy, her body came to a stop. Staring up at the ceiling, choking on her own vomit, Cecily heard the muffled howl of an old hound. She saw a face. It was Osric. He looked at her as he looked at everything.

Osric descended upon her, his arms closing around her like the jaws of some eldritch wolven beast. The smell emanating from his collar brushed against Cecily’s cheek, as soft as a flower. She shivered.

“Sleep, princess.” He pulled her close. Cecily recognized the scent then. Her last act was to put one hand to his face, and push. Push until her nails left red streaks. “Return to your furs, girl. Sing to the hounds.”

The princess, who played in the sun, died with hate in her eyes.

Osric let her drape to the floor like a pale cloth. When he rose, he arose with a silver chalice in his hand.

“Poison!” he decreed. “Poison in the silver chalices our Lords and Ladies drank from! Find who slithered through the shadows! Deliver me who would slay our beloved rulers!” 

When Alvina, the thief of wine, was dropped at his feet no one knew that it was Osric, the newborn lord, who smelt of wolfsbane.