Harlow stays in her room most of the time, staring at herself in the mirror. She has stopped looking like herself long ago. Her hair is short, barely peach fuzz. The redness of the mark still peeks around the side of her rib cage. She can never pinpoint the feeling as it takes hold of her, wraps around her heart with sharp claws and dull teeth that tear at her. She is lost in her own body, fear and cowardice in her veins. It keeps her awake some days, when the sun creeps through the mansion. She finds herself waking with silent screams, not the forest hunting her dreams, but the Eternal Light. It burns her flesh, devours her fully until there is nothing left but charred ashes. Her mother's twisted face always grins back at her, purple hyacinths growing from the burned flesh.
It is a reminder of her guilt. She is not allowed to let go of it. Had she fought her father, had she fought the church, her mother and sisters might still be alive. It is truly a sign of the cowardice she has within herself, like her father. She hates to think of it. On such a night where her mind is far too loud to find peace, Harlow begins to venture through the mansion by herself. She finds the empty halls to be comforting, even more so when she finds the library during her walks. It is not the stories written within the books, but rather the words she can write onto the blanks pages she finds there that give her temporary peace. She steals them, along with the ink she needs to put her feelings to the paper. It feels like breathing for the first time, like waking up from a sleep that has never felt like just sleep.
Often, Harlow thinks of herself as an impostor. Her body does not feel like it belongs to her, like she merely experiences life through the eyes of a stranger whose life she stole long ago. Maybe the faeries stole the human long ago and she is the changeling, only now noticing that she does not belong. She does not know and that is what bothers her. How can she prove to herself that she is human, does she have to? Is being human all that there is to her, flesh pulled over weary bones?
The words spill onto the pages. Her worries find an outlet. The answers still remain unseen. She cannot find a clue, no reason. Maybe it has been swallowed by the flames already, a victim of the Eternal Light before her body could even follow it to ruin. there is the possibility that her body is the ruin, devouring her soul, devouring her life before her very eyes. It is worrying, how far her mind spirals. It becomes easier to stand by the window, her gaze sweeping over the forest. She thinks about her death sometimes, feels a calm wash over her before it is followed by guilt and fear. Her mother has left this plane of existence for her, to protect her. Harlow should at least honor her very last wishes, she should at least try to aspire for greatness. Her body will stand tall, even before it hurtles towards the ground to end it all.
She never jumps. The forest offers to take her, maybe. She hears it in the whistling of the leaves, the way the branches seem to reach for her.
'Come home, my daughter.', it says, promising an end to something without a purpose.
Harlow always has to turn away from the window afterwards. She has to shake off the whispered promises, the cold that has settled just beneath her skin. It is that promise that forces her from her own quarters after weeks of self inflicted isolation. The maidens seem surprised to see her again, nevertheless their smiles remain warm, their voices soft as they greet her. She tries to smile back, but it turns into a painful grimace. She fears they will find the letters she keeps hidden in the pockets of her clothing. The fabric is loose enough around her body that the folded paper should not be visible. Still, the fear remains.
She is tired of that as well, of always being scared. She is no child, no maiden that needs saving. She still cannot shake it and it must show on her face. The other maidens ask her if she wishes to join them for tea or possibly for a walk around the premises. Often, she rejects their kind offers. The eyes of their partners tend to turn hungry sometimes. It feels like she is not welcome when their eyes turn dark, when their fangs peak our from beneath pale lips. Their maidens do not seem to notice and if they do, they must not care for it. Between sleeping and their nightly dinners, Harlow finds herself wandering alone. Even then those dark eyes never leave her. Especially when gets close to the borders of the forest. They must be afraid that she runs again. They must think she will lead others to their sinful sanctuary. The blank pages become her steady companion, documenting her possible descent into insanity. She tries to keep to her room as well, but the walls have begun to feel constricting now that she knows the song of the halls, of the mansion itself. The eyes still remain.
After weeks of her frustration and anxiety stacking on top of each other, she finds the courage to speak to Delphine. The woman is just as kind as she has been when Harlow first arrived.
"Say, is there a certain purpose to the others watching me like prey?", she tries to keep her voice steady. Puffs out her chest to seem bigger, less self conscious than she is feeling in that very moment.
The blonde's smile is kind, her voice gentle when she replies. "They are worried that you might venture further away from the mansion without telling anyone. We do not wish for you to have endure the wrath of the humans again." Her voice turns bitter towards the end. Almost like she does not think of herself as human anymore.
"But they fear the forest. They would never dare enter." Harlow must sound like a child.
Still, Delphine smiles fondly, albeit there being a hard edge to it that she cannot quite place. "They have tasted blood. No creature resists the hunt for too long. That is why it is important to let me or any other person know if you venture into the forest."
She nods quietly, hand pressed to the letters in her pockets. She will have to find another hiding place for them soon, or possibly find other ways to hide her words between pages.
"I will head into the forest then. Not far, but I need to breathe."
The blonde lets her and Harlow has to force herself not to run towards the the gates. Stepping over the border feels like stepping back into another home. She is quick to discard her shoes, to feel the earth and the soft moss beneath her feet. She breathes in deep, inhaling the scent of flowers and what is undeniably life itself.
She searches the nooks and crannies of the border, finds spots to hide. Harlow thinks she might just stay here forever, just outside where humans cannot reach and where the sun keeps the dead from her. She rereads the written letters to herself, to her mother, to her father. Most of it still rings true. Even out here she does not fully feel like herself. Harlow wishes she could ask someone for guidance, but she is no child anymore. The path should be clear to her like it has been for anyone else. It is that certain kind of pressure that settles on her shoulder, that forces her down to her knees.
The forest still whispers to her, lulls her to sleep when she nestles into the branches. It does not stop the dreams. Flowers still bury her when the fire does not devour her first. She wakes choking on nothing, tumbles from her perch into the dirt. Her arms are scraped. Pressure builds just behind her eyes. Harlow has not cried in a long time and she refuses to do so now. She has no right to, she still lives and breathes while her family has been swallowed alive.
She runs back to the mansion, shaking and terrified. She hides within her room, under the blankets like a girl afraid of the dark. She does not go to dinner that day. Delphine brings her a plate filled with fruit and meat. Harlow feels nauseous even when she merely looks at it, but her stomach churns with the need for food. She forces herself to eat, barely chews before she swallows. She knows everything will taste like ashes if she were to take her time to savor her meal. She must have been cursed she thinks. Old spirits do not want for her to find peace anywhere except with them. Harlow writes that down, too, in letters addressed to the lady death.
The dinners that she does attend are awkward. She cannot look at anyone, still afraid that they know that her heart is that of just another runaway. She still speaks to them, her voice quiet and meek. Once a woman tries to convince to join her in her personal quarters. Her eyes are of a pale blue. They hold a certain promise, a suggestion that makes Harlow's throat lock up with...something. The other maidens draw closer, explain the situation and she does not expect apologies to spill from the other woman's lips. She seems almost sheepish now for having suggested anything at all.
Harlow risks a glance towards the throne and finds the mistress staring back at her, looking pleased with something before she sinks her teeth into the neck of an awaiting maiden. Her eyes meet Harlow's still and she finds herself shy, heat creeping along her neck. She still remembers the day those teeth had buried in her skin, how addictive that feeling had been. Had Harlow thrown all of her pride away that day, than she might would offered herself up just as easily, knowing that the mistress must think of her as something she claimed for herself only.
Her hands tremble as she reaches for her goblet of wine, her mouth dry. The alcohol merely manages to intensify the blush, coloring her cheeks an even lovelier shade of red. Though it also lowers her inhibitions, takes away the edge of her fear and anxiety. When she dares to meet the mistress’ eyes now, it is in challenge. She feels restless. There is something different. A small urge, dark and cold. Just how far could she push herself, feel her life drained without actually dying? Would that bring relief? Would it help her to stop feeling so wrong and twisted all the time?
Harlow sets her drink aside, determined and stubborn all of a sudden. Her movements are stiff, rigid as she rises from her seat. She crosses the room, her desires heavy on her heart. It will not quiet. It beats and beats away as she stands before the mistress. The woman releases her companion, eyes drawing upward until they meet hers. She can see the beginnings of glee in that silvery gaze.
“I want you.” The word tumble from her lips, nervous and uncontrolled. The resulting shame makes her stomach churn with uncertainty.
The mistress bends forward, hand reaching up to cradle Harlow’s cheek. Her pale eyes rake over her face, her body. She swallows nervously, heart thundering against its prison. The other woman lets go of her, disappointment and something else twisting at her features. Gone is that smug softness, replaced by something Harlow cannot even begin to name. The mistress rises from her throne, brushes past her without meeting her eyes again. She just leaves and Harlow remains. Embarrassment and anger bubble up in her throat, hot and uncomfortable. Who is this woman to deny her after she has claimed her? It does not make sense. The other maiden’s throw themselves at their mistress and she never hesitates. The silence that stretches out before her grows far too stiffing to endure.
Her feet carry her past the rows of curious onlookers, her room the only sanctuary she will have for now. It is then that she writes a letter to the mistress, angry slashes of ink conveying the emotions that will cling to her now. She is unwanted, useless. The mistress appears to be the rightful target for her anger. In her letter she calls her selfish, callous in her actions. She writes until the words begin to swim before her eyes, then stuffs the letter underneath the mattress, to the other unspoken words that will remain hidden there.
Coward, chants her mind as she tries to find rest. It is almost funny how even her own thoughts seem to not find her desirable. She smiles to herself, it borders on painful. If she does not smile now, she will cry. Crying for herself has always seemed pitiful to Harlow. She is alive. She should be grateful and strong and wanted.
“Your life is a flower, be careful not to let it wither.” She quietly chants it to herself, hopes to find some strength in the words. In the end they merely lull her to sleep, a sweet lie against the bleak colors of her life.
Harlow wakes the next day, exhausted. She feels empty, despite the feelings clawing at her. She tries to give them a form. Black eyes, sharp claws maybe. She wants to remain in bed, desperately tries to go back to sleep until the week has passed her by. Her body will not let her. It grows restless after the first hour, shivering and tense. It might be because the forest will not stop to whisper to her. Harlow should request another room, the cellar maybe. She does not want to face the false promises, she knows they will make her jump someday. She is always being pulled apart, to live or to die. She can never settle for something. All the choices seem dark and terrifying. She is aimless in her sorrow, in her desperation.
She slowly rises from her bed, unsure how to proceed with her day. She glances towards the window, watches the moonlight dancing over the tree tops. She might find answers there, her mother certainly did before…before the void decided to take her. Harlow does not bother to change out of her nightgown. Of course, Delphine has provided clothing for her, but the garments do not feel like her. They feel foreign, like a chain. If she wears their clothes, fully accepts it, then she will be one of them. She leaves her room on naked feet, the tiles cold against her skin. She meets numerous of the other inhabitants, informs all of them about her whereabouts. They still watch her with curious, sometimes even sad eyes.
Harlow disappears in the forest, between trees and leaves. She feels connected to the earth, the life here. Sometimes at least. Sometimes she lays among the moss, feels the forest against her skin. She could disappear like this, decay right here without regretting it. But then she thinks of her mother and sisters again. She is supposed to fight in their name, at least she has been made to believe so. She owes them as much. Though there is something in the back of her mind that tells her she does not owe them anything. It is a dark, petty thought. They have always been superior to her in their connection to the Old Ones. They have branded her as the weakest link. They should have fought for themselves, should not have placed the burden on her shoulders. The moment the thought takes form, she flinches, horrified at her own cruelty. Harlow should not dare to think about the deceased like that. They died, possibly to make her escape easier.
She closes her eyes, breathes deeply and lets time flow past her just like that. The forest does not speak to her, it greets her wit silence. She welcomes it, allows it to mellow her out until her soul can return the silence in kind.
“I truly do not think I am fit to be a witch. I do not feel you as strongly as the others have. Even when I do, all I am compelled to do is decay in your embrace. I do not think you want me to, at least I hope so.” She whispers the words to the rustling leaves. The forest does not answer, or if it does, she is deaf to its words.
Harlow sighs, pushes herself up on her elbows. The moon has begun its descent, the stars have begun to disappear. She has wasted her day just like this, trying and failing to get answers yet again. Warily she makes her way back to the mansion. If she is lucky she has not yet missed dinner.
The dinner hall is less occupied than usual, some of the maidens have already retreated to their rooms. The ones that have remained are seated by their partners, wrapped up in their own little world. As usual, the mistress is seated in her throne. Their eyes meet briefly, then the mistress rises and leaves the room in a hurry. She is being avoided, possibly, maybe, most likely. Harlow does not think it fair.
She still does not think it fair when it happens the next day and the day after that. It repeats for weeks, like they are caught in a loop. Harlow reaches her breaking point soon enough. There are enough questions left unanswered. This does not have to be part of them. When the mistress leaves yet again, she follows, warm fingers wrapping around a cool slender wrist before the other woman can disappear in her own quarters once more.
The mistress stops, stares at forward, jaw tense. She does not move away just yet and Harlow sees it as an opening.
“You have been avoiding me, why?” For once her own voice does not tremble. It must be sudden spike in stubbornness, Harlow needs to at least have this, enough power to receive answers. Yet, the mistress does not turn towards her.
“I apologize if my rejection has offended, but I am unwilling to build bridges between you and the lady death. You should begin to be more aware of how easily the life in your veins can be spilled.”, her voice is rough, trembling at the edges.
“I was not—”, Harlow falters as the woman wrenches out of her grasp.
The silver of the mistress’ eyes has turned into molten steel, her anger revealed for all to see.
“Do you think I do not know what a woman desperately seeking death looks like? Do you take me for a fool?”
Harlow cannot quite meet her eyes, searches for words to say. She finds there are none. There are excuses and lies, but she does not think it wise to lie to the mistress.
“I was patient with you. I gave you space, a safe haven away from others and yet the first thing you ask of me is to deliver you to the brink of death.”, she grows more frustrated with each word, voice rising until she catches herself.
The mistress has a mind to look sheepish upon seeing her flinch at the truth so brutally placed before her.
When Harlow speaks up, her voice wavers, her resolve shaken. “I seek balance.”
It is not fully the truth just yet. She hopes it will be someday, but being almost dead is better than being alive or within the void next to her family. For a moment she thinks her answer has been enough to sway the mistress. Silver eyes rake over her body, fingers gently trace the old mark on her neck.
“I am afraid I am unable to help with that.”
She is soft, Harlow realizes. The woman before her has shifted from anger to something akin to understanding. It must be difficult to be the embodiment of death and face all that lives. She asks herself if the mistress secretly wishes for a life deemed to wither at some point. Immortality is uncertain. The prospect of it certainly frightens her.
“Rest well, Harlow.”, cool lips press against her forehead, the gesture gentle, reassuring.
After, the other woman turns away, disappearing within the winding halls of the mansion. She herself is left behind. She does not know how to feel when faced with such softness. The world around her has always been harsh, unforgiving. Harlow blinks, shakes off this strange emotion that begins to settle over her. It is best if she were to return to her own quarters for the day.
ns 15.158.61.20da2
