Author's notes:
Written for the "Writers Anonymous Night Owl Challenge".
To those familiar with OUAT: yes, these are all OCs. Why is it even 'fanfiction'? Well, these OCs were written to exist in the context of OUAT (even if it's an AU of canon), to be foils for the CCs (Belle and Zelena in particular) and to comment on them via a story rather than just writing an essay/some blog post. Also because there are elements (plot, setting, background, themes, whatever) from the show that I wanted to explore or expand on. If I wrote it as 'original fiction', the meaning of the story would change. Why this note? Because last time I did something like this for a WA challenge, some felt it didn't count as fanfiction.
The room is dark and chilly on this clear spring night, a single candle burning on the small table under the window. Marceline contemplates the flame in silence for a long moment before at last bringing her hand to the candle to burn a single strand of hair. The stinging smell dissipates quickly, but before it does, she mutters a wish under her breath and blows out the flame.
She doesn't wish upon a star. Instead, she stares up at the gibbous oval of the waxing moon, her face bathed in the cool silvery light slanting in through the window.
The wise do not wish upon the moon, for it is a shifting, treacherous thing, full of deceit and illusion. To wish upon a star is to invoke the forces of light — to call upon the fairies who guard that light. But Marceline, with her life lived so much under that light, wishes otherwise, tonight.
Tonight she wishes upon the moon, and it is a creature of darkness who answers her call.
It's one of fate's ironies that the wish is superfluous.
The moon carries a wish to the demon's ear. She recognizes the scent of burnt hair, as clear as a signature to her inhuman senses.
I don't want to be alone tonight.
It's a startling thought from the one she is meant to kill. She tells herself it makes no difference. Duty brought her here, and duty constrains her. What must be, must be.
But she looks again, reading the threads of dream, memory, and wishes revealed by moonlight.
Why should the woman be lonely? A small beauty, fair of skin, dark of hair — a daughter (however distantly) of the house of Aphrodite — married and flush with the new life growing within — why is she alone and whispering her desires to the night?
Alone when her husband is not.
"It's none of my business who he keeps company with," Marceline tells her demon. She rests a hand over her belly, still flat this early in the pregnancy. (Though she knows, has ensured the result with a potion blessed by the fairies.) "He has fulfilled his duty. That is enough."
"Clearly not!" the demon objects. "He has betrayed you. You deserve better. I can make him pay. You need only say the word..."
Marceline grabs the demon by the hand, surprised by her own daring. The demon is not what she expected. A succubus (she must be, by the nature of the summons) but her face is too plain, her movements too abrupt, with none of the seductive grace described in stories. Yet Marceline finds herself captivated by the strength of the hand she clasps — strong enough to break every bone in Marceline's body, if she so chooses. "No, wait..."
"You're angry. Resentful." The demon catches her eyes. "I can see it in you."
Marceline sighs. It's no use hiding dark thoughts from a demon. "Maybe."
"It's only human," says the demon softly. "There's no shame in feeling what you feel."
"But there's no use in it, either." Except tonight, when Marceline sent a wish into the night — for a moonlit encounter that may as well be a dream for all the weight it carries in the daylight world. "We are all born into our roles, and must accept them with such grace as we can muster."
Marceline is a princess of the royal house of Avonlea. Her marriage, arranged by her parents, is to one who has been a friend since childhood. She has her health, she has her family, and she has her yet-unborn child. Her life is one of wealth and comfort. She has no reason to be so ungrateful, and she tells the demon so.
The demon squeezes Marceline's hand gently, pulling her a little closer, reminding her that she is flesh and blood, allowed her mortal failings. "The moon cares nothing for reason."
"I envy them," Marceline admits. "My husband's role was dictated as much as mine was, yet he has his..." She bites her lip, swallowing the rest. She doesn't begrudge him his happiness, she truly doesn't. "And then there's my cousin. Destined since birth to be given to the Dark One in marriage. Not a fate to envy, one would think, and yet... she's found love within the confines of her duty."
The demon caresses her cheek, stroking away phantom tears. "Don't think of them. Not tonight. Let tonight be yours alone. Whatever you want."
Everyone wants to be wanted. The demon learned that much from the succubi and incubi who sometimes honed their skills on their fellow creatures of darkness. Now she tries to remember the rest of it — how to listen, how to touch, how to make someone feel desire and feel desired.
She knows it's a mistake, that this will lead to needless complications and pain in the end. It would have been cleaner to drive the princess to murder her faithless husband. He has no right to outlive his wife, not after the vows they made. But the princess doesn't want his death, and because he is not the one the demon is there for, it seems the fool will live.
Well, then, let the princess have this night at least. The demon is determined that Marceline take as much joy in it as is possible between a mortal and a demon who is no succubus.
By the time the moon sets, the princess is thoroughly compromised, fair game for the demon to drag her to hell.
Not tonight. It doesn't have to be tonight. The demon feels an odd reluctance to ruin the illusion. Perhaps the princess is not the only one who wants to be wanted — for herself, and not as a useful pawn in some higher game.
Tomorrow night, then.
The next night finds the princess sitting by the window, gazing wistfully down at her hands. Pale hairs twine around her fingers.
My hair? marvels the demon. It seems so. The demon tries not to think about it, steels her heart for the inevitable revelation of doom. Then Marceline lifts her gaze. The demon sees the moment of recognition in the sparkling eyes and a smile that no one has ever directed at her before, not with such honesty and warmth behind it.
"You came back!"
The demon nods, struck dumb by the look on Marceline's face.
So what's one more night?
One more. And another. And another.
"It's too good to be true," says Marceline. And, "All magic comes at a price."
Instead of arguing the point, the demon shifts the ground. "There's always a price, but isn't it better to get your money's worth?"
"Is that what we're doing?" Marceline half-smiles and raises an eyebrow.
"You should know. You're mortal."
"Yes." Marceline sighs. The demon is easy to talk to — too easy. None of this is real, she reminds herself. A wish made on the moon won't stand up to sunlight. But that's why it's so easy, because she can say whatever she wants without weighing every word against her position, and the demon will think no less of her for it. "Alec... I wish... I wish it didn't have to be like this. Hiding in the dark, pretending it's all a dream."
In the shifting light of the moon, words cast odd shadows of themselves. Small flaws are revealed. Imperfections in the mask. Moments of clumsy awkwardness. Marceline suspects. Then, one night, she knows. Knowledge that she keeps unspoken, because none of it changes how she feels.
Isn't it better to get your money's worth?
She can't take back her wish, even if she wanted to (she doesn't want to). And nothing can take back these few nights.
Tonight is the dark of the moon. The demon can't hide, not anymore. The price is due. She doesn't want to taint their memories, so for this night she wears her other form. She shows herself to the princess, expecting shock. Dread. Terror. Instead—
"Alec." Marceline's eyes meet hers with recognition. Resignation. "So, you're a Fury..."
It is the demon who is shocked, who stammers through the formalities, "Betrayer, y-your sins offend the g-gods. Y-your life... your life is forfeit."
Marceline drops her gaze, hands fumbling at something on the table, invisible in the moonless night. "I know."
"How?" the demon demands. "How can you...?"
"I looked. The other night, when you were asleep." Marceline thrusts a hand mirror at the demon. "A mirror of souls."
The demon stares at the princess, then down at the mirror. She can feel the magic in the silvered glass and sees her own face reflected back, eyes glowing. With a shout of dismay, she smashes the mirror into the table, hard enough to drive shards of glass into her hand. She clenches her fists, ignoring the blood oozing from her cuts, breath shuddering through her.
Marcelin winces. She steps forward, pulling a silk handkerchief from a pocket and moves to unfold Alec's fingers and dab at the wound gently. "Please, don't do this to yourself."
"I..." the demon strangles on the word, then chokes out, "I have to. My duty..." She pushes Marceline's hand away. "The words of your vow..."
"You know we never held each other to them," Marceline says, meaning her husband, her marriage.
The demon knows it is true. "Nevertheless."
"The price must be paid?" Marceline whispers bitterly. "I can't help but find it an unjust one."
"We have no choice." The demon spreads her wings. The winds of hell whisper in anticipation.
"Wait!" Marceline straightens suddenly and lifts her head. "I have a right to appeal the judgement."
"There is no appeal, not unless—"
"I invoke the three trials."
"No! Marceline, no." It means a trial by ordeal, an ordeal far worse than the clean death the demon meant to give her (the only thing she has to offer). "You can't... it's torture. Plain torture. Almost no one survives it, but everyone hopes, until they can't. To watch you suffer, to see the hope wither from your heart... and be unable to help." The demon shuts her eyes. "I couldn't bear it. You deserve better."
Then Marceline clasps her hands around the demon's. "A chance. It's a chance. For both of us. You know the rules. If I survive, it proves my innocence. More, in recompense, I am owed a boon."
"A boon," the demon echoes heavily, opening her eyes again to see the raw hope twisting the corner of Marceline's mouth into a tiny smile. "Anything you wish."
Marceline nods. "Exactly."
The demon doesn't ask if she is ready. (No one can be ready for something like this.) Nor does she ask her to change her mind. (It would be an insult, and that would be a worse end than death by torture.) "So be it. Find me. Pass through three hells and find me and say my name."
Wings tear open the night, the winds of hell going from a mere whisper to a storm blast that sweeps the princess into damnation.
There are tens, hundreds, even thousands of hells.
Marceline can't see where she has fallen, but she hears voices. They're coming to kill you. She flees them in a blind fit of panic, stumbles into trees with leaves of razor-sharp steel. They draw lines of fire across her face, then her arms and legs as she tries to shield herself.
Marceline forces herself to stop running. She covers her ears, but there's no escape from the voices. Secrets, lies, and threats mingle in a poisonous brew. Malicious whispers assure her that she is universally despised, put her in her place — outside whatever circle demarcates the line between 'us' and 'them'.
One might do anything to stop those voices. Then she recognizes one of them as her own, and she knows where she is.
The Forest of Knives.
There's a knife here for for every unkind word she's ever uttered, and another leaf-knife sprouting for each echo of the original in memory, and yet another for every unkind word spoken in retaliation or lingering pain, and another for each repetition of memory — a cascade of cruelty growing into a forest. Not all the words came from her (the world is filled with unkindnesses), and thus not all the leaves can wound her, but Marceline thinks ruefully that she's said enough on her own to bleed to death, from the crude taunts she had used as a child — once even driving her little cousin to flee in tears — to the more subtle turns of phrase she had learned later.
She holds herself still as she wishes she had held her tongue (just a little better!) to keep the trees from slashing her open, but she knows she can't stay there forever. A dead soul can bleed out and still keep going, dying again and again, but a living soul has only the one chance. If she's not careful, she will die here and then this taste of hell will become the real thing.
In the dark, Marceline feels lightheaded, trying to ignore the voices telling her she deserves her doom. She checks her injuries as best she can, feeling through her slashed clothing the sticky wetness on her skin and the open edges of the cuts. She pulls out her handkerchief to wrap around her right arm, the most badly sliced open.
Light. Impossible, yet undeniable. Marceline blinks the source into focus — the light shines from the blood on the cloth. From the points where her blood touches the drying stains left by the demon.
Alec. Marceline whispers the name to herself. The rules forbid outside assistance in the ordeal, yet... Is this your way of helping me without helping me?
The light flashes and dances on the countless metal leaves, then coalesce into a line of glowing crimson. A path. Trusting in her demon, Marceline follows.
The mountain of ice shines with a cold blue light. This frozen hell reflects the chilly hearts of those who break their vows, who are faithless, who scheme and deceive their elders.
It's a thin line between deceit and dutiful obedience, thinks Marceline. Wasn't it what they wanted from her? Was it 'scheming' to make the best of it to ensure her own position in the family?
But so she has been judged, for making a lie of her wedding vows if nothing else. And so she will freeze here, another damned soul. Such is the price.
Did you get your money's worth?
Marceline shudders. Yes! she wants to cry out through her clenched, chattering teeth. She reaches into her sleeve with stiff, numb fingers for the remembrance she took when she thought that one night was all they would have — a few hairs left behind on a pillow. Now she twists it into one of her own, hoping...
Her hand glows with sudden heat as the magic awakens. A few hairs billow up all around her, the spaces in between solidifying into a black cloak made of thousands of shadowy feathers. It falls over her shoulders, settling into a fortifying warmth.
Marceline finds her way across the mountain.
The city on the lake of night is the capital of this underworld that some call Tartarus. Here may be found the courthouses and offices of the judges of the dead. Of the innumerable gates of the city, only one will take a living soul back to the sunlit lands. To open that gate, a living soul must file a lawsuit to prove its identity and status.
Marceline has nothing but herself and the clothes on her back (bloodied and torn as they are, they hardly seem like the garments of a living woman). She came with no treasures or hell banknotes to bribe the underworld officials. The handkerchief stained with demon's blood vanished when she reached the mountain and the cloak evaporated once the city was in sight.
What's left is a long, tortuous process of waiting and filling out sheet after sheet of nonsensical forms, answering questions both meaningless and invasive, moving gradually upward through the ranks of petty officials to higher stations.
It's enough to drive anyone mad. She thinks about throwing herself into the lake to join the other lost souls.
Then she thinks about how Alec grew up in this city with her sisters. The process to become a Fury is, from the hints she dropped, even worse. A slow magic to bind a soul to the rules. How else is chaos to be kept at bay?
Marceline persists in her quest. The stories say that one day on earth is an aeon in hell, and she can well believe it. It's an aeon of weird statis in which her unborn child hanging suspended in its own limbo, unchanged.
By the time the final judge stamps her infernal passport validated and issues the key to the Gate of Life, she has almost forgotten her own name. But she remembers clearly the name of the one who meets her on the other side.
"Alec." The woman who staggers back out of the portal is an exhausted, blood-streaked ghost of herself, but she smiles at the demon.
"Marceline!" The demon catches her before she collapses, her weight a reassuring proof of her reality. Alec helps Marceline into an armchair. "You're alive..."
Marceline looks at the candle burning on the little table under the window. "Yes..."
The demon follows her gaze and says sheepishly, "Even a Fury can make a wish. It was the only thing I could do to help you."
"You were with me when I needed you," Marceline says enigmatically. Then, "It's over, right?"
The demon nods, the relief only now catching up to her. "You have been judged innocent. No other may claim otherwise. And... now you are owed a boon. What is it you wish?"
"Ah..." Marceline smiles again.
The demon holds her breath.
There's no question, is there? Marceline wants to laugh at the expression on the demon's face. She pulls Alec into a tight embrace and whispers her answer into the demon's ear. "What else? You. My wish is... you."
The wise do not wish upon the moon, for it is a shifting, treacherous thing, full of deceit and illusion.
But sometimes it's better to be foolish, and sometimes a moonlit illusion holds more truth than a sunlit reality.