Chapter Fifty | To Thy Regent, One Must Bow
Steel met stone in a furious clash, brackish smoke bursting outward from where the weapons ground together, the souls of the undead screaming their sisyphean torment. Catherine grit her teeth against the noise of it all, resounding in her jaw and skull and pricking against her eardrums.
The husk of a man that was Logarius still retained the speed and precision of the day he came marching to Cainhurst. Body withered, skin a leather that draped from his features, but the vicious tenacity that must have followed him in life yet clung to his bones.
Her magic reached out reflexively, as if to ward off the innumerable souls bound to his clothes and weapon, the curse that hung from him in shrieking, lurid clouds that glowed like radioactive rust. All her magic took with it was the manic zealotry that pounded in his mind with the might and fervor of a warband.
The Truth had become a part of her, and perhaps the reason why Tom was so feared for his legilimency, was because it wasn't- but actually the battered, whispered words of what Was, Is, and Would Be, poured into her skull only to slosh out her ears and stain the sharp curve of her jaw.
She knew - Knew - that even in his madness, shackled hand and foot to the roof of the castle upon which his crusade had been visited, Logarius did not rage against the bonds that held him. He reveled in it, gibbering waves of satisfaction wound tight around the pulsing feeling that his only regret was the setting in which his living corpse must lie, consigned evermore to the biting winds of Cainhurst. Disgust so thick as to be palpable, but the vindication that came with it was sweltering.
A martyr indeed.
It doesn't always come to her, these visions or the aching chorus that accompanies them. Voices on voices and bright, clear song, peaking with bells, chimes, and the steady beat of her heart driving its rhythm. It's only when the blood is roaring in her ears and something electric hums at her fingertips that the Truth speaks its solemn words.
She ducked, smiling wide as the scythe whipped through the air above her, a dozen glittering nails conjured out of nothing and turning Logarius' foot into a sludgy mess of bone and flesh.
This feeling, turning her ribs to gold and making her fingers shake with anticipation, was that same burn on Voldemort's every breath? Even as Catherine danced away from blistered souls full of so much magic - his magic, his - she couldn't help but wonder if the Truth was always resting on his lips, curled beneath his tongue and waiting with serene patience to turn yet another mind to ash.
Logarius was an empty vessel born of hatred. All she could taste, smell, hear, see upon him was death. It lay in those shrunken fingers and the curl of each knuckle as skulls and ghosts flew from his hands. Death burrowed deep into eye sockets moulded over with frost and the fallow shine of a gaze not soon to harvest - to lie fetid and foul until the winds blew naught but dust.
She had no wish to drink his blood, all of his secrets already laid bare and beckoning to her, available at but a twitch of the finger, for her to tug at the immaterial strings that branched off him to lands unknown.
In the blink of an eye a sword, wicked and dotted with gold, was drawn from beneath Logarius' robes, swiping forward to carve through her throat. Catherine gurgled her laughter through a spray of blood, flesh knitting back together as she pushed against the clawing reach of death and bound it hand and foot.
Exhausting though it was, the sheer convenience of not having to slog her way back through the castle left Catherine with little doubt that were she to die another two or three times atop this snowy roof that the weariness in her bones would be more than worth it.
Her hammer reduced his knee to mush, the crack of it echoing across the mountaintops to be lost in the snowstorms beyond. Logarius did not crumple, instead floating off the ground and bringing his spear and sword overhead, the air crackling as it was forced out by the sudden explosion of a hundred screaming souls.
They flew towards her, a few bursting along the way, the force of it buffeting her duster. A flick of the wrist, fingers twisting alongside it and a great silver shield rocketed out to meet them.
It was as if a mortar had gone off, shrapnel flying every which way and tearing jagged holes through her body, the steel rattling around inside her. Catherine yanked them back out with another wave of her wand, deftly dropping it into her sleeve for a moment so that she could press a vial to her lips.
The smoke cleared to reveal Logarius' face, reduced to a few matted tendrils of singed meat clinging to the bone of his skull, the front of his robes torn open to bare his ribs and beating heart. Blinded and for the first time in his penance close to death, he still held his scythe, sword brandished across it to form a cross.
Stubborn. Almost as stubborn as her.
He floated higher - flew, just like Voldemort could (was it the souls?) and tilted his head as if to listen for her. Catherine held her breath, but that momentary rush as her lungs swelled was all he needed to dash towards her, scythe rolling through the air in a wide, thunderous sweep and nearly cleaving her in two.
Through her waist, her spine, and barely out the other end it went, Catherine swearing as her intestines spilled out of her belly, torso wobbly as she fought to keep herself together. Like a hundred needles, the serpentine grip of her nerves reconnecting wound up and down her body, the thread that bound her life together held tight with whitened knuckles.
Already she could feel herself flagging, that insipid draw that beckoned her to the Dream tugging that much more viciously. It begged her to lay her head upon a bed of straw, to rest in the ochre moonlight before once more laying her claim to the city below.
(Un)fortunately Catherine was frightfully lazy, and would rather suffer the pain of a broken body than weather the trek up the castle's many stairs. That reminded her of her want to learn apparition, but even in the midst of battle, sword swings and clanging steel, she knew that were she to attempt it within the castle's wards her body would burst into a glorious display of fleshy fireworks and blood red streamers. A fine mist she would make, painting the walls with her gore.
Not much sense in learning something when you know it won't work. At least, not here it wouldn't.
So Catherine dropped her weapons and jumped on top of the flying martyr, grabbing the meaty tendrils that hung from his face and coiling them around her wrists. Still, he did not bellow, only a hiss emanating from below the mass of ragged tongue that draped over his throat. Her boots dug into his waist and Catherine gripped the sinew tighter, hoisting herself up so they were face to face.
Then, she drove her forehead into the irreparable nest of gore that used to be his nose and eyes.
Over and over, skull rattling, she bashed his head in with her own, feeling the bone fracture beneath her with each and every blow. She could taste on the air his fear and confusion, the utter madness of how he would finally meet his death.
One of her teeth fell out, then another, her nose cracking as she all but mashed her face into his own, burying herself in his warmth.
Finally, his skull gave way with a mighty snap, shards of bone lancing through his brain like broken glass, Catherine carving a line in her own forehead as she drove it deeper, deeper, drowning in a waterfall of gore.
They fell together, Logarius' corpse crashing down on top of her and smashing her head to pieces. Everything that made up Catherine burst like ripe fruit across the castle roof, a flower of blood and jiggling flesh that steamed in the winter cold, one lonesome eye rolling across the shingles.
But as she fell, before her skull was flattened and her brains scattered for the birds, Catherine couldn't help the giggle that bubbled in her chest.
-::-
Going back through the castle Catherine took note that the ghosts had… disappeared. No spectre haunting her steps nor did a blade wait in the dark, ethereal, to drink of her blood.
Killing Logarius had lifted the miasma that clung to every stone and every polished bannister within the halls. Not entirely, but enough to make her feel just a touch lighter, her steps a hair less tentative. Even the ghouls, or whatever the hunched manservants seem to be, were noticeably slower in their motions, no more of the frantic scritch and scratch of their brushes along the marble floors.
It still didn't stop a few of them from trying to shoot her.
Regardless, all it took was a hop, skip, and a few treacherous jumps to stand before the already frosting corpse of Logarius, the crown he had worn laying on its side a few feet away, stained in gore.
Magic ebbed off the polished gold in continuous waves, a permanent echo of some manner of binding, of subterfuge moulded by arcane hands.
It was almost like…
Catherine took it and put it on, paying no heed to the blood that dripped down her brow. Instead she found herself focused on the sudden shimmer fifty paces away as an entire part of the castle came into view, magic painting over it like a mirage.
A fidelius bound to the crown and kept under the lock and key of a living inferi. Clever, and Catherine would begrudgingly admit, more than impressive. Tom must have only been a year or two older than her when he managed to weave those spells, and for once Catherine felt a bit ashamed to have never gone out of her way to learn more peculiar facets of magic - far more focused on the practical - that being whatever could keep her alive long enough to either win a fight, or escape.
How in the hell had he ever learned to do such a thing? Where? She'd swept the Chamber of Secrets a day after her little talk with Draco, even going so far as to crawl into the open maw of the great statue at the head of it, finding nothing but a dank, roomy cave littered with the stripped skeletons of whatever creatures the basilisk had managed to lay their eyes on.
Not that she expected to find anything, considering how covetous Tom was. No, even if there were tomes or scrolls to be found within the Chamber he would have spirited them away long ago.
The Restricted Section? Full of dangerous books, no doubt, but all commonplace knowledge. Fiendfyre and other sorts of dark magic, along with a smattering of potions and alchemy manuals that resembled the ritual work of Hemwick far too closely for her to ever consider utilizing them.
Studying the new wing - or manor it looked like, planted atop the castle - Catherine threw the crown at her feet and strode towards it.
Without the warmth of adrenaline the wind bit at her, the silvery metal of her gauntlets chilled enough to notice through the thick, fur lined leather that made up their under-armour. Thankfully she could feel heat billowing off the building, enough to let off more of a mirage that filtered upward to cast the reddish moonlight in a haze that danced this way and that, only scattered by the unending snow.
Pressing her weight against the doors, she pushed them open without a squeak or creak, the hinges sliding in fluid defiance of the sub-zero temperatures. They revealed a grand entry-hall lined with romanesque pillars and sculptures of cavalry, fitted with fine, shining armour and tall lances. At the end of it lay a set of wide, marble stairs, leading up into the manor toward a corridor entry-way that reminded her of Hogwarts in its simple, yet refined stature.
Up she went, following the steps to look into a burgundy carpeted room filled with statues in every direction she looked. Sculptures like that of the renaissance, of ancient Greece, a hoard of Michelangelo's finest arrayed from front to back. They were regal, of the kings and queens of Cainhurst's past, garbed in grand, fur-backed robes or something as simple as a slip of cloth, nude figures made not to tempt the blood but for the mind to admire.
"Visitor…"
Catherine started, shifting away from the statues to look past them, all the way to the end of the room upon which two thrones rested, a woman sitting in the right-most and leaning on her elbow, relaxed as all could be. Tilting her head, she walked to meet her, heels clicking crisply against the carpet and the stone underneath.
"And you are?"
The woman simply raised her hand, resting a single finger against her temple, of which was covered by the same helmet the Crow had worn, and the knights of Cainhurst once bore as their uniform.
"We are Queen. Kneel afore us, or get thee gone."
"Queen, eh? Never met one of those before."
She could nearly feel the disappointment emanating from the Queen, her only recognition of Catherine's slight the minute tilt of her head.
"Thou wouldst ignore this throne?"
Smiling, Catherine bowed, sweeping one arm across her chest, the other pointing rigid behind her. The motion was smooth, as if she had practiced it a thousand times, and if only for the beat of her pulse behind the mark on her brow she would never have questioned the ease of the act.
The bow of a Hunter.
"I'm not one to stand on ceremony, particularly after liberating your castle from the madman that held it, and you, hostage."
"How impudent. Defiled, are We, yet still Queen. To no ill-mannered beast shall We grant audience. Get. Thee. Gone."
"Your name, Queen?" Catherine asked, wand spinning between her fingers.
That got the Queen's attention, an almost imperceptible flinch coursing through her. "Ah, another of his coven. Hast thou come to finish his work? Tear this wretched mask from Our skull and leave dregs for the ghosts of Our halls?"
"Nothing of the sort. In fact, I plan to kill him as soon as I've got the chance."
The Queen hummed, finger tapping slowly at her helmet. "Moon-scented and witch though you be, you wish to slay that man?"
"Him, and the Church."
"The Church, thou sayeth? An odd hunter thou art indeed. Answer Us this, hunter. Why?"
"Look around you," Catherine said, spreading her arms wide. "This is all that remains of Cainhurst, genocide visited upon you and your people all because you did not worship Yharnam's gods. Vile, yes, I've seen ghosts - not the ones that once roamed these halls - but visions of your balls, thralls left to bleed rivers across the dance floor and only scoffed at for the mess they made." She raised one hand, finger pointed to the ceiling. "But, that doesn't justify what happened to you, nor does it justify the things I've seen with my own eyes. Bodies piled along the mountainside, cultists lurking in the dark, an entire city bound to the beck and call of a Church that only yearns to reach beyond their station.
"Why wouldn't I want to tear it all down? All they deal in is injustice, death, plague - children left to suffer not knowing if their parents may make it through the night alive. If they won't have a beast knocking on their door, and if the face it wears would be that of a friend, of family. All of this, they do because they wish to be gods."
"And thou wouldst offer Us this boon of thine own good will?"
"Yes, and no. I have questions, and I'm hoping you have answers."
Pausing, the Queen studied Catherine, her head shifting up and down, making no effort to disguise her intent gaze - masked though it was.
"We accept, with questions of Our own."
"That's fine by me."
Laying her hands across her lap, the Queen shifted in her seat, sitting tall, regal and defiant. "We are Annalise, Queen of Castle Cainhurst. Ruler of the Vilebloods, and sworn enemy of the Church. Ask Us thine questions, and We shall demand Ours."
Twirling her wand, Catherine conjured a chair of her own, tall backed and suede, slipping into it with a happy sigh.
The benefits of magic, always able to make the perfect seat for any mood or occasion.
"Happy to meet you, Queen Annalise." She pressed a hand to her chest. "I'm Catherine."
Annalise waved her hand lazily, beckoning Catherine to continue, if only to leave this place that much sooner she imagined.
Catherine obliged.
"The man. Tom, is his name. Do you know why he was with the Church? Working alongside them?"
"Thou'rt a Dreamer, no? The scent of the Moon and the Sea upon you. All are given a task by thine goddess, We presume his to have been Our… consecration."
"But it wasn't necessary that he work alongside them. He could have come here on his own and accomplished the same, much more slowly, but it would have ended in blood nonetheless."
"A fair question," Annalise stated dryly. "Afeard he was. Mad, with eyes like a beast he stole from Our halls, rending soul and limb from mine subjects. He took to it with glee, but Our eyes did not deceive as he lay this cursed mask atop Our head. Terror held him in its grasp."
Extending her hand, Catherine nodded. "Your turn."
"Thou'rt a witch, yes? What manner of coven dost thou claim, and from whence does it lay roots?"
"Another world. Another realm. The both of us, myself and Tom, spread decades apart. He attended the same school as me, seventy odd years ago. After coming here something changed in him, made him even more vicious, more mad than he already was. He set our country ablaze, cheated death, and is now trying to wage war again."
"Fascinating indeed... a traveler from afar. Thou dost not lie?"
"What've I got to lie about? Can't begin to tell you how many here know. There's a building full of 'em off in Yharnam."
"Well, thou'rt free with thine secrets."
"Like I said. Not exactly secrets." Catherine shrugged. "Tom… do you know why he was afraid?"
"The Nightmare."
"Explain."
"Impudence doth not befit thou. Lest We remind you, We are Queen," came Annalise's thunderous proclamation, hands gripping the rests of her throne.
"I may not have come here to threaten you but don't you dare imagine I'm beyond reducing you to torment." Flashing her wand, Catherine twirled it for good measure. "You're a vain, bitter woman. I could wrest the memories from you by force if I wished, the only reason I haven't is because I, unlike Tom, am still capable of kindness."
"Thou wearest a second face." Annalise's words were thick with derision. "Arrant fool. Our life is not so easily forfeit, torment Our every waking moment. Undying We may be, but do not deign to offer thy piteous remarks."
A frown swept over Catherine's face as she glanced at the woman's hands, noticing the bluish pallor of her skin.
"Pthumerian."
"Thou speaketh of Pthumeru?"
"You." She pointed, inclining her head at the same time. "You're not full-blooded, but Pthumeru blood runs through your veins. Just like her."
"Who dost thou speak of?"
"Yharnam, of course."
Silence fell over the room, Annalise clutching the arms of her throne that much more tightly. "Yharnam, Queen of Pthumeru?"
"The one and the same."
"And how, pray tell, hast thou met a woman long dead?"
At that, Catherine smiled. "Dead she may be, but her soul lingers. I met her beneath the lake at Byrgenwerth, after slaying one of the Church's many gods. She saved me from my own mind. Now…" she steepled her fingers, resting her chin atop them. "The Nightmare. What can you tell me about it?"
"What is there to be said?" Her head lowered slightly, Annalise once more looking Catherine up and down. "'Tis a place of untold terror, one of which the hunters of Yharnam are bound, indefinitely. Though they may die, body rent and bones crushed," she uttered, fingers curling into a tight fist. "They are beholden to the dream and dream alone. Thy Church, one most hateful, naught but a bridewell for laggards and thieves, it is their hell. Expeditions have been mustered for the sake of its charting, but of what We have heard, a bare few survive such terror."
"You mean they've journeyed there? He has journeyed there?"
"Undoubtedly."
A waking hell. No wonder Kos had warned her against it.
Was that what had driven him mad? Turned Tom to Voldemort and set him on the path upon which Britain had burned for his wants and fears? If even the Church could send an expeditionary force and only have a scant number return… well, it must be a place beyond fearsome.
"You said that mask you wore was cursed," Catherine broached, leaning closer. "Would you mind if I inspected it?"
"Wherefore? For what reason wouldst thou do such a thing?"
"You're obviously suffering, somehow trapped here… if there were something I could do, I'd be willing to try."
Annalise seemed to mull it over for a few seconds, before shaking her head. "Kind as thine offer is, We find ourselves in the need to decline. Magic, curses, what-have-you… only in the most dire of troubles wouldst We take such an offer. Nay. This mask, be it a curse unto itself, now brings Us cold comfort. 'Tis a memory of a bygone era, of when Cainhurst once shone as resplendent as the dying sun."
"Well…" Getting to her feet, Catherine vanished her seat. "Thank you for your time. Although… I have one last question. You said you're undying… was this forced upon you, or have you always been immortal?"
She thought of the souls Logarius threw at her, visions of Tom tearing them out of the screaming denizens of this same castle. Was Annalise a horcrux? Had one been made for her?
"Always have We sat upon this throne, and forevermore We shall. Through Our veins runs the blood of Yharnam gods and blood of the old ones, the Queen of Pthumeru herself. Only another Queen was to be worthy of her bounty, and thus Cainhurst was born."
Nodding again, Catherine bowed. "Thank you. I don't know how much longer I have left in this world, but if you change your mind about the mask you need only ask. I imagine a woman of your stature would have no trouble sending a message my way."
At that, she knew Annalise had finally lent her a smile. "Thou'rt a strange one, although not entirely unwelcome. Thou hast taken oath against the Church, and if thou wouldst this path walk… prithee partake of my rotted blood." She extended her wrist, rigid and serene, moonlight casting over a faint bite mark that had never quite healed.
"Thank you, but… no thank you. The last time someone offered me blood I found myself in another world entirely."
"A wise choice," Annalise said, inclining her head. "Then there is no more to be said. Away from mine gaze, strange witch, and mayst thou find glory in thine own consecration."
"Goodbye, Annalise."
Catherine turned and left, now knowing the next leg of her journey. To hell she would venture, if only to know why it had led Tom to madness.