by Sarah Diemer
So far, they have been lucky--but in a court of dark creatures, how long can good will last? She knows this. She must not look into the shadows.
“This way,” hisses the vampire, and quietly they follow him.
It is a ghost city. Booths and doorways and windows are open, as if their inhabitants have stepped away for an evening meal, ready to return in a simple moment. The silence deafens Emmie, and she almost dies of fright when Sir Cat treads on her toes.
Above them, the sharp towers loom closer and closer until there…there are the gates of the palace.
“It should be easy to get in,” the vampire waves to the gate, “for tonight is Hallow’s Eve… and the ball is already underway.”
“Ball?” Emmie whispers. Her heart aches, and before he speaks, she knows.
“The Dark King and Dark Lady are hosting a ball. A dance,” he says. “Something about everlasting love.”
Dull silence surrounds them until Scarlet coughs. “Not that it matters. It is untrue. He is bewitched. Right, Emmie?”
“Right,” she replies, feeling ever so small.
They walk into the palace, then: vampire, cat, crow, wolfkin and girl. Scarlet puts an arm about her and draws her close. “It’s advice that is older than I,” she says, then, kindly. “But you must trust yourself. It’s Hallow’s Eve--the night of deep magic. Anything can happen.”
Dark corridors twist and wind before them as they make their way steadily upward. Step by step, the sounds of melancholy music and chattering come, spiraling about their bodies, bewitching their minds. The heady scent of cider draws close, now, and the swish of velvets, and there are pumpkins along the walls--all on fire.
They turn a corner and the ball spreads before them.
There is dancing and elaborate gowns. Emmie notices this first and draws her cape even closer about her slight form, ashamed of the simple dress she wears, so very far from a ballgown. The music is sad and lonely--melodies that hint to so much more. And there, in the center of the assembled creatures and kinsmen and myths and nightmares is the Dark King.
Emmie watches, feeling broken, as he gives his hand to a woman. She is pale and tall and everlastingly beautiful with eyes like stars. But stars shine and burn bright--these are flat, listless, dead.
They dance.
The music, now, changes. First, a pretty waltz, then a different rhythm Emmie can not quite place. They are beautiful as they move, spinning as leaves, delicate. Effortless.
She watches them move, watches the Dark King’s hands wrap around his lady’s… and Emmie turns, ready to leave.
“Don’t be a fool. This--it is all treachery,” hisses Scarlet. “Look with your heart, Emmie – vision lies.”
She is small--a nothing, really. How can she ever compare? But Emmie turns back…
The King looks at her. Eyes lock, time stands still and the dance…stops.
How can this be? The Dark King is striding forward--hesitant, but now, quickly--and he stands before her and her mouth opens and closes and eyes are wide and hands are clasped and the Dark King bows before he says, quiet voice solemn: “Do I…know you?”
“We have…not yet met, your majesty.” Emmie’s heart is in her throat, she can look nowhere else but within those deep, dark pools. She is drowning.
“What is your name?”
“Emmie.”
“Emmie.” The Dark King turns the word on his tongue, saying it like melody. “Emmie--may I, perhaps, ask a favor?” His eyes betray something, but what it is, she knows not. Here, now, she fairly shakes, but manages a: “Yes, anything.” It’s true.
“Would you dance with me?"
Is this real? Does it matter? (It should.) her mind reprimands, and then her fine hand is in his own, and the red cape falls to the floor and Emmie and the Dark King begin to dance.
Emmie has only danced beneath trees, arms spread in worship to the sky and bright star and sun--turning seasons spring beneath bare feet, rhythm of heart beat and wind rush, the only music to her joy. Now, she steps lightly, remembering those moments, reliving them with soft stillness…in love.
He…He is lovely--dark mane and dark eyes and gentle features. Kind. Good. If she stops to think, she will question: her worth, this moment, this dream. So she does not think. She dances.
They say nothing, but his hand tightens about her own, and long fingers press her side, and she could weep from the touch. Instead, she breathes. In and out, in and out. Bodies whirl and feet step and Emmie’s heart…grows.
“If you don’t mind.” The voice is cold, winter nights and bottomless wells. Emmie trips and somehow falls--has the king let go? Her knees smart, connecting with marble, and she looks up, up, up as music stops and heart plummets.
The Dark Lady.
(Tonight is All Hallow’s Eve…)
“I’m so sorry.” Emmie says--to both of them. And then she’s backing into the crowd, trying to find a way out of this labyrinth, this maze, of well dressed bodies and heartless things.
A candle in the tallest tower. She must think on these things--she must. But tears fall down her cheeks and when she dares a glance back, she is undone. The Dark Lady is kissing the Dark King. It is over.
It is over for her…but not truly for the king. Blinded by tears, Emmie finds a way out of that stifling press of darkness and trips on…stairs?
Up. Up. Ever up. The king’s heart burns in the tallest tower, and this is all that matters now. Emmie take the steps two at a time. Weeping. Alone.
No--not alone. A rush of black feathers and Sir Crow lands on her shoulder, beak nestled against raven mane. “I will help you find the tower,” he says, and then he directs her. Right, left, right again. Down blood red corridors and halls as dark as pitch, girl and crow wander until, finally, she has climbed the final set of stairs. And there are doors.
Thirteen doors down a dead end hall. “The thirteenth,” Sir Crow whispers, and flaps his mighty wings out an open window. He has repaid the kindness and Emmie is once more alone.
“The thirteenth,” she whispers, and opens the door.
There is a candle. It is small--almost burned out--a stub of wax flickering in the darkness. It is enshrined in a crook in the wall… and it is so small.
Emmie steps forward and reaches to touch it. The wax is warm, malleable. She traces thin fingers over soft contours, eyes closed.
“Emmie.”
His voice makes her heart stop, sing, break. She turns and the Dark King is in the room and she does not know what to do. Or say.
His heart is--literally--in her hands.
“I remember you, now.” He steps forward, “The girl in the forest,” another step… “Every day…”
“Please don’t,” Emmie whispers, blinded by salt water, pouring from wine dark eyes. Salt of the sea, salt of the earth…tears…
As the king steps forward, a curious thing begins to happen. The candle in her hands, in the crook of the wall flickers--the flame grows stronger, waxing full. Growing. Emmie stares at it a moment in amazement. Surely her eyes play tricks. Surely…
He takes her hand, now. She lets go of the candle. It flickers, still, but shines true. The flame is strong.
“You have come every day.” His voice is gentle, her heart races. “Why?”
Good girls should not want Dark Kings. But she did. Good girls tell no lies. But she does…
“To pick berries. And sometimes apples.” Her voice wavers, and she is still crying. With her free hand, she reaches into her dress pocket and draws out a red apple, a ruby in the candlelight.
“No other reason?” He sounds so sad.
Lonely.
Alone.
“What are you doing?” It is so cold, that voice, darkness on an autumn night--darkness without stars. The Dark Lady stands in the doorway, lips snarling.
The candle flickers. Emmie stares at it as the Dark Lady strides forward. It burns down.
“My lord, it is almost the witching hour! Time for the dark creatures to be
gin their journey…” her voice purrs, her anger masked. “Come--let us say goodbye.”
She reaches to kiss him. She is moving too fast, spider quick across the cold floor, arms are spread, smile so inviting…fangs sharp.
The candle flickers as if troubled by some ill wind. Emmie can not breathe as the Dark Lady comes, closer now--closer still. It is almost burned out!
It is the Witching Hour.
She is too late.
A curious thing happens, just then. The Dark Lady, this magnificent, graceful creature…falters. She trips?
“Sir Cat!” cries Emmie as he missteps the Dark Lady. He turns, twin green eyes burning.
“Break the spell!” he says calmly, and begins to wash his front right paw. The Dark Lady falls…
It is a long moment of wondering, hoping…wishing. But Sir Cat’s eyes are steady, and all of Emmie’s dreams come back. She knows what she must do.
And Emmie kisses the Dark King.
It was an easy movement--she was so close, she needed only to reach up, stand on tippy toes, arms clasped tightly about his neck, and touch lips to his own. First, she brushes them there gently, but then he puts his own hands about her waist, and she can no longer resist. She kisses him, and it is fairy tale and charming story enough for the world as we live it.
If either had looked as Sir Cat now does, they would see the candle of the Dark King's heart--how it grows, tall and splendid, a blazing taper.
And the Dark Lady? It was a spell indeed that had bewitched the king so. Now, the magic is spent and her lovely form falls away to reveal a plain, black spider. Who can tell if it scurries away? Sir Cat certainly looks smug, after all. And cats keep secrets.
But one no longer needs to be kept.
Sir Cat blinks lazily up at Emmie and king, still embracing, still in that first, newfound moment. He excuses himself and trundles a graceful way down to the ball, where the others wait, anxious.
“It all worked out,” he says primly to Scarlet, vampire and crow.
The werewolf turns her back to the world and glances to the full moon, cresting over forest and tower. If she imagines, there they are--embracing. It is right.
“Now whatever shall we do?” says the crow, as if to himself.
“The witching hour has only just begun…” says the cat with a grin.
“Then, so have we,” whispers Scarlet.
And darkness went out into the world.
For a time.
About the Author:
Sarah Diemer is a Persephone girl. She tells stories, makes jewelry and runs around after several animals in a lovely, purple-doored house in the country. She likes to think she is funny. When not up to her elbows in glue and words, she hula hoops and gardens, dresses up like a fairy and recites poetry when she thinks no one is looking. She loves her wife more than anything in the universe. You can find out about her new novels, take a peek at the jewelry she makes out of old fairy tales and generally see several sparkly and interesting things at her site, http://www.oceanid.org, or her blog, http://www.muserising.com
Author's Note:
The first edition of this story was written for a line of original Halloween art pendants that we created for our Etsy shop, Glamourkin. There have been two Halloween fairy tales thus far, and I plan to release one for each Halloween going forward. I you wish to learn more, you can visit http://Glamourkin.etsy.com