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Rain pours insistently, wetting the ground, and tumbling against the castle’s stone walls. Wind howls while thunder groans. The castle floors creak with life as its residents prepare for cascading twilight, hoping the fury of the night will not take them in their slumber. Perhaps the pitter-patter of the rain against the roof will ease their worries, if only for a time. It’s hard to think of perpetual doom when boisterous thunder seems to boom it out from the mind.
At least, that was the case with most of the weary warriors.
Revenant sits in front of her vanity. A candle is lit nearby, its flame flickering, illuminating. She watches its mesmerizing dance for a moment, as it almost dies and then bursts again with life. Did she care for such little amusements? Revenant doesn’t help but wonder as her glass eyes, blue and vibrant against the paleness of her skin, trail to the vanity’s mirror, looking steadily at herself. Earlier she had removed the flower veil that rested elegantly on her head, tucking it away and ensuring that the petals had not come to harm. Revenant raises her hand to rest it against her face, fingers feeling and tracing the cracks where night had formally been concealed. The makeup is running off- she needs to replace it.
Her hand, slender and nimble, reaches for a small, worn makeup pallet, dirty with old color and dust, slightly rustic at the edges. It isn’t anything special, but it’s hers. And just as she is about to wrap her fingers around the chipped handle of her brush, lightning strikes close to the window of her room, and it’s as if every joint in her body grows stiff with the need of grease. Her hand hesitates, and her fingers twitch. Revenant’s lack of a beating heart seems to be made up for in the form of the night festering within her porcelain skin, sowing the seeds of anxiety. She does not dare take her eyes off the mirror, as if she is expecting someone to be there.
But there isn’t anybody there, and she feels a fool. “How annoying,” Revenant mutters to herself, grabbing the make-up brush with haste. It is just her and the softness of the rain, nothing more, no one to come up behind her and murder her, leaving her smashed up on the floor. That would be ridiculous. Revenant dips her brush in the powder and starts to conceal the crevices on her face. She tucks her hair behind her ears.
Revenant feels the pressure of the brush against her skin, but she can’t feel the cold powder that now sticks to her, or the soft bristles of the brush that paint her, making her perfect.
“With this you’ll be most beautiful. The most beautiful doll in the world.” Her girl would say with a giddy laugh and gentle smile. “So lucky you are, to be here with such a loving family.” Revenant pauses, the make-up brush resting heavy on her cheek. How ironic those words seemed to be now; innocence now spattered with blood. The world was given to her girl and ripped away in an instance. She hears the clatter of the palette in her shaking hands, and she wills them to still. There is no need for this reckless anxiety. Revenant knows her purpose, and it is not to be tainted with fear. She will stand tall in the eyes of revenge and vanquish night’s madness. That is her purpose, not to help the others here, but to avenge her. Lightning strikes once more, casting a grim shadow.
The brush is lost to the floor, losing paint with each echoing, dreadful clatter. Her fingers clasp around the palette tightly, and before she can even think about it, a terrified scream is torn from her throat as the glare of her executor burns over her shoulder in the reflection of the vanity. Glass shatters, and some of its sparkling pieces decorate her hair. Her knuckles show with new scars. Revenant is standing, she doesn’t even remember getting up. Her chest feels heavy and heaves even though hardly any air comes out. All she can do is look into the mirror. Her girl looks back, just as terrified.
Revenant drops back onto her stool, palette forgotten on the table, arms limp by her sides, and a mirror now shattered with missing pieces and branching segments. Her hair rests messily on her shoulders, messy and split. Just as she is about to stand and look for her lost brush, a warm hand pushes gently on her shoulder. “How frightened you are, dolly girl.” It’s Recluse. The witches’ fingers linger as they leave. She is the embodiment of midnight’s beauty, and grace. Her robes sway elegantly in the draft.
“Leave, hag,” Revenant bites bitterly. Her head slowly looks up and is met with softness, but that doesn’t replace the feeling of mistrust and vulnerability that she carries heavy on shoulders. The witch tsks, moving her willowy arms to reveal the doll’s old brush. “Why not let me help you, dear doll?” Revenant is tempted to snatch the brush clean from Recluse’s hand. How dare this wicked witch impede on her room. How dare she watch Revenant shriek at the illusions in her mirror. She doesn’t need the spider’s pity. For all Revenant knew, Recluse was simply try to weave an entrapping web around her, to use her. “Why come this night, of all nights?” Revenant demands.
“Your screams.”
“Anyone could have heard those.”
“But not everyone would come.”
“Then why you?”
“To make sure death’s grip hadn’t seized you.”
“A pitiful excuse.”
“Because I care for thee.”
Revenant goes silent. She tries reading the enchantress’ face, to see if there was a lie curled within her hidden eyes, but she found nothing. Her fingers slowly loosen from a fist. The doll doesn’t say anything, but she nods a silent yes. Recluse smiles as her large body kneels to the ground. She places her pointed hat to the side, revealing more of her moon kissed hair, draping elegantly around her. “There, now let me see.”
Recluse takes Revenant’s hand and delicately unwraps the rough bandages, revealing the disease that seeps within the doll’s skin. Revenant fights the urge to pull her hand back, to cover it and hide. She watches the witch’s eyes for any signs of disgust, regret. Nothing is revealed. Recluse just hums as she dips the brush into the palette, dusting the doll’s hand with fine powder. Recluse’s work seems meticulous, calculated, and yet, soothing and gentle. Revenant feels her body begin to relax, now fascinated with the way the witch’s fingers moved.
“Not so stubborn now, are we?” Recluse muses as she moves the brush up her arm, hiding away the doll’s imperfections and restoring her beauty. Revenant huffs, irritated. “I would have been without thee, hag. Eventually…” her voice trails off as her gaze wonders to the window. “Is that night what has frightened you?” Recluse’s voice lulls her back, but Revenant’s glassy eyes only seem to harden at the question. “You know nothing of it, do not speak on it.”
“And yet, through me is how you faced it.”
Revenant opens her mouth to speak, but silence is all that greets her. The witch seems pleased with herself, as it is revealed from her smile. She moves to the doll’s other arm.
“Did you have any family?”
The witch pauses her gentle strokes and hesitates briefly. When she continues, her movements are slower, thoughtful, even. “My child,” Recluse finally replies. “An infant, they are. And lost somewhere in the night’s reign.” Her words are sorrowfully bitter. Revenant blinks with pity. “I am sorry for thee,” she murmurs. Revenant rests her face against her now free palm. The witch had lost family too. She knows the striking pain of grief, and the hollowness it leaves one with.
Revenant examines the witch closely, eyes tracing over tired muscles. And yet, even fatigued, Recluse had this striking beauty about her. Her limbs move with grace, and her skin is that of beautiful midnight, accented with lavish hues of purple. Revenant shakes her head, ridding the siren thoughts. Recluse catches her chin, tilting it upwards. The doll stiffens.
“Your darling face is all that’s left,” she muses, and Revenant almost wishes she could feel the warmth of Recluse’s skin on hers, to feel the softness of her touch instead of the pressure it creates. Recluse brushes back her hair and, suddenly, Revenant is aware of how close Recluse is to her She can see the witch’s eyes, a sense of magic reflecting in their grey hues. They met her own glassy blue, a clash of a gentler storm.
“May I, sweet doll?”
Hells! What was this magic?
Revenant hesitates. She’s supposed to hate this witch. Resent her. She made her remember that night. Made her remember the warm blood on Revenants face as she witnessed, helplessly, the murders of a mad man. All the fear, all the crying, the gore.
But what happened that night wasn’t Recluse’s fault, was it? The witch had never been there to begin with. Her only crime was helping Revenant see the past, to face it and become stronger. The witch has always been there to be a shoulder to lean on.
After a moment more of puzzlement, Revenant finally nods her head.
Without so much as a second of hesitation, Recluse’s head moves forward to capture the doll’s lips in a gentle kiss, and Revenant feels this oddity in her chest, like a beating heart, even though she knows she is without one. She resists the urge to pull back, more so from shock than anything else, and eventually closes her eyes, and accepts.
The kiss is soft, kind, not rushed or impure.
Recluse places a gentle hand on Revenant’s face, swiping her thumb against her glassy cheek. If the doll could cry, she imagines her face would have been wet with tears by now. This gentle care- it’s something Revenant had been longing for since that horrible night. Time seemed to slow until Recluse gently pulls away, bringing Revenant back to reality. The witch brushes her own white hair out of the way.
“Even with night’s blight, you are most beautiful, Revenant.” Revenant says nothing. Recluse waits a moment more before rising to her feet, straightening out that elegant gown of hers. She offers the doll a kind smile, placing the old make-up pallet and brush with care onto the vanity. The rain outside seemed gentler, no longer with the threat of boisterous thunder.
Recluse turns to walk away, but Revenant grabs desperately towards her hand, like it’s a lifeline.
“Witch,” she starts, unsure of herself. Revenant had never been this uncertain about her feelings. She had always known exactly what she wanted, what she was destined for, but this… this feeling was all new. She looks up, meeting Recluse’s eyes, wide with anticipation, bright against the reflection of the moon’s light.
“Recluse,” Revenant corrects herself, “may thou stay with me tonight?” The doll never left the towering woman’s gaze, trying to make sense of the look in her eyes. Each passing second was dreadful, but Revenant was able to eventually relax.
“Of course, my dear dolly.”
Revenant grasps the doll’s other small, fragile hand and helped her up from her seat. She guides Revenant to her bed, where they both undress from their day time clothes and slip into something more fitting for sleep. Revenant lifts the covers, allowing for the witch to crawl in first, where she would soon follow after.
Something about having another person in bed brought a sense of relief, as Revenant was rather prone to nightmares and outbursts. Perhaps… this night would be kinder to her.
The two turned to face each other, and Recluse pulled Revenant close to her body, so that their faces were close as they rest against the pillows. “Many nights I wondered when thou might come around- if you ever would. And if thou did, I wondered what thy lips may feel like, or the lightness of thou hands against my own.”
“I’m just a misfortunate doll,” Revenant muttered in response, gazing at the strands of silver hair that laid across the witch’s shoulder. “I lack qualities the common mortal has. I am not made of flesh, rather, ruinous glass.”
“And yet, thou has feelings, thou has empathy… and a desire for vengeance, and I think that is human enough.” Recluse kisses the top of Revenant’s head and takes her hand in her own. Revenant smiles, only briefly, but Recluse catches it and feels satisfied.
“Now sweet doll, we should rest. A long day heeds tomorrow, and darkness should not take us tonight.”
Revenant nods and moves just a little closer to Recluse’s body, wrapping her arm around her waste before closing her eyes, drifting into a deep slumber with rain that was now just a gentle patter.