The Ghost Prince
Prologue
"I felt her fingers twitch," a strange voice – one she was sure that she knew – cracked through the antiseptic laden air, cool and harsh to her nostrils as she took in shallow breaths. There was hope in that voice, dull and almost lost, but still there.
"These things happen, Mr. Malfoy," murmured a stranger voice, a feminine tone wearied and haggard, her words punctuated with the tapping of a quill against a clipboard, "Your sister has been in a coma for six months . . . subconscious movements such as those occur quite frequently in such long term cases."
"I know how long she's been here," murmured the man – she couldn't tell who, it could be either of her brothers – and there was an edge to his voice now, "I want to know how much longer I have to wait for her to wake up."
"These things take time, Mr. Malfoy," the Healer replied, "We can just hope."
Her meagre grasp of consciousness slipped, once more plunging her into the darkness of her dreams.
The world is shadowed by an ethereally grey twilight for neither sun nor moon shine upon her island. The lull of cresting waves against the shore often soothes her to sleep, a dull, restless existence in which there are no coherent thoughts save for the tangled web of her sorrows. A light breeze wafts across the dimly lit shores, the scraggly palms waving their tattered leaves to the empty sky.
It was a realm bleached of colour and joy, created only by her sorrow and her pain. Her own personal prison, one that existed within her own mind, an incarceration that was as inescapable as it was bleak.
There were days when the sun rose for a few minutes, when abstract thoughts of a raven haired girl would slip past her crumbling hold on sanity and reason, lilting laughter and bright grin delivering her from the suffocating despair which engulfed her. Then she would see the girl's eyes, emerald green and bright with life, and she would be reminded of another pair of eyes, identical, and her mourning would begin anew.
Cassiopeia shivered as the cold breeze bit into her pale skin, her teeth chattering together as she wept on the shores of her island.
"Is mummy ok?" a young child whispered, slender fingers – the kind which was perfect for an artist – ghosted across her own still hand.
"I hope so," she's heard this voice once before in a storm of white fire and Daemonic majesty. She can't tell who it is though, something within her refuses to acknowledge what is nought but another knife through her slowly beating heart.
"I miss her," the girl said as a name slid through Cassiopeia's mind –Aurora – before fading away like a ribbon of smoke in a gale, "Do you?"
"I never knew her," the boy's voice stung at her, warm and energetic, yet stained by the grave.
There's a storm coming, she can see the onslaught of black clouds upon the horizon. Crashing arcs of purple light strike at the ashen sea as the lightning rears, the sweet music of roaring thunder filling her ears as it hastens to her island.
She doesn't move from her sea upon the gravelly beach, not even when the first fat drops of icy water begin to fall. It's just another day for her because the elements hold no sway over those with a broken heart. Had she not already been burned by wind and fire, drowned by water, buried by earth and broken in spirit?
She was a ghost of sorts, lacking corporeal form whilst still maintaining her soulless body. It's a grim penance for one who only desires death . . . to be forced to stay alive with one foot beneath a headstone and the other firmly upon the ground.
Why can't they just let her fly free beyond the veil?
There's nothing left for her in life. She has a child, a girl now old enough to fend for herself and with numerous relatives to aid her. Was it so wrong for her to simply want to rest? To fall into the silent slumber and dance with her husband again?
Albus . . .
"Mum, I know you're in there . . . please wake up," it's the boy's voice again, haunted and melancholy as it washes over her.
"Please, mum," he whispered, and she feels a strong hand close around her wrist, "I need you . . ."
For a brief second she tried her hardest, because he's called her mum even though she has no son – not anymore, not since he had been slain in her womb – but then the urge is gone and she's fading again.
The air is sweet with the scent of black roses, once a symbol of her love and now a grotesque imagery of her loss. She remembered her wedding, in the Rose Garden of Narcissa Malfoy, she remembered the look of love upon her husband's face as she had said her vows.
She remembered the way he kissed her, unbridled passion and adoration flaring within them both after she had laid his hand across her belly and declared herself to be carrying his son.
"What are you doing?" there's a woman sitting beside her, clad in black, face and hair hidden by a delicate veil.
"Trying to die," murmured Cassiopeia, looking out over the rolling waves with a dull look in her silver – faded to grey – eyes. Her beauty was traced with tragedy, the first crinkles around her eyes formed by years and years of tears.
She doesn't even question the person beside her, even though she notes that the eyes are as silver as only a Malfoy's can be and the few wisps of hair that are visible from beneath her veil are platinum blonde.
"Why though?"
"Why not?"
"Your husband and children are waiting for you, you know."
Her head whipped towards the stranger, eyes flashing with anger because how dare this creature speak of those she had lost. Albus . . . Leo . . . perhaps now even little Aurora, all gone too far from the fluttering grasp.
"My husband and son are dead," snarled Cassiopeia.
"Are they really? Has so much time passed since I last drew breath that death has now become a finality rather than a triviality?" the woman seemed to smirk as she reached up to undo her veil. The black cloth slid to the ground and as it was blown away, Cassiopeia recoiled in shock at the sight before her.
She knew this woman. She had a portrait of her own in the attics, where all those ancestral Malfoys had been hung up to collect dust. Her father used to take her to see them when she was but a child and he had made her learn their names by heart.
"Cassandra," breathed Cassiopeia, "The Mad Queen."
"They called me mad for they saw not what I saw," replied Cassandra Malfoy, a relic from centuries before, "But I was the wisest of them all. As is your daughter."
"What does Aurora have to do with you?" snapped Cassiopeia, defensiveness flaring in her voice.
"I thought you no longer cared," Cassandra smirked.
But she did care. Aurora was the only person that had kept her alive all these years, living in a world without her husband and son. Her daughter was hers to protect, hers to raise . . . Morgana have mercy; she needed to awaken. She needed to be there for her child. It was flooding back to her, Cassandra's words having triggered the dam to burst and she was bombarded by memories, some bittersweet but all woven with love.
"Go home, Cassiopeia," smiled Cassandra, "Because Aurora needs you . . . Leo needs you . . . Albus needs you . . ."
Cassiopeia nodded as her ancestor faded, gossamer strands of white gold dissipating from her smiling form as her words lingered on the wind.
"It has been seven months!" cried her oldest brother, "I'm tired of seeing her like this!" His hand was holding her own, fingers intertwined as she heard the frightened whimper of the Healer. She didn't envy the girl, nobody had a temper as Black as Scorpius did where the welfare of his family was concerned.
Her eyes flared open, blinking in the harsh glare of the fluorescent lighting. The Healer saw her first and gasped, clipboard clattering to the floor in shock. Scorpius was rising to his feet, his hand drifting from hers as he no doubt prepared to stalk towards the quaking women and give her a piece of his mind.
"Scorpius," croaked Cassiopeia, her throat dry and parched, her voice cracked with disuse. The blond man whirled around to face her as she grasped his wrist and pulled, weakly for she still lacked so much of her strength.
"Cassie," he whispered, tears brimming in his eyes as they met her own.
"I want to see my daughter . . . and my son."
(*)(*)(*)
A/N: So this is Chapter One of Book 3: The Ghost Prince, the third part of The Lord of Shadows Series. For those new to the series, I recommend reading Book 1: The Good Son, and Book 2: Call Me Home before continuing with this arc of the story.
Reviews, as always, are appreciated and I would love to hear what you all think of this new instalment.