"At the end of her life she was aware of heat but not pain. She had time to consider eyes, eyes of that blue which is the color of the sky at first light of the morning."--- Stephen King, Wizard And Glass
Sunsets are beautiful, a celebration of everything that makes life joyful. Evienne's mind spins, looking at the expanse of sky that is her escape. It is the darkness that is terrifying, and the darkness always lasts so much longer than the light.
She is aware of emerald-green eyes fixed on a red-orange flame not far away, watching it grow smaller and smaller, only to soar in an unspoken blaze of glory. It is a transfixing sight, one that declares its need to be watched until the world stings with smoke and ash. Eventually, the flame dies down, and the eyes are covered by the embrace of a kind, soft oblivion.
Without being told, Evienne knows she is meant to be thankful. Instead, she feels a sense of panic. She dislikes being trapped and unaware of her surroundings. Her breathing quickens until her chest hurts.
Oblivion releases Evienne to a world she does not know, but it is not kindness. The thick black smoke doesn't fill her lungs but sets her heart ablaze with panic and makes her feel as if she is burning.
It is my penance, Evienne chastises herself. It is what I deserve. When he most needed me, my father did not find the comfort of my eyes. He wanted me to come closer, but the cell was terrifying. I was not strong enough for him. Why should anyone be strong enough for me?
"Please. I want to see." The sound is almost a cry of panic. It is the girl's only request, a hand to lead her out of the darkness that so many coveted. For one moment, she hopes she will see the kind and loving faces of her family, the angelic voice of her sister telling her everything will be alright.
She breathes in relief as the answer is given in the light that floods her once again. "Thank you." Evienne's voice is merely a whisper, a faint shadow of the strong-willed girl she had always been. This woman is not the one who'd travelled through life as if she owned it. She is instead a modest and pleasing girl who doesn't dare to raise her voice.
A quick glance at the faces through the haze, the parts of them she can see, tells her that others are indeed very displeased.
The heat of the fire draws closer. She shudders as her eyes stare out into the crowd for the consolation of a loving face. She does not find one, her heart melting into silent tears. There is no loving reassurance, no family, no God to call upon, only a pair of icy blue eyes that proudly shine with enough hatred to cut through her flesh. She has her mother's eyes, Evienne thinks, though not her beauty nor her tenderness. For her, this is mere duty.
"Si'l vous plait!" The frantic voice is almost hysterical. "Please stop this, Your Grace! Princesse Marguerite! I am your family, Madame. I loved and protected your mother. I carried her secrets. I saved her life as she saved mine, more than once. She would not want this."
Evienne's eyes focus on the regal Princesse she has known so much of her life. It was not the fire that stung, but betrayal. Love has turned to coldness for the statuesque onyx-haired woman, something visible in even the way the Princesse stands.
With power is often coldness, Evienne thinks, sinking into the recesses of her mind. With coldness, any atrocity needs no justification. Evienne's mind is not as sound as it should be. Instead of speaking of their life together and how much the two had shared, she only mumbles, "The quality of mercy is not strained..."
Marguerite's lips barely move, but when they do, it is into a faint smile. "Everything comes to an end, Evienne. No one has heard from my mother in years. I can only conclude she too is dead. There's a little satisfaction in knowing you outlived your rival, isn't there? It is perhaps the small silver lining in a very dark cloud."
The Princesse gives a cold chuckle, and Evienne can tell how little the pretty brunette feels for her. She doesn't think the woman capable of feeling. "Non! No, Your Grace. Had I known, I would have grieved. She was my rival. She was also my friend and my family. I think she was tender enough to grieve for this moment." Her body frozen in panic, Evienne whispers defiantly, "She was kinder and gentler than her children came to be. I am happy I do not suffer the same fate."
The Princesse seems unmoved. "Kindness brings one a friend such as yourself, Madame Evienne. Tenderness allows poison to spread, unnoticed until it has destroyed everything. If there is an afterlife for our sort, you can ask her yourself what she would have wanted. You will see her quite soon. I prefer to think she looks at me with pride today."
It is clear the last statement shook a bit of feeling from the Princesse. "You shamed our family, more than once. You found ways to make the strongest woman I knew to doubt herself. Part of me applauds you, Madame. I would have done so myself if I had the ability. The other part despises you."
Evienne's voice is not as loud, although she tries. The smoke and flames burn higher, causing her to lift her chin painfully. Though she decides not to breathe, she can feel her vocal chords paralysing the longer she speaks. These are her last words, and she wants them to go on forever.
The sound the redhead makes is gentle, like a dove, or perhaps a nightingale perched freely within the trees. "I did what was right! I paid for my mistakes, every time. Please, Marguerite, it isn't too late." It is harder and harder to hear Evienne's voice over the crackling of wood and flame. She doesn't use titles and formalities anymore. It is too late for formalities to matter.
"No, Madame Evienne. Too late was a time passed a century ago, and it is I who paid for your mistakes. I cleaned up your messes, hid the destruction that was my mother, and still is my sister. You never had to be responsible for a damned thing."
The facade breaks for a moment, a burst of anger almost shattering Marguerite's masque. "I clean up after the entire family, it seems, just as it falls to me to clean up the mess you've made today. You and my mother, you were two of a kind. Strangely, for all your faults, you will both be remembered with more fondness than I ever will." Marguerite noticeably speaks of both women as if they are already gone, and it sends pain through Evienne's body. She cries out as if the Princesse had stricken her.
"You were made beautiful; entitled dolls meant to believe the world belongs to you. Both of you, unfit to rule households, much less cities and countries. Both of you criminals, giving birth to the children of men with no right to be fathers." Marguerite's voice is unwavering, cold, and flawless. She does not have her mother's delicate beauty but instead, pure strength.
"You thought nothing of bartering lovers and concealing crimes, like petty girls playing dress-up and trading clothes. You are relics of a glittering and tragic world, you and Maman. That world is long gone. It destroyed itself, just as all of its people did. Selfishness always destroys itself and dies in a blaze of glory named treason." Marguerite's eyes are gems that no longer sparkle. Evienne wonders if they ever did.
Shoulders slumped, the once-beautiful enchantress tries to speak, but instead, her mind travels back to the beautiful and elaborate palace. The white-haired king and his delicate Austrian Queen, both so young and so regal. They died for what was called treason, stripped of every basic dignity. In the end, they didn't even know what wrongs they had done.
Evienne doesn't know what wrongs she has done to deserve this, either, but somewhere in her lifetime, she had indeed done something. There have been many times she was meant to die, but Fortune intervened. Eventually, it can do no more. Her mind flashes back to another image of fire. She sees the beautiful palace that was home so many years ago glowing in rebellious beauty. Evienne's eyes close, though she doesn't want to let them. The darkness terrifies her. There is always so much more to see.
Marguerite's voice repeats itself. The acceptance of finality hits home. The girl she once loved as her daughter spoke with a tone devoid of emotion, the last sound the former Madame de Roussel would hear in this lifetime.
"Everything comes to an end, Madame Evienne. You lived more lives than any one person is entitled, and each one ended with the same selfishness, the same infidelities. In the end, I think my mother knew her sins and repented. Do the same and follow her example. History will remember you both. Be proud. I know she would have been nothing else."
Tears stream down Evienne's cheeks, water and blood not nearly enough to defeat the fire near her. Words fade, replaced by screams as the flame makes way to the bottom of her feet. "I'm sorry for this, Madame. Your manner of death was not a choice. Witches are burned at the stake. It is unfortunate you traded your mortality so easily, or you'd die a more merciful death from the smoke. We all make our choices. In the end, they are all incorrect."
Evienne realises Marguerite's voice holds no sorrow, and there is a brief flicker of consciousness that wonders if the Princesse had murdered her mother, too.
"My children---" It is a hoarse cry as the finality of destruction becomes real, impeccably painted crimson toenails falling away into ash. She does not want to close her eyes. There is so much beauty in the world, so much to see that no number of years can suffice. Evienne does not want to see her own body, the way it disappears into nothingness. It will not be long before this world is nothingness to her, and so she cannot stop looking at it all. There is no more heart inside the woman left to break, but she knows the minutes she has left are not nearly enough.
"Your children are the only good thing to come from you. I will always treat them as if they were mine, the same as I always have, the same way my mother's children have always been mine. " Marguerite pauses, and there is almost a moment of sympathy in her strong voice. "The time for last words is drawing to an end. I have known you my entire life, Madame de Roussel. I am not without pity, but you have brought this upon yourself. Have you anything to say before we say our final farewell?"
In that instant, Evienne is flooded with hatred, memories of Marguerite and her family flooding her mind on an infinite loop. She looked at Marguerite's mother like a sister, counted the cold woman who now calls herself Princesse as one of her children. She would die because of the years of rage and resentment that had turned a sweet young woman to a tyrant.
Her chin is jutting proudly, as she proclaims in a robust and self-assured tone, "Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité ou la Mort!" There is a smirk on Evienne's face watching the Princesse recoil. "It would have been a greater blessing had we all died as Fate planned for us. I die as proudly today as I would have then, Marguerite. When it is your turn, I hope someone shows you the mercy you so stoically deny me. The shadow of Death is closer than you think."
A man steps forward, throwing a powdered substance over Evienne. Men march with heavy steps to instantly seize his arms. The man's large figure pulls away. He has the strength of three.
"What do you do! Do not come closer unless you wish to join her." Marguerite, a cold and capable Princesse if ever there was one, has no room for emotion in her voice. It is not just Evienne given that gift, but everyone she knows.
"Pardon, Your Grace. It's a magical reagent, meant to make the body burn more slowly. There's no reason fire should be a quick death. The Speaker offers this gift as a tribute."
The Princesse gives a small nod, and the man is released. "Tell the Speaker he has our thanks." Marguerite's eyes scan the crowd before offering a smile to the man. He is handsome, though visibly tired for having flown from New Orleans just for the occasion.
The screams fill the air as twilight turns to darkness. Evienne tries to speak, but staring at Marguerite's eyes, they become the eyes of the Princesse's mother. She is Evienne's friend and rival and sister, though Evienne still pictures her as indestructible. When the raven beauty disappears, they turn into the eyes of the most opposite sort of woman possible.
It is Charlotte, a small child who refuses to look away from Death--and then later, the woman who just as stubbornly gazed unblinkingly into the face of eternity. Marguerite was one of many strong women she'd known, but Charlotte was something different entirely. She was a saint.
Evienne is like her mother, like Marguerite's mother, all women not quite as stoic and faithful as the world requires for survival. Marguerite has learned from them, and Evienne is sorry for her. The Princesse knows it is wise to have the strength of the oak tree instead of the delicacy of her mother's roses. As for herself, Evienne is pink oleander. It is a beautiful and fragrant flower, rare and expensive, but easily destroyed. It is also able to kill a grown man with a single petal.
She does not close her eyes, but the darkness descends without her consent. It takes away all of the flowers, the trees, the birds, the sun setting into a colourful burst of final magnificence before the darkness.
The city hears only the tortured last screams of a once-magnificent creature slowly and painfully turning to ash, but Evienne hears the church bells. Above them, there is the sound of Charlotte's clear, ethereal soprano.
"Salve Regina, Mater misericordiae..."
The melody never finishes, the final and pure note that hangs in the air of approaching night its statement. It is the farewell of a nightingale forever silenced.
Everything is stillness and tranquillity, and for a moment, there is peace.
It is in a tangle of sheets and wild autumn hair that Evienne wakes up, the feeling of air in her lungs enough of a relief to silence her terror.
She gasps desperately, tears rolling down her face as she tells her heart to stop racing out of her body. Evienne doesn't want to disturb Charlotte, her younger sister. The petite figure is curled into a ball, sleeping in a small bed across the room as if she hadn't a thing on her mind.
It was a nightmare, she tells herself convincingly. Horrors aren't real, and they aren't fate. They're just a kind of fear.
As she slows into a less internally frantic sort of stillness, Evienne lays her head back on the pillow. She wouldn't make the mistake of trying to sleep again. She wishes she were again a girl, a girl younger and smaller than Charlotte who could still crawl into her mother's arms and plead for sanctuary.
Evienne doubted her mother was asleep, and that she would appreciate the company. There would be no sanctuary, not for any of them.
It is almost tomorrow, and tomorrow would be the day of reckoning.
She isn't ready, but she couldn't imagine how a person could ever feel prepared for that day. Evienne imagines that although that day comes for every being on the Earth, the one kindness built into the system is that most never see it coming. It is perhaps the meaning of mercy to live one's life without counting the hours until the moment of Death.
The knowing is the real punishment, and the waiting is the hardest part. It is a heart-rending, specific kind of cruelty. The imagination could bring more pain than reality sometimes, and Evienne always had a wild imagination.
She thinks about this as her mind drifts away without her consent, the abrupt clanging of the 7 AM church bells the sound that yanks her out of slumber.
Tomorrow has become today.