Chapter Text
ACT ONE, the false death in the silent woods
And it was Death itself who stood behind me, with his arms wrapped around me as tight as iron bands, and his lipless mouth kissing my neck as if in love. But as well as the horror, I felt a strange longing.
Margaret Atwood, Alias Grace
DEDICATION;
To the quiet souls,
who wander aimlessly through a world
they no longer belong to, their hearts
ceasing to beat, even without
sweet death's kiss.
To those spirits
whose fate is invisible to the eyes
of the living.
PALE HANDS TREMBLED in harmony with the flames of the few crimson candles as they turned the yellowed pages, and eyes the colour of grey granite flitted over each word. Trying to spot what they were looking for.
It was all too hard to notice the young witch, barely taking up any space in the room, now literally cowering. She was almost engulfed by the shadows, cast over her by the towering forbidden books; pressed tightly against the wall, she slid down to the floor, weighed by the burden.
Spurred on by a gust of air, the candle flames once more performed the restless dance and Alethea raised her head, paranoid as a lunatic who had lost her mind many years ago and was now eternally condemned to expect a monster lurking behind every corner and in every shadow, just waiting to come for her.
Not wanting to consider that maybe she already was. A madwoman, sneaking out of her room at night to chase disappointment again and again, like an addict chasing her addiction, because she would never find what she needed.
Once again she reached the last page, glanced at the crumpled cover and put the book aside to pick up another. Alethea flipped through the pages and her unerring and already memorised movements stopped.
Was that it?, she asked herself, blowing the dust off the book balanced on her hunched knees. The dust seemed uninterested in following the rules and had squeezed itself between the pages that hadn't been opened in years.
The hope that suddenly rose in her was dangerous. The higher you ascend, the deeper you will fall.
Rushed eyes scanned the writings of the extinct language, and even if the symbols were just a bunch of strokes strung together for her, something inside her could understand them.
The ornate symbol at the centre of the page began to writhe as the incantation slipped silently from her mouth. The words, twisted like poison, poured from her pursed lips, dripped down her chin and fell hissing to the cobbled floor. But this dark wonder, this moment of blasphemy, lasted only a moment.
It was barely long enough for her to feel the darkness clawing at her, wrapping rough ropes around her throat. It was a lone tear that rolled down her cheek and fell on the page of the old book, silencing everything.
"No, no. No," she groaned in despair, feeling the strings snap instantly and a force pull them away from Alethea before she could get a hold of them. Once again she tried to find the connection within; the darkness that begged for release and tore at her more with each passing day.
Her tears began to smear the ink of the book and the written words were now just a scrawl with no meaning in her eyes. There was no deeper connection left in her. No understanding of what she did not understand.
Tears of defeatism welled up in her eyes, and as if the old pages were cutting her tender skin, she pushed the book away before her hands were soaked in blood and the white of her dress stained with shame.
Her heart raced, breaking with disappointment.
Alethea kept cowering, staring at the still open book, trying once again to become the smallest person in the room as the symbols looked back at her spitefully. So many emotions whirled inside the witch that she could only weep with a stony face.
"You lack the necessary control of your magic to perform such a spell," Darkness chimed in, and before she could even make out the shadow, her pale, greedy fingers reached for the scriptures.
She wasn't supposed to be here. No one could know what she was doing, especially not him. Her magic flitted around the room, trying to erase the traces of these diabolical arts, but she was too angry to finish.
"It's not what it looks like," she whispered quickly, without looking up, and just as she reached for the book, it was snatched away as if by a ghostly hand, and a second later it lay in the long, pale fingers of her young professor.
It took her granite grey eyes longer than usual for such a small room to find him. But the indecision within her, whether she wanted to find him at all, caused her to hesitate. Stand up, fight for your innocence, her own voice whispered, and had she not been buried by emotion and frozen by shock, she would have done so.
"It has nothing to do with the Dark Arts. I haven't done anything," she lied in a weak voice, her insides tightening with fear as she noticed his dark eyes hovering curiously over the lines.
Professor Riddle was not a puppet of something greater, but leaned against the wall as he pleased, flicking through the scriptures, whose words he seemed to understand, unlike her, and not just ignorantly repeating what his magic told him to.
"Do not take me for a fool, Miss Desmond. You should know that I recognise Dark Magic when I see it, since I teach its defences," the Professor announced her demise with a slight sneer, and the light of the candles finally dared to come to him, hesitantly illuminating the dreamily beautiful man for whom so many lilies must have wept.
Night possessed a beguiling talent that Alethea was aware of even as a child; too young to understand the reason for everything, but able to see the simplicity of the world.
It had the ability to wrap the world in a breathtaking and mortal beauty, far more captivating than anything found in the light of day. It could create a mirage; a distraction that would allow her to slowly devour you, consuming you with such relish until you were nothing but ashes. Too blinded by beauty, it could swallow without arousing fear in her victims.
And Professor Riddle was this pure night. He possessed the same delusion, with his raven black hair and the features of a deity cursed with mortality; the fire in his eyes like the stars in the sky.
He too would destroy.
The air of the forbidden and secret chamber was still electrified by the ritual that had begun, and too much of her inaccessible magic was still buzzing around her for her to sense the Professor's terrifying aura.
Though she was unable to perceive it, to feel it tingling on her skin, the knowledge that it emanated from him like an omnipresent darkness could never leave her.
Every hour she had to endure it, every second she felt them all being eaten away by it, as if they were just a piece of wool for the moths. No one else noticed, too lost in the spell of beauty. Under the spell of the night.
A magic of doom followed the professor for the defence against the dark forces, and no one heard the cries of her warnings. No one gave them any credence.
"Please, I have done nothing. I can't be expelled from the Academy, I have no one," she begged, whispering into the breeze, still crouched on the ground. Silent magic pulsed, soon to awaken from its slumber, furious at her renewed failure.
The Professor lowered his gaze to her, and the heart in her chest, skipping a beat with fear, seemed only to throb in her ears; overwhelming made her numb.
Lies came from her lips like truths, like a scholar dispensing knowledge. Alethea managed to enchant people with her invented words, distracting them from any truth she wished to keep to herself. Now she could barely command her body to breathe.
"Stand up," he ordered, and out of fear she did. She no longer felt her body and once she was standing, she could not remember how she had managed it. Still with a blank face she looked at him.
With trembling fingers she brushed the tears from her chin and then buried them in the delicate fabric of her nightgown. "You dabble in the Dark Arts without the ability to control your powers, which makes you a danger to your fellow students," he reminded her, taking a step closer, his eyes glowing like smoldering coals.
Regardless of his gaze, she was unable to find any emotion in his face, and no matter how hard she tried; turning the blank page on which everyone else had written their answer until it crumpled, she remained trapped in cluelessness.
Logically, he should be angry. She was breaking a rule that had never been written on a page of the Book of Laws, but whose existence was imprinted on everyone's minds like a misremembered memory.
Her thoughts swirled as she searched for the lies on her tongue. But just when she needed the ability to lie without blushing the most, she left it on the open sea without help. She would be expelled from the Academy.
"I swear to you, sir: I am no danger," she tried again with the last of her strength, and the professor looked down at her with a calculating coldness. Like an emperor looking at his starving citizens, knowing they would do anything for a loaf of bread.
His dark eyes narrowed, and as he saw her utter, bitter desperation, he made a decision. He closed the book with a loud bang, and Alethea flinched along with the candle flames.
"On Friday night I expect you in my office at eight and you will never set foot in this room again, do you understand me?" His voice echoed sharply off the walls and she nodded quickly, only giving herself a worse headache with the hasty movement.
Authoritatively, he nodded towards the slowly opening door and without saying anything, she walked out with her head down.