The Midnight Before Me

by Elizabeth Lo

  He is nothing now. There is no more meaning to his existence.

  Is it worse to live without really living or to live knowing you lived the wrong way?

  Chapter Six

  Glorieux

  Blood. So much blood.

  But there’s none on her. Not yet.

  A picturesque white rope dangles next to her. It seems to be woven of light and laced together with a delicate beauty. She reaches out towards it.

  So smooth and fine. Beautiful.

  Her outstretched fingers make contact with it and grab it.

  Now she is clinging onto it for dear life.

  The puddle of blood around her becomes a sea.

  Bodies are floating in it. At first, she is too busy holding onto the rope to see them.

  Then she looks down and studies them more closely.

  She can see all twenty-three soldiers she killed as she escapes the palace. Some of them don’t have faces—she can’t remember them. But they all have the same eyes—frightful, angry…

  Betrayed.

  But she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care. Chevalier’s face looks pointedly at her, and Gracieux’s frightened eyes looking out of that horribly burned face taunts her.

  The white rope she’s been holding is now dwindling threads. They slip from her fingers.

  Splash!

  Red, red, red, red, red, red, red.

  Blackness.

  Glorieux wakes from her dream on the cold mossy trunk she had collapsed on. The ground is so cold, so cold. But the desire for warmth only makes her feel colder.

  Warmth is for kind. Warmth is for the innocent. Warmth is for the loved.

  She is none of those.

  Making an escape in a bloody gown is not recommended for amateur killers. Glorieux ripped the entire bottom of her full-length dress off and turned it into a tattered cocktail dress smattered in red and darker red. Her bare legs, pressed against the icy ground, feel like every single millimeter of her skin in contact with the earth is being bitten off. She had used any leftover fabric to wrap herself up, but it’s of no use. Not when the coldest thing here is herself.

  She’s tasted blood now. She wants more. The suffocation of everything is strangling her, and she wants to be free from it already. More. More needs to be overcome before she can be free.

  She’s made it quite a few miles from the palace after walking a couple of days, but they can easily catch up to her. Strange to think how the bloodshed in the Winter Palace was really a few days ago. To her, it still feels like the same day.

  She would Teleport, but there are skilled magicians in the area who can easily detect her. The better a person is able to utilize their magic power, the more they buzz in the presence of others. Spells unleash even more magic bursts, turning any person instantly into a beacon.

  I should’ve killed those other guards, too, she thinks, but then she instantly regrets those thoughts. An instant later, she thinks that they will be dead anyway when she’s done. Another instant later, she wonders why she even regretted thinking that.

  Which thoughts are actually her own? Which feelings are from her and not someone else? The hum of whispering and talking in the back of her head is still there. Maybe Justin and Lawrence are talking about their days in the military. Or maybe Miller and Guillaume are reminiscing about their little misdeeds and rebellions against the war. Or perhaps Oceane and Heather are gossiping about people that are far beyond their reach by now. Either way, everyone is loud. So loud, so loud…

  It’s like trying to listen to all the conversations going on in a room at once only for everything to turn into gibberish and noise that smacks about in her head with the inconstant dying and swelling of conversation.

  Ugh… Soren whispers, sounding more exasperated than anything. So much walking…

  Are we there yet? Some of them ask.

  Glorieux doesn’t say anything. She just keeps putting one foot in front of the other, one, two, one, two, left, right, left, right. How much longer, indeed.

  Because she’s not wandering through a cold forest just to run away from the palace guards. There’s more planned.

  The Summer Palace must be getting closer… Her target is so achingly close…

  She must get rid of him—Sucre. Watch the life drain from his eyes like everyone else. He’s the one thing standing in her way. The one thing that could potentially stop her.

  But of course, it won’t be easy to kill a creature such as a nuagepanthère. Mortal wounds won’t kill them—no, to kill them, you must completely decapitate them or leave them unable to regenerate at all. The nuagepanthère is thought to be immortal to the general public. But just a quick study of ancient Thyrmian literature can show that he is anything but if she can play her cards right. Of course… there’s always an enchantment she could do… but she’s had her fill of enchantments already.

  As each hour passes, she travels about only two or three miles. She doesn’t stop to rest. Her bare feet are now the only things propelling her through the cold wood and frosty leaves, and each breath takes more and more effort.

  Her hands and nose have gone numb. While the Summer Palace is quite pleasant in the summer, it’s one of the coldest places in Galviton during any other season. The commoners have it good in the sunny south, which she supposes was the original King Fantastique’s motive when he established Galviton. It was thought that he was the type of man that liked giving to the poor.

  Every part of her is shivering violently, and the trees towering above her torture and taunt her on her journey—laughing at how small she is yet smacking her with low-hanging branches and tripping her feet every chance they get. Should she burn them?

  Maybe. But not now.

  She only has to get to the river.

  Get to the river. Get to the river.

  The little river running around the hill atop which sits the Summer Palace is just ahead. She can just about see it. Get to the river. Get to the river.

  I didn’t do anything wrong.

  And as she trudges through the unbearable forests of Northern Galviton, she repeats this phrase in her head. Over and over again.

  I didn’t do anything wrong.

  I didn’t do anything wrong.

  I didn’t do anything wrong.

  I didn’t do anything wrong.

  No, she didn’t. In fact, more… she wants more. That was just the first step. And she will continue to take steps.

  No matter what it takes.

  The castle looms just over the tops of the trees. Is it close?

  Just keep going. Her legs threaten to give up every step of the way.

  One more step. One more step. One more step.

  Her breath hitches; her body is unfeeling and frozen to the bone. But warmth is for the happy. Warmth is for the innocent. Warmth is for perfection. And she doesn’t want to be perfect anymore.

  I didn’t do anything wrong.

  This is just the first step out of many.

  One more step. One more step.

  She finally makes it to the top of the hill. The foreboding castle looms above holding the last nuagepanthère in the world. Glorieux was not a complete fool when she left the castle; she at least grabbed the key to the Summer Palace when she made her exit.

  Her body stumbles to the front gate of the abandoned castle. It’s mid-fall now, and the castle should be completely vacant except for Sucre and his caretaker.

  Guess she has another person to kill.

  The door creaks open and gives her an eerie feeling of nostalgia just listening to it. Just five months ago, she had entered this palace with a smile on her face with Gracieux smiling along. Her assassination plan was just a mere whim at the time. And even before, when she was just the young daughter of the prestigious general visiting the castle with her father, this place symbolized the light of the country. The screech of the gate was a sound of welcoming and cheer.

  That, of course, didn’t mean that she was the cheery one.

 
She can’t remember the last time she was happy. She can barely remember anything from her past now. After living in such a deadened state for so long, only memories that will aid her basic survival and daily functioning are kept. Otherwise, they’re useless.

  Happy. What a joke of a word.

  Glorieux’s delicate, bloodstained slippers pad through the foyer across the smooth tile floor until she reaches the area where Sucre is held. The male guard in charge of watching Sucre turns and sees her, and his eyes widen. She’s not sure where the shock originates from—either from seeing the Queen of Galviton or from seeing a woman with haunted eyes and a blood smattered face sauntering down the halls.

  But no matter, he dies quickly. She Teleports just inches from him, places her hand around his head, and releases a controllable explosion of fire, incinerating him. She takes care not to lose control and burn too much of the body since somewhere on him is the key into Sucre’s habitat.

  Finding the large bronze item, she moves on to the cat.

  Giant yellow eyes the size of serving plates stare her down from the dark as she enters his habitat.

  “Hello, Sucre,” she says, as calmly as she can, though there is a slight quiver to it. “Long time no see.” It’s only uneven because control in a body like hers is usually shared or momentary. No other reason.

  Likewise, he growls.

  “Well…” she breathes, straightening her tattered dress and meeting his eyes in a direct challenge. “Let’s make this quick, then.”

  Instantly, the room lights up with the warm glow of flames. Plants start wilting away from the sweltering heat emanating off of her, though Sucre doesn’t pay it any mind.

  Have they finally gotten to you, Glorieux?

  She ignores him and makes her way across the room.

  You told me, three years ago, he hisses, that you were afraid of what the curse will distort into overtime. You told me to stop it when it got to a point where you can’t control yourself. Clearly, that time has come, hasn’t it…

  “Oh… That’s right… I did tell you that, didn’t I?” The fire grows around her, pulsing out from her body and filling her breath with heat. “Well… you can ignore that, now. That was just Glorieux saying what she had to say to keep up her image.”

  Oh? Then what about the Glorieux now?

  “Hmm…” She cocks her head to the side, that proper smile coming back to her face naturally from years of practice. “This Glorieux is… free, I suppose.”

  Free? His whiskers twitch in amusement. All I see is a woman who thinks taking off one set of chains and putting on another is called freedom.

  A snarl builds in her throat, matching his rumbling growl that shakes the room. He’s the size of a house, if not bigger, but it’s too dark to see anything else in the habitat other than a few withering plants and both of their faces glaring the other down.

  Within a moment, though, Sucre’s entire body locks together. Glorieux’s fingers glow orange and red as her hand covers his face from her view and instead constricts his body in a deadly tight Telekinetic hold.

  His entire body was coiled for a fight—she can feel it through the spell. It’s as if she has invisible fingers wrapped around his every hair and hide. As if she’s holding a kitten, feeling his every breath through his pelt, his every muscle, his every weakness.

  A hiss tries to escape his throat, but since his jaw is held shut, it only makes a slight fizzling sound within his body.

  “How’s that, kitty?” She giggles a little, this victory warming her entire body and making her feel more alive than ever. “You know what’s nice about having eight other spirits within you?” She steps closer, her entire face lit up from fire and madness. “Now… I’m strong enough to overcome even a creature such as you.”

  I will have your head. I swear it.

  The statement is so funny that she has to laugh.

  “Not before I have yours first.”

  And, to his surprise, she drops her hand while keeping him in just as strong a Telekinetic hold as flames start to engulf his habitat. The hand was for show. To make it seem as if it required effort for her to hold him in place. Flames lick at the foliage around him and climb up the vines like hungry monsters ready to devour the giant cat before them.

  There’s no other reason for her to go to these lengths to kill him. She could probably do the same to him as she did to his caretaker. But that wouldn’t be good enough. She wants to see him suffer, cry in pain, and feel utterly trapped. Somehow, killing him too quickly seems like it would do him more of a favor than it would her.

  The shock in his aura is candy to her childlike mind as she turns and skips away.

  Sucre’s cage is locked on the outside, set in place by some previous king who felt he needed to keep the creature locked in one place. Now, it works against him. He’ll just burn to the ground in his own home.

  She is powerful. So much more powerful. So much so, she can take down the Royal Nuagepanthère of Galviton without even breaking a sweat. It’s thrilling, isn’t it?

  Leaving him, she ascends to her room in a different wing, on higher ground, to silently celebrate her victory and also warm up a little bit.

  Because warmth is also for the free.

  And Glorieux is free now. She just has to protect that freedom.

  She finds the fireplace in the master bedroom and heats it up.

  But strangely, no matter how warm she gets, it won’t thaw her completely. The cold has been thoroughly imbued in her bones.

  Her father once told her that all the renowned conquerors revered for their accomplishments had to kill numerous times to get to the places they wanted to go. And now, she feels just as strong as they were, if not more.

  Glorieux tucks herself into her bed, satisfied. As she begins to drift off, she’s finally able to remember and relive some moments of happiness in her head. Oh… like that one…

  Marigold Frost was on the poorer side of the Frost family. Of course, “poorer” just meant middle class instead of the higher class, but even so, her family was not regarded as a prominent member of the Frost family.

  Glorieux met her when they were young. It was by chance at an opera. Both of them were infinitely bored by the endless singing and had coincidentally escaped into the exact same corridor. They collided in that posh hallway as they had both made a break for the “bathroom.”

  “Oh! I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” Glorieux curtsied, polite as ever even during her hurried escape.

  “Ah, no. You’re fine.”

  Glorieux blinked.

  “Uh, yes, indeed. Are you fine?”

  Marigold laughed.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  Marigold then eagerly skipped down the hall, her thick white hair bobbing up and down. She stopped at the end.

  “Are you coming with?”

  “If I may.”

  Glorieux bounded towards Marigold, but thought better of it, as it hardly seemed ladylike or practical to run in the hallway in a dress as big as hers.

  There was another flash of white next to her. A little boy whose head only barely made it past her shoulder darted over to Marigold’s side.

  “Hey, let’s explore this place. Papa says it’s huge!” he yelled excitedly.

  “Hush. They’ll find us if you yell,” Marigold whispered. But her face was smiling, brimming with anticipation and curiosity.

  “I hear they have a chocolate fountain here,” he whispers.

  “Yes, my father also mentioned that,” Glorieux said, stepping into the conversation. “I can show you the way if you would like…”

  “Oh, sure! Go ahead,” Marigold smiled.

  “Really? You’re the best!” the boy cheered, forgetting his sister’s warning.

  There was an energy to them. There was a playful twinkle to the boy’s eye, even more so than his sister, he jumped around and said whatever he wanted. Something in Glorieux was envious of them. Something in her admired them. But at the time, those feelings w
ere just mere wisps in the back of her mind.

  They ran around the place for some time. They took strawberries from a small platter and dipped them in the fountain. Whenever Glorieux thought about leaving, the sibling’s antics only glued her to their presence.

  After this event, they became almost inseparable friends over the years, and soon Glorieux was purposefully taking detours on her way to school to visit her one and only friend, Marigold. They talked about political affairs, boys, family troubles, and, of course, magic.

  Marigold was a gifted magician—something that she would later pass on to her daughter. She could practically cast any spell she wanted despite most magicians being stuck with a select five to ten spells in their limited skill set. Magic is an energy-sucking activity, but she would practice it for hours on end. At least she had the freedom to do so.

  Glorieux, on the other hand, got very little sleep due to her strict school. Her father wanted her to become a secretary, and she was already studying for the job at the tender age of eleven. It was probably then, while preparing for each day before the sun even kissed the edge of the horizon, that she realized how truly, utterly meaningless her life was meant to be. Life… was just being a pawn. A person is born, they study, they work, then they die. Such… a pathetic existence, it seemed to her.

  No… She was the pathetic existence.

  She was the one who only studied, only worked, and maybe would have died doing it just to “contribute to society.”

  How cruel of Marigold to do whatever she wanted. To love whoever she wanted right in front of Glorieux.

  Inside, Glorieux always felt something much uglier than the friendship Marigold thought they had. Envy. Dark, ugly…

  It’s there Glorieux stops thinking about Marigold. Nothing good came out of their relationship after she could no longer control those ugly feelings.

  And Marigold ultimately left Glorieux in the dust, joined the military as a magician, and set out to build a family of her own with a man of questionable lineage. But with a little push in the right direction, Marigold sacrificed her children to a magician of questionable purposes and brought into the world a red-eyed, black-haired boy and a pink-eyed, silver-haired girl. All the while, Glorieux had fallen into forbidden love with none other than that bright-eyed boy, Marigold’s little brother, Soren.