Chapter Text
A song from the dungeon. It was nothing but the faint echo of a hum, when it reached the princess’ ears, but enough to wake her and her curiosity nevertheless.
Her hands darted to check her headdress as soon as she sat up: still in place. Good. Any other problem paled in comparison to a royal with nothing on their head, as her father used to say.
The part of her mind that had recovered a semblance of rationality informed the princess that no, hanging around the castle in the dead of the night chasing a ghostly voice she heard while half-asleep didn’t sound like a bright idea. And yet one of her hands had already reached the candleholder by the time Charlotte had formulated that thought. The other pushed the third stone on the left of the highboy, and the passage behind it opened with a low rumble.
Her footsteps echoed in the tight stairway as she started her descent. The candles did their best to cleave the darkness, but Charlotte barely needed their guide at that point. She had explored that secret passage countless times, over the years. A secluded princess could lack many things, but definitely not spare time.
The voice got louder as the passage skirted the back of the kitchens, with its distinct smell of barley and cabbage, but it wasn’t until the end of the tunnel that the echoes told Charlotte it was time to push the discolored stone by her elbow. The wall opened, letting her pass once again.
The freezing air of the dungeon felt like a splash of cold water on her skin.
If there was one area of the castle that Charlotte had never really cared to explore, it was precisely that one. It was icy cold down there, damp and drafty, somehow. It used to house the cellars once, back when the vineyards thrived, but that had been long before the royal family moved in. Only a few, empty bottles survived to tell the tale.
Charlotte stepped forward and pricked up her ears, shivering in her nightgown.
Nothing but the howling of the wind. A bothersome suspicion gripped her heart: what if there had never been more to it? What if her boredom had transformed the whistling of the drafts into a human voice? Loneliness could be a ugly beast, after all–but maybe it was not the only one down there, she thought as she froze in her tracks.
They had become evident when she had raised the silver candelabra in front of her: pale scratch marks reflected its light from the walls of the corridor and the vaulted ceiling.
Charlotte cowered instinctively, not unlike the mice squeaking and running by her ankles.
Whatever had caused them must have been at least eight feet tall. It seemed unlikely that they had been left by dragging an object: they looked too irregular, and always in groups of three, four, or five. Just like claw marks.
A strange smile curved Charlotte's lips as she shook her head: now, that was the sign that her imagination was at play. Such a large beast had never been seen in the kingdom. And why bring it there, anyway?
She had already turned on her heels when it reached her ears again.
“You come to me at night
Like a shiver down my spine”
A song. There couldn’t be any doubt now.
Charlotte’s feet seemed to start moving of their own accord toward the prison cells.
“A whisper to my skin
Empty words, splendid sins”
The voice echoed off the walls, accompanied by the rhythm of her footsteps.
Charlotte followed the marks on the ceiling as they took a sharp turn to the left.
“Sing, siren of my abyss:
drag me down, drown me in bliss”
The cell was wide and empty. Or so the princess thought at first, as the candlelight pushed against its heavy shadows. Until one of them seemed to move: a smile ripped through the dark, like a crescent moon.
“Good evening, princess. Or should I say good morning? I was just hoping for some company on this long night.”
Just a prisoner. Charlotte’s eyes didn’t linger on him.
“Where is it? Th-the beast, I mean.”
Embarrassment flushed her cheeks as the man chuckled. Her voice had sounded like that of a silly little girl, she realized too late.
“It’s just the two of us. Sorry to disappoint.”
One thing was certain now: the voice she had heard singing belonged to the man behind the bars.
He was slim, dark, and bright-eyed, with something extremely out of place in his manner. It almost seemed like he was spending the night in a comfortable tavern instead of the castle dungeon, wearing those torn and blood-stained clothes–his blood, judging by the large tear in his shirt.
“I imagine Lord Vox has inflated the expectations of most by now” he continued, giving her a look both amused and inquisitive.
Lord Vox? Charlotte raised an eyebrow. She knew the name, of course. A pompous nobleman who occasionally showed up at the castle in the hope of getting an audience with King Lucifer. He never succeeded, obviously, but that didn't stop him from wearing enormous rectangular hats in the hope of gaining the sovereign's favor, it seemed. Charlotte didn’t have the audacity to say she understood the fashions that sometimes took hold at court.
“I apologize for my manners, princess” the prisoner broke the silence again. “I haven’t introduced myself: you can call me Alastor. I am nothing but a humble servant.”
“And what would a humble servant do to end up here?”
Charlotte observed him as he bowed.
“I was brought here from Lord Vox’s tower as a gift for the king, I suppose” he shrugged. “After being paraded around every village in between. Some folks even paid to see me. In this economy! Can you believe it?”
The prisoner’s laughter echoed off the prison walls, mixed with a sudden coughing fit.
His eyes darted, for a moment, to the bloodstained hands he wiped his mouth with. The next he was smiling at the princess again, arms crossed behind his back.
“So. Is there anything I can do to make amends for getting Your Highness out of her royal bed at this time of night?”
“Come closer. And take off your shirt.”
Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the prisoner’s face seemed to lose all its color at that request.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t be silly, I can’t harm you more than they did!” Charlotte frowned. “Take off your shirt and wait by the bars. I’ll be right back with some ointments and bandages for your wound.”
‘Wounds’ would have been more correct, although none seemed as serious as the one to the abdomen. Upon closer examination, the prisoner's skin showed an almost endless array of scratches and bruises, especially on the arms and forehead.
‘Paraded around every village in between’ he had said. Charlotte pursed her lips, dipping the gauze back into the bucket. How long did that ‘parade’ last? The stages of healing were too varied for her to tell. Weeks, maybe. But the hole above his hip was fresh, surely, and still bleeding profusely.
“Having regrets already, aren’t we?”
Charlotte was almost startled when Alastor spoke again. The cleaning and bandaging process had absorbed her to the point that she almost forgot it was someone's wounds she was treating.
“Not at all” she shook her head. “Sir Pendleton’s birds get eaten all the time. Or at least injured. He’d like them to live long enough to lay eggs, for once.”
His insistent gaze went unreciprocated as she rummaged through her supplies in search of needle and thread.
“I just can’t stand unnecessary violence. That’s all.”
“Unnecessary.”
That word lingered in the air when Alastor repeated it, chanting its syllables.
Charlotte remained quiet during the stitching. It was a difficult job in itself, and the bars between them certainly didn't make things any easier. The man proved quite cooperative at least, not even flinching throughout the long, meticulous process.
Only the echo of a distant dripping marked the time, for a while. It could be considered a form of torture in itself, the princess pondered.
How many drops were there in an hour? How many in a day? Had there ever been a prisoner who clung to his sanity by counting the years, one drop at a time?
One, two, three, one thousand thirty-five…
“All done.”
Charlotte sighed with relief when the suture thread snapped: it almost felt like the breaking of a chain. No more drops, at least for her. Guilt gnawed at her insides as she put her tools back in the basket.
“So. It seems like I’m much obliged, Your Highness. Once again.”
Charlotte shook her head. Her hands felt heavy as lead as she finished gathering every rag and cleaned every ointment stain off the floor. But it was crucial that she left no trace.
“Keep the wound covered. It will help it heal and keep us from being caught. You didn’t see me here.”
Her eyes lingered on her own warm clothes as the prisoner got dressed. Before she knew, her shawl had been pushed through the bars.
It was one of her favorites, with little apples embroidered on the edges. Charlotte had picked it up almost absentmindedly, when she had gone to get the supplies. No one in their right mind would have lingered in the dungeon wearing only a nightgown. Or that worn, blood-soaked shirt.
“I thought you just said to keep it on the hush hush.”
The woolen shawl looked even more pristine in the hands of the prisoner.
“But thank—”
“I know you’ll be careful with it.”
Charlotte stood up abruptly, supplies and candleholder in hand. “Try to get some rest, please, I’ll see you tomorrow night. To check your wounds.”
Alastor’s eyes followed the princess as her footsteps echoed away.
She had taken away the only source of light in the room, but the shawl still retained some of her warmth.
*
Her bitterness was not exhausted in the tears that soaked her pillow until the first light of dawn.
Charlotte had done her best not to show the prisoner–Alastor, he said his name was Alastor–how shaken she was, the night before. To protect his pride, she had told herself, but also her own.
That was no way to treat a prisoner. Not under the very roof of the king who proclaimed himself so superior to his people.
The majority of their kingdom might have been made up of exiles, outcasts, and criminals, that much was undeniable. But what could be hoped for, when all they saw when they looked up was a castle where such ‘justice’ was delivered?
Leaving a prisoner to freeze or bleed to death in the dungeon was unacceptable. Charlotte refused to accept it, at least, and that was a promise.
As it had to be expected, her puffy, red eyes raised questions at the breakfast table, especially from Vagatha. The woman had become her personal guard less than two moons before, but her attentiveness and dedication abundantly made up for her being new to the castle.
“Well, now that you mention it” Charlotte cleared her throat, grasping the opportunity she was unintentionally given. “I lost sleep over the state of our kingdom last night.”
“Oh. Any ‘iphaph’er in pahr’icular?”
A quizzical expression appeared on Vagatha's face, stuffed with oatmeal.
“Any disaster in particular?” she repeated herself after swallowing.
She had taken the habit of sitting with Charlotte and her commensals, finally. Mellowing out her natural military rigidity had proven quite hard, but she seemed to have caught on what Charlotte had told at least one hundred times: what a princess in isolation needed most was a friend, not a soldier. The greatest danger she faced on a daily basis were the rats infesting the castle, and Bomb was more than enough to keep those at bay.
The cat in question was still on Lady Cherrise’s lap, purring loudly. His owner had resolved to eat with one hand only, while stroking him with the other.
“You heard about the prisoner, I bet!” she interjected. “They say he was paraded around some courts too! Too bad they didn’t stop here.”
Charlotte hesitated, caught off guard. She had mentally prepared a long speech before getting into the heart of the discussion. “Well, actually, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk about. I don’t think treating a subject like that, whatever crime he committ–”
“Oh. D-don’t you know, Lady Cherrise?” Sir Pendleton cut her short. “He’s imprisoned under this very cassstle!”
The dove perched on his shoulder–Franciscus, Charlotte believed it was called, the only survivor of Bomb's latest attack–cooed with disapproval when Cherrise slapped the table.
“Here? For real!? You jest! Where!?”
“A-aren’t you scared for your life, Princessss? Is it even s-safe to stay at the castle? They say he’s invulnerable!”
“It is very safe, Sir Pendleton” Vagatha sighed. “The prisons of this castle are made of Haven's steel. Nothing beats it. Not even an invulnerable monster.”
“Oooh, aren’t you from Haven, originally?” Cherrise leaned over the table, eyeing the guard with wild curiosity. “Is it true that it’s a realm of immortal paladins? Come on, you’re the best suited to take us to the dungeon to see the monster! You used to slay them all the time in Haven, didn’t you?”
Vagatha rolled her eyes, ready to retort that much of what was said about Haven was utter bullshit, as usual. But Charlotte didn’t hear a word of it: she had stopped listening, since a word had stuck in her mind blocking all its gears.
“Monster?”
The image of scratched, vaulted ceilings resurfaced from her memory. Like a bloated corpse from a river.
“Yes! A big one! Didn’t you know? I heard he ate the population of an entire village before he got caught!” nodded Cherrise, more excited than ever. “Full of usurers, that one. I bet a lot of people are still celebrating. Well, what are we waiting for? Didn’t you just say these prisons are the safest, Vagatha?”
Pendleton reiterated his concerns while Lady Cherrise went on about the beautiful battles of old and Vagatha shook her head repeating the king's order to stay away from the dungeon. All this while Bomb took advantage of his owner's distraction to leap onto the table and ambush Franciscus, naturally, who started squeaking and flying around the room.
Amidst all that chaos, nobody seemed to hear Charlotte’s chair screeching against the floor when she stood up.
“I'm not feeling well. I’ll be in my room, if you’ll excuse me.”
Nobody but Vagatha. Her eyes followed her when the princess left the dining room, hands clasped together to hide their shaking.
*
“You ate half of Mutuum-Pistrisburgh!?”
“Princess. Nice to see you again.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that part of the story!?”
“You didn’t ask. I assumed you knew.”
“Why?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why did you eat those people!?”
Alastor held her gaze as the princess pointed it at him like a spear through the bars. Candlelight danced on the sharp tips of his teeth as he answered.
“Because I wanted to.”
Charlotte shivered.
She had tossed and turned in her bed for hours before deciding to take the secret passage to the dungeon again. Her hope had rested on the possibility that it had been some kind of misunderstanding or false accusation to bring Alastor to the dungeon. But there he was: a smiling abomination, gloating over his sins.
She wished she could be that calm in the face of accusations. She could almost hear her father saying “I told you so”.
“You idealize them, Duckie” King Lucifer used to tell her.
She was but a little girl, back then, daydreaming about the life outside the castle walls she would never have.
“Our people are the worst of the worst. Don’t waste your hope on them. Just be happy you don’t have to deal with such scum and never will, hm?”
Charlotte’s fists were so clenched that she could feel her nails dig into her palms.
“You could have just said you were hungry.”
There was something pathetic about the way she was practically begging him to take back his answer. She recognized it herself. And yet there was a part of her that refused to let go of her hope–or ‘idealization’, as her father called it.
It was no secret that their kingdom had hit rock bottom. As if having a population mostly consisting of criminals was a minor problem, a raging famine had added to it in the last decade or so. Naturally this only compounded the first problem, as Charlotte saw it: it was difficult to blame a thief when their only alternative to crime was letting their family starve to death.
“Would you have tended to my wounds, had you known of what I’ve done?”
The prisoner came closer without making a sound.
“Will you still be humane to me, now that you know what a monster I am?”
His hands shot out of the dark, grasping the bars so violently that the princess almost stumbled backwards.
The rattling of his chains echoed through the dungeon.
‘Run' said those wild eyes beyond the bars.
‘Run’ said the ominous aura spreading from him like a pool of tar.
‘Run’ said the princess' heart, drumming in her ears.
A draft. Charlotte shivered. Her eyes were drawn to the shawl in a corner of the cell.
“Yes. I would.”
It took all her willpower to say that simple word. But the rest seemed to roll out of her mouth, as if from a speech she had rehearsed countless times. Or that had been brewing her whole life, in the secret of her soul.
“It’s all too easy to be kind only to those who are kind. What you did is horrible and unforgivable, but two wrongs don’t make a right! Our kingdom is caught in a vicious cycle of violence and pain and it will forever, unless someone breaks it. I don’t know about you, but I won’t be sitting on my hands while everything around me falls to pieces! The cycle needs to be broken, so it might as well break here and now!”
Alastor listened in silence, just a pair of eyes floating in the dark of the prison cell now.
“This means I won’t allow anyone to leave you to freeze to death. Or starve you, or torture you, or whatever those Lords might have in store for you. But you’ll have to do something for me in return.”
“Ha ha. A deal, I see.” Alastor chuckled. “I was kind of wondering when we’d get to this part. And what could a princess possibly want from little old me?”
“To answer some questions, for starters.” Charlotte cleared her throat, flaunting confidence.
And to have a change of heart in the end, she thought to herself. Hopefully.
“I don’t know if you are aware of it, but you’re the talk of the town. Why do you look like an average man to me?”
“Ouch. I bet that sounded better in your head, Princess. May I ask you what it is that you find so… disappointing, about me?”
“‘The ‘gigantic monster’! The ‘man-eater ready to swallow the entire kingdom!’ That’s what you’re called. No offence but you don’t even look like you can finish a whole cake!”
Alastor raised an eyebrow when the princess watched him closely, as if she expected him to grow fangs or claws at any moment.
The man was tall but scrawny, with long limbs and broad shoulders. Yes, something wild seemed to lurk deep in his hazel eyes at times, but no, Charlotte wouldn’t have called him a literal monster. Not one capable of eating multitudes of villagers at once or leaving such scratch marks on ceilings over six feet high, for sure.
“I’m more than capable of eating my cakes, thank you very much. When I’m in shape, at least.”
“In shape?”
Alastor narrowed his eyes. “Yes, in shape, the right shape. There’s one for everything, isn’t there? A role, if you will. The world is a stage, after all.”
“Do you always have to speak in riddles!? Are you a monster or a man!?”
“Ha ha! And you?”
Charlotte's lips thinned to a paper-thin line as she held back from screaming. She sighed through her nose instead, turning the matter over in her mind in search of a different angle.
“Take your hennin, for instance” Alastor continued relentlessly. “Your costume in this play you call court. I bet you don’t wear it all the time.”
Charlotte’s hand darted to check her headdress. An old habit from the days when she didn’t know how to secure it properly, and yet the anxiety of losing it still gripped her.
“I do, actually. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Even in bed?”
“Even in bed!”
“Ah.” Alastor seemed speechless, for once.
The princess frowned. How come everyone seemed to find it so odd?
“It’s a miracle you haven’t poked someone’s eye out yet. Both eyes, actually!” Angelus the courtesan told her once, eyeing the veiled hat in the shape of a double cone.
Charlotte asked how on earth she would have stabbed someone in the eye from her bed then, but Angelus just laughed it off and walked away shaking his head.
“Let’s make a deal, then.” Alastor’s voice brought her back to the present. “I will show myself in the form you so desire to see when you’ll take off that horrible forked hat of yours. What say you?”
“Of course not!” The princess shivered with indignation. “It’s a sign of royalty, not a whim of fashion! And you’re in no position to make requests, by the way. I need you to listen to me and to answer my questions, if you want me to protect you!”
“My offer still stands” he shrugged. “But ask away if it pleases you, princess. It’s not like I have much else to do down here, do I?”
There was a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Charlotte found it even more irritating than his lack of cooperation.
It took her a couple of deep breaths to calm down enough to go on with her questions. She needed to know more about this prisoner to have any hope of redeeming him. All without getting caught up in his word games, that was.
“Alright, you won’t tell me how it is that you eat people. But what will it take to make you stop? To choose a different path in life, devoid of violence and pain. Have you ever considered it?”
“A life ‘devoid of violence and pain’” Alastor repeated. “Hmm. You know there’s no such thing on earth. Don’t you, Princess?”
“Of course there is! Take this court, for instance: nobody dares spilling blood in this castle!”
“We are brought into the world amidst tears and blood, and so we often leave it. It applies to everyone, kings and peasants alike. This castle makes no exception. But you should know that violence is not necessarily inflicted on the flesh: there are more devious forms of pain, inflicted by creatures much more devious than monsters” Alastor concluded, peering as far as he could through the bars. “Weren’t it true, you’d be the happiest person in the whole kingdom. Are you, princess?”
Charlotte winced, caught offguard. There was something about the prisoner’s voice, a spellbinding quality to it. She had almost forgotten herself.
“I-I’m happier than most, I presume.”
“You presume?” His dry laugh echoed off the walls. “A happy princess wouldn't venture out alone at night, I presume! She wouldn't be lured into the dungeon by a song, nor would she seek the company of a proven, impenitent killer. She would not care how cold he is, nor for his wounds. A happy princess wouldn't look up from the little dollhouse that is her life to see there’s no roof over her head–no purpose, no sense! She wouldn’t feel the urge to venture beyond the boundaries of her little toy everyday.”
Wildness flared in his eyes, when they met Charlotte’s again. Little by little, word by word, the hazel had completely disappeared, leaving way to two inescapable dark pits, impossible to look away from.
“How long will you persist in pretending to be a doll, Charlotte? Hm? I bet you didn’t ask for anyone’s permission to come see me. What binds you to this toy castle? What’s stopping you from discovering all the marvelous shapes you could take?”
The princess couldn't speak. Her mouth felt dry, parched, her heart about to pound out of her chest.
“They’d be magnificent, I can tell. All it takes is one, brave leap. I took mine long ago” he added in a softer tone. “Ironic, isn’t it? Even in this prison cell I’m much freer than you are.”
“I have no other shapes.” The princess shook her head.
“Oh. And what makes you think so?”
“I HAVE NO OTHER SHAPES! I’m not like you! I am NOTHING like you!”
A smirking abyss. That’s all she saw on the other side of the bars, as her screams echoed off the walls.
It took the sudden slamming of a door to drown them out.
The princess jumped, then froze on the spot. The only door nearby was at the top of the spiral staircase that led to the rest of the castle.
The chasms in Alastor's eyes shrunk into two black pinheads as he turned in that direction. Torches, lanterns maybe: their light spread like fire across the dark stone walls. The dungeon was filled with the echo of thunderous footsteps.
“Go” Alastor mouthed. Not that Charlotte needed him to tell her: she was already blowing on her candles and stumbling toward the huge, moldy barrel by the wall.
The closest passage she knew of was beyond the group of guards approaching Alastor’s cell now. She made herself as small as possible, a hand pressed on her mouth, while a booming voice spoke.
“Here you are, scum. Going insane already? Has anyone ever told you you scream like a girl?”
A chuckle passed through the guards. It sounded like there were at least half a dozen of them.
“How do you find your new accommodation, huh? Is it to your liking now?”
“Can’t say I enjoy the view.” Alastor answered calmly. “But I dare to say the company has improved significantly since our little tour.”
Charlotte felt a wave of panic run through her just before he added: “Rats know better than running their mouths, at least. They smell better too!”
“Oh you piece of–!!”
A rattling of chains, followed by a duller sound that made the princess’ skin crawl.
“The pot calling the kettle black! Cut the crap and let us get to the point, for fuck’s sake! Breakfast’s getting cold!” another voice interjected, causing a murmur of approval.
“By decree of King Lucifer and in the name of the sacred Kingdom of Haven” the booming voice reprised. “For the heinous crimes of murder and anthropophagy, you’re hereby condemned to death by the hands of Prince Adam. The execution will take place before the castle gates at the dawn of the third day of imprisonment. Your severed head will be set upon a pike and displayed as a grim reminder to all who would defy Haven’s Law. God bless Haven!”
“GOD BLESS HAVEN!”
The guard’s voices were still ringing in Charlotte's ears by the time their footsteps and their chattering had echoed away.
“Princess?”
She didn’t move right away. Nor did she hear his calling.
“It’s safe to come out now. They’re gone.”
It took her several deep breaths to pull herself together. She stood up holding onto the candleholder as if it could be of any help.
“His name’s Oscar, you know?” she whispered, approaching the bars. “Although everyone calls him Husker. He used to be a farmer, I think, before he was exiled here.”
She felt Alastor’s eyes on her, although she didn’t dare to meet his gaze.
Her head was spinning, her heart still drumming in her ears.
“The breakfast guy.”
She wasn’t entirely sure he’d asked. But the words came out of her mouth anyway.
“He mainly drinks ale for breakfast, but he’s a good guy. He helped Sir Pendleton get Franciscus down from one of the beams in the music room, the last time it escaped.”
Alastor’s silence seemed to fill the whole dungeon like a flood. It pushed against her, threatening to steal the air from her lungs.
“They’re all nice and helpful, our guards.” she concluded, eyes downcast.
Warmth. The tears rolling down her cheeks were the only source of warmth in the dungeon, now that her candles were out. Only a sliver of light came from the top of the stairs.
And yet it showed her more than she wanted to see, when she finally summoned the courage to look beyond the prison bars.
Blood. It was more evident on the white shawl Alastor was clutching in his hand. Darker than the little, embroidered apples escaping his grip. But there were still traces on his chin too, despite his efforts to wipe it.
Charlotte wondered whether that punch had cost him a tooth. And, incidentally, if that was what he looked like, whenever he finished eating someone.
No, of course not. He said he shapeshifted to do such things. Silly her. He had never shown himself in that form to her.
“They said you were invulnerable.”
“I heal quickly. Usually.”
Charlotte nodded. That wasn't the question she most wanted to ask.
“How… How long have you been here? How many–?”
“The execution’s tomorrow.”
The dripping of water became the only audible sound, for a while.
“Ah.”
“Charlotte?”
“Yes?”
The princess stared at the bloodstained shawl he pushed through the bars.
“I don’t want it.”
“You almost got caught tonight. We can’t risk it.”
“And what am I supposed to do with it now?”
“What do women use shawls for, normally!?”
“It’s stained.”
“Get it cleaned then!”
Dripping, again. An endless number of drops.
Not so endless, whispered something inside her.
Tears fell off her cheeks.
“It wouldn’t be the same.”
“You need to go.”
Charlotte forced her hand to reach for the shawl. Her fingertips brushed his briefly.
“Thanks, by the way. It was…” Alastor seemed to struggle to find the right words. “...Unexpectedly warm.”
“I’ll bring it back. I promise.”
*
There was something almost supernatural in the way anything changed, in the light of day. The entire world seemed to have turned upside down by the time Charlotte was woken up by a very worried Vagatha knocking on her door, around midday.
She had to pretend her monthblood had come earlier to justify both her strange behaviour and the bloodstained shawl she had been holding tightly as she slept. A topic that made her guard very uncomfortable, usually, but not that day. Vagatha seemed to breathe down the princess’ neck more than ever that day, so that Charlotte had to fake a head-splitting migraine to get some much needed solitude.
She had to get her thoughts in order. But first of all she needed to understand some of them herself, given how deeply they had transformed overnight.
Alastor was a criminal, and not a petty one. A truth unbelievably easy to forget, while chatting with him by his prison cell. He was a murderer, a cannibal, a madman who enjoyed inflicting pain.
And what was he even talking about, when he claimed she was a doll? And when he went on about the shapes she could take? What kind of twisted path was he trying to set her on?
It all seemed so vivid in the candle light. Like hands in a shadow play, his simple words had projected figures onto the background of her suggestibility. But even at night, so far from the light of reason, his stories sounded like ravings at best.
Why did she feel so overwhelmed then, when the guards had come to announce his death sentence? Why did she promise to see him again? And why all she seemed to be able to do in the meantime was pacing her room and pulling her headdress?
She had fooled herself into believing she could save him, but that was before she realized how inherently wicked he was. And before Haven itself sentenced him to death.
How was she even supposed to prevent his execution!? But most importantly: should she?
Charlotte sighed, stopping in her tracks. She was just running in circles, both literally and figuratively. Maybe a change of scenery could help.
A peek out of her room informed her that Vagatha was busy talking with another guard. Good. Charlotte sneaked out as quietly as possible, managing to turn a couple of corners unnoticed before she bumped into a familiar face.
“Princessss! I was just looking for you, I-I require your assistance! Vagatha told me you were indisposed, so–AAAAH! What are you doing!?”
Charlotte grabbed Sir Pendleton by the wrist and dragged him into the nearest room, when he greeted her with his usual lisp.
It was a small study, with walls covered with bookcases and tapestries. She used to find it cozy, until Bomb decided to piss on every piece of furniture it contained. It had been declared the smelliest room in the whole castle, despite the head maid’s best efforts to clean it up.
Well, nobody in their right mind would have looked for her there, at least.
“This is not appropriate, Princesss! W-we should–!”
“Shhhht!” Charlotte gestured as she locked the door. “I have a bad headache, alright? Just be quick and quiet. Especially quiet.”
It was fortunate that he hadn’t carried any of his loud birds with him, now that she thought about it. Charlotte suspected that was precisely the nature of his problem,before Pendleton started talking.
“Alright, alright.” he sighed, turning his top hat over in his hands. “I, uhm… Do you find me… boring, Your Highness?”
Charlotte blinked twice. Then thrice. Not only because of the acrid smell that made her eyes water. “Erm… no? W-Why do you ask? Does it have anything to do with Lady Cherrise, by any chance?”
Sir Pendleton both beamed and blushed at that name. “Yesss! How do you know?”
Charlotte had a hard time keeping a straight face. His interest in her wasn’t exactly subtle. “I… just had a feeling.”
“You already know I'm a hopeless case, then!” he sighed again, sinking into the nearest armchair. “That woman’s so radiant, so spirited! Have you noticed she doesn’t even bother following fashions!? She’s just that fiery! While here I am, dull as a doorknob! What should I do, princess? Nobody knows us both as well as you do! Should I… try being louder? Bolder? More passionate?”
His shoulders seemed to hunch under the weight of his melancholy.
“You know what I was exiled for, by the way? Desertion. I never thought I’d have to take up arms! It’s my fatal flaw, isn’t it? Cowardice, I mean.”
Charlotte couldn't help but pat him sympathetically on the shoulder.
She knew of Pendleton’s story, of course: rumors spread quickly at court. And even though many had criticized him for the way he ‘softened’ since his arrival, the princess did not mind the gentle and peaceful nature the man revealed over the years.
“Personally, I’d call you… considerate, rather than a coward, Pen. And I've never met a more passionate man than you when it comes to birds, eggs or ‘fiery ladies’. I think we all have a function in this world, that’s why we can be so different at times. All we have to do is find our place and do our part in our special, unique way, big or small that it is. Just focus on what would make you feel better about yourself, alright?”
“Hmm.” Sir Pendleton seemed to ponder carefully. “Getting kissed by Lady Cherrise would surely help. ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT!” he hurried to add, when Charlotte glared at him. “I got the message. Although it’s easier said than done.” he sighed for the umpteenth time, before getting up. “Well, I should leave you to your migraine now. Thanks for your time, Princesssss.”
“Anytime” she shrugged, following him out of the room. “As you said, it’s easy for me to talk.”
“Hmm. I should consider returning to my old passionsss, perhaps. I used to be an inventor, you know?” he chuckled, walking down the hallway by her side. “Such wonderful creations I made, if I may say so myself! I could not tolerate the idea of war turning them into weapons, were they to fall into the wrong hands: that’s why I stopped. But things are different now. Your hands are different, princess”.
Pendleton gave her a shy, affectionate look, to which she responded with an equally warm smile–before a sudden idea erased every expression from her face, along with every other thought from her mind.
“Princessss?” Pendleton’s voice followed her as she turned on her heels and ran off. “D-did I say something wrong?”
Charlotte glanced at him over her shoulder. She was just about to reassure him when she spotted someone just behind him. Someone with a very, very displeased look on her face.
“PRINCESS!” Vagatha's voice joined Pendleton's, as Charlotte turned the corner to touch the cracked stone by the portrait of Duke Zestial. “Where are you going!?”
There was no time to explain. Charlotte had long disappeared into the passage behind the oil painting, by the time the guard darted past it.
*
It had been a while since Charlotte had last visited her father.
The king had secluded himself in the east tower shortly after Queen Lilith’s departure, years earlier, and only left it when absolutely necessary. Rumor had it that he had lost his mind because of his wife's abandonment, and it was only thanks to a circle of clever officials that the kingdom was still standing, for better or for worse.
Charlotte missed her father, and dearly too, but she had learned the hard way to keep visits to a minimum. Seeing her made him deeply uneasy due to her resemblance to her mother, she guessed. But who could really say what went through his mind anymore? Time and distance had made them almost strangers at that point.
The princess would have spared him her sight once again, had it not been literally a matter of life and death–and hadn’t Lucifer been the only person in the whole kingdom powerful enough to tip those two specific scales.
The door to her father’s workshop creaked on its hinges when she pushed it open.
Charlotte was not surprised to find him so absorbed in his carving that he didn't notice her arrival until she cleared her throat.
“Oh. Oh, Duckie! It’s you!” The king’s eyes narrowed in an uncomfortable smile as soon as focused on her. “I’m… erm, busy with something. Are you alright?”
A freshly painted wooden duck shone in the light coming from the stained glass windows. It seemed to be wearing a pearl necklace. Charlotte didn't give it more than a glance.
“I need to talk to you about something, father. I’ll be quick.”
“Oh. Y-yes, Of course! Come in. Make yourself comfortable.”
‘Comfortable’. Sure.
Charlotte's eyes roamed the circular room, searching for a single surface that wasn't home to rows and rows of carved ducks. But that wasn't the only reason she just shifted her weight uncomfortably.
“You… you heard about the prisoner in the dungeon, didn’t you?”
Lucifer froze at that question, his arms full of the ducks he had taken from a settee in a clumsy attempt to make some seating space for her. Charlotte feared she’d started off on the wrong foot before she noticed: the cupboard he’d just opened to store his creations was already full, dozens and dozens of carved ducks watching him from the overcrowded shelves.
“A prisoner in the dungeon?” the king repeated absentmindedly.
“Yes. The man-eater.”
“Oh, that criminal. Yes.” He nodded, proceeding to line the ducks he was holding against the circular wall of the tower. “I am told he’s quite dangerous. Even for our kingdom’s standards! But nothing to worry about: Haven itself will deal with him tomorrow morning. The problem will be solved by sunrise.”
“Yes, about that.” The princess took a deep breath. “What if there was a… better way to handle it? A way to put that man to good use, in the name of the Crown!”
She didn't like the way her voice sounded, all of a sudden. Nor how the king's shoulders shook, suddenly.
“Man is too kind a word to define any of our subjects, Duckie!” he laughed. “But you’ve always been a gentle soul. Too gentle, for the scum we have the misfortune to call our people. That’s why I always wanted you to mingle with them as little as possible.”
Charlotte clenched her fists. She had feared this would’ve happened. “I understand, dad, but this execution isn’t the answer! From violence comes more violence, it cannot be our only means of governing!”
“Would you try to teach a cat how to roll dice? An egg how to be a spy? You might as well–and maybe you’ll even succeed!–before you’ll get our subjects to listen!”
The wooden statues clattered loudly against the stone floor now, when Lucifer put them down.
“But tell me, Duckie.” he continued in a more conciliatory tone. “What did you have in mind for this specific prisoner?”
Charlotte’s nails dug into the palms of her hands.
A part of her wanted to turn on her heels and leave the tower at once. The patronizing tone her father used was simply unbearable, he wouldn’t even look her in the eyes!
But she was used to all that. To the mockery, to be treated like a naive, little child playing at being a royal. She wouldn’t let her wounded pride get in her way. Nor her father’s grief drag her down into the same, bottomless pit he had fallen into.
“I understand that our people need to be kept under control.” She took another deep breath. “Contained, pushed back when they cross the limit. But wouldn’t it be much more efficient to provide a deterrent, rather than punishment? This prisoner… the whole court is terrified of him, as most of the kingdom is. Why is Haven coming all the way here to execute him, by the way? It’s either that no one in this whole kingdom can actually kill him or someone needs to make an example of him, maybe both. Either way the message it’s clear, it’s a political statement: ‘no one can stand taller than Haven’, ‘raise your head too high and Haven will cut it off’, ‘it’s the only way’!”
A fierce satisfaction took hold of Charlotte as her father finally looked at her over his shoulder. His eyes shone with attention from under the brim of his enormous hat, mixed with some other emotion the princess couldn’t quite name. Something that allowed her to speak with her chin a little higher.
“That might work for Haven, but not for us. The cycle must be broken: the prisoner will be our deterrent! We will strive to make our kingdom a better place, and if anyone still won't understand any language other than violence, Alastor will bring them back into line. We’ll redirect his bloodthirst toward a higher purpose!”
“How do you know?”
“Well” Charlotte started. She didn’t exactly have time to think things through. “It’s not like he has much choice, does he? He can either accept to work for the Crown or die by Prince Adam’s hand. But I think I can make him see reason: there’s more to him than meets the eye. Call it women’s intuition, I don’t know, I just knew the moment I saw him. What is sure is that we need to send word to Haven before they–”
“I meant how you know his name.” Lucifer stressed the last word.
It was as if all the blood had drained from Charlotte's veins.
Something sinister came on in her father’s eyes as he stood up and reached her.
“I should have known I wouldn’t be able to shelter you forever. But for it to happen like this! With a prisoner, a monster, a man-eater, of all people! ”
Charlotte looked up at him, gasping for air. He was blocking the light from the window, which now surrounded his figure like a halo.
“Father, I… He was wounded! Freezing to death! I had to do something!”
“Oh, so you had to let him exploit your gullible heart and make you plead his cause? You had to turn into a puppet in his hands, defiling your virtue and your family with it!?”
“WHAT? No! I– We didn’t–!”
Charlotte’s mouth didn’t make a sound when she tried to explain herself.
The reconstruction of events her father had painted in words had sneaked up on her, absurd as it was dreadful and numbing. She almost didn’t hear the guards entering the room at Lucifer’s commands, over the ringing in her ears.
“Lock her up in her chambers, until the execution.”
Something inside her seemed to snap back to life when arms as thick as tree trunks dragged her to the doorway.
“No! That’s not what happened! FATHER!”
“I’m sorry, Duckie.”
Lucifer’s eyes looked sadder than ever through the closing door. “This is the best I can do.”
*
Rain was a rare blessing for the kingdom, especially during the dry season. It meant better hopes for the next harvest and, on a good day, a lesser tendency to utter destruction on the part of the subjects.
Charlotte had always been fascinated by rain. Its drumming made her feel less alone, as if the sky itself had come knocking at her windows in search of her, since she hardly ever left the castle.
There was something subtly magical about the sky, when it remained dark even at midday. Who could say what might happen on a day like that, almost indistinguishable from night?
The drizzle of that afternoon wasn’t of any comfort, anyway. Every second of every minute felt like torture, before nightfall. Her room seemed to have shrunk with the intention of crushing her, and yet the princess paced it so much that by sunset her feet hurt.
Only now did all the answers she could have given her father to turn the situation around come to her mind.
The shock of being on the receiving end of such wild, preposterous accusations had left her completely dumbfounded, other than mortified. The thought that she could have been seduced and manipulated by Alastor was still appalling to her, simply inconceivable.
Hadn’t the guards intervened as quickly as they did, maybe Charlotte would have been able to explain that the whole idea of making Alastor work for the Crown didn’t even come from him. It was hers, and it could have helped the kingdom greatly, had Lucifer been able to see in her something other than a wide-eyed little girl.
Vagatha tried many times to speak to her through the door. Asking Charlotte about her supposed migraine, or if she would have liked something to eat, before giving up and addressing the topic directly.
“Listen, Princess” she sighed some time after supper. “I heard what the King’s guards said about you and that prisoner. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I don’t know exactly what happened, nor how, but I know I should’ve been there to protect you and I wasn’t. A grave mistake on my part. It won’t happen again. I swear on my honor.”
“None of this was your fault” was the only answer Charlotte gave her, in a whisper.
Why did everyone keep blaming themselves for her actions, by the way? As if she, as a princess, could be nothing but some lifeless doll, with no agency and at anyone’s mercy.
She was done trying to explain herself, anyway. Catastrophic experience with her father aside, something told her it was best if Vagatha knew as little as possible about the prisoner. That new distance between them made her feel even worse, somehow, but any problem paled compared to Alastor’s imminent death–and Charlotte’s inability to do anything about it.
She had placed too much hope in her father's intercession, she realized now that her plan had gone up in smoke. He was literally the only one who could have opposed Haven’s decision. What was she supposed to do? Even if she could get Alastor out of the castle through her secret passages, she had no idea how to free him first. Vagatha had spoken of Haven's steel: both the chain around his ankle and the bars of his cell were virtually unscratchable.
A cowardly part of her wondered if she should avoid him that night. But the princess still pushed the third stone on the left of the highboy, when all the noise in the castle had died down. Keeping him company during his last night on earth was the least she could do–other than the most.
A sigh from the spiral staircase.
Charlotte thought of a draft at first. She jumped violently when she found someone waiting for her, by the exit of the passage.
“I feared I would find you here.”
“Vagatha!?”
The candleholder clattered at the princess’ feet, ribbons of black smoke rising from the extinguished candles.
The guard shook her head. There was something unsettingly unfamiliar in the way she looked in the dim light of the dungeon.
“What are you doing down here, princess?”
Charlotte’s eyes darted behind Vagatha’s back, to the stone corridor leading to the prison cells.
No sound from there. If Alastor heard them, he didn't show it.
“Is he still in his cell?”
The guard nodded. “That cell is the only place in the entire kingdom sturdy enough to hold him.”
The tip of her spear glittered in the gloom. A sight Charlotte wasn’t used to: Vagatha didn’t carry it around often. It reminded her of her past, she said. Of her exile.
“What I asked is what you’re doing down here.”
The princess shivered. Oddly enough, she didn’t feel threatened by her attitude: it was the guard’s face that bothered her. Charlotte wasn’t used to seeing it so twisted with disappointment.
“Vaggie” she sighed, not knowing where to start.
It had been foolish of the princess to believe that the cover of night would allow her to move freely, even through her secret passages. The king must have given the guards stricter instructions, after learning about her rendezvous with Alastor.
“I know you’re just concerned for my safety, but I need to do this. He won’t hurt me, I promise!”
Vagatha merely raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest.
“And you can tell because…?”
“Because I know it. I have a feeling I can accomplish something great with him, if only the whole world would stop getting in the way!”
Vagatha's eyebrow rose so high that it seemed about to blend into her hairline.
She wouldn’t have understood, much less approved, Charlotte had always known. That's why she’d refused to open up with her about it. Vagatha could be very protective, overprotective, to a degree that not even her guard duties could fully justify. Especially around men.
There was something unspoken between them, lingering in the margins of their conversations. In those glances that lasted a second too long, in the silent flinch before the guard withdrew her hand, whenever it brushed her princess’s.
Something Charlotte hadn't been willing to name yet, but knew she would have to one day.
Just not today, she prayed in silence.
“This ‘getting in the way’, as you call it, is trying to save you from an awful lot of pain.”
“My pain? Vaggie, a man is going to DIE at dawn!”
“Who cares! That man deserves much worse than being executed! He’s a fucking MONSTER!”
That last word felt like a slap in the face. It took Charlotte a few deep breaths to get a hold of herself again.
“And what do you think acting like a monster with a monster makes you, then?” she slapped back.
“I’m sorry, princess, I can’t let you do this to yourself.”
Vagatha's eyes looked enormous on her face, before they narrowed in determination.
“I'd rather be hated by you than see you in pieces.”
The fight was as brief as it was futile. Vagatha immediately intercepted and subdued her, when Charlotte tried to get past her.
“ALASTOR! ALASTOR, CAN YOU HEAR ME? THE SHAWL! I CAME BACK WITH THE SHAWL!”
Charlotte couldn't tell the bloodstains from the embroidered apples, when she took one last look at the floor. The shawl lay there, next to the candelabra, growing farther and farther as Vagatha dragged her up the stairs.
The princess wished she too had claws to scratch walls and ceilings with, as they climbed through the passage.
“Here. This should hold until tomorrow morning.”
Her room looked like nothing but a shapeless blur of color through the tears. Charlotte had to wipe them several times to bring what Vagatha was working on into focus.
The guard had placed her spear across the entrance of the passage, blocking her secret access to the dungeon.
“Haven's steel. Nothing beats it” she nodded approvingly at the fruit of her labor.
The princess sniffed, kneeling on the cold stone floor. ““Why are you doing this? Why won’t you just let me be!?”
Vagatha turned slowly. There was something bitter and heavy in her narrowed eyes and tight lips, as she approached her princess.
Charlotte only had time to let out a groan of protest when the guard pressed a strong-smelling piece of cloth against her nostrils and mouth.
“Goodnight, princess. It’s been an honor being by your side while it lasted.”
Charlotte’s world plunged into darkness, faster than on a stormy day.