Cecile Dies At The End

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...The morning after the wedding, Cecile was anything but pleased. Her new husband who did not love her, slept beside her, her new ruby glinting on the nightstand. Cecile’s neck craned up, and she looked at first one, then the other. If she had been a different woman, she might have let her heart ache at the situation. Slowly pulling herself up, through the foothills of pillows, she looked at the man she’d married with the same calculating eyes she’d lain upon everyone else.

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.  Atlas was not a bad man, exactly. He was no fairytale villain, despite the role he would play in her life, despite the fact he was a kind of pretty that made Cecile feel guilty to look at him. She looked away, forgetting last night, and slipping out of bed. In spite of her attempts not to wake him, came the creaking of his yawn, and languid movements. Like a cat in a favorite patch of sun, he writhed around, before pulling himself up and twisting to face her. It unnerved her, how he twisted; he twisted too far to be comfortable, she thought. It shouldn’t be so easy for him to move like that. His eyes settled upon her, and she thought of the mouse she saw yesterday running from a cat. Idly, she wondered if her sister Adalaide had been right.

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.   “Good morning, My Jewel,” he sang, in low notes, in a creaking and tired voice. A sharp-toothed smile settled upon his face, as he laced his fingers together and twisted around again, now onto his stomach, resting his chin on his hands.

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.  Realizing she had held still, watching him, Cecile made her way to her vanity, picking up a comb. “Husband,” she said, getting used to the sound of it, “Good morning.” 

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.  He chuckled at that, swinging his body around, and pulling his body out of bed.

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.  ”Are you well? How did you sleep?” he murmured, looking at her in much the same way she had when she’d first awoken.

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.   In the morning light, Cecile had a much better look at the rest of him, and not just his fey features, and once again was unsettled. Thin enough to see his ribs, and- She glanced away, feeling her face heat. Through her hair, the comb ran. “I am well enough,” Even to her own ears, she sounded dispassionate, “I slept well.” 

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.  Atlas nodded, dressing himself in handsome sepia monochrome; a wellfit waistcoat, paler button down, and trousers neatly tailored to his gaunt form. Silence hung in the air, as if he wasn’t sure of what to do now. Now that they were married, there was nothing but fear to stop them. Atlas didn’t break the silence, but he did break the stillness with sudden movement. He took the ruby, and took to his wife. 

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.  She moved back, instinctively, yelping as she crashed into the vanity. It wobbled, the mirror threatening to tip in its fastenings, and a thankfully-closed small pot of some salve or lotion jumped to the hardwood floor. It sustained but a crack. From downstairs, a tea kettle whistled.  Atlas’s mask melted, eyes widening, lips twitching down into concern. At the same time, Cecile swept downward, picking up the jar, setting it firmly down in its place. The comb in her hair was forgotten, as she clicked into the proud stance she walked the streets with. Even in her nightclothes, at her average stature, it– Would have been intimidating, had Atlas been anyone else. The worried man let the ruby weigh down his pocket, as he backed up.  

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.   “Adalaide is waiting downstairs,” he soothed, hoping to rid her of this fear. They both knew they had such a short amount of time to get what they wanted; Cecile’s eternal life. It had been the reason for their marriage! Cecile took an unsteady breath, and sharply nodded. Yes, her sister was right downstairs. Her sister, who had sworn this would make her grave. Who’d possessed but for a time the Ruby that would weigh her soul down. 

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.  Atlas made his way downstairs. Through the hall, leaving Cecile alone to dress. The halls were gorgeous, and a painting he had commissioned of them both hung outside their bedroom. Light as air, his footsteps barely made noise as he padded down the spiral staircase. Padded into the room to go meet his new sister-in-law, who happened to be brewing some almond tea.  

 

.  Unbeknownst to Cecile, as she pulled her hair into a half chignon, the laughter she heard floating up the well was not indicative of joy. It was one of amusement, surely, and she smiled about that, picking up a red vial, ignoring the strands of silver. No, she could not hear the precise words, but she could hear her husband’s voice cut clear, as she buttoned up her blouse. He sounded calm. She could not hear her sister. Had she, she might have then known just how dire the situation was.

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.  Adorned in her fine dress, Cecile made her way down the staircase. She lingered in front of the painting, her own painted lips twitching into a grin. It had been painted a week ago, the both of them in their wedding clothes. Cecile Gray and Atlas Fairchild. How long would the both of them look like that? Skin smooth and clear, mood bright. Though, she supposed, the artist hadn’t quite captured the glint of their eyes. Her own inky eyes were difficult to capture, she knew that, but Atlas’s tawny eyes shouldn’t’ve been nearly so difficult. She did not think of the gray she had seen in the mirror, the gray that was not in the portrait.

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.   Reminded of her goals, she turned away from the painting, and carried on down the stairs. 

As Cecile descended, she heard the conversation from the kitchen, and she ignored the ice suddenly shooting through her heart. 

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“Really now,” came the playful and chiding voice of her husband. “Cyanide won’t do a thing, Ada dear.” 

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“You’re a monster, Atlas,” followed her sister, sounding defeated. 

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“Yes, you should have factored that in if you were going to poison me. Iron shavings, now, that would have worked.” 

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.   Good god, Atlas was laughing. Cecile’s icy heart sped up, her feet following the pattern. Leaps and bounds down the stairs, railing clutched tightly, so that she mightn’t get tripped up by her skirts. 

Arriving in the kitchen, chest heaving with her heavy breathing, she was taken aback. There they stood: Atlas and Adalaide. Kitchen hardly out of sorts, but for the pot of water on the stove. Sister far more out of sorts; hair undone, her waistcoat rumpled, her unpainted lips twisted into an angry frown. Atlas was ruffling her bobbed hair, grin showing off those damnable sharp teeth. A bad idea, as Adalaide snatched his arm away, and was about to speak- before noting the presence of her older sister. 

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.   The young butch’s shoulders snapped back, hands moved to smooth her clothes. Which did nothing to hide the distinctly non-pocket watch bulge in one pocket.  Warmly, Adalaide turned to greet her sister.

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“Good morning, Cece,” she sighed, the presence of her sister calming her.

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.    Oh, that nickname hadn’t been used since childhood, and Cecile swallowed her discomfort. “Adalaide,” she returned. “Are you alright?” 

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.   Ada’s hand cut through the air, as if to brush Cecile’s worries away. “Of course I am, I was simply having a discussion with,” a sharp glance toward Atlas, “him.” 

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.   Bolstering this, Atlas cut in, “My darling sister-in-law was making us morning almond tea!” As if to drive in the point, or perhaps in sheer appreciation, he took a sip of the drink. “Why don’t you have a cup?” 

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.  Her stomach turned, but she couldn’t find it in her to resist. She didn’t want to rile the situation up again, curious though she was. Stretching up to the cabinet, she fished out her favorite mug. God, this house must’ve been made for giants. Though, she supposed, given her husband’s height, it might have been. 

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.  Morning ritual carried on; Adalaide picked the teapot up, pouring the tea into the mug. Cecile took a sip, the warmth spreading through her hands and throat. Ugh, she hated how easily it soothed her. Was it the tea, or the routine? Regardless, she did enjoy it. 

Getting away from the interloper, Adalaide bee-lined for the pantry, fetching a floral-print jar. Opening it, the kitchen filled with the scent of biscuits, and for just a moment, they might have been back home. Cecile could have thrown all of this away yesterday, instead of locking herself into this fate. Yes, this is how things were, there had to be no chance of running. There had to be no fear. This had to work, or- Well, it wouldn’t matter. 

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.  Biscuits, tea, the morning ticked away. No eggs, no bacon, no oatmeal. Not even leftover wedding cake. The wedding had gone off without a hitch, aside from her sister’s attempt, once again, to convince her to hightail it. Even now, the kitchen door was within reach. Adalaide was right there. Atlas couldn’t catch them, could he? Where would she even go? Didn’t she want this? 

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.  Thoughts interrupted by Atlas’s warm hand closing around her wrist. “We really must hurry along,” he urged. This close to her, touching her, her bones thrummed. All too aware of her beating heart, of that damnable ruby, Cecile finished off her tea, and the last bit of biscuit. Without meeting anyone’s eyes, she nodded. 

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.  Leaving the kitchen, wrist-in-hand, they continued on. Unable to look at him, unable to face the way he loomed over her, she let her gaze fall upon the walls. They’d been painted green, had plenty of pictures hung upon them. She remembered how the man she married had been, when they hung them up. Portraits of family, of faraway woods, of a castle that looked fantastical. How masterful. They passed door after door in the corridor, which felt near endless, but at last? 

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.   Atlas let go of her wrist, to graze his fingers over the lock of a door. “Open,” he suggested, voice stern. The lock obeyed with a click. Cecile chose not to think about it, as they started their way downstairs. Atlas went first, and he did not look back to ensure she followed. Once again, she made the choice to doom herself. Down the stairs, glow stones illuminated their path. Down, down, down. The air weighed on her, and she did not think of the scent of earth . now filling that same air. Down, down, down.  

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.  Atlas leaped over the last two steps, and offered his hands to help Cecile over those trick steps. She took them, and followed his same path. They’d done this many times, and though she could avoid the trap itself, the fact he was willing to catch her warmed her heart. Reassuring. Adalaide had to be wrong, he wouldn’t hurt her.  

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.  To the center of the lab, they traveled. It was a strange place, though she’d become rather familiar with it over the time they’d discussed this. Strange machines snaked through the place, juxtaposed by a wooden box that made her hungry when she approached. In the center, however, was a chair, and this made her smile. It was not the chair she’d expected, but a beautiful carving- Leather straps were nailed into it, regardless. She’d have to take her place. Forcing herself forward, she did so. Seated, she took a deep breath, though she wanted to scream. 

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.  Atlas was silent as he carried out his task; strapping her down to make sure she would not twitch as he did what he must. She thought she was used to how he felt, close to her, thought that she had grown used to his strangeness. No, though she would learn to in time.

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.  “How’s that?” he asked, crouched down as he pulled the last strap tight and buckled it.

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.  Shifting around, or attempting to, she answered. “Tight enough.”

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.  “Perfect,” Atlas purred. What he did next shocked her; he kissed her on the cheek. Whether or not the following laughter was genuine or not, she could not have told you. What didn’t surprise her, however, was his steady hands unbuttoning her top, rolling up her sleeve. The cool air was welcome on her skin, really, as distant as it had begun to feel. The faery took the ruby out of his pocket, dropping it into Cecile’s lap. The weight of it felt like hardly anything at all. Perhaps it was the power thrumming through the mage-scientist’s lab, perhaps it was simply her emotions overclocking themselves, but Cecile felt calm. 

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.   Far too calm, she realized, as Atlas fetched a small tray, and wheeled a machine with odd tubes and dials and knobs. First, a towel was tucked into her shirt. Next, her skin was cleaned with some cold and foul smelling liquid. He paused, and picked up one needle, leaving the liquid to dry upon her chest. The needle made its way into her vein, a faint prickly sensation. Atlas picked up a shining black knife. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, but he did not hesitate. To hesitate would be to prolong her pain, she knew. Did she respond? Cecile wasn’t sure.

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.   Detached, floating, she watched his incision into her body. Pale skin opened up, and she noted how red her blood was traveling through the tubes of the machine, how cold it felt on her body. Atlas murmured something, perhaps a prayer. He allowed her to bleed, picking up some sort of strange scissors. Cold, she was so goddamn cold. He was letting that infernal machine take it from her, and he was letting the rest spill out! She hoped that she’d managed to say that out loud. He ignored her, carrying on as he must.

 

“Close your eyes, my jewel,” he begged. 

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.   She ignored him, far too fascinated with this strange procedure. Immortality would be hers. Head fixed into place, muscles twitching in their bonds, Atlas picked up the bone-cutters, and removed a section of ribcage. She fell lax, leather straps holding her up. Her last sight was of her husband’s fingers, holding a shiny red something, before the light in her eyes went out, her last thought petering out into nothing. 

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.   What happened next, Cecile could not say with certainty, though later, she would be informed of it. How Atlas opened her heart up, and stole her soul. A  sliver of ruby sealed in her heart, a fiber of her heart sealed within the ruby. How her blood had been replaced. 

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.   The morning after the resurrection, Cecile was pained, but pleased. Her new husband, who wrenched her from morality, slept beside her, her heartful ruby glinting on the nightstand. She had awoken in his arms. Alive. That was good. The air smelled of iron. Hunger clawed at her stomach, and she had no shirt, though both were better than death. As she rose this time, however, her exhausted husband slept on. No morning confrontation, no sound of a tea kettle. Nothing but Cecile and her mirror. 

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.  Cecile peered into the looking glass. The wound from yesterday had been stitched up carefully, and the redness of her skin made the rest of her look paler than usual. Atlas must have removed her makeup, as she could see each imperfection, the fever flush of her cheeks. Leaning in closer, Cecile analyzed herself. And pulled out a gray hair. Perfect, everything was perfect. She had what she wanted. Opening a jar with a hairline crack, she spread a healing salve over her wound. 

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.  Cecile tugged on a shirt, and clambered down the stairs. Silence filled her home. 

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.  A note with water splotches was left on the counter, magnet holding it to a teapot. 

Goodbye, Cecile. I love you, but you gave your life away yesterday. I cannot, in good conscience, watch you destroy yourself. I love you, farewell. - Ada

Oh. 

Oh. 

No, this was silly. She’d come back, wouldn’t she?  Her big sister would return, and maybe yell at her, wouldn’t she?

No. No, not this time. No, this was the real price for her immortality

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.   Unwilling to touch the note, she made herself no tea, did not fetch yesterday’s from the icebox.

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.  Cecile went back upstairs, regarding the portrait once more. She would look like that forever, or, once her skin cleared. Would Atlas?

 Atlas was asleep, and Cecile was alone.