The Princess and The Pirate

Kathleen was sitting on the eastern patio, a small silver necklace in her hands. She almost looked nervous, which Jacqueline thought was weird for the normally stoic monarch. “What is it?”

With a weak smile, she turned and held up a pretty pendant which swung in the air like a pendulum. It glittered in the afternoon sun; a diamond-shaped bird cast rainbow prisms on her mother’s hand. It was a dove, flying against the blue Rocqueburne sky. The McLaughlins’ were the Big Sky Clan. They hunted fowl, were astronomers, and studied weather to predict both rain and shine. The bird was their house icon. That was before she was married, of course. It was her maiden symbol, replaced now by a mighty Rocqueburne lion by the sea.

“Well, now that you’re sixteen, I wanted to give you this heirloom. It was my mother’s, then mine, and now it’s yours.” There was a sense of pride in the piece and a sparkle in her mother’s eyes, as if she had waited an eternity for this moment. Tea was set on the furniture. It was picturesque. Kathleen didn’t even have her crown on. This was to be an intimate mother-daughter moment. No royal antics allowed.

But they had fought the night before and Jacqueline just crossed her arms, still brooding, and looked off over the roofs of the town, unenthusiastically. “I don’t care for diamonds.”

The Queen slowly pierced her lips, the joy evaporating. Slowly, like a spider and her silk, she curled the chain back into the palm of her hand, “It is much more than just diamonds.” She was obviously hurt, but enraged, secondly. “I’m just trying to make amends and do something cordial for a change.”

“There’s a first,” the Princess retorted with an unladylike snort.

“You wretched brat!” Kathleen replied, slamming the jewelry on the tabletop. Full teacups fell over at the strike, making a tan mess. “Your miserable attitude will be the death of you!” She picked up her rich purple skirts and stormed past Jacqueline with misty eyes. “I asked God for a son and what I got was you.” Hissing, her tone made the Princess’s eyes hit the ground.

Taking her leave, the Queen stormed off. There. Now everyone was hurt.

Jacqueline sniffled, wiped the tiny bottom lashes of her eyes, and moved onto the patio, needing some fresh air. Coming to the tabletop, she plucked the chain out from a pool of tea. It really was a pretty thing. Sighing, feeling empty from her outburst, she took the necklace and put it in her pocket.

Surveying over the ruined lunch, Jacqueline frowned, guilty. The cawing of gulls was her only company. She’d be better tomorrow. It would all be better eventually, right?

Jacqueline was sixteen eight years ago. “Eventually” never seemed to come.

A violent smell shook the memory away, replacing it with a flash of fire and a hulking gauntlet coming towards her face. Pain and darkness filled in the cracks of regaining consciousness as the Princess coughed and moaned. Well, tried to at least, for she was gagged with something tight and itchy. Rope maybe, or burlap? Opening her eyes made no difference. The world was pitch black and smelled awful. On top of it all, she was freezing! It was so cold!

Trying to pull her hand to her face, she found her wrists bound. Jacqueline tried to curl her leg upwards but found that her ankles were bound as well. The surrounding smell made her sick, it was so nauseating.

There was no light, there was no sound. Whining, Jacqueline wiggled fruitlessly on her narrow spot.

Turning left, she felt the sharp edge of a table, turning right, there was the other. It was a narrow, cold slab, that bit and stung her exposed flesh. Rolling onto her back, she stared up the void, blinking. It was the same pitch black darkness whether or not her eyes were open.

It could be a cellar, she thought, or a locker of some type. Where was Kyle?

Fidgeting, she started rubbing her wrists together, trying to shake off the ropes and also hoping the friction could provide her some warmth. Chewing on her fibrous gag, Jacqueline felt the thing starting to fall apart in her mouth. So she kept gnawing and licking. Where was she? How was it so dark?

Squeaking victoriously with enough obnoxious movement, she finally slipped one wrist free of the knotted mess.

After pulling the gag off and freeing her ankles, Jacqueline sat up, shivering. The air was sour like rotting fruit and was accompanied by the buzz of flies and the disgusting smell of forgotten meat. Slowly swinging her foot over the table’s edge, Jacqueline found the ground. The cold stone bit at her toes and absorbed any remaining warmth she had.

“Kyle? Are you here?” the Princess whispered, unknowing which way was where. There was no reply.

Jacqueline could hear only her own heart and the soft panting of her breath. She had never heard such dominating silence. Skirting along, she put her hands out in front of her, slowly creeping forward. Shuffling, her feet knocked over something made of glass. It clanged against the stone floor and rolled away.

“Shit!”

With a little sailor-acquired language, she threw herself on the floor. Jacqueline grabbed blindly for the object, not wishing to be discovered if anyone was near. Scratching at the darkness, following the sounds like a bat, she clutched the runaway item. It was long and cold in her hands. Glass. Cylindrical. A devotion candle, perhaps? Pushing her fingers in, the Princess felt for the wax but it was completely spent.

Going to stand from her worm’s position, Jacqueline smacked the back of her head against something unforgiving and solid.

Seeing spots, the Princess staggered, straightening up and leaning against the offensive ledge. “S-shit,” Jacqueline stammered out less enthusiastically than before. Leaning forward, the smell of decay was overwhelming. Jacqueline put one hand over her face to block the stench, then her other on the item to push it away.

It stabbed her.

Recoiling, perplexed, she reached out more cautiously. Metal. Dragging it up, the metal turned into points. A crown? Pushing her fingers into the divots of the prongs, she felt a bald head. The rot was the smell of bodies. Shaking, Jacqueline slid her fingers downward, sheepishly stepping towards the table. She could feel a face and glasses. The facial hair was familiar to her. She knew this man.

“O-oh, oh my…” They weren’t really words but mimicked sounds she was used to making. The shaking came on more violently now as she rested her elbows on the stone. The realization of her father’s corpse was before her caused the Princess’s knees to buckle. Usefulness left her. Curling the side of her warm cheek against his cold face, Jacqueline started to hyperventilate. “…I d-don’t un-underst-stand…”

How had this happened? She hadn’t been gone that long! Things were supposed to return to the way they had been!

She was in a crypt. Breathing shallowly and rapidly, inhaling the scent of rot, her lips trembled. A lone, strangled squawk made it free from her throat. Gripping his clothes in her injured fists, she let out a vicious scream and her hot breath gave the dead man momentary warmth. Screaming into the curve of his shoulder, tears and spit wet his funeral attire. Suddenly she was so hot, her face and tears felt like boiling fire. Jacqueline felt as if she’d never be cold again.

She pushed herself away, the smell too much to bear and mourn over. Grabbing at her long hair, the Princess stumbled back in the dark, sloppily clattering aimlessly and knocked over more glass, the constant rolling sounding like exaggerated church bells in the dark. Now it was too loud! Jacqueline covered her ears.

“JUST SHUT UP!” Screaming at the dark, the Princess buried her fingers into her hair, trying to protect her ears from the sound. “SHUT UP!”

Her hip caught the sharp edge of another table. It pulled at her nightgown and she leaned against it. Every nightmare she ever had was coming to a brutal reality. The smell of rot resonated upwards from this spot.

Jacqueline’s face was wet from panic as she shakily outstretched her hand and lightly placed her palm on soft, cool fabric. Pulling her hand upwards, she felt the veiled profile of a feminine face. The Princess’s broken nails slid up the material, discovering a more subtle circlet as the centerpiece of the outfit atop the female head: a queen’s decoration.

She couldn’t breathe. She simply couldn’t breathe. The space seemed to collapse around her. All the color left her face and the atmosphere was sucked away.

Jacqueline’s sweat ran cold and terror froze her blood to a stop. She slowly removed her hands from her mother’s face and dryly swallowed the stale, decaying air as the last displaced candle finally stopped rolling. The Princess was left in blaring silence.

“M-my…” Jacqueline’s voice was a fraction of a whisper. Her expression dropped, the weakest exertion of a word coming from behind her lips, “…family…” She was trapped in a tomb with her rotting parents. It was a crisp thought that traveled down her bones and bounced back up like lightning.

Her pupils constricted to pinpricks as the realization hit her. The fever rushed back into her flesh and the mausoleum’s silence was broken by her chilling, bloody scream. Tears obscured her vision as horror overtook the young woman who haphazardly thrashed around in the dark looking for an escape. The smell of rot followed her. It was everywhere. It wouldn’t give her a moment’s peace! It wouldn’t leave her be! Jacqueline continued screaming, crying, shrieking, and wailing, like a caged rabid animal ripping at the walls, trying to pry the stones apart to escape.

She couldn’t die here amongst the dead! Clawing and banging, Jacqueline threw the devotion candles she found and shattered them against the darkness. Like a rat, the Princess wildly scurried along the perimeter, looking for light, the door, or any flaw in the masterful masonry design. Screaming, begging chaotically to God and the Devil, coughing at the dust she riled, Jacqueline sobbed, heaving deep breaths of decay and death.

It was a mausoleum. It only opened from the outside. Dragging her nails down the smooth walls, she cried into the spider webs.

* * *

In the night air, Magnus’s head poked itself out of the pile of dirty blankets. Black and red juices covered his chin, giving him the appearance of a beast fresh from devouring a kill. His eyes jumped back and forth, observing the once silent graveyard. Strange sounds had no business here.

Holding his breath, he heard it again. It was a muted scream, coming and going in pulses, seemingly in time to his heartbeat. Keeping his blankets tightly secured, he bravely ventured further in. Glancing from tombstone to tombstone, he felt the dirt firmly under his shoes. No hollow graves here.

Sharply throwing his head to the right, he heard the screaming once more.

The general was not a spiritual man but in his half-starved and stir crazy state, maybe, just maybe, he could believe banshees really did exist. Apprehensively, he pulled himself towards the noise and found himself standing before the Rocqueburne family mausoleum like a man awaiting judgement.

A hysterical sound was coming from inside. It was a vengeful, screaming, crashing sound that didn’t sound saintly in the least bit. Magnus slowly looked upon the looming structure which looked white in the direct moonlight. There wasn’t a soul in this lonely cemetery. He looked left, then right; this was a place for the dead, but what he heard sounded very alive.

“Sofia, help me,” Magnus muttered. A chill rode up his spine in response.

He climbed the stairs to the door as the anarchy continued just behind it. He kneeled and observed the crushed flower offerings. Rubbing the exposed plant oils between his dirty fingers, he noticed the damage was fresh but the wreaths were old.

The crashing came to a halt. The silence called Magnus’s attention. Quieting his own breath, he heard something different. Sobbing. Deep, resonate sobbing. The general grabbed the handle as thoughts of angels, demons, and monsters filled his head. What if Hell was on the other side? What if all his misdeeds and all the souls of young men he had ever killed were finally coming to claim his bones? What if he finally figured out a peace to his madness? Had it been under his nose the whole time?

…Did banshees cry?

Clutching the handle with both hands, the tired old man began laboriously pulling. Grinding his teeth, exhausted from a lack of food, water, and rest, Magnus dug his heels into the stone, still defiantly pulling. He felt the door start to respond to his strength but made little progress, feeling the peak of his exhaustion. Once he was a hero, lifting women and children to safety dressed in full plate armor. Now he couldn’t even open a pesky door.

“You can’t solve everything with brute strength, Magnus,” he heard his dearly departed wife’s voice in the black shadows of the dark cemetery, chuckling. What he wouldn’t sell or murder to hear Sofia’s exotic accent again! The poisonous hallucination caused the general to grip the door harder and his drugged daze turned firm.

“Watch me.”

Wrapping his fingers around the cold stone handle, flexing his fatigued biceps and back, Magnus shouted, heaving all his weight into pulling the door free of the seal. No one was telling him how to solve his problems!

He had strong-armed his way through this life and wasn’t stopping now at Hell’s threshold!

With another shout, the door came begrudgingly free and a dust cloud poured out from the inside. Magnus stumbled back trying to keep his balance, bogged down by blankets and dirt. He felt an instant pain in his back. No good deed goes unpunished. “Come out, you devils!” He swayed in place, feeling the strange vegetation swirl in his stomach. “I’ll kill you all again!”

As the moonlight shined into the mausoleum’s chamber, the general saw a filthy redheaded girl sitting on the ground, looking up at him with a swollen face and glassy, wide eyes. Her feet, legs and hands were imbedded with glass and wax, bleeding fine red strands onto the floor. The Princess’s long knotted hair was draped over her shivering, hunched body. She trembled at his entrance; it appeared as if Death had come for her.

“I’m not r-ready to die. P-please…” she begged with her pale, doll-like features. The brightest colors were the red, irritated rims of her eyes. “F-find s-someone else to eat.”

Magnus’s eyes were wide. It was Jacqueline, sealed away in her parent’s crypt. His mouth opened, aghast at the thought. Kneeling down to the ground, he held his hand out to her like the Princess was a skittish animal. “Child… Oh, child, come here.” She must have been freezing!

Jacqueline didn’t move, distrustful of everything now. Did Death talk? He certainly had the wraithlike appearance and his murderous tirade against his old foes seemed like further evidence for the rider of the pale horse. Maybe she was already dead and this was the reaper. Perhaps she was beyond begging and this was already Hell.

Realizing this at the same time, Magnus removed the blankets from his head to show he wasn’t Satan himself and kept his tone quiet. “I am Sir Magnus of Whilmshire, General to the Emperor and the Golden Army. I’ve been sent to find you. Do you remember me? I knew your parents. I was at your christening.”

Only squeaking, having nearly blown out her voice from screaming, fresh tears ran down her face. She flung herself outwards from the dark, crawling on the broken shards of glass into the general’s arms. He was so warm. Sobbing instantly into his chest, she curled into a ball, traumatically shaking as he embraced her. Magnus wrapped the Princess in his blankets, giving Jacqueline a warm, safe place to hide for a moment.

She trembled, muffling her terrorized screams with his body, holding onto him like a rock planted in a wild river. “T-they’re d-dead…”

Magnus put his damp chin on the top of her dirty head. He bravely looked into the crypt’s darkness, seeing two pairs of feet lying on their individual slabs, very cold and very still. The inside of the tomb was torn apart. Flowers, candles, and offerings were scattered about by the hurricane of a frightened girl.

“I’m sorry, Princess.”

His eyes burned into a spot of nothingness. No longer ill and no longer hungry, the only thing on his mind was Lillian. Lillian the false queen, Lillian the murderer, and soon to be, Lillian the executed.