Consecration of the Silent Sovereign

(Author's Note: The "bar dialogue," as laughably unrealistic as it seems, is sourced wholecloth from personal experience. Likewise, the extreme situation described in "Laying on Hands" is a toned down cobbling together of real accounts of familial abuse.)
==Dedication==
Stephanie Grins nursed something bitter, smirking into her ice. Vengeance was beneath her, but Schadenfreude was an important part of the Onyx Court. She was doing her job, she thought with a chuckle, watching her royal highness pull at her skirt.
Lisa batted her eyes and forgot that she wanted to cry. Crying had been forbidden, to save the false eyelashes stuck to her painted face. Her dress was too small, she was too distracted refusing drinks from men in button-down shirts and jeans that pushed them into her hands and stood too close to her.
It was like shoving a baby bird out of a nest, Stephanie decided. Or maybe putting a beetle on an anthill. Either way, Lisa deserved this.
The phone in her other hand buzzed, and the undertaker glanced at it. So, Prince Ahiru made good on his word.
She waved him over to her from the entrance. Button-down and jeans. Christ. At least he had his good looks.
"Bastien!" She shouted, and gave the danseur a side hug.
"Who's here?!" He yelled back, and she pointed out shadows in the crowd, plus the few Spring Courtiers she'd invited. When Stephanie pointed out the cornered King, he grimaced. "Does Nico know she's here?"
Stephanie shrugged, and Bastien excused himself.
One of them had slipped an arm around her hip, and the blonde was leaning close to her face. "Let's take this to the bathroom," He insisted, she could smell his breath. His friend moved behind her, grinding his tented crotch against her. "Don't be a slut, we bought you those drinks."
"I don't, uhh, I can't leave my friends--"
"Hey, that's my girlfriend," Bastien put a hand on the ringleader's shoulder, and moved him back. "Beat it."
Lisa just blinked at him, but the blonde bought it. "Whoa, hey man, maybe tell your slut girlfriend to keep her hands off me."
Bastien ignored him to lean on the bar next to Lisa, and the mortals dispersed, mumbling tough-guy threats. "Are you okay? Did he jizz on you?"
She checked herself, stumbling to look over her shoulder. "Oh my god, do you see any?"
He raised an eyebrow, watching her spill on herself. "How much have you had?"
Lisa looked dumbly at the full drinks in her hands, and passed one to Bastien. "I'm... I'm drunk. Can you drink this for me please?"
"Yes I can."
It went on that way. Lisa was bought drinks, she passed them off to Bastien. Soon, neither of them were sure what bar they were smoking on the patio of, or whose cigarettes they'd bummed. Bastien kept calling her Lady Lisa, and she leaned on him, watching yellow light dance on a puddle over the railing.
"This is all fun, and stuff," Bastien slurred, squinting at her dark hair. "But why--where's Nico?"
It wasn't the first time he'd asked, but Lisa lurched back to look him in the eye. "Nico totally broke up with me."
"What?"
"Yeah, he did, and he was doing it to spare my feelings, and that's fucked up, do you know why that's fucked up?"
"What? Spare your..."
"Because," Lisa went on, tossing her hair. "I can make my own decisions, and he can't tell me, like, what I can, and what I cannot, um..." She frowned at the road for a second, and then back up at Bastien. "What is hard for me. I am a woman, who has... I know my own emotional limits. But you know, he has, he has a real life. It's not his fault. I want to feel bad or angry about it, but I can't because I didn't do anything wrong, and he, I, I love him. I love him so much and I'm not allowed to love him--"
"Lisa shhh." He hugged her, and she laid her head on his chest. Her hair was so silky, he ran his fingers through it, marvelling at her Mien. "It's okay. You're beautiful, and you shouldn't be sad. Is your hair... what is your hair?"
"It's paint," She looked up at him, eyes wet with turpentine, and sniffed back her Sorrow. "I'm made of paint."
"I didn't know that." He moved his hand to cup her smooth cheek, feeling the fine brush strokes with his thumb. "I've never been close enough to see." She watched his face, and he stared, like he was trying to place her. "Oh my god, you're the Mona Lisa." His fingers traced the curve of her ear, and he bent his head to hers.
Her lips brushed his, her hands slid up into his fire-orange hair. "Wait," She breathed, "Wait, there's Spring Court people, what if they're messing with us?"
"I-- I don't care."
The kiss started soft, and charged, and went on forever, drowning out the bar. They broke it and escaped together through a ritual door, into a tiny Hollow Lisa'd never seen. The bed was a mattress laid in a nest, she fell backward into it, and they rolled until she was on top. Her dress bunched around her waist, he kissed her collarbone while she fumbled with his shirt buttons. 
"Ohh, your tattoo," She sighed, and he laid her on her back.
"Mantle," He explained, his lips sliding down her skin, and then her fingernails dug into his back. 
"Is it a butterfly?" She could see her breath in the dark, and closed her eyes to smell the sweetness of turned leaves, hear them hiss in the wind. She cradled his head--his hair was like feather down. She wondered why, wondered who he was. Everything wrong was melting in his snapping fireplace warmth. She felt so wholly safe. His hands worked down her curves, fingertips traced circles on her thighs, behind her lifting knees. She sighed and arched her back, but it nagged her. A prince. The ballet. 
But the feathery hair, what did that have to do with...? She moaned. Swan Lake. His mouth was so warm. He had a princess. Lisa opened her legs anyway.
Bastien sat up, and pulled her hips down. His eyes flicked up to hers, and she saw nothing but care. "Are you ready?"
She felt a sudden urge, and she fought it. "Yeah," He started to push, and her mouth opened in a silent cry. Bastien had someone else. Of course he did. Just like Nico. Just like Adonis. 
He filled her, held her, warmed her, and she felt good. It didn't matter, she decided. He kissed her, and she tasted sex and alcohol. None of it mattered. She rolled him onto his back and took control, for once, just once in her life. 
He said her name like it was sacred. She tried to spend him first, but he held on, like a gentleman, like another cursed prince. She shook, and he gripped her tight. She lost her strength, and pulled off of him to sink down, kissing old scars, down his chest.
"Lisa," He panted, "You don't have to--"
"No, I want to," She said on his hip. She'd said it a lot recently.
When he was finished, she laid in his protective embrace, curling against his chest until Bastien's breathing came slow and even. She tried to match her own breathing to his, to sleep. She watched him and thought. She felt the urge again, and slipped from his arms. 
She clothed herself and carried her shoes out of a door that led back to the freehold. She staggered into the winter shed, and sat in the broom closet of a shower, scalding water washing her sin and weakness away. She indulged her urge, to cry, and sobbed until she was numb.
==Laying on Hands==
I'd crouched in the dense tree for days, watching them come and go, watching them cook meals for two in the kitchen, watching the bluish television light flicker. My curiosity was eating at me. I didn't see another self, I didn't see my younger sister. Did I have a fetch? Did Tina move out?
I changed my face in a hand-held mirror, smearing myself with cheap oil paints. I didn't know what I would have looked like--Lisa Germaine has no facebook account, no yearbook pictures past fifth grade--I didn't know if I needed a disguise. I listened to Hope's motto: "Just in case." I made up a story about being an enquiring childhood friend, and guessed at what a good, friendly face for her might be. For fear they would turn me away, I tried not to look too unlike them, my...
My family. The word chilled me. I made myself shorter, stouter, my hair is straight and dirty blonde, my skin grubby and pale and pocked with acne scars. I couldn't change my eyes, but they wouldn't see the hissing cockroaches. The leaves here are already beginning to turn, but I resisted Autumn's claws of doubt. The fact that they had a bag of dog food in the pantry nagged at me.
I tip-toed up the walkway past their white picket fence on Sunday afternoon, when they were both home, after church. Maybe Jesus really did love them. I took a breath before I rang the doorbell. Maybe Jesus changed things. 
Creaking filled my ears and my eyes were flooded with floral print. I couldn't feel the anger, not exactly, it was different, it was...
"Hello, um--"
"Come inside," The withered mouth told me, and I felt an old urge, but I couldn't name it.
When I stepped past the threshold, her old hand clamped down on my arm and threw me down like a ragdoll. I was so stunned I couldn't fight, she screamed and beat and kicked me, she was calling me a whore, a slut. Had I dressed too casually? I remembered wondering. She demanded answers, spittle and limp hair flying around her face. I remembered the dog food. Where was the dog? Would it attack me?
A man came. I had the old urge again. What was happening? This wasn't right, I was a stranger, I should have been immune.
"Where the hell did you get those contacts?"
Fingers picked at my eyes. I shut them, but they ripped off the wriggling legs, my shoulders were forced down, a palm pushing on my forehand, a thumb prying one eyelid open...
They swore and she screamed. I wasn't wearing contacts. I was possessed by demons. Stomping. Had they glimpsed my Mien? I could barely breathe, barely move. Then I felt hateful breath, and something horrible. 
Oh God, my eyes. The last thing I saw was their twisted faces, so close to mine, and I realized that I'd made myself too like them. Somehow, I'd guessed my own adult appearance. "I don't know how the hell you got out." I was still here. The world went dark, they'd stabbed and pried out my eyes. "You'll fast until this demon's gone, skanky bitch." I'd never left. The smooth floor slid under me, and some door squealed open. I felt the dampness, smelled the filth. I couldn't believe it was happening.
A rubber sole shoved me, I tumbled down wooden stairs that battered and scraped. The smell was horrible. I landed in a tangle of myself, blind and broken. I'd never escaped.
Then it was worse. I felt a spiritual snapping, a fury bubbling in my chest. I heard myself screaming, but that wasn't my voice. I was the dog.
She didn't attack me. She wailed in the corner, too scared to move. I hated her. "Where's Tina?" I cupped my bleeding sockets.
"She moved away," Other Lisa whined. "But you... I'm not even..." I could feel her stupidity, could feel her heart breaking at her final uselessness. "Why? Why did I live?"
Shuffling newspaper, squelching shit. "Stay away from me," I warned.
"I must have a purpose," She hiccuped, her voice closer. I remembered my parents' declaration that Jesus loved me, I remembered that hopeless groping at sunbeams, my own wishing for purpose.
Then, I remembered that I was the Sovereign of Silence, the King that Winter would not Uncrown. I had prepared. I had filled inner pockets with goblin fruit, now they were smashed against my skin, shrinking the worst bruises, healing cracked bones. I laid there, wrapped in boons and power, invoking my own broken heart.
"It's you." She said with her lips brushing my ear. "You're my purpose."
I went dumb with cold, bloody fingers twisting the caps from the foil tubes in my pocket. I felt something hot on my face. Her reeking tongue blocked the stench of extreme neglect as it cleaned the blood around my empty sockets. I was past caring, and focused on my task, until she sighed my father's sigh. "Stop," I barked.
"No." An open hand pushed my bruised shoulder against the cold foundation. Her arm slid under my head, cradling me, I felt her chest against mine, her teeth scraped my collarbone.
Ice clawed through my veins as her jaw cracked and distended. Her head bobbed and my flesh tore. I lost myself. A hand grabbed her fouled hair and another shoved fingers into her hot neck. Ripping out her slimy throat was easy. 
I heard a distant door open. "It's time, you asked for this," The old man moaned. "You deserve every bit of what's gonna happen!"
The urge was to wet myself, I remembered as I sat up pushing the gushing body off of me, but I resisted, and someone was chuckling. It sounded like the fetch. I felt thick cadmium yellow ooze around my fingers. Standing up sounded like ice cubes breaking in water. He hollered in my face and tried to grab me, so I shoved the greasy paint up his nose and choked the sick man with it.
"Henry?! Henry, I've got the Bible! Wait upon the Lord, Henry!"
"Nooo!" I crowed, creeping up the old stairs, planting each step with caution. "Keep His Holy Word away from meeee!" I visualized her billowing floral print, and decided ultramarine blue would go well.
She was on me in a second, I didn't mean to shove it in her eyes, but isn't that in the Bible? She made a noise like an animal. I found a fistful of her hair, groped for the railing, and slammed her head into it. 
I stopped when all her hair was ripped out of her scalp. I climbed over her soft body, back into the warm house, and crawled around until I found the bathroom. I heaved on the floor, and rolled into the bathtub. Fumbling with the knobs, I wondered, dimly, if my phone had been smashed. I fished the plastic lump out and set it on the toilet lid, then sicked again over the side of the tub. The water was the same warm as the fetch's blood. I wondered if it was blood, and I just couldn't see it. I set the water to scalding.
I could smell it, the same soap they'd always used, and I didn't want the stink on my rent skin. I guessed where the filth and spilt blood were, and rinsed thoroughly.
Category:Fiction