Hands grasp her, pull her down until she cannot move. The villagers scream in outrage. One claimed by the dead dares to walk among them. The children cling to their mothers as Harlow is violently dragged from the hut. She is undressed right there, stripped bare before the fires burning within the middle of the village. They refuse to burn her. They have the time. She sees the hunger for violence in their beady eyes. First they brand her. To save her soul, they say. The red hot iron is pressed against the skin of her back. Harlow tries to swallow her screams, but the sound still tears itself from her throat, as her skin erupts into angry blisters. The villagers do not care, they see only the eternal light scorching a tainted being. Their symbol, a bleeding sun, will mark her for all to see. Even if she escapes them, all others will know that she is beyond hope.
After, they chop off her hair until there is nothing left of her ebony locks for them to throw in the fire. Harlow is dehumanized. She thinks they need it to wash their hands within the illusion of their innocence. There is no guilt to be felt if she is not human, but a monster instead. Her hands are yanked behind her back, rope wrapping around her slender wrists to bind her. They will prepare themselves for a proper hunt tonight and come morning light, they will chase and kill the devil that crept into their village.
They are foolish to think that she will die so easily. She survived the forest once. Harlow can survive the ones who fear it as well. Still, that night she dreams of red dahlias breaking through her rib cage, twisting around her neck until she grows limp.
They let her run first, watch her stumble and run through the dirt. Her feet are bloody after the first few steps. The hounds are released shortly after. She hears them, almost feels them snapping at her bloodied heels. Escaping seems impossible. They are always there, not far off her tracks. Harlow hides in ravines, covers herself in mud to mask her scent. She hopes it will be enough. Sometimes Harlow finds herself praying. The hunters do not find her within the first day, but the hounds do. They snap at her and she finds herself stumbling down a steep hill. Still, they follow, tearing at her skin. They fall and fall, disoriented once they stop. It gives her enough time to stagger to her feet. She refuses to die like this, hunted down like a filthy animal. The trees are tall, branches reaching towards the ones of others like hands desperately grasping at each other. She could try to climb them, try to find her way back without touching the ground for a while.
The forest has yet to see her as one of its own, but it still allows her to seek refugee within. The rough bark never dares to cut her skin and the birds do not dare to sing of her arrival. Her blood is spilled along the way. She cannot stop that, not now. It is possible that her wounds will heal throughout the days. If she is lucky, she reaches the mansion before they get infected. She tries to sleep as little as possible. Harlow fears being found, but she fears the dreams more. They leave an aftertaste she can never quite shake. She always dies in them, sometimes slower as one might think. She finds no peace in them, not anymore.
It takes her two more days to find her way back to the mansion. It is only by a stroke of luck. The building towers over her, casting long shadows. The hunters scream and take their aim, but they never pull the trigger when they see it. They let her go, terrified of what might happen if they kill her on such unholy ground. She almost cries out of relief. It is finally over. Upon reaching the door, she falls to her knees, hoping someone will hear the weak knocks echoing through the halls.
It is how Delphine finds her, naked and torn in a puddle of her own blood. The maid is careful as she lifts Harlow, carrying her back to the quarters they had readied for her all those weeks ago. The mistress appears shortly after, like a shark smelling blood in the water. She is denied entry. Harlow sees her blown pupils, the hunger that seems to tug at her soul. Delphine responds with righteous fury, sending her mistress away. The anger subsides and kind eyes are turned towards Harlow once more. Something is being said, but there is white noise in her ears and the harder she tries to listen, the louder it seems to become. The maid turns frantic in her movements, cleans her wounds and bandages them. The hurt is a dull throb and Harlow thinks this is possibly how dying feels like. You do not feel it, you just know.
Her throat closes up, tears pool from her eyes. It is the last days catching up with her, her near death sinking in. It tears at her soul, rips tiny pieces off and leaves her with it. The holes cannot be filled. She was naive to think death would hold a kinder meaning than life. It is not healthy to crave it, but it is not healthy to be one of the living either. Being neither is impossible and one thing or the other will always poison her. It seems fruitless to desire peace now. The only meaning to be found is within her existence, but the Old Ones have yet to answer that question. She is delirious, she knows, but it makes thinking so much easier. She does not fear failure, she does not fear her thoughts when they just spill over.
Death will steal from her, fear of it will make her regret what she has missed in life. Life, as much of a hassle it might be, will give her time to find reason. It is a calming thought to fall into the void to. Harlow thinks she might hear her mother and sisters in the vast blackness. They do not ask her to join them, not yet anyways. Later, they say, when she has found purpose in the forest and the night.
Her episodes of consciousness are short. It will be a sensation, a noise and then she slips back into the blackness. Someone must be taking care of her, or she would never be waking up. Her mind flickers to Delphine. The woman seems to know how to care for the living, even when mostly surrounded by the dead.
It is during one of those times that she notices an argument taking place before the door of her room.
“You frightened the girl and now you wish to be let in?!”
“She is mine! I have claimed her before all of them, it is my right-”
“She is her own first foremost! You did not claim anything, Thyra! Let her breathe, introduce yourself to her like a proper lady and we will see how she takes to you.”
There is a huff coming from the other side, then the noise of retreating steps. Delphine saunters into the room, leftover agitation in her eyes. The emotion softens upon seeing Harlow. She draws up a chair next to the bed and sits down. For a moment she merely watches, before a small smile tugs at the corners of her lips.
“Once you have fully recovered it might do you some good if you were to socialize with the other maidens in the mansion. They are quite curious about you.” The suggestion is soft, the words warm. Delphine must truly think that living here must be easier if Harlow actually participated in the activity of living.
Harlow is fearful of what might happen. Her mind provides her with the possibilities of being bled dry, of having her throat cut, her blood spilling into waiting cups. Life has made her fearful of such things. It must have. Or maybe it has been beaten into her, when death was and perhaps still is the only answer to her existence.
Still, she nods. Harlow accepts her fate within the halls of the dead. The living have cast her out long before, maybe there is meaning for her here. Maybe she will only find her very own demise. She is tired of having to guess, of not knowing who she is supposed to be.
The process of healing is a long one. The mark on her back still burns weeks later, with every breath and every movement. Moving has been difficult, close to impossible when her skin had not yet properly healed. Sometimes she hears others whispering before her door. Some wish to visit, to see the newest member of their coven, others are fearful if the church will burn them now as well. None of them ever enter. Delphine must be the one to send them away. Harlow appreciates the peace. Within this room she is allowed to pretend that her life has not fallen apart just yet.
But even then she cannot hide away forever. Her dreams are still filled with flowers, she till tastes dirt when she wakes. The mistress will sometimes request to be let in. Harlow always tenses at her voice, sends her away with trembling words. The visits stop after the fifth time of being denied entry. She assumes the other woman must become annoyed with her. She cannot say that she feels guilty. Her peace is her right. She is allowed to heal away from those who might see it as an opening. She does not like to think of it as hiding, even though it is. Delphine has called her out on it several times already. Harlow knows that with every day she waits, she will grow less likely to show for dinner with the others. She thinks back to her father, how he had been a cruel coward. Some of that cowardly blood must run through her. She despises it.
The next day, she finds herself pacing the room. Nervous energy thrums within her veins. She will leave this room, she has to really. Otherwise fear and doubt will dig their roots deeper into her mind until nothing of herself is left. Her hands rests on the door handle. She takes a deep breath. Opens the door. Nothing attacks her. She cannot feel her neck being torn open by certain death. The halls are empty. Snippets of conversation barely bounce off the high walls. It seems serene, more so than Harlow thought this place could ever be.
She follows the noises to the throne room. There she finds rows of tables set up, filled with food and drink. Human and vampire alike are seated by the tables. Some sit close to each other, engaged in conversation or feeding from their maidens. Harlow does not quite know where to take a seat. It seems full, almost stifling. Yet, there is a warmth of familiarity between each member. Unlike the villagers, the inhabitants of the mansion seem to thoroughly enjoy themselves without the need for outcasts. Maybe she will find her place among them, though she does not know how she will. She has sought death, yes, but never meant to find its embodiment or to find familiarity within it. She sought the void and had found nothing. Now she does not know what is still to be sought out afterwards. Maybe there is balance between death and life. Living means feeling too much, death might mean standing before her mother and having to tell her that she never fought like her sisters or the woman herself.
Harlow swallows nervously. She needs this. Even if it will turn out to be a mistake made in an almost desperate attempt to fit in somewhere.
She carefully sits down at a more calmer side of the room, the table mostly filled with woman still alive. They smile at her encouragingly, just as unsure as she herself. They regard Harlow with curious eyes. Questions must be burning the tips of their tongues, still they keep quiet. Harlow will have to take the first step. They do not want her to feel endangered.
Still, Harlow does not speak. What is there to say? She can merely try to show them that she does not think of them as a danger. The maidens are her lesser worry. They do not regard her with a sort of wild hunger like others, they do not lick their lips in the anticipation of a feast taking place any second now. Her gaze travels to the other tables, pale faces illuminated by the flickering candles. Strangely enough she finds only women staring back at her, all of them just as curious as the ones who have welcome her to their table. Harlow almost feels like a child that has seen only the scary shadows instead of the actual people. Has life truly scared her so much? Have the people made her wary of anyone who might seem kind enough to offer a hand? She closes her eyes for a moment. It cannot be true. The dead cannot be kind. They hunger only for the living. There is no kindness to be found here.
She opens her eyes again, finds the maidens still staring. There is a nervous jerk to her movements as she reaches for the dishes spread out before her. Fresh bread, meat, an assortment of fruits that she has never seen before. Her stomach twists painfully. A reminder that even though Delphine has brought her meals, she has only eaten little. She cannot defy her own body like this anymore. If she is weak, then she is even more of a target for those who only smell the blood flowing through her veins.
So she piles fruit and bread onto her plate, hopes it will not be seen as gluttony. The maidens seem to smile a little brighter now that she seems to eat. They still do not speak. It is stifling, the silence that wraps around them. It drags on and on, makes her heart flutter with something. That fear is still a part of her. She has yet to find an outlet for it, find something to focus on besides survival.
The mistress joins them later, just before Harlow finds her courage and voice. So she swallows her words, meets the eyes of the other woman only once and then ducks out of the room. The mistress does not follow.
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