Scarecrow Stories: Flight of the Wax-Men Part II

Vanil panicked; he was running out of time. One hand retained its human form, which he used to mold the wax onto him as his other “hand”, now more of a scoop in shape and utility, to shovel the wax of his brothers onto him. After some sawing with his dagger, the wick that had so often led Vanil to the edge of death fell lifeless to the ground. Not wanting to leave any bit of his brothers behind, he used the last of Citrouille to form hair atop his head. By the time he was done, all that was left were two puddles on the ground, the closest thing to corpses a failed Wax-Man could ever become. Vanil checked for missing body parts on his reflection in Grume.
“Good, nothing missing. I-”
“Where is my Hunter?”
The puddle spoke back.
Looking back down, the man of wax was filled with Fear at the sight of the Vain Queen staring up at him through his brother’s “body”. Then, there was one last flicker of flame from the two wicks soaking in liquid wax, followed by darkness.
“I have to get out of here!”
Lashing his brother’s wicks together in the dark proved more than difficult for brave Vanil; this was normally Grume’s area of expertise. Getting the makeshift lasso to wrap around the hanging grate at the top of the cell proved harder, but Vanil knew the Queen would be coming his way if he did not hurry. Out through the grate, and down the nearby corridor, Vanil took shelter in an armoire in the first room he saw.
“Hunter? Hunter!?”
He could hear the Queen calling for the girl now dead in the shadows.
“There you are, my Hunter. Wake up you ugly girl and tell me who’s been in there with you?”
Her voice barreled down the hallway; Vanil needed to move but feared the Queen finding him.
Then the skin-piercing wail of realization hit his wax ears as the Queen learned the fate of her pet: three stab wounds to the heart. Vanil noted the complete lack of subtlety, but Noix taught them to kill and escape quickly, so covering up dirty deeds was not something he nor his brothers ever thought to do. He heard the Queen rampage down the hallway, smashing urns and ripping priceless artwork, when he felt himself lift off the ground. Before it dawned on him what was happening, his armoire sanctuary was thrown against a wall in the hallway, and left behind in the Queen’s fit of rage. Bruised on his brand-new forehead, Vanil laid still until he got his breathing under control. He could hear the Queen tearing up the castle somewhere else, so he assumed he had not actually been found. Getting up, brave Vanil knew he could escape now, get out free and clear, but Cire told him of the Queen’s prisoners: young “princesses” she would treat like royalty and then have her Hunter let them loose and hunt them down for their hearts to feed the Queen’s own insatiable hunger. Vanil didn’t want to let his brothers down, but he knew he couldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t at least try to save another.
“They saved me, not just today, but my whole life. It is only fair that I return their kindness with doing the same for another. I have the power to escape, it would be sin to not use it for others in trouble.”
Vanil knew he was rationalizing; the concept of escaping the lands of Fae was a frightening concept. He had memories of the world beyond, but he couldn’t know for sure if it would be any better for him there than in Cire’s hold. No, of course it would be better, but wouldn’t it be best if he was with someone who understood the durance he’d been through?
You’ve always been such a hopeless romantic, Vanil. Go get your princess.
“Quiet, Citro, I-”
Vanil shook the feeling off, steadily getting up and out of the knocked over mahogany container.
Think, Van. The Queen wants the princesses to love her.
“So she wouldn’t want them to see her Wrath!”
Dusting himself off, Vanil searched for a place in the castle spared from the Queen’s anger. It didn’t take long. The East Wing was entirely unscathed. It took a little longer to find the girls; the concerto playing through the phonographs dotting the complex may have helped to obscure the brave Wax-Man’s movements, but it also helped hide who he was searching for. Room after room of antique furniture, formal ball rooms, feast tables, brave Vanil’s courage wavered. If the Queen was still looking for him, hanging around her castle was an awful idea. He didn’t even know how he was going to get out of here, much less while smuggling princesses. Princesses? Would he attempt to rescue more than one? It’d be wrong to sit there and choose between them. Wrong? Downright awful was more like it, choosing who lives and who is left behind to have their heart ripped out. Realistically, he didn’t even know how he’d escape if it were only him.
Focus, Van, the rope I tied to get you up the castle wall is right where I left it. Perfect escape route.
“But what if the Queen has found it?”
She wouldn’t have found it, I stashed it inside a wine barrel near the edge of the balcony we used.
“Thank you, Grume. Even when dead you-”
Vanil was talking to himself. He knew the voices weren’t real, or at least he kept telling himself that. They were dead. Truly dead. No more than wax.
“From wax we were made and to wax we will return.”
Vanil hated himself for parroting what Cire always said to them. The brave swordsman decided to check one last room before giving up, the set of double doors in the hallway ahead of him. One of them was slightly ajar, leaking soft light into the much darker corridor. Inside was exactly what he was looking for. It was a dressing room with an obscene number of dressing tables and vanity mirrors. There were one, two, three.... twelve young women in here, each with the beauty of youth and each dressed like royalty. The castle shuttered from the Queen, currently elsewhere, stomping about.
Twelve? He couldn’t sneak twelve pampered children out of a heavily guarded castle! Besides, the number of mirrors in the room was staggering: vanities atop every table, hand mirrors and pocket mirrors for every princess. It was a perfect death trap for any would-be rescuer. Then the Queen would whisper sweet lies into the princesses’ heads, that the rescuer was a kidnapper in disguise and the Queen had saved them from a horrible fate. The girls would love her more if he made a move now. Little did he know he didn’t have much of a choice.
“Girls? Girls! Your Queen worries for you!”
She was here, merely down the hallway from the door frame where Vanil now stood. How could she move so quickly? Panicking, Vanil slipped into the room without a sound. The princesses seemed too self-absorbed to notice. He could hear the Queen getting closer when he felt the most sensational feeling on his lips. A woman in the room he had not seen through the crack between the doors had grabbed his face and pulled him in for what would be the swordsman’s first kiss.
“Sir Chandelle, quickly! Get under mes plumes!”
She was beautiful, but not in the way the princesses were. It was a more refined beauty. Her uniform gave her away as one of the Vain Queen’s maids.
“I’m sorry, Sir Fletcher, but are we to believe the wax butler met the maid he served with under the Prince while escaping the Vain Queen?”
“Tis a story, Miss Foxtop. A story that is as true as yours or mine. Just because real life doesn’t have fairy-tale endings doesn’t mean we can’t lead fairy-tale lives.”
Marsha sat there looking slightly defiant for a second, the children she had brought all still completely entranced by the Minister’s tale. She crossed her arms and furrowed her eyebrows.
“Is that an acceptable retort, Miss Foxtop?”
Marsha relaxed her pose, realizing she’d much rather enjoy the story than sit there in a huff. She soon found herself happy again, intent on listening to how this story ends.
“Yes, Sir Baggington, please continue.”
“Thank you. Now where was I? Ah yes...”
Dazed by what had just transpired, and less-than-slightly miffed about the facial ambush he had just weathered, Vanil couldn’t help but grin to himself as he wiped lipstick from his face as the maid shoved him under her massive, umbrella-shaped skirt made of feathers which trailed down to the floor. Wait, she said feathers, not skirt. Was he.... she was just wearing a skirt made of feathers, right? He wasn’t really.... was he? Keeping his head down to preserve the maid’s modesty, Vanil did his best to crawl across the ground to stay under the “skirt” while the maid went to greet her Queen at the doorway. The conversation was innocuous enough, the Queen was wondering if any strangers had come by and the maid said no. The Queen still wished to check on her darling girls.
Yeah, more like take inventory, Vanil thought to himself.
The Queen walked around the room, her maid trailing her with Vanil still underneath. She greeted and inspected each of the girls, and when they appeared to be fine, she left. The maid gathered the girls up in two even lines to prepare for supper, making sure they left their mirrors behind before moving them to a quiet, windowless room. She stepped away from Vanil, whose arms were quickly growing tired from the constant movements the maid performed. Vanil found himself dusting his clothes off for what felt like the tenth time that day.
“Why are we here? Who is that?” asked one of the girls.
“Monsieur Chandelle and I are taking you girls home, far away from here.”
It looked to Vanil like he would have to rescue the thirteen (maid included) of them after all.
“Why would we want to leave? chimed another.
“You do not know this, my petite fille, but all of you are in danger! Ze Queen wishes each of you ‘arm!” The maid’s accent was growing more obvious as she grew more frantic.
“But we are happy here! The Queen takes care of us! Why would she wish to hurt us?” Vanil realized the group of girls was slowly shifting from a gathering of princesses to the formation of a mob.
“Why should we trust you?” “Yeah!” “YEAH!”
“Quiet girls, please!”
“Why shouldn’t we call the Queen on the both of you, the not-pretty-enough maid and her suspicious candle-man!” “Yes, we should!” “Queen?” “Your Majesty!”
“Girls? Did I hear you calling me? Where are you? Your Queen would love to se you!”
“Filles, please! We only wish to save-”
It was too late, and Vanil knew it. Grabbing the maid around her waist, he tucked her underneath his arm and ran out the door at the far end of the room.
At least we tried, thought Van. Heh, the maid was light as a feather.
The girls wouldn’t have gone willingly, and you didn't have time, brother. Grab your one princess. It’s better than none.
“I know, Grume-”
“Grume? What was that?”
“Err, grume. We’ll need grumes exquis to make wine fine enough to celebrate getting out of here. If we-”
“I trust you, Chandelle.”
It was all he needed to hear.
Out through an abandoned storage room, across the top of the tower, the two of them ran. Reaching the wine barrel, Vanil threw off the lid and grabbed the tough rope inside.
How could I have known this was here? I must’ve seen Grume put it here, but...
Snapping out of his trance, Vanil wrapped the rope around the same stones his brother had earlier.
“Go down first, I’ll watch for guards.”
“But, Chandelle...”
“No time, move!”
She couldn’t help but look up at him, as if fearing he’d drop the rope. Every time she looked, he looked back, flashing a reassuring smile on his face before looking around again for an angry Queen. When she reached the forest below, he slid down the rope to meet her.
“You are quite the, how you say, swash-buckler, mon Chandelle.”
“And you make quite the princess!”
“And into the forest they ran. They ran as far as they could, breaching the barrier between Faerie and The Hedge. What felt like days later they found themselves lost and out of food. The maid wasn’t suited to this kind of wilderness survival, and Vanil’s travel pack didn’t provide much in the way of creature comforts. Deciding to seek shelter, they snuck their way into a castle in the Thorns...”
“Was it the Prince’s castle?”
“Why yes, Miss Foxtop, it was. Their soon-to-be Master found them and bound them in his dungeon for weeks. The only way he’d let them out is if they cut a deal with him: their vassalage for enough freedom to see each other and leave their prison cells. Wisely, they took the offer. Eventually she found out the beginnings of his story, and when he was with her he couldn't hear the voices of his fallen brothers. After years of serving the Prince, the voices died away permanently, or so the wax butler believed. The End.”
Characters invovled in this Chronicle: Flea Bag, Marsha Foxtop, Francois Dior, and by association Hunter.
Category:Fiction