XD I don't own Narcissa, she belongs to jk Rowling. I also do not own the latin writing-it is a common prayer written by people centuries ago.
Porcelain
Picture Narcissa, a well-born lady who lives in Revolutionary War-time Boston. Today she is headed for the dress shop, as she will need to take new measurements for her wedding gown that is soon to be made. In the streets she passes, the dullness of the gray morning is slowly giving way to a brilliant midday radiance. But she is not walking, oh no, Narcissa is riding in her fine black coach with the velvet interior she so adores. She sits properly on the velvet cushions, her back stiff and straight. Her dress is of the silken kind, complete with a lace-up bodice and large, ruffled skirts. She hears it is the latest fashion in London, you see. Her skin is pure white, completely unmarred. She lives every day as if she were a perfect porcelain doll, unknowing and innocent.
Narcissa looks out into the bright morning, and then she sees it: a patch of darkness among the light. She sees the back of a small child, completely covered in a burnt maroon-colored coat. The child is standing in a deserted alleyway next to a charred door. His shoulders are raking in sobs; it is obvious something is wrong. The boy turns his head up slightly, and the flash of his emerald green eyes captures Narcissa's attention. As her coach goes by she tries to pretend she did not just such a heartbroken little boy. Thump, thump, thump. She feels her frozen heart begin to beat inside of her. How ridiculous. Why, it was almost as if she were alive again!
Finally, Narcissa commands her coach driver to stop and return. He follows orders, and once they arrive at the alley, goes around to help her down onto the street. Opening her ornate umbrella to shield her perfect skin from the sunlight, she regally saunters out into the street and walks up behind the child.
"What is the matter, young one?" She says in her clear soprano voice. The child turns around, and she just barely suppresses a wince. His face is distorted, burned and raw. The boy's eyes are red and puffy, a sure sign that he has been crying. On his coat he is wearing a melted silver button with the initials of master silversmith Paul Revere. She knows that this squalid young boy is one of them-a patriot. By now, of course, dear little Narcissa fathoms why she is out here, standing with this unkept child in a dirty alleyway. But, alas, she keeps her opinions to herself. Porcelain dolls are always very polite, you see.
"Pay me no mind, lady." He responds slowly. The boy's voice is weak and hoarse, possessing a hint of an Irish lilt.
"Now surely there must be something the matter." Narcissa says impatiently, her platinum blond eyebrow raised. Her appointment, after all, cannot be rescheduled, as her wedding is the following month. Her time better not be wasted here, especially on something-or someone- like this. He looks up at her, defeated. The expression on his distorted face, however, is quickly replaced with pain.
Finally, once the spasms pass, he points and whispers in a small voice, " My sister is dead. The heartless Tories who lived d-down the str-str-eet k-killed her.." It is only now that Helen makes out a broken form in the shadows of the alley-a young girl's lifeless body. "I don't kno-kn-now what to-t-o do!" he wails, breaking out in more sobs.
She stands there and ponders, trying to remember what prayers were usually spoken for the deceased. Then another thought enters into her pretty little head: why should she help this filthy patriot? He had even openly defamed righteous Loyalists! She stares at the boy, and for the first time she notices he probably is no older than ten years, and is already facing the hardships that come with death. She continues the silent struggle in her head until she feels a little bit of something she never felt before. You see, most dolls do not feel at all. Suddenly she remembers the days after her mother passed away, almost two years ago in England.
She had been sitting in the front row, her father on her right and her fiancée on the left. She had sat for hours without moving, passing through her day as if she were an unthinking porcelain doll. She had, in fact, loved to play with her dolls when she was a girl. Now, much to her sick delight, she was morphing into one. The whole day so far had been coated in a dreary haze, creating a surreal quality in the air about her. In fact, she had only been vaguely aware that she was in a cemetery. But then, for a minute, she could hear the world clearly. The old priest had been reciting a prayer in Latin.
"Deus, cujus miseratióne ánimæ fidélium requiéscunt,hunc
túmulum benedícere dignáre, eíque Angelum tuum sanctum députa
custódem: et quorum quarúmque córpora hic sepeliúntur, animas
eórum ab ómnibus absólve vínculis delictórum; ut in te
semper cul Sanctis tuis sine fine læténtur. Per
Christum Dóminum nostrum. Amen.."
Of course, having been well educated, Narcissa had understood every word spoken by the priest. However, the word that stuck with her the most had been miseratióne: mercy. Somehow, she had known that the word would someday have it's own meaning to her. It had been raining that day, raining tears of blood. Or was the rain really always such a crimson shade? A few days passed, and soon she found she could not remember anything at all.
Narcissa gives a little gasp. The frozen blue blood in her veins melt and begin to run wild. It turns red, just like the rain on that day so long ago. Within her mind a sinister black brush is painting a portrait in blood. She is in it, of course, why wouldn't she be? Narcissa is a worthy subject of any painting, as you very well know. There is something terribly wrong with the portrait, however. Just like the pretty porcelain doll she once played with in her youth, Narcissa lies shattered in a corner, forgotten. Yet, most unlike a doll, she bleeds profusely from the cracks in the porcelain. Her synthetic eyes are pleading, but not one soul lingers around to rescue her. And of course, the horrid portrait within her conscience radiates one word and one word alone: mercy.
"Mercy, mercy, mercy," She whispers, hoping God is listening to her. She looks to the patriot boy, who is openly staring at her as if she were insane. "You will be granted mercy…but will I?" she utters, and flees to her awaiting coach. As she departs, she realizes that the boy cannot be helped. Her recently melted pulse is thumping in her veins.
Narcissa takes unladylike breaths as she settles back into her regal coach. She breathes deeply and closes her eyes. Narcissa pushes all thoughts away of her recent encounter, pushes away reality. The evil little painting within her mind disintegrates. Her demeanor changes, and cracks in the porcelain remedy themselves and become whole again. Her blood cools, her heart stops. The change is complete, and she is once more the perfect porcelain doll she constantly strives to be.
She opens her ocean eyes and looks around the dark coach, all fragments of her recent encounter forgotten. The full black interior makes for a somewhat morbid mood, she thinks, though deep inside somehow she knows it is not the coach. And so she sits, to all the world looking like a pure porcelain doll. As she revels in her carefully simple thoughts, she now finds that her imagined wedding dress has a small bloody stain in the shape of a heart. Her light blue eyes widen, and suddenly she isn't so porcelain anymore.