Chapter Text
Two children sat by their moonlit window one night, skimming through a pictureless big black book. Blood-red curtains were pushed back after the servants left the room, and the window was open, allowing chilly autumn air to break in.
No nurse or governess read to them, and one mother was away while the other was dead. The current lady of the house didn’t care enough to waste her time on such trifles.
Surprisingly, it is said the late mother died of the same disease mentioned in the pictureless black book.
Eventually, a golden boy with golden curls joined the pair, having the hope that the tale they were reading was about love, glory, vitality, and all things joyful.
To his dismay, it was hateful, humiliating, deadly, and all things sorrowful. Poisonous.
The golden boy snatched the book away and placed it on a cherrywood nightstand.
“Can’t you go and look at something else?” he whined. “I don’t like things talking about… about the.. you know.”
“The plague,” one of the children– a dark-haired girl– filled in for him. “And a palace of ghosts. Wouldn’t you like that?” She appeared as if she was about to continue, but then kept her mouth shut. As if she didn’t want the others to know
“An abbey , the story said,” corrected the other boy near the window. “Rhian, why do you have to spoil everything? Can’t you just go somewhere else?”
“I can’t sleep. I need you to read me a nice story, Fala. Or maybe Blanche can do it. She’s nicer than you, at least. You’ll read to me, right, Blanche?”
“It better not be that horrid love story with pirates and kissing in it,” Fala hissed.
“Why not a song instead?” Blanche asked, shyly. “I mean… It's talking about plague and death, but the melody is soft and you don’t have to pay attention to all of the words. It does talk about peace after dying and being with those you love, so it isn’t all that bad.”
Fala didn’t seem too keen on his friend singing to his childish brother, for whatever reason. He roughly grabbed her arm and brought her to the ground, next to him. “I think she should go to sleep and rest rather than indulge your infantile whimsies. I’ll find something for you to listen to. But nothing about pirates and love.”
No song was sung– and eventually, the terrible story had to be read, this time by a persistent Blanche rather than a sour Fala.
But the song would always remain with her. And with them.
Because eventually, Rhian, the golden boy full of health, strength, and life, would hear it too. One day, Fala would sing it, but he wouldn’t hear it, and Blanche wouldn’t be there at all.