And I Will Make Thee Sepulchres of Roses
By
Angelsilhouette,
Posted on: 2006-12-05 12:30 in Roleplaying
One year later
Where did you find this?
The weasel of a man crouched over the stack of pages like a lion over a deer. He looked up at the stranger who had brought in the manuscript: the man had an air of aristocracy about him, yet he did not seem to be of that pampered ilk. Neither did the man have the sickly pallid look of one who spent his time pouring over ancient scrolls.
Never mind where I found it, the stranger replied. Just tell me if you can do it.
The weasel looked over the pages. Well
it will not be easy to maintain the form of each page exactly, down to the letter no, no you said down to every dot and dash. And these roses that are drawn on three corners of each page
Oh, very difficult to do on my old press. That will cost you
I am not much for quibbling. Name your price, but if you tell me you can do this and you fail, mark my word that you shall regret the undertaking of it.
Y-yes. I c-can do it. A-and I can mix the a-ashes into the ink. Y-yes.
The stranger smiled. Good. Take your time, but notify me at this address with the total charges for your work when it is done. He handed the print master a card with an apartment number. I will send a man by to pick it up. You are to ask him no questions and there will be no mirrors in the shop when he comes. Is that understood?
"There are no mirrors now, sir."
The stranger looked around to confirm that fact. "Good. See to it that it does not change before my associate comes."
The weasel nodded his head then watched the stranger curtly turn and walk out of the print shop. He said again, just as the door closed, It wouldnt kill you to tell me where you found this
The stranger heard the mans words and he considered for a moment turning around, but he stepped on out onto the street. A cold rain was falling so he stepped beneath a nearby pawnbroker's awning and took out his pipe. He tamped the bowl to pour the ash out upon the ground. The swirling ash whispered to his memory...
((Finally had a chance to catch up on this...all I can say is "wow". I had a feeling there was something to do with The King In Yellow from the first post because some of the wording reminded me of a short story--More Light by James Blish--involving the play and the superstition that people could go mad reading it.
Anyway, VERY good story, and I wish I'd had a chance to catch up sooner. 
))
He had returned to Oxford from his travels abroad to find his latest paramour had moved away with her family. Bethany was a rare woman in English society feisty, and high spirited, with passions not usually found in a proper lady. He had taught her how to fight like a soldier, and how to ride a horse. She rode wearing only her pantalettes so that she could sit astride the saddle like a man. When she loved, she loved with carefree abandon. That her beauty was as rare as her spirit, also figured into his decision to seek out the familys new home.
What began simply as a search quickly became a quest, because the address to which all of the familys correspondence had been routed to proved to be an empty apartment in the north of Birmingham. Upon contacting the lessee of the apartment, he found out that it was sublet by a company in Newcastle. And so it went as after several weeks he came to the conclusion that someone had purposely set a trail that would lead any seeker further away from the family. Now it was not simply a matter of finding Bethany, it was a matter of thwarting someone who would seek to keep him from his objective.
Most of a year passed before he found the name Lambshead. It was a village near the southern coast, east of Portsmouth. Small in size and smaller in wealth, it was a village of uneducated fishermen. The presence of magic here as was often the case with areas populated by simple folk was strong.
The local man he encountered upon his arrival cursed him roundly when he asked about the scholar and his three beautiful daughters. After that no one in Lambshead would speak with him. When he walked through the village, old women would cross themselves and step into the nearest doorway. In the pub where the barkeep served him most begrudgingly, but could not turn away the Kings gold he gathered that some sinister event had very recently taken place and the resulting scandal had cast a black pall over the town.
It was only by his persistence that someone finally pointed him to the charred ruins of the manor house. He searched through the blackened rubble, finding very little that gave him a clue as to what had happened. He did find a comb with golden strands tangled in its teeth. There was no way to know to which sister they belonged.
He was prepared to take the comb and leave when he heard a sound of mad laughter. He spun around to seek its source only to see the branches of some nearby bushes whipping back into place. With grim determination, he followed into the wild scrub.
A path twisted out of the far side of the thicket and wound down a hill and into a cave entrance. Above the entrance was painted the flaming oak leaf symbol of the Fellowship of Ancient Lore and Arcane Luminary Arts. He had heard of them, but had never had any direct dealings with them. However, if they were involved in this, then deal with them he shall. Holding up his right hand, which began to glow like a lantern, he proceeded.
Just inside the entrance there was a tool bench with tools still set up on it. Here, on the walls, ceiling, and rocky floor were bloodstains. He closed his eyes and had a sense of a battle, and of Bethanys presence. He hoped she gave as well as she got.
He followed the cave until it opened up into a large chamber. The laughter started again and this time he saw the person from whom it came Bethanys father.
Sir, what has happened here? he asked, approaching the man with caution as he looked around the chamber.
The room was ornately decorated with gold urns and figurines and the remains of finely woven tapestries which were scorched and burned. Carvings covered the walls and a statue representing an obscenity of a being dominated one end. Aside from the decorations, there were the bones. Full skeletons, charred and fleshless, lay strewn all around the room full, that is, except for the skulls, which were missing. Of the skeletons, only three retained their heads. They lay together, one with its arms positioned as if embracing the other. The third headed skeleton lay at the feet of the other two, an arm outstretched as if trying to touch the others, but falling just short.
The wretched mans laughter faded, and he said sadly, They cannot pass
my poor flowers cannot pass over
Clearly their father was insane, but if he could calm the man enough, perhaps he could get the truth out of him. Tell, me sir, please, what has happened, and I will do what I can for souls of your daughters.
The haggard father looked at him with gratitude and recounted the grim tale of the translation of the ancient text. He explained what he suspected of his evil wife, and his feeling of powerlessness to cease his work on the book. He told of a blasphemous, abominable rite which was described in the book, and his suspicion that Cassilda planned to perform the ritual in order to bring forth the dark god of an ancient age and to raise a lost city. Within the book was a secret codex with which one could control the powers of this dark god. The power came with great risk, however. If one small bit of the ritual was performed wrongly, or if the codex was used improperly, then the guardian of the lost city would be called forth and his judgment would be swift and terrible.
And so it did happen! the father declared. It did happen so! Someone
something
went wrong. Th-the Tattered King! H-he
he killed them with the rest! B-but h-he did not take their souls w-with the rest, thank God
curse God
I saw
. I saw! And I remained outside so that I might not face his wrath!
When the tale was done, the poor man fell prostrate and pleaded, Kill me for I allowed the wicked woman to use my own daughters in her evil doings!
He ignored the fathers pleadings, turned away and said, Bethany? Speak to me. If you dwell here, make yourself known!
He felt a sensation like a cold finger caressing his cheek. She was indeed still here.
Bethany, I found this comb. I suspect it has your hair tangled in it. If you hear me, focus upon the comb. I can free you from this place if you will attach yourself to this.
He waited for a response, and when none came, said, Elizabeth, if this is your comb, then please draw yourself to it, and then your sister may come with you and you may both be freed.
Again, he waited, and then after moments of no reply continued, Hermione? If
Before he could say another word he felt a jolt and the comb leapt from his hand as if alive.
Ah. Hermiones comb then. He picked it back up then continued speaking. Now, please, Bethany, Elizabeth, draw close to your sister.
He waited.
I do not know exactly what has happened, but surely, you do not wish to remain in this place. Come, so that one day you may live again.
There was another jolt, but this time he held on to the comb. That jolt was followed seconds later by another.
While the wretch who had once been a beloved father and scholar wept in the darkened reaches of the back of the chamber, the man who had once been Bethanys lover crawled on hands and knees, gathering the ashes that were beneath the headed skeletons, for he was sure these were the remains of his lady and her sisters. After he had collected as much as he could be sure was them, he stood and moved toward the door.
Please! Do not leave me so! the father begged.
The choice was harsh, but under the circumstances, it wasnt difficult. He found a pickaxe lying on the floor. In the few spots where its handle wasnt scorched, it was stained with blood. He stood over the weeping madman, lifted up the pickaxe, and swung it, embedding its point deep into the base of the fathers skull.
With a sigh, he left the cave carrying with him the comb and a sack full of ashes. He never looked back.
Now, standing here, outside this small print shop, it seemed almost unbelievable that he would not see her again for a lifetime, perhaps several. Her fate -- and the fates of her sisters -- was tied to the book, and the curses and bindings therein by which they died. But they would live again -- that much was certain -- though the process would be as slow as the planning to make it so had been complicated.
The question that remained was, would he see her again in that distant time? He turned his collar up against the London chill, pulled his hat down low over his brow, faded into the grey downpour, and flew away.
Finis
for now.
(( Wow...
That is completely and utterly awesome, Roy. Fantastic. ))
(( *gives thunderous applause* Bravo, bravo!! Ooh I do hope we see a sequeal some day soon! ))
((The above two comments sum up my thoughts exactly. 
))
[[Excellent! ]]
"Cupcake cupcake cupcake; Cupcake. Merry_Mint is the best." - Abraham Lincoln
((It sounds like that Padre Henri fellow. He was a big opponent of Oranbegan Cultists, and had all sorts of hoojum to do with magicalness. Then again, I'm just comparing an obviously awesome Fan Fiction with canon. It probably has nothing to do with it.))
((That said, it is most impressive. My skills at writing are somewhat limited, but I still enjoy the creations of my Peers.))
((Encore, HEROID. Encore.))
totally looking forward to a sequel, or at the very least seeing a character or two around town.
@sween
Your hero toons need to see this.
(( *applauds loud and long, now that the tale is fully told* ))
My characters at Virtueverse
Faces of the City
((Awesome. Simply awesome. Bravo good sir! Bravo!))
*snif*
Iss bootiful
What a great sense of time and place--really captures a mood. Please, sir, may we have another?
Stands next to Peachie_Tulip Twist, proferring his bowl as well. 
<joins the line next to Angel and Peachie>
{I mentioned it before and I'll say it again. This is *not* my preferred style of reading, but I couldn't stop. This was excellantly written and changed my point of view on the Circle of Thorns. I used to feel slightly sorry for them, not anymore. Very, very nicely crafted!}
Part of Sister Flame's Clickey-Clack Posse
The English language is an intricate high-speed precision tool.Stop using it to bang open coconuts. ~Tokamak
Dark_Respite's Video page
He should take a shot at the Mu next. A compilation of Foes shorts, reflecting the background and abilities of different groups!
You should have some Just off the deep end Mu cultist next. They are always fans of stealin' anything with the slightest whiff of magic. A comb full of souls sounds like something they'd want to take, even if only to soothe their curiousity.
((HOly [censored].))
[ QUOTE ]
<joins the line next to Angel and Peachie>
{I mentioned it before and I'll say it again. This is *not* my preferred style of reading, but I couldn't stop. This was excellantly written and changed my point of view on the Circle of Thorns. I used to feel slightly sorry for them, not anymore. Very, very nicely crafted!}
[/ QUOTE ]
[ QUOTE ]
He should take a shot at the Mu next. A compilation of Foes shorts, reflecting the background and abilities of different groups!
You should have some Just off the deep end Mu cultist next. They are always fans of stealin' anything with the slightest whiff of magic. A comb full of souls sounds like something they'd want to take, even if only to soothe their curiousity.
[/ QUOTE ]
((I really have to hand it to the devs for giving their villain organizations such solid backstories, but still leaving things open-ended enough so that I can make up indirect predecessors without worrying about contradicting canon.
But thanks for the compliments peeps! ))
*wonders if Heroid's day job is "award winning author"*
*sneaks over to Heroid's house to look at his collection of nebulas, hugos, and whatever other kinds of awards they give out to those creative writey types *
*wipes a tear from her eye* I hope Bethany and her lover find each other again.
Ok, so I read the initial post... then the next two...
I wanted to read more, but, anyone who knows me really well knows I am flighty, and easily distracted. Corax are like that. it happens.
Anywho, I for one am glad I decided to just hit "show all" and read it all at once.
The Imprisonment of Camilla (Act 3, Scene 1)... dunno how much is from the King in Yellow, and how much is what you did, but that is by far one of the most beautifully written passages I've read in a long time.
The whole story is exquisite. Beautiful, dark, elegant. I am forever in awe of your storytelling ability, it seems.
Your work is always amazing, but of the pieces of yours I've read, this one firmly ties for first place where I'm concerned.
Keep it up!
-side note-> man, i'm all inspired now. If only I had a story to tell....
-Huntress
((It occurs to me that I never did link this with its sequel. So...
Dead Roses on My Grave ))
I just found this story, despite it being up for a couple years. It was horrific, but amazing. Sparse on description and yet able to invoke feelings for the characters. The tie-ins with Lovecraft were fantastic.
One thing niggled at me. The burned skeletons in the cavern; I'm assuming the three in the middle were the sisters, and that their father arranged them with the two eldest with their arms around each other and Hermione reaching up to them from below. The three skeletons were described as being the only three that had not been beheaded, but the King in Yellow distinctly beheaded Hermione along with her stepmother.
Regardless... a shocking and enthralling story. I'm off to read the sequel now.
"Timid men prefer the calm of despotism to the tempestuous sea of liberty."
"Nothing is unchangeable but the inherent and unalienable rights of man."
- Thomas Jefferson
((Well, I rahter ifgured they all had to die tragically somehow or other - its that sort of story,
. Its a really spectacular story too, though, Heroid. I don't think I've ever been more impressed with a piece of fan fiction before. Frankly I'm a little jealous ;D.))