Chapter Text
Marianne felt it creeping upon her, by slow yet certain degrees, the wild and maddening influences of this portrait’s phantasmal form and extraordinary personification.
A violent terror sat upon her heart and she could hear pounding its core within her ears; perspiration formed as cold big beads upon her forehead as the intensity of the heat, fused with extreme trepidation, oppressed and stifled her so. The agony of suspense grew intolerable and she knew the longer she remained, the sooner her sanity would abandon her.
She was seized with strong desire to flee at once; trembling convulsively in every fibre, she barely managed a meager step backwards until the portrait spoke once more.
‘It will not do, Marianne, to tempt those feet to run when they scarcely support you upright.’
There was no mistaking it this time; from the moment the shadow first uttered its words, Marianne was consumed with unnerving recognition of the familiar lilt of the tone and the singular whisper that grew the very echo of her own voice.
As if to confirm her horrendous comprehension, the knight moved forward; and with great revulsion, Marianne recalled her earlier premonition at the portrait’s familiarity and now perceived their disturbing similitude: starting from the eyes and its radiant lustre, the contour of the forehead, the pallid complexion and the frayed raven locks, down to the defiant jut of the chin.
How profoundly this horrifying portraiture bedeviled Marianne; in shape and colouring, in its soft persuasive credulity and its youthful vitality—she knew, with all her life, that she will never venture or able to describe such discovery of a more perfect and eloquent imitation of her younger self.
‘No, it can’t be…you—you’re not me...’
The young knight’s charming face grew eager and threw an encouraging nod at her slow and begrudged understanding.
In actions and intonations, young Marianne admirably played the part; save for the matter of clothing, her gait and mannerism was easily pantomimed.
Curiously she watched the women, the terror in their eyes and the desperate clasps of their hands; they stood close together, linked in their petrified stillness; and she heard the hysteric murmur of her successor’s talking, but what she said she could not catch.
She then drew a long breath with the air of surly youth peeved at her descendant’s dimness and ran her fingers through her tresses with impatience. At once, she resumed her advance and paced her steps to encircle them with piercing eyes as she prepared for the long telling.
‘Marianne, if I may say so frankly, you are distressing yourself unnecessarily. I, at length, perfectly well know that you have great propensity to construct and deconstruct features to consider ones likeness against the real. Do not do yourself injustice as to deny the remarkable semblance of my face against yours, for to do so is akin to denying your very own reflections upon the mirror. To be sure, in all appearances, you are me as I am you.’
‘How did…you…impossible—‘said Marianne dumbstruck.
‘Here is the part of the mystery which even I feel impossible to explain; I began hazily yet positively, to perceive a faint glimmer, a glow-like conception of actuality that dawned upon me, steadily, as I regained cognizance of the world beyond the canvas. When I recovered, how was it possible that I should be fated to gaze upon a scrutinizing eye, much like my own, poring over the strokes and edges of my makings? As my mind struggled to establish the connection, I saw clearly my doom maker and commended myself upon the opportune coincidence by which I had escaped.’
It seems Marianne had found herself resigned to series of feeble and futile struggles to overcome her fright as waves upon waves of bizarre particulars drown her close to lunacy. She willed her eyes shut and clutched at her head as if desperately jarring herself awake from an abhorrent nightmare.
‘None of these makes sense, aren’t you—aren’t you supposed to be Joan of Arc?’
The knight paused for a moment to look at the hearth; and as she gazed upon the magnificent ember, there revealed her true sentiments hidden beneath the colourful wildness of the fire—violent crimson burning with animosity within her almond shaped eyes; a silvery flicker of grudge through the tiniest crease of her forehead, soaring up against the flames of contempt and fiery malice that curled upon her lips.
‘Ah! With matters of my suppositions, though you are quite right, it is easy enough to mistake me as the patron saint of France considering the regality of my battle wares; but I assure you, I shall not dare stake a claim to those illustrious titles,’ young Marianne then turned to Héloïse and continued, ‘Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of it, especially in the presence of its rightful titleholder.’
Paralyzed by the baffling discretion, Marianne’s face contorted with troubling confusion and questioned sharply, ‘what is she talking about?!’
It is uncertain what Marianne expected to get out of that question and strangely, her annoyance turned not against the young knight but against Héloïse and stole a sideway look.
Having her attention called upon, Héloïse couldn’t possibly grow more rigid; her shoulder squared and her stance heightened in full with an air of resolute defiance and indomitable spirit. She made neither affirmations nor repudiations upon the bold provocations, but simply stood and made bold of her immediate purpose as a wedge between the two Marianne.
‘I see now that Héloïse will no longer indulge me; but then again, she has always been such a spoilsport since childhood,’ the knight continued, ‘I wish you, Marianne, to bear carefully in mind that although I have spoken of very unusual degree of proclaims and activities, I assure you that I am not the greatest monstrosity here; while I admit, I was able to attune some sense and cognition upon the world within my canvas, it is she, Héloïse, who befits that title. She is an abomination who may seem afresh in the flesh, yet to be sure, rotten in the mind from the ghoulish past she harbours.’
They turned presently into a tumultuous quiet and at once, the knight unsheathed her majestic sword and its blade sung in the air; with graceful flourish of the hand, she sliced the carmine tapestry clean and true from the wall; its slashed hem pooled on the floor, revealing yet another oddity in its place.
Marianne knew all too well that at present, everything had ceased to make sense; yet as she struggled to ascertain the moment, the implications sluggishly dawned on her.
The shocking circumstance drained her remaining courage and effectively, she fell backwards, graceless and resigned, as she gaped in bewilderment at yet another portrait—mirroring her supposed younger one—hoisted high and vacant.
‘Marianne, it’s high time you meet the real Maid of Orléans, Jeanne Héloïse Romée D’arc, the devil who escaped her fate and walked as denizen of the earth since 1431.’
Marianne sat very still, eyes darting between the two spirits of the past which thronged her mind into great upheaval.
Suddenly she had an odd impression of Héloïse. Was she really conjured from the shades of that canvas where the shapes and colourings outlined the second vacant portraiture?—impossible—she thought to herself as she observed the more lively and solid stoic figure of the historian.
‘Héloïse, please tell me she’s lying.’
She did not answer; did not move. Marianne felt her conscious, strange upset and turned away, slowly, as a pang of dread shot through her. Disturbed to the heart, she got up from the floor and moved to the latticed window at the far end with her face blanched and her hands folded over the chest; she cowered under the table and sobbed.
Gingerly, Héloïse followed and resumed her stance; she stood sideways, gazing in between the past and present Marianne with eyes deep from age. The passionate shame burned and seized her soul with profound remorse as her body succumbed to vicious tremors, so unlike the restrained and stoicism of her character, and her mind whirled with haunted memories of long life.
Héloïse moved instinctively towards the present to offer her reassurances and a sudden sidelong look from the past troubled her; those swirling tincture of blues, greens and greys within the almond shaped eyes turned impossibly dark and she knew she made the wrong choice.
In that confused moment, she saw a blur of steel slicing through the air and its blade clanged loudly on the very spot she previously stood; the sword narrowly missed her as she dodged deftly away.
Whether from the manic growl or the look of past Marianne’s horrid scowl, Héloïse felt her murderous intent creep along her spine; and with safety of the present in mind, she dashed towards the coffer to retrieve her own sword.
Her robust pallid hands, where the blue veins stood out, held the gilded longsword—polished and razor-sharp—and swung it twice in manner so elegant and distinguished with the likes of a seasoned warrior. She assumed her posture by drawing her weapon in midpoint, arms stretched forward while the pointy end casted to the ground in an indirect and nonthreatening guard.
Marianne the knight isn’t the kind to be outdone; she too, made good of her swordplay and swung her sword twice across her lithe form in a graceful manner, the heavy armour showing no sign of impediment of movement. She then drew her weapon up, the hilt just above her temple and its point positioned at a direct thrust to her opponent’s throat.
So they stood guarded, by the firelight, in the silence, one of each side of the hearth.
And the fume of the knight’s burning hatred seemed to seethe strongly and gripped Héloïse by the throat until she could bear it no longer.
‘If you’ve come to exact revenge, then by your hands I shall die; I only ask you spare the innocent, for your fight is with me and not with her.’
Marianne watching from a safe distance saw Héloïse’s face change; the lines between her brows and underneath her eyes became pronounce as the brooding, worried look deepened on it. She sought her eyes, but Héloïse gave no answering look.
At her words, all Marianne’s doubts and fears revived as if a far-off nightmare was made uncannily real in which she can only watch taciturn and immovable.
The knight replied, though not in words, but in sword as the sound of metals clashed; blades hit one another in sparks of gold, russet and silver and cut through the air, leaving trails of colourful streaks.
The knight attacked viciously and unrelentingly; the vigour of her youth exerted no signs of fatigue. She charged with heavy blows, each slashed fused with fierce fury.
Héloïse gave in to instinct and parried the attacks with swift pivots and agile footsteps; she could feel her sword buzz as she countered each deadly pummel. She then shifted her feet, grip tightening at the hilt as she steadied for another blow.
A loud clang filled the chamber as Héloïse staggered backwards from the impact; and the knight made good of the sudden opening and drove the sole of her foot squarely upon her bust.
Héloïse felt the wind knocked out of her chest and landed heavily on her back; she scarcely had time to recover when another strike landed just a second later and she instantly held her sword across to block.
The knight’s blade grinded against metal as she lunged with heavy and brutal crushing blow; she drove her blade further down, adding her full weight, and loomed atop of her opponent.
Through gritted teeth, Héloïse stole her glance upon young Marianne’s face; she remarked the suppleness of her complexion, the brilliancy of her great, wide eyes that once radiated with fondness and tenderness; she observed her lips, pinkish and full, her memory recollecting its sweet murmurs and bygone whispers.
Héloïse then felt the weight of those long haunted years and her eyes welled up in sorrow as young Marianne with her pitiful wan face, so cruel and soft, pinned her ruthlessly. She watched as her young gleaming eyes, consumed with rage and hatred, seemed to rise and fall in a flicker of dark and cold, whose sight so singularly focused upon her imminent death.
Suddenly, a tear fell and wetted her eyelashes; and then young Marianne cried, striking her deadliest blow yet.
‘You betrayed me and left me to burn at the stake.’
The scorching nature of their tragedy—forces that was passed with a heavy hand of judgment, working through the heavenly and devilry undertones of their ironical end had met and fused with a thunder-clap and raging fire.
Héloïse wishes nothing but to undo history and take away the pain she caused her.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Marianne with a great show of bravery flung the heavy silvery jug and hit her predecessor square on the head; she watched her writhe in momentous agony as the object ricocheted towards the hearth and knocked the knight’s canvas straight to the fire’s mouth.
The magnificent ember engulfed the wood and the multihued linen hungrily as the knight shrilled in outrage and turned her wrath towards her.
The knight twisted in fury and lunged, striking a deadly thrust upon Marianne.
Marianne, stupefied in terror, screwed her eyes shut and braced for the piercing plunge of the sword.
When she felt no sudden pain, she opened her eyes and saw her unfortunate fatality cut through Héloïse’s chest, with her hands on the blade, gripping it tightly and gasping between pants. Her crimson blood pooling fast on the floor and in the midst of her terrible efforts, Marianne was surprised to hear her groan in whisper.
‘Let me save you, at least this time.’
With the slick sound of blood and flesh, the knight pulled out her sword and gave a terrific lurch, reeling Héloïse behind as she toppled over Marianne and they both fell violently inside Héloïse’s old and vacant canvas of the past.
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