This chapter title has a double meaning:
1. Also called: friar's lantern, will-o'-the-wisp
a flitting phosphorescent light seen at night, chiefly over marshy ground, and believed to be due to spontaneous combustion of gas from decomposed organic matter
2. something deluding or misleading
From: https://www.collinsdictionary.com/us/dictionary/english/ignis-fatuus
Chapter 87:
Ignis Fatuus
The fireplaces of the throne room were lit, and the cold air that had leaked in from the outside had been dispelled. Fluttering snowflakes were visible from the tall windows, but the prince’s attention was drawn away towards a more beautiful scene.
Clarence could feel the cold sensation of the throne against the palm of his hands, his fingers trailing across the intricate design of the arms of the chair. His hair had been styled back off of his forehead, exposing his lightly tanned skin. His eyes were looking down the throne towards the front of the stairs, glancing down at the figure that had been restrained by the guards, their arms tied behind their back, restricting their movements.
“So, you’ve finally come.” Clarence said, a smile lining his lips as he stared down at the man, restrained and kneeling at his feet like a slave. “You’ve made me wait for too long.” The tail of his words was full of excitement, but the prince hid his giddiness, his desire for revenge, as he brought his right hand under his chin, as if appreciating something.
The kneeling figure’s long blonde hair fell into their green eyes, hiding the disgust and scorn in their gaze. They gritted their teeth, their body and clothes dirty and disheveled as they spoke in a gravelly voice, their lips dry and cracked as they said, “I should have killed you when I had the chance.” The figure rose their head, making eye contact with the mocking prince. “You damn bastard.”
“How dare you!” A guard standing beside the elf yelled, lifting their hand to slap the pitiful man.
Before the guards could lay a hand on him, Clarence wordlessly raised his hand, a smile on his lips as he spoke, “Stop.” Clarence began, lifting his chin, “Only I can lay a hand on this prisoner.”
The guards nodded their heads, voicing their agreement as the guard nearest the elf stepped back, returning to his position. As the hall fell into a strange silence, the sound of the wind could be heard whistling outside, the snowflakes drilling against the glass like drops of rain, covering the windows in white. Silas turned his head, looking at the snow with a dim gaze, feeling the chill of the wind even in the heated hall.
Silas was distracted, no longer looking at him. It angered Clarence, so much that he wanted to draw the man’s attention back to him any way he could. Abruptly, he stood from his throne, trailing down the small stairs towards the elf, who refused to look his way. He stopped in front of the man, his feet only inches away from the elf’s knees, but they still refused to look at the prince, angering him further.
Using his hand, Clarence lifted Silas’s chin, pushing the elf’s head up to face him as he kneeled slightly, still above Silas as he forced the elf to look him in the eyes. Silas’s eyes were narrowed, full of disgust at the man. The place where the prince touched burned, revolting Silas. He could feel the acidic bile rise from the back of his throat, threatening to leave his body.
“Does my touch disgust you, elf?” Clarence asked gently, his voice full of mockery.
Without a word of response, Silas moved his head to the left, loosening the prince’s hold slightly on his chin as he pursed his mouth. Only a moment later, he opened his lips and spat forward, his spit landing on Clarence’s turned cheek.
The guards attempted to step forward again, but the prince’s reaction stopped them. Laughing as he wiped the saliva off of his face, Clarence used the spit-drenched hand to grab the crown of Silas’s head, tugging his hair with a fierce pull. Silas gasped in pain, his eyes reddening in rage as the prince forced his head back even further, until his neck was almost completely bent backwards. Silas could only grimace, glaring at the prince with a venomous hatred.
“My family is gone, I’m all that’s left now, you fiend! Rather than humiliate me, why don’t you just kill me!” Silas screamed, his words leaving his mouth like a hiss, pleading for a quick death, even if it was without honor.
His pleas fell on deaf ears. Clarence, holding the root of Silas’s head, brought the man’s face close to his as he spoke, their noses almost touching as he said, word by word, the words most dreaded by Silas. “How can I allow my savior to die such a needless death?” His hot breath sprayed across Silas’s face, like the breath of a dragon. “No, we still have much to do, my dear martyr. So much lost time to recover.”
The words fell like a curse, condemning Silas for his past transgressions against Clarence. They echoed in his thoughts, sneaking into his helpless mind as they danced around his ears, taunting him in the very tone Clarence had spoken to him.
While the prince wanted to make Silas suffer more, there were things he had to do, and he did not want to spoil his fun so quickly. With a wave, he stepped away from the elf and motioned for the guards to take Silas away, the smile on his lips bright, much like the child that had seen Silas at the parade that fateful day, almost ten years ago.
However, the one wielding the dagger had long since changed.
As Silas was led out of the room, his body powerless to resist, he could only mutter one word, just loud enough for the prince to hear as his body passed through the door frame of the throne room.
“May the gods curse you, you insufferable child.”
The scene quickly faded into black as Silas’s figure disappeared, and only Clarence’s empty thoughts greeted him.
…
Startled awake, Clarence sat up in his bed, sweat lining his chin as he panted, his eyes wide with surprise. He wiped the drops of sweat from his chin. The moonlight casted a shadow, brightening the fabric uncovered by the canopy surrounding his bed. His face was covered by darkness, but the light in his eyes burned bright, like the light of a burning candle surrounded by pitch black.
As he caught his breath, Clarence pushed back the loose strands of hair off of his forehead. His cheeks were flushed, his body hot. The tips of his fingers tingled, as if he were still holding on to that soft blonde hair, feeling it brush against his palm like strands of silk. Clarence clenched his hand, attempting to hold the sensation in his hands, however it began to fade, much like the elf’s disappearing figure in his dream.
It was just a dream. Clarence thought to himself, shaking his head in an attempt to wake himself up.
It was still early, but Clarence could no longer sleep. He stood up, pushing aside the thick duvet as he stood, barefoot, walking against the hardwood floor in his room. The window shone bright with the light of the moon, and the prince used the light as a guide, taking him away from his bedroom, and towards his painting room. Inspiration flashed in his mind like waves, and he felt if he did not grasp them now, he would no longer be able to remember what he had seen.
It was a dream, but it felt too real to be one. The prince thought, adjusting his silk pajama top as he pushed open the heavy wooden doors to his painting room. Is it a glimpse of the future? Is it showing the fate between the elf and me? Clarence’s thoughts ran in a frenzy, passing by faster than he felt he could process them. Or was it my fantasies? However, the heated feeling never left his body, and his breaths were hot, full of anticipation as he approached the blank canvas on the easel.
Clarence’s hands reached the stand as he lowered himself down, sitting down on the wooden stool. His fingers trembled as he lifted a small paintbrush from the table, the brush clear from any paint. Carefully, Clarence opened the box of paints next to the easel, gradually exposing the varied colors as he looked back towards the blank easel, his eyes scanning over every inch of the white canvas. Using the pitcher of water, Clarence filled a glass, his movements calm and practiced, as he had done many times before.
Clarence had taken up the hobby of painting many years ago, but, though he was naturally a gifted artist, he never frequently painted. In the last few months, however, the intense urge to paint and create refused to leave Clarence’s mind, and he now frequently found himself painting whatever came to his mind. He kept all of his paintings private, as if he was hiding a treasured secret behind his locked doors.
Gently, he placed the tip of the paintbrush into the water, tapping the side of the wooden handle to release the extra water. The tips of his fingers became damp, but he did not notice as he turned to look at the paints on the table.
At first, the paint-covered brush moved slowly, delicately flittering over the surface of the canvas with the delicate care of a gentle hand, however, the more paint that touched the canvas, the more and more disordered each paint stroke became. The streaks became darker, scattered, heavy with each pass. However, the prince only stared at the canvas, his breaths heavy as he focused on the canvas, refusing to look away, only changing his brushes and paints as he felt.
Soon, the prince exhausted his energy, and a figure was formed on the canvas. Panting, as if he had exerted himself, Clarence placed the used paint brush aside with the other brushes, staring at his handiwork with a hint of pride deep within his blue eyes. There was only a rough form painted on the easel, the base of the paper stained with black, surrounding the figure like a shadow.
The form was covered in a pale beige color, their forming features darkened with a deeper brown shadow, such as where the eyes would rest. The paint was laid thick, but it held well to the canvas, only allowing drops of paint to fall from the paintbrush in Clarence’s hand, and from the other used brushes resting to the side in disorder on the white fabric rag. It was impossible to tell how the final piece would look, but the lines were painted so delicately, with such fine details, that the final work would truly be a sight worth seeing.
After he had exhausted himself, Clarence wanted to cover the easel with a white sheet, however the paint would smear and transfer onto the sheet, ruining the painting he had painted so delicately, so closely to what had been haunting his mind. Instead, he left the painting, allowing it to rest under the moonlight.
The prince turned to the table, the used brushes spotted and drenched in various paints like specs of blood, his eyes came across something resting to the side of the table, resting just out of view from his canvas. The book dangled precariously near the edge, threatening to fall to the ground. While Clarence wanted to ignore the book, he could only fight the temptation to throw the useless item away, out of his creative space as he lifted the book in his left hand, his right hand tracing the familiar cover with the tips of his fingers.
Why does this book look so familiar? Clarence wondered, his fingers falling to the edge of the cover. Wait, isn’t this my old notebook? The one I destroyed?
The leather bound book was littered with scratches, both shallow and deep, and a singular stab maker rested in the center, nearly damaging the inner contents with its depth. However, when Clarence opened the book, the first page was empty, blank, unmarred by the damage outside of the cover. The only thing inside was a small, handwritten note, scrawled in a childish handwriting the prince almost did not recognize.
Property of Prince Clarence Godfreed. It read, Clarence thought it himself aloud, thinking of the time when he had written this, too long ago to remember. This is that notebook! It has to be! But, I destroyed it. Then how is it in front of me now?
His fingers passed against the letters as he rubbed his thumb on the corner of the page, lifting the weighted pages with interest. Turning the first page, Clarence was met with a surprising scene, his eyes widening as he looked at the paper.
The second page had an illustration spanning both pages, drawn with childish strokes of ink. A figure reached out to the front of the page, large white wings spanning across the pages, from corner to corner like the wings of a bird. The figure’s face was peaceful, almost mournful, as they reached down from the light, the shadows circling the figure’s frame from a distance, falling out of view as Clarence’s eyes passed to the figure in front of the angelic figure’s hands. There was a small pair of hands, a small face barely in view just on the bottom of the page, depicting Clarence’s face with such a childish innocence, such joy that Clarence could only sneer in disgust as he quickly turned the page, his eyes greeted by another piece.
There was a picture of a boy, his arms wrapped around the angel from the past page. The angel’s eyes were open, their gaze soft as they fell on the boy, whose smile brightened the page, dispelling the shadows around the angel like a beacon. The drawings themself were crude, but the details on the page were delicately drawn, as if they were drawn from memory. Clarence’s eyes narrowed further as he turned the page again, his eyes no longer showing any surprise.
The next page was a drawing of the elf, this time, no longer donning the wings of an angel. They stood next to the prince, pointing at the stars in the black sky, the stars dotted in white and sparkling like gems. Their backs were stark against the sky, one large, one small, standing side by side like statues.
Lifting his hand, Clarence could only turn the page, watching as the pages slowly transitioned from peace and happiness, to anxiety and horror. The first change was the wings of the angel falling to the ground, the feathers scattering around what appeared to be a stage. The figure held a dagger over the prince, who was laying on the ground, his arms lifted to protect himself. The martyr’s wings were left with only bones, and the white blonde hair on the man’s head was now darkened with two tall horns. Staring at the picture, Clarence’s hands began to tremble, his hands moistening as his breath became erratic.
Held by a feeling of agitation, Clarence began to look through the rest of the pages, possessed by the demon he had drawn. The rest of the journal was full of scattered sketches, frenzied and some depticing Silas’s face, void of any eyes, nose, or mouth, only covered with scribbled black holes, voids. Others depicted the elf headless, his body laying on the ground in front of his own feet, a bloodied sword clutched in his hands. Even more depicted the various ways Clarence had suffered, detailing in words what he would do when he found the elf again, much like he had in his dream tonight.
All of these drawings, these ideas, still did not explain why the book suddenly appeared in his painting room, resting next to his easel as if it were placed there. The book had no signs of aging, hiding its contents in a perfect case of leather.
This damn book, I burned it! Clarence thought to himself, slamming the book shut, his breathing sporadic and messy as he glared at the book that he had held in his two hands. That day, I tore the pages out one by one, stabbed the cover with the dagger from that murderous elf, and then threw it in the fireplace. How is it still here? How is it still in this condition? There was no sign of burning, no sign of destruction, only the wear of a damaged book.
Staring at the cursed item, the prince could not wait to get rid of it, get rid of the item that he had once cherished, much like the martyr depicted inside.
The fireplace in his room crackled, the wood replenished by the servants shortly before bed, allowing Clarence to sleep in comfort. That same fire would destroy what had tainted his mind, bringing him back a sense of peace, knowing the elf’s time would soon come to an end, much like his dream. Clarence returned to his bedroom with quick steps before he stood in front of the burning fire, a fierce expression covering his face. He lifted the book, his nails scratching into the worn cover of the diary. The firelight brightened the prince’s face with an orange hue, his blue eyes filled with the dancing flames.
With all his might, Clarence threw the book into the crackling fire, his chest heaving as he stifled back a laugh.
…
“My lady, the carriage has arrived.” A maid said, bowing her head as she spoke to Olicia, hiding her nervous expression from the marchioness, who had already finished packing all but one of her belongings. The last of her luggage had been stowed away, leaving only a small travel bag full of small, personal items that Olicia held close to her.
“Thank you.” Olicia responded coolly, clipping her satchel shut. “Tell the coach I will be departing shortly.” The maid’s head remained low as she bowed again, hurrying away before Olicia could say another word.
Olicia looked up at the sky as she took one more deep breath. The sun was beginning to grow high in the sky, but the biting chill in the air had yet to fade. She shivered, tugging her jacket close to her chest.
There’s not much time left.
As Olicia looked up, taking in the purple and pink hues that blended into the horizon with yellow and blue of the sky, a tear rolled down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand, trying to ignore the conflicting emotions in her mind. She had so many regrets, but it was too late to take any of them back. She could only atone now.
Olicia retracted her gaze, clutching her satchel close to her chest as she began walking across the stone walkway to the carriage. As her heeled books clicked against the cool stone pathway, her maid came to her side, her expression full of worry, but Olicia waved her off with a weak smile.
“I’m alright.” Olicia said, her walk slow and even, “I’m just saying my final goodbyes.” The maid nodded, hurrying back to the carriage. Olicia glanced back at the palace once more. In the morning sunlight, the palace looked warm and beautiful. It had certainly fooled Olicia when she had first arrived at the palace, but she was no longer fooled by the false majesty of its towering pillars and grand architecture.
Olicia turned back forward, disgusted by the mere sight of the palace. She quickened her pace, and, as Olicia grew closer, one of the groomsmen opened the carriage door for her and stepped to the side, his hand out to assist her into the carriage.
“Thank you.” Olicia said, taking the outstretched hand as she lifted her skirts with her other hand. She raised her foot, preparing to step into the carriage, when a voice shouted behind her.
“Olicia! Wait!” Olicia turned towards the voice as she placed her foot back on the ground.
Her eyes widened as she looked at the familiar figure. “Philomena?” Olicia mumbled under her breath as she watched the young princess race down the stone walkway, her hands clutching her dress as she ran as quickly as possible. Olicia faltered, wanting to step into the carriage and leave, but not wanting to leave Philomena when she had run to speak to her. Her internal debate gave Philomena enough time to run to Olicia, stopping mere feet from the waiting carriage.
“Wait! Please!” Philomena pleaded as she desperately sucked in deep breaths. Olicia turned her head back towards the carriage, but squeezed her eyes shut and stepped towards Philomena.
“Marchioness?” The groomsman asked, his hand returning behind him.
“Please give me a minute.” Olicia said with a nod, “I won’t be long.”
The groomsman looked uncomfortable, being given a strict schedule, but he reluctantly nodded, “Of course, ma’am.”
Olicia then turned towards Philomena, who straightened her back.
“Let’s take a short walk.” Olicia offered, stepping towards Philomena expectedly. Philomena nodded rapidly, falling in step with Olicia as they walked away from the carriage.
“I’m surprised you came.” Olicia began, wringing her satchel in her hands, “What can I do for you?”
Philomena suddenly stopped, turning towards Olicia. She looked nervous, as if she wanted to say something, but was unsure if she should. Olicia stared at Philomena expectantly, and Philomena sighed before she grabbed Olicia in a tight hug.
“I forgive you!” Philomena said, holding Olicia in an awkward hug, “I don’t agree with what you did, but I forgive you anyway! And I’m sorry for slapping you!” Philomena suddenly let go of Olicia, who stood in shock, “So please stop hurting yourself like this! This isn’t atoning for anything, this is killing yourself!”
“I-” Olicia tried to say something, but she could not get her mouth to cooperate. It felt as if her tongue had become lead, unable to do what she demanded of it.
“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to!” Philomena immediately said, mistaking Olicia’s silence for discomfort, “I just wanted to let you know that I don’t hate you, so please stop hating yourself.”
Olicia opened her mouth, trying to say something, but the only thing she could do was let out a small sob. She slapped her hand over her mouth as she tried to stop herself, but it only caused her to cry harder.
“I’m sorry.” Olicia blubbered between sobs, “I’m so sorry, Philomena! I’m so sorry to you and everyone else I got involved!”
Philomena smiled, tears springing to her eyes as she pulled Olicia in for a hug. “I forgive you.” Philomena said with a sad smile as she closed her eyes, tears running down her cheeks. They stood there for a short time, taking solace in the silence. Olicia’s maid stood to the side, her eyes red as she watched the heartwarming scene.
Not far away, standing near the palace exit stood Sagara and Charlotte, dressed in heavy coats and jackets, as if they had similar ideas planned to Philomena. Sagara’s face was warmed with a smile, however Charlotte’s expression was still, as if she were thinking to herself.
“Is something on your mind, Charlotte?” Sagara asked.
Hearing Sagara’s question, Charlotte shook her head lightly, as if dismissing what was on her mind. “It’s nothing. We should go say goodbye before Olicia leaves.”
“Don’t tell me you regret coming.” Sagara asked, giving the fellow princess a long, sideways stare, “It would have been in poor taste to make Philomena do this all by herself.”
“Of course not,” Charlotte snapped, rubbing her gloved hands together as she stared at the two women and the waiting carriage, “I’m just sad that this is how this had to end.”
“Who said this was over?” Sagara asked cryptically, her cool smile receiving a stare from Charlotte.
“Is there something you aren’t telling me, Sagara?” Charlotte asked, returning the smile.
“Did you forget about the accused duchess? The one who is still alive in the prisons, being incriminated for a crime we witnessed? Until she’s taken care of, this will never be over.” Sagara said before she turned towards the two young women, “Olicia! Philomena! Wait for us! We wanted to say goodbye too!” Sagara shouted, briskly walking down the walkway to join the two women, her arm raised as she waved. Charlotte watched with a practiced smile as the two young women waved back, Olicia swiping at her eyes and cheeks and Philomena calling back to Sagara.
I suppose she is right. Charlotte thought to herself as she waved to the two young women, But why did she bring it up at a time like this? Is there something happening that I don’t know about?
Following Sagara’s steps, Charlotte stepped forward, preparing to send off Olicia one last time.
I’ve come too far to make petty mistakes now. Charlotte clenched her hand, her glove straining under the sharp nails that dug into it, And I will not let anyone get in my way either. I’ve worked too hard and sacrificed too much to lose everything now.
…
What I've been wanting to write, finally had a chance ahaha ♡＼(￣▽￣)／♡ Clarence finally got to have his moment. Hunny and I kept cracking Hannibal jokes to each other in our chapter comments. Highly recommend it, too! It's on Hulu ♥
Hunny and I will be, maybe, taking a short break the 26th. Not sure if we will be able to post or not yet, but we're going to try to get more ahead so we don't have an abrupt break before this arc ends! I want to wrap up this little bride selection bit and Malcolm's return. After that, the new arc will start ^^;
Thank you all for reading! ♥♥ Have a great week, and see you next week ;D
