Hell Revisited
A/N: Well this is odd, I should have been updating my other fics, but it seems I'm fixed on this one for now. Anyone to review? No? Then I shall kill myself.
Two: Bourgeoise
"This? This is absolute trash, mother!"
"If you would just listen—"
"All I've ever done is listen! To all the talk, all the mockery, all the gossip! All I have ever done is listen, what about the things that I want, the things that I want, what about them?"
"What do you want, of all the things in the world, what else could you possibly want?"
"Would it be wrong to say that I want everything, mother?"
"Stop acting so selfishly."
"What if I am selfish mother? What would you make of that?"
"I knew I should've put you in a nunnery."
"You'd lose a daughter."
"I've already lost you in the process of raising you, Alice."
"Like in Carroll's book. This isn't Wonderland, mother."
"What do you think it is, Alice? This is France nearing the turn of the century."
"I know, mother."
"Go pray, Alice."
"I'd rather read Homer's Odyssey."
"The cathedral has its doors opened for sinners and saints."
"I am neither."
"To speak of yourself so highly, Alice, pride shall be your greatest downfall."
"Pride has been everyone's downfall, no matter how they are."
"The cathedral welcomes believers and non-believers."
"The cathedral shuns no one, mother. They're not being realistic."
"The bells ring for the rich and the poor. The windows illuminate the living and the dead. The cathedral is built for sinners, saints, believers, and non-believers."
"Then I shall…pray."
Her name was Alice, named after the protagonist of Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and Through the Looking Glass, Mr. Alfred and Mrs. Helena Kingsley were ecstatic at the thought of having a female child. A brilliant investigator, Alfred Nicholas F. Kingsley was a naturally inquisitive man, always questioning and taking pride in his skill to render audiences speechless at his words, until his words were on par with Helena Jules'. Helena Beatrice M. Jules was an intelligent, yet cynical woman, who spent her share of her family's wealth in education and human sciences, often observing at social gatherings and noble parties.
"Would it kill my mother to at take interest in my work?"
The product of curious attitude and cynical prejudgment was her, the eleven-year-old Alice Evette J. Kingsley. Inquisitive as her father, but skeptical as her mother, she spends most of her time in books and periodicals, newspapers and journals, taking note of anything she deems as 'humanly mystical' such as expensive parties ending in ruin, psychopathic killers committing suicide, and conspiracies involving the Royal Family.
"I've spent much time in compiling those files." She sighs, wearing her coat, "When most would be playing Castles and Kings!"
"If my father could only read them," She tells herself as she slides past the back door and into the yard, "He would be proud, so very proud."
She walks to the dirt path, near the lake, and starts towards the cathedral her mother talks about so often.
"What's so special about the cathedral anyway? It's not as if there's a hidden crypt containing the remains of a lost France." She shrugs, and stops, rethinking, "Or maybe it does." She smirks to herself.
She starts to run, ignoring the blurring fog of the morning; she passes manors and couples walking underneath parasols, who smile to themselves. She feels ecstatic, a new mystery to be solved under the Kingsley name, another headline with their name.
"Kingsley discovers hidden crypt in cathedral." She whispers to herself, a smile forming on her face, "Mother would love me." She runs.
The moment she reaches the cathedral's stone pavement, something replaces her ecstatic feeling.
The structure looms above high above her, pointed and frightening, it might the residence of a monster. The cathedral windows have a glimmer of purples, blues, yellows; depicting biblical scenes with eyes that accuse you of sin. In the hazy Tuesday morning, almost no one is seen near the cathedral, the mass is not until midday. The small door within the large, carved doors swings freely as the wind blows past her. It's almost a scene out of a horrific novel, except there is no storm and midnight is far from the present time.
"Ghosts don't exist, Alice, don't be daft." She tells herself, "This is a House of God after all." She threads lightly along the pavement, listening to the rustle of leaves in the autumn trees.
"Would you believe it, priest? The blood of a thousand is resting within your walls." A darkened figure spins aimlessly by the altar.
An elderly man shouts, holding onto the golden cross for his life. "P-please! I don't know anything! Be rid of me, devil!"
It stops and steps into the light streaming from the large, stained-glass window "Devil? My, you speak such hurtful words, in front of an innocent woman no less." She reveals herself, bloodied and smiling.
"You're a murderer! Admit your sins and repent!" He moves back.
"My, you shun me! The House of God is open for sinners and saints, is it not?"
"Not for devils like you!"
Her eyes darken in shade, from a sapphire blue to an ashen black. "Stop calling me a devil, priest."
"You are!" He shoves the cross to her, "Away from me!"
"Golden ornaments do nothing, priest." She chuckles amusedly, "But I think I'd like a golden choker."
He starts murmuring, an exorcism prayer in Latin, closing his eyes and tightening his grip on the cross.
"Are you praying, priest? At the face of death, you pray?" She almost laughs.
He continues.
She rolls her eyes. "Oh, everyone has done this, you don't have to make yourself suffer."
He repeats, louder and firmer.
"Just tell me where it is, priest. Where are the bodies of those you abolished? They are underneath the structure itself, yes?" She asks, nearly shouting at him.
He continues his fervent prayer.
She sighs in frustration and grabs the poor man by his neck. "Where the bodies of the Ministers of Saint-Mons? Where are they?"
He continues his prayer in a whimper.
"You cannot wish me away, priest. You have no power over me." She shakes him; he stops and tears stream down his cheeks as she asks him this, "If you don't know where the bodies are, then where is the Ministry of Saint-Mons? Where is the passage to Hell?"
"I don't know, I don't know." He whispers, "God have mercy, I don't know." He chokes.
"Pathetic." She throws him to the floor, from where he emits a pained cry, "As all, you're better off dead."
The gunshots ring together with the cathedral bells. Nine o'clock in the morning.
Alice hears the loud bells, indicating the formal start of the morning. She enters hesitantly, eyes adjusting to the dim lightning. The far sight makes her emit a shrill cry.
The minister was dead and bleeding on the cold marble of the raised area of the altar.
It seemed more like a painting to her actually, the light streaming from the large, circular window created an ethereal feeling of melancholy and the body aligning with the center aisle was murderously perfect.
But who would murder a priest, anyway?
She started walking towards him, to answer a few of her questions, and to see if it was an act of God, sacrificing himself for the sake of France. A third of the way though, she stops feeling terrified. A cold chill approaches her. There was no wind; the small door had been shut closed.
"I smell a murderer with us," A voice startles her, feminine and low-pitched, "Don't you think?" She looks to her left and to her right, no one was there.
"H-hello?" She drawls out, clutching her skirt fearfully.
"Behind you, darling."
She glances behind her, slowly, and sees an elegantly dressed woman at about the age of twenty-five, an elaborately designed hat on her head. She wore different shades of blue.
"Good morning, little girl." She smiles sweetly.
"To you too," She greets back, emptily.
"What brings you here at such an early hour?" The woman asks her casually; walking towards her "Isn't your mother worried?"
"Far from it actually." She replies curtly. Isn't the woman bothered by the corpse in front of them?
The woman stops about two yards away from her, "She must be a very understanding woman."
"She isn't." She mutters to herself.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, I think I should go now." She starts to feel uncomfortable and turns to the door.
"You've just arrived." The woman appears before her, a yard away.
"H-how did you—"
"Weren't you going to pray?"
How did she know? Well, this is a church after all, people pray—
"I-I was." She starts backing away, slowly.
"Then pray." She suggests airily as if they were acquaintances.
"Actually I wasn't." Alice replies quickly, stupidly.
"Then why are you here?"
She suddenly found herself unable to answer.
"I-I don't know."
"I apologize for saying this," The woman bows her head a little, "but I despise the three words you've just said."
"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"But you're still young, so it's alright." She smiles sweetly, "But when you grow up, make sure to be firm with your answers."
Does this woman know something?
Alice avoids her eyes. "Y-yes, of course."
There is a long silence where neither of them moves.
"May I ask you a question?" The woman disrupts the absence of sound, "What is it that you want in this world?"
Her eyes widen at the thought, "Pardon?"
"Do you feel as if you are lacking something in your life? Even for a young girl, you seem educated enough to know what you want and what you need."
What she wants and what she needs, she has never thought of that before.
"Do you wish for power, unlimited wealth, the love of all, respect?" The blue woman continues, "Anything?"
She recalls the discussion with her mother earlier, about an arranged marriage, the tearful separation of her father to work in England, her dream for the Kingsley name to be printed on the newspapers of France and maybe of entire Europe, and her dream for her family to be at the top of the list of Europe's finest investigators.
"I want many things."
"Would you trade your soul to have those things come true?"
Trade your soul, she never thought—but those things are what make up her soul.
"Would you?" The woman pressed her further.
"I—" She ponders, would she really? All of them sounded quite materialistic and selfish of her. "I think I would." She realizes.
"Be firm, little girl." Her tone was hard and quite cynical.
"Yes," She decides, she would give anything just to make those happen, "Yes I would."
She feels a burn on her palms, it might be sweat, but the weather is damp and cold.
"Would you bargain with a stranger?"
"I would." Yes she would, she might be bargaining with one right now.
"A thief?" The woman raises a thin brow.
Alice pauses, but decides quickly, "Yes." She had nothing to lose.
"A killer?"
She thinks hard, and decides, "Anything to make them real." She would sacrifice if she had to.
"A demon."
She thinks harder for it wasn't a question, "I think I would."
"Yes or no." The woman pressed on, stepping closer to her.
She feels a tightening in her throat; she swallows it down as a bead of sweat trickles down her neck. What is making her feel sick?
"Would you bargain your soul with a demon from Hell?" The woman asked again, her voice dark and somewhat rueful.
Would she? Then that would mean a guarantee in the slots for the boiling Lake of Fire, she wouldn't be labeled a saint if anyone knew. Then again, can she even be called an angel if she doubts the beliefs of most and trusts herself in the writings of others, of excommunicated, non-religious ones? Would St. Peter even smile at her for she doubts Miracles of God and puts her faith in things involving earthly chemicals and human sciences? Does she even have a chance in Heaven?
"God forgives." Her mother would say.
"I—" She releases it in a gasp, "I would." She tests her words, "Yes, I would." She assures the woman.
The woman gives her a smirk, a sign of approval, before kneeling on one knee and bowing her head with a hand on her chest.
"Then you have my word as Teresa Fiddlewitch, your word is the law that binds me to you, your majesty."
Alice stands, shock-still and blinks her eyes, she must be dreaming.
"A-are you—" Her eyes widen, "Are you serious?"
"As the seal that is imprinted on our hands, I am yours to command." She raises her left hand and removes the black glove, revealing a blue pentagram before a rose printed on her palm. "Your right is as my left."
She follows, still in disbelief, and removes the white glove from her left hand. She stares at the similar design in red ink—blood?—glowing on her palm. She emits a terrified scream.
"This isn't real, this isn't real—" She panics, "I'm asleep and you're not real! A fragment of my imagination from reading too many novels at a time!" She laughs nervously. "This is not real!" She pinches her cheeks and slaps her arms, hoping to wake up from a nightmare, but she doesn't.
"Stop hurting yourself, your majesty. This is as real as the burn you have felt. I am yours to command and yours to keep." She tells her calmly.
"Then all of my dreams can come true?" She asks slowly, her panic settling into a calm.
"Yes, all of them will be true as you tell me to do your will."
"And you can make sure that they will be done?"
"According to your word and according to your heed, it shall be done."
She starts to smile because things might go as she plans them to be, "Then let me welcome you to my mother. Come, Teresa!" She tells the stranger's name for the first time, testing her power.
"As you command, your majesty." Teresa follows her obediently, leaving the dead body of the priest to rot until the midday mass.
And on another part of the world, a boy watches the fires that dance around his vision, his beloved home burning and burning and burning.
"The raven flies where it must not, and the childless soul cries where it shall die."
A/N: Well, that was a quick update. I just added the previous chapter yesterday. I think I deserve some awesome reviews from awesome readers, don't I? Tell me what you think about it, please? *big smile*
