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rainbowfic2024-01-22 09:23 pm
ilthit) wrote in rainbowfic2024-01-22 09:23 pm
Iridium #3, Newsprint #7, Psychedelic Purple #8: Key of Holly, Lock of Hawthorn (Holly and Hawthorn)
Name: Key of Holly, Lock of Hawthorn
Story: Holly and Hawthorn
Colors: Iridium #3 (opportunity only knocks once), Newsprint #7 (You can make yourself enter somewhere frightening if you believe you'll profit from it. The natural response is to flee, but you don't act that way anymore.), Psychedelic Purple #8 (you were only waiting for this moment to be free)
Supplies and Styles: palette knife (Paperdemon), pastels (ladiesbingo "something useful")
Word Count: 2,000
Rating: teen
Summary: Charlotte receives her talisman.
Note: I wrote this for the Paperdemon Art RPG, so it's three chapters that each fill a character creation prompt from that RPG. A kind of a starter for an adventure, I suppose.
*
Chapter 1: Key of Holly
It was a lovely morning, in its way. Winter was passing, leaving behind sad, grey drifts of snow and muddy, broken ground, but the bright white sun above was cheerful as its light fell into the library of Uthcaire Manor through the drawn curtains. Charlotte stood by the tall window, feeling the wind worm its way in through the frame, and watched as two of her brothers fooled around in the little snow that remained, sliding down one of the low inclines left in the manor's sprawling grounds after Capability Brown had been at it somewhere in the previous century.
Charlotte tutted. She had aged out of tomfoolery much younger than her brothers had. Perhaps they never would. She steeled herself and turned back towards her guest.
"Really, not even a spot of tea?" she asked again, forcing herself to look Esserve of the Holly and Hawthorn straight in the eye. "It would be perfectly safe. You need not show yourself to a servant if I call one, do you?"
"I am perfectly fine, pet," said Esserve. She was, as always, beautiful enough to make the heart ache; she could also, if she chose, be terrifying beyond compare.
"Well, as you wish." Charlotte could hear the bitterness in her own voice, and crossed her arms over her stomach. No-one, not even the Fair Lords of the Sunshine, should be able to unsettle her so. But things were different now.
No beating around the bush would make the fact go away. Esserve was now her magickal patron, and they were bound to one another in terribly annoying yet irrefutable ways.
It was rather like inviting an aunt over. You had made the invitation; and so could not withdraw it. The aunt, on the other hand, could scarcely refuse. Therefore, no matter how little you liked one another, you were now inextricably bound to at least visit a few of the neighbours together, and you never quite knew how much of a cat your aunt was planning to be, to them, or to you, or in general.
It was also the case that Esserve was much worse, and generally just much... more in every way than even the mist enterprising of aunts.
Charlotte broke before Esserve did. "So. What can I do for you?"
Esserve had chosen to appear as she had before during their encounter in Bath--a tall, leonine woman in a man's riding suit tailored to her figure, her thick her coiled in a fashionable heap, with high cheekbones and a faintly golden complexion. Now her lips curved in a smile that was either taunting or pleasant, depending on how well you knew her. It made Charlotte feel small and young, which she detested.
"Can't I look in on my favourite human?" Esserve said, her voice melodious and deep. She pushed herself off the armchair she had been lounging on, and crossed over to Charlotte. Charlotte instinctively stepped away from the window, even though her brothers would not have been able to see them here in the shadows of the house. "Darling," said Esserve, and took Charlotte's hand. Charlotte flinched, but did not pull away, as Esserve turned her hand palm upwards and covered it with her own.
"Please," said Charlotte. "No more scars. You have already ruined me for evening gowns."
But instead of the sting and burn Charlotte had endured when Esserve had marked her, she felt something light and warm fall on her palm, and as Esserve pulled off her long-fingered hand (so like the paw of some powerful beast), there was a key lain across it. The teeth were of brass, and the handle of wood, carved to resemble holly leaves with a bunch of berries in relief. It was nearly the length of her hand.
"There is an old gate on the other side of the lake," said Esserve. "Covered in holly, surrounded by hawthorn--"
"Of course, it would be," Charlotte muttered.
"You must visit by moonlight on the night before the Equinox, and you will find the lock this key fits hanging on the gate. Use it only once, and the door will remain open to you until the following spring."
"I see," said Charlotte. "Is this a gift, or is it a task?"
"That is up to you," said Esserve with a toothy grin, and leaned over. Charlotte was too startled to flinch back from the soft kiss of blessing her patron laid on her forehead.
Charlotte looked down at the key in her hand, turning it around. When she looked up to ask more questions, Esserve was already gone, the heat of her kiss still lingering on Charlotte's skin.
Chapter 2: Lock of Hawthorn
The night before the Equinox was dark as pitch, the sky hooded by a thick cover of clouds. Charlotte's little burglar's lantern seemed to be the only light in the woods as she trekked her way awkwardly along the path she'd scouted the day before. She knew these grounds, and what the earth got to be like in March, and had taken a pair of sturdy men's boots for the purpose, but now she almost wished she's procured a pair of trousers as well.
Well, she was not about to kit out like a jungle explorer for a stroll around her family's grounds, even if it was the middle of the night, thank you very much! Neither her hems nor the undergrowth would stop her.
The lake lay calm and soothing to her right, the shoreline still clinging to ice even as the middle had melted, and her feet found their way along its shore. Off to the side, she saw the grove of trees that she knew sheltered the statues of the three wise women, the Eldest Oak, and the Well of Voices. She felt a pang thinking of their disapproval, and her mind shied away entirely of thinking what her tutor, Miss Miggins, would say if she knew what Charlotte was doing tonight.
On the other hand, would any of her ancestors have done any less? The promise of whatever lay ahead was too much to resist. The Montrouge family had always been lousy with magicians, and magicians were curious creatures.
No doubt Esserve had counted on this.
Charlotte's light fell upon the old gate at last, almost invisible behind the foliage. "Why, it's nothing but an old field-gate!" she exclaimed. The wood was rotten in places and overgrown with moss in others, and the wall around it, once built of mud and rocks, had fallen into ruin around it. Even so, when she shone her light on it, just where the two sides of the gate met, there hung a lock of brass, gleaming and neat like something just polished for sale at the village shop.
And, as she touched it and held it to the light, she could see the hawthorn leaves molded into the metal.
She paused for a moment, to look back across the grounds. There was nothing much to see but a dark sky and black land; there on the third floor of the manor, there was the faint glow of light from one of the upper windows. Likely Papa had not been able to sleep, again, and was pacing about the writing-room, smoking and thinking and yawning.
Briefly, Charlotte regretted not having said good-bye.
She puffed out a breath of air, gathered herself, and turned to the problem at hand: The lock, and whatever secrets that may open up for the coming year.
She fished the key out from her leather messenger bag and pushed it into the lock. A turn, and another, and a click, and the two sides of the gate fell open, and it squeaked as a breeze of wind made it swing on its hinges.
The air had the distinct scent of burning wood and flower herbs, and the tips of her fingers tingled with magic.
Chapter 3: Gate of Slime
A grin began to spread over Charlotte's face. It was still dark, but beyond the gate a shimmer of something like daylight trying to break through a veil was beginning to show. She reached out her hand...
And drew it back with a start, as something warm and sticky struck it.
She voiced an outraged, "Oh!" and shook her hand viciously until the goop plopped off her hand and disappeared somewhere in the undergrowth. She took another step back, clutching her key. The lock nearly came with it, the old gate's moldy wood giving way, but it clung on, lopsided on the old rusty hook.
She trained her burglar's lantern on the grass, and on the gate, and that was when she saw it: A trail of pale, translucent slime, as if an enormous slug had rolled across the wood some time ago and left blobs of its excretion on the planks. Only... it was moving. And, as she watched, parts of what she had taken to be slime took on the shape of moving, whipping limb-like protrusions...
Of course, a gate would have a guardian.
Charlotte wrinkled her nose, and screwed up all her disgust into courage. "Filthy thing!"
She whipped her silk handkerchief from her pocket and wiped down the lock, just to be sure, and stuffed it into her bag. There was no way of passing through the gate now without getting tangled with this odd guardian. Then again... Lady Esserve had said the gate would remain open until the following spring. She could come back later, and better prepared.
She just needed... that lock. There was simply no way she would just let it dangle there. Holly and Hawthorn was Esserve's House--Charlotte's House, too, now, in a way. The key and the lock belonged together.
The slime began to drop down from the gate, towards the grass, perhaps seeking out its missing... piece. Charlotte tried to think, but the urgency of the situation did not leave much opportunity for careful cogitation, and so she stopped trying to think, closed her eyes, and held out her hands, calling on the magic before her, within her, and that flowed through her from her patron.
The air had been cool and misty, the undergrowth wet with condensation. She could feel it like pinpricks of sensation even outside of the perimeter of her own body. She let it happen. She felt each drop, her own blood, even the sticky moisture that bound together the creature's strange physiognomy...
It took laboured, slow steps towards her, and she could feel the leaves hiss and curl into themselves where it touched. She could not allow it to touch her!
So she pulled the water out of it.
There was a whinnying sound as the creature stopped and writhed in obvious pain.
"Stay back," Charlotte snapped at it. "Imbecile! I have the key. I have the mark of the house of Holly and Hawthorn. What makes you think I have no right to be here? It is you who has no right!" And just to emphasize her words, she plucked another spoonful of moisture from the slime.
The thing backed away on many limbs, slipping back away and through the gate.
Charlotte drew a deep breath as the magic dissipated. The sunlight on the other side of the gate diminished and then blinked out as the magic in the air diminished.
Something told her she would not get away with this particular trick again. But for now, she was safe.
She stepped carefully back to the gate and turned the lock of hawthorn towards herself. That little motion was enough for the wood to come apart, and the lock fell heavy into her hand. She brushed away bits of wet wood from it lovingly, admiring the contours of its molding.
The answers to all her questions about magic, the reach of what could be done, would be there for her, so long as she reached out for them. And here, now, was her way in.
Story: Holly and Hawthorn
Colors: Iridium #3 (opportunity only knocks once), Newsprint #7 (You can make yourself enter somewhere frightening if you believe you'll profit from it. The natural response is to flee, but you don't act that way anymore.), Psychedelic Purple #8 (you were only waiting for this moment to be free)
Supplies and Styles: palette knife (Paperdemon), pastels (ladiesbingo "something useful")
Word Count: 2,000
Rating: teen
Summary: Charlotte receives her talisman.
Note: I wrote this for the Paperdemon Art RPG, so it's three chapters that each fill a character creation prompt from that RPG. A kind of a starter for an adventure, I suppose.
*
Chapter 1: Key of Holly
It was a lovely morning, in its way. Winter was passing, leaving behind sad, grey drifts of snow and muddy, broken ground, but the bright white sun above was cheerful as its light fell into the library of Uthcaire Manor through the drawn curtains. Charlotte stood by the tall window, feeling the wind worm its way in through the frame, and watched as two of her brothers fooled around in the little snow that remained, sliding down one of the low inclines left in the manor's sprawling grounds after Capability Brown had been at it somewhere in the previous century.
Charlotte tutted. She had aged out of tomfoolery much younger than her brothers had. Perhaps they never would. She steeled herself and turned back towards her guest.
"Really, not even a spot of tea?" she asked again, forcing herself to look Esserve of the Holly and Hawthorn straight in the eye. "It would be perfectly safe. You need not show yourself to a servant if I call one, do you?"
"I am perfectly fine, pet," said Esserve. She was, as always, beautiful enough to make the heart ache; she could also, if she chose, be terrifying beyond compare.
"Well, as you wish." Charlotte could hear the bitterness in her own voice, and crossed her arms over her stomach. No-one, not even the Fair Lords of the Sunshine, should be able to unsettle her so. But things were different now.
No beating around the bush would make the fact go away. Esserve was now her magickal patron, and they were bound to one another in terribly annoying yet irrefutable ways.
It was rather like inviting an aunt over. You had made the invitation; and so could not withdraw it. The aunt, on the other hand, could scarcely refuse. Therefore, no matter how little you liked one another, you were now inextricably bound to at least visit a few of the neighbours together, and you never quite knew how much of a cat your aunt was planning to be, to them, or to you, or in general.
It was also the case that Esserve was much worse, and generally just much... more in every way than even the mist enterprising of aunts.
Charlotte broke before Esserve did. "So. What can I do for you?"
Esserve had chosen to appear as she had before during their encounter in Bath--a tall, leonine woman in a man's riding suit tailored to her figure, her thick her coiled in a fashionable heap, with high cheekbones and a faintly golden complexion. Now her lips curved in a smile that was either taunting or pleasant, depending on how well you knew her. It made Charlotte feel small and young, which she detested.
"Can't I look in on my favourite human?" Esserve said, her voice melodious and deep. She pushed herself off the armchair she had been lounging on, and crossed over to Charlotte. Charlotte instinctively stepped away from the window, even though her brothers would not have been able to see them here in the shadows of the house. "Darling," said Esserve, and took Charlotte's hand. Charlotte flinched, but did not pull away, as Esserve turned her hand palm upwards and covered it with her own.
"Please," said Charlotte. "No more scars. You have already ruined me for evening gowns."
But instead of the sting and burn Charlotte had endured when Esserve had marked her, she felt something light and warm fall on her palm, and as Esserve pulled off her long-fingered hand (so like the paw of some powerful beast), there was a key lain across it. The teeth were of brass, and the handle of wood, carved to resemble holly leaves with a bunch of berries in relief. It was nearly the length of her hand.
"There is an old gate on the other side of the lake," said Esserve. "Covered in holly, surrounded by hawthorn--"
"Of course, it would be," Charlotte muttered.
"You must visit by moonlight on the night before the Equinox, and you will find the lock this key fits hanging on the gate. Use it only once, and the door will remain open to you until the following spring."
"I see," said Charlotte. "Is this a gift, or is it a task?"
"That is up to you," said Esserve with a toothy grin, and leaned over. Charlotte was too startled to flinch back from the soft kiss of blessing her patron laid on her forehead.
Charlotte looked down at the key in her hand, turning it around. When she looked up to ask more questions, Esserve was already gone, the heat of her kiss still lingering on Charlotte's skin.
Chapter 2: Lock of Hawthorn
The night before the Equinox was dark as pitch, the sky hooded by a thick cover of clouds. Charlotte's little burglar's lantern seemed to be the only light in the woods as she trekked her way awkwardly along the path she'd scouted the day before. She knew these grounds, and what the earth got to be like in March, and had taken a pair of sturdy men's boots for the purpose, but now she almost wished she's procured a pair of trousers as well.
Well, she was not about to kit out like a jungle explorer for a stroll around her family's grounds, even if it was the middle of the night, thank you very much! Neither her hems nor the undergrowth would stop her.
The lake lay calm and soothing to her right, the shoreline still clinging to ice even as the middle had melted, and her feet found their way along its shore. Off to the side, she saw the grove of trees that she knew sheltered the statues of the three wise women, the Eldest Oak, and the Well of Voices. She felt a pang thinking of their disapproval, and her mind shied away entirely of thinking what her tutor, Miss Miggins, would say if she knew what Charlotte was doing tonight.
On the other hand, would any of her ancestors have done any less? The promise of whatever lay ahead was too much to resist. The Montrouge family had always been lousy with magicians, and magicians were curious creatures.
No doubt Esserve had counted on this.
Charlotte's light fell upon the old gate at last, almost invisible behind the foliage. "Why, it's nothing but an old field-gate!" she exclaimed. The wood was rotten in places and overgrown with moss in others, and the wall around it, once built of mud and rocks, had fallen into ruin around it. Even so, when she shone her light on it, just where the two sides of the gate met, there hung a lock of brass, gleaming and neat like something just polished for sale at the village shop.
And, as she touched it and held it to the light, she could see the hawthorn leaves molded into the metal.
She paused for a moment, to look back across the grounds. There was nothing much to see but a dark sky and black land; there on the third floor of the manor, there was the faint glow of light from one of the upper windows. Likely Papa had not been able to sleep, again, and was pacing about the writing-room, smoking and thinking and yawning.
Briefly, Charlotte regretted not having said good-bye.
She puffed out a breath of air, gathered herself, and turned to the problem at hand: The lock, and whatever secrets that may open up for the coming year.
She fished the key out from her leather messenger bag and pushed it into the lock. A turn, and another, and a click, and the two sides of the gate fell open, and it squeaked as a breeze of wind made it swing on its hinges.
The air had the distinct scent of burning wood and flower herbs, and the tips of her fingers tingled with magic.
Chapter 3: Gate of Slime
A grin began to spread over Charlotte's face. It was still dark, but beyond the gate a shimmer of something like daylight trying to break through a veil was beginning to show. She reached out her hand...
And drew it back with a start, as something warm and sticky struck it.
She voiced an outraged, "Oh!" and shook her hand viciously until the goop plopped off her hand and disappeared somewhere in the undergrowth. She took another step back, clutching her key. The lock nearly came with it, the old gate's moldy wood giving way, but it clung on, lopsided on the old rusty hook.
She trained her burglar's lantern on the grass, and on the gate, and that was when she saw it: A trail of pale, translucent slime, as if an enormous slug had rolled across the wood some time ago and left blobs of its excretion on the planks. Only... it was moving. And, as she watched, parts of what she had taken to be slime took on the shape of moving, whipping limb-like protrusions...
Of course, a gate would have a guardian.
Charlotte wrinkled her nose, and screwed up all her disgust into courage. "Filthy thing!"
She whipped her silk handkerchief from her pocket and wiped down the lock, just to be sure, and stuffed it into her bag. There was no way of passing through the gate now without getting tangled with this odd guardian. Then again... Lady Esserve had said the gate would remain open until the following spring. She could come back later, and better prepared.
She just needed... that lock. There was simply no way she would just let it dangle there. Holly and Hawthorn was Esserve's House--Charlotte's House, too, now, in a way. The key and the lock belonged together.
The slime began to drop down from the gate, towards the grass, perhaps seeking out its missing... piece. Charlotte tried to think, but the urgency of the situation did not leave much opportunity for careful cogitation, and so she stopped trying to think, closed her eyes, and held out her hands, calling on the magic before her, within her, and that flowed through her from her patron.
The air had been cool and misty, the undergrowth wet with condensation. She could feel it like pinpricks of sensation even outside of the perimeter of her own body. She let it happen. She felt each drop, her own blood, even the sticky moisture that bound together the creature's strange physiognomy...
It took laboured, slow steps towards her, and she could feel the leaves hiss and curl into themselves where it touched. She could not allow it to touch her!
So she pulled the water out of it.
There was a whinnying sound as the creature stopped and writhed in obvious pain.
"Stay back," Charlotte snapped at it. "Imbecile! I have the key. I have the mark of the house of Holly and Hawthorn. What makes you think I have no right to be here? It is you who has no right!" And just to emphasize her words, she plucked another spoonful of moisture from the slime.
The thing backed away on many limbs, slipping back away and through the gate.
Charlotte drew a deep breath as the magic dissipated. The sunlight on the other side of the gate diminished and then blinked out as the magic in the air diminished.
Something told her she would not get away with this particular trick again. But for now, she was safe.
She stepped carefully back to the gate and turned the lock of hawthorn towards herself. That little motion was enough for the wood to come apart, and the lock fell heavy into her hand. She brushed away bits of wet wood from it lovingly, admiring the contours of its molding.
The answers to all her questions about magic, the reach of what could be done, would be there for her, so long as she reached out for them. And here, now, was her way in.
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