Arabesque

by Hayden Thorne

  Alarick ate from the bowl with the exquisite vine relief. He sat at the table, staring blankly ahead, his eyes dulled as his hands and fingers did all the work for him. He groped and felt every inch of the bowl, his mind hazily marveling at the way the intricately carved porcelain fired up his veins. When he was commanded to eat, he merely moved his hands inside the bowl and scooped out his food with his fingers, and he ate without his utensils—eyes still dully staring ahead, mouth barely moving once food was shoveled inside.

  Drugged by this new sensory assault, Alarick fumbled his way to the bedroom, crawled under the covers, and literally fainted from being so overpowered.

  He’d become a richly-dressed doll—a mannequin that his guardian easily shepherded here and there, now groomed even more for the real world. For a happily ever after as could only befit a prince. In his dreams, Alarick had already proven himself a worthy champion and husband, the kind that the world beyond the forest’s borders expected and wanted from all of its young men. The wooden man reveled in his success and rewarded himself with occasional fantasies of fucking Alarick into the mattress, taking the prince in every position imaginable, on every possible surface.

  Then the watcher would raise his eyes to the heavens and spread his hands before him, saying, “I’ve saved him. His life will be one of virtue.”

  The day finally came when the prince ate from the bowl that was made of pieces of bone tightly fitted together like a morbid puzzle. There was nothing to experience this time, his deadened mind noted, and he simply existed, going about his days with a vacancy of thought and spirit that not even his excessively heightened senses could fill.

  But that only rendered him more pliable to his guardian, who now appeared in his dreams, crawling into his bed with him, holding Alarick close while he spun more tales of corruption and despair. The prince took it all in passively as he pressed himself against his mentor till sleep claimed him within the dream, and he drifted off with his lips gently resting against the other’s in an attitude of bewildered adoration.

  Nothing but darkness filled up his dreams within dreams this time around, and he simply floated in space, naked and cold and lost. Sometimes he suddenly felt hot pleasure coursing through him, and he shuddered, wishing for more. Sometimes he felt the sting of pain in some part of body, and he reflexively curled into himself, though he might seek the hurt. Better than not feeling anything at all, he comforted himself.

  And so he waited in his dreams within dreams, his senses alternately roused and numbed, rewarded and punished, till he craved and loathed what he received in the darkness. For all this, however, he was forced to concede that he’d never before felt so alive.

  In the meantime, the wooden man continued to see that phantom coffin appear, enclosing the sleeping prince. It had become more and more visible ever since he and the cottage had finally overcame the prince’s defenses, invading Alarick’s dreams and establishing themselves in them. What a strange effect—or perhaps reaction—in the young man.

  When Alarick finally awakened, he was tired and drenched in sweat and milky release. His childhood had long disappeared; indeed, he believed that he’d never really had one. He tried to recover some long-forgotten memory of days spent in his parents’ palace, but his mind failed in its task; nothing but dreams and black tales were brought to the fore, and his thoughts were not much more than an endless stream of beautiful and terrifying images. Everywhere he turned, he thought he saw the white knight laughing at him—taunting him. He felt chased and harassed, reproached and dissected—treated no better than any animal that had been marked for a hunt.

  Alarick felt so tired now. Sometimes he’d forego a meal or two, opting instead to lie in bed and seek shelter in sleep, that tiny, safe corner in his mind hoping for rest without dreams this time, for his strength had begun to fail even there, and that little scrap of humanity that was left in him simply refused to let go of Roald or, indeed, his nature.

  “This is your world,” the forest said, and Alarick could hear its mocking voice through the cottage walls. “This is where you belong. You’re an unnatural; you’re someone’s creation.”

  All thoughts of fairness have long abandoned the prince as he lay in bed, hands clasped on his stomach, his head softly cradled on a pillow, that strange coffin-like shield appearing even in the daytime—or what perhaps amounted to daytime in that forsaken part of the cursed forest. His eyes fluttered closed.

  What did the future hold for this raven-haired youth?

  He shall ride off on his best steed, proud and beautiful and brave, his ambition goading him on. He’ll rescue doomed princesses from their tower prisons—set to right ageless curses woven by vindictive witches or stepmothers (it’s always the stepmothers)—wander through fantastic lands—endure the most amazing tests. And he’ll succeed. He’ll prevail. He’s the prince, after all, and princes never fail.

  Bright but lifeless eyes of green peered into the bleakness around him. They searched—for what, no one could say. No, not even him.

  * * *

  Ulrike smiled grimly as the leaf-covered mound shook, and she raised both arms, her hands spread open and engulfed in red light now. “Come on, Your Majesty,” she jeered. “Surely you’ve never lost your touch.”

  The mound continued to shake, this time more violently, and the leaves suddenly flew up in an explosion of decaying organic debris, for the mound had been destroyed as bits of the sorcerer-king’s bones were forcibly torn out of their final resting place.

  “Well, it looks like you’ve seen better days.” Ulrike burst out laughing as the sorcerer-king’s bones rose from the grave and hovered in space for several moments. “And it’s high time that you moved on, don’t you think?”

  The ground beneath her rumbled, and the trees around her moaned, swaying like drunks, their gnarled branches reaching out to tear at her, but she remained rooted and focused, her voice dropping to a low hum as she chanted a powerful spell that was meant to purge the forest. She didn’t feel the sting of sharp branches and twigs scratching her skin and clawing at her dress and cape. Her eyes remained white and glowing, and the bones rattled in the air, shivering as though they struggled mightily against her power. Magic that continued after death, regardless of the length of time it remained active, proved to be subservient to the stronger forces of magic wielded by warm flesh and blood and fed by life.

  Around the queen, the moans of trees gave way to a series of hysterical screams that came from all directions, each echoing the one before it, some of them exploding in unison like a ghastly chorus from beyond the grave, till the entire cursed forest itself shook from the forced expulsion of the dark magic that had long enshrined it.

  A chill wind picked up and blew around Ulrike, moving in a wild spiral that picked up the sorcerer-king’s bones and shattered them into a thousand pieces that were then spat out, to fly in all directions, vanishing in the night. The howls rose in a fevered pitch one final time before falling till nothing but the sound of a gentle night breeze remained.

  Ulrike blinked, and her powers subsided. She found herself standing in a small forest clearing, the trees around her giving off nothing more than a nocturnal calmness that she once enjoyed. She held her breath and listened, her senses heightened. With a sigh of relief, she found that there were no forces around her that felt threatening and unnatural. Before her, the sorcerer-king’s grave had vanished, the only indication of its existence being nothing more than a scattered pile of dead leaves.

  “Rest in peace, Your Majesty,” she said, smirking, before turning around and hurrying back through the trees and in the direction of the path that would take her to the cottage. She stumbled once and was forced to lean against a tree to catch a breath and regain her composure, one hand pressing against her heart and gently rubbing it. The spell she’d just cast to rid the forest of the sorcerer-king’s condemned soul and vindictive magic had taken quite a bit out of her, and she was not only exhausted and weak, but also in a bit of pain.
She’d exerted herself, perhaps pushed herself too far, but it was all done for her son and for the rest of the kingdom. Being granted lucidity that day and well into the night was, indeed, a blessing, the last that she could ever hope to expect, and she swore not to waste a single moment of it.

  * * *

  Alarick’s eyes flew open at the sudden shaking of the ground. His body felt like a massive, immoveable weight, however, and his desire to sit up and stand only flared up weakly for a second or two before vanishing, to be replaced by the most potent feeling of deadness and deep indifference to everything outside the crystal box he’d managed to form around him. Could he breathe? Oh, yes, he could, but he was so weak. So weak.

  Even as he opened his eyes, his lids could only go halfway, and Alarick peered through mere slits as he tried to determine what was going on around him.

  The ground shook—no, the walls did. From where he lay, and from the partly visible shield of his glass box, he could see the walls swaying, the furniture moving or getting knocked down. He wasn’t sure, but the wood panels contorted as well, as though being forcibly reshaped by some unknown force, and amid the confusion, he spotted the wooden man stagger through the walls, groping his way from one end of the cottage to another as though suddenly blinded, sometimes disappearing along the way, sometimes reappearing in a completely different location. All the time, the wooden man seemed to be fleeing something, his face a mask of terror and dismay, his mouth open in a silent scream.

  “This is it, then,” Alarick murmured, blinking away the heaviness of his eyes and finding it more and more difficult to stay awake. Was he dying? He wouldn’t be surprised if he were, but he welcomed the peace of death. It would be far, far better than what he’d been enduring since his last day with Roald in their favorite glade.

  The wooden man screamed and flailed, fighting off the burn. Yes, he was burning, or at least he felt as though he were burning. He could feel heat growing behind him though he saw no fire, and it was all he could do to flee. It was simply too bad that he was the cottage, and there was really nowhere for him to go. He reached out to the prince who lay on the bed, unmoving as though dead, but even the mere act of pulling his hand out and away from its prison nearly incapacitated him from the incredible pain that accompanied it.

  From somewhere outside, he felt another presence—magic, dark like his, but wielded by someone alive. Powerful magic that was about to destroy him.

  No, he realized, when he looked down at himself and saw parts of his body melting into the wood, becoming permanent parts of the wall, so that he could barely move.

  “No!” he screeched. “No!”

  Something terrible was happening somewhere in the forest. He didn’t know where, didn’t know what. But it was ripping him apart.

  “No!”

  He struggled, barely managed to tear himself from one spot in the wall, only to find himself anchored down in another. Roaring, he fought to move his limbs, but his legs were now absorbed by the wood panels, and his arms had frozen in mid struggle. He watched in horror as they slowly vanished, fingers and palm, along with his clothes, fading into the wood, till all that was left was his head.

  “No!”

  He couldn’t move his head, and any struggle only tore at his skin. As he slowly got eaten up by the cottage walls, the last image of him that could be made out was of his face contorted in an expression of extreme terror, his mouth wide open in a perpetual scream. But no sound emerged, and within moments, calm descended upon the cottage.

  The thin, wooden arms that crisscrossed to lock the door and windows shuddered, dried up, and crumbled. A hollow silence now filled the cottage, with neither sound nor movement coming from the bedroom, where Alarick lay.

  Time finally righted itself, and the flow of minutes and hours settled back into its normal rhythm. All in all, Alarick was in the cottage for twelve days, though the time during his imprisonment had become malleable and confusing. He wouldn’t know any of these, however, and he never would. Existence in an isolated capsule of time, where one’s mind and spirit were broken to fit the lies perpetuated beyond the forest’s borders and yet practically raped by the desires of a creature that was evil incarnate, was no less than a black limbo, from which escape meant death.

  Several more minutes passed before the door opened under a pale, trembling hand, and Ulrike stepped across the threshold.

  Battered and bloodied, her powdered wig gone, her hair stringy and loose, her clothes torn and soiled, she nevertheless swept inside with a grandness that could only befit a monarch. She looked around her, surveying the empty cottage, taking in the sight of dark, aged wood, discolored walls and old furniture. She drew a cold hand across her brow as she rallied what was left of her strength.

  Stepping forward, she saw the door to the bedroom on her right, and she immediately walked through, pausing at the doorway at the sight of her son lying as though dead on a filthy, decrepit old bed. He looked so peaceful, resting like that, but she knew that he needed her. She saw the faint outline of an oblong box encasing him, and she understood what it meant.

  No, her son didn’t inherit her powers—there was no such thing. She’d learned them as a young girl, for it was the only way for sorcery to live on from one generation to the next. It was never inherited by blood, the way so many people always believed, and only the most ambitious sought out the power and worked hard to enhance it. Amara certainly never wished to learn it, for she was the hopeless dreamer who believed too much in lofty things. Ulrike, however, was more pragmatic, and she’d remain pragmatic till the end.

  “Funny how things work out,” she said, leaning against the doorway now in exhaustion.

  What she was seeing—that strange box around her son—was his doing, to be sure, but it had nothing to do with magic. He’d created it perhaps by sheer force of will to protect himself, perhaps the magic that surrounded him in the cottage feeding it inadvertently, helping it. Indeed, she wouldn’t be surprised if it was a physical manifestation of his heart, built to protect himself from the rest of the world—from further pain. Yes, he definitely needed her help now, but she was so drained and was in no way capable of moving him, but she knew at length what to do.

  Ulrike moved over to the nearest wall and pressed a hand against it, reading its composition. A surge of hope swept over her at the realization that the cottage was built and controlled by magic. It could easily be undone by the same.

  With a tired sigh, she felt around her pockets, drew out the apple, and walked to the prince’s bedside. She stroked her son’s hair, her lips trembling as she whispered his name, calling him out of his stupor—self-made or otherwise—urging him back. When he opened his eyes weakly, the brilliant green dulled under the heavy lids, she smiled.

  “I’m here to help you, Darling,” she said in a gentle, quiet voice. “Can you hear me?”

  Alarick didn’t move at first, but he eventually nodded. His mouth opened as though to speak, but no words came out.

  “I’ve seen your resistance. I’ve watched it happen in the looking-glass. I also need to get you out of this cursed cottage, but I’m too weak to physically move you.” She paused to steady her voice, stroking her son’s hair again. “He’ll find you again, you know. He will. You’re too broken and weak to meet him halfway right now. All you can do is to wait.”

  Alarick blinked, nodded, his gaze fixed on the ceiling and unfocused. His skin felt cold.

  “You’ve put up a good fight, protected yourself—or what might be left untouched by that monster. I’m proud of you.” The queen took a deep breath. “That young man will come back for you, but he won’t be able to find you in here. I have to destroy this cottage and leave you exposed for him to find you. Only your will to live and to be with him will see you through till the time he arrives. Don’t give up. You can still dream—good dreams—and reclaim yourself—those parts of you that that monster somehow blackened. Heal yourself in the meantime.”

  She held up the apple.
“Will you die for him—your beloved?”

  Alarick blinked again, nodded again, much more weakly this time. Ulrike pressed the apple against his lips while stroking his hair. “Take a bite, Dearest. Take back what’s rightfully yours—your life, your love, your hopes and dreams. Then sleep, restore yourself, and he’ll be at your side before you know it.”

  It took some effort, but Alarick finally bit a small piece of the apple and chewed slowly.

  “Swallow, Darling. Swallow.”

  Alarick swallowed, and his eyes finally closed and remained still. Ulrike watched him for another moment, still stroking his hair, this time ensuring that her son was peacefully in a state that hovered between sleep and death—a protective state that was neither permanent nor too transitory, one that lasted long enough till the right awakening happened to complete the restoration of his humanity.

  “Farewell, my love.”

  She bent down and pressed a kiss on a cold forehead, moving his hands so that they rested above his heart before standing up in time to watch Alarick’s oblong box take shape again, this time forming more solidly. Like a glass coffin, it encased her son, the manifestation of a young man’s stubborn will to be what he was and also a most remarkable form of protection for a heart and a mind that had been broken by malice. The glass coffin was, the queen knew, Alarick’s ultimate resistance and the key to his salvation and future happiness.

  Yes, her son would be happy. The thought reassured her. With one final glance at the glass coffin and the young man lying inside, Ulrike turned and walked into the kitchen and toward the hearth.

  Standing before it, she summoned every ounce of power she had with whatever strength was left and formed a raging fire in the hearth, which she fed till it grew into a dangerous size with a wave of her hand. Before long the hearth and its surrounding walls were ablaze, the old, rotting wood of the cottage easily catching fire. The cottage didn’t resist, for it was already dead.