Chapter Text
“[...] whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster… for when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”
- Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future
“Are we not all rendered monstrous under God?”
- Timothy Beal, ‘Introduction to Religion and its Monsters’, The Monster Theory Reader
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Ostania, 1897
The moon hung low in the sky as bloated and bloody as the womb, bathing the ancient town of Berlint in a scarlet wash. The cobblestones of the streets were slick with the remnants of the previous night’s rain, the reddened moonlight catching the water and turning it to wine. The air was still, the dense pine forest that encircled the town like a pack of ravenous wolves, immovable and stern as they watched the death taking place amongst their ranks.
The blade of the Thorn Princess shone bright despite the canopy, gilded silver that buried itself deep in where the heart of the creature should have been.
The vampire burst into purpled ash, bruising the grass in a grotesque livor mortis. Its final act of decay.
“Thank you for the honour of taking your life,” she murmured, pulling the matchbook from the depths of her gown and striking a match. The Thorn Princess threw the flame into the cinders, watching dispassionately as they flared up immediately, an offering to the Lord. She tilted her head to the Heavens, her prayer whispered and reverent. “That which takes from You pays its dues. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
The vampire hunter sheathed her weapon and returned to her home, content that her country was safe for a little while longer.
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“You have a divine mission.”
The Thorn Princess knelt at the sacred altar, The Shopkeeper standing proud above her, resplendent in his velvet robes and arms spread as though he were nailed to the cross. He stared down at her with cold, rheumatic eyes - eyes that had watched her grow from a frightened orphan girl into the Warrior of God prostrate at his feet today.
She looked satanic, with eyes as red as the heart of a pomegranate and hair as black as the Reaper’s robes, but there was a light within her that had burned bright even as she lay slick in her parent’s blood. It was this light that had stilled his hand all those years ago, stopped him from ramming a stake through her heart as he had her changeling brother.
She inclined her head, palms up to receive His blessings. “It shall be done.”
The Shopkeeper grinned as light refracted through the stained glass behind him, casting them in Technicolor shadows. He took her hands in his, callouses against callouses, and brought her to her feet. He leant in close, his perfume of myrrh and plum rich against her tongue. “The Twilight Prince has awoken. And he has taken a ward.”
The Thorn Princess’s eyes widened, her fists clenched against the fabric of her black dress. She whispered, “How can that be?”
“An orphan girl went missing. The children reported that a woman with hair as white as her skin stole into their halls and took her. A girl with hair the colour of roses.” His mouth pursed in displeasure. “He has never done this before. It is unprecedented.”
“So what is to be done?” the Princess frowned. “I cannot infiltrate his castle alone.”
“You can,” The Shopkeeper replied, his expression serene, assured. “You must. It shall be done.”
“But why this girl? Why now?”
The Shopkeeper’s brow quirked downwards and he tilted his head. “Surely you do not question the will of the Lord?”
The Thorn Princess dropped her head, chagrined. “No, Your Grace.”
He smiled softly and put a hand to her head, thumb dragging across her silky hair. “You will prosper, child. You are the protector of our great country, the sword of our Great God. Your fate is a story written in divine ink. No harm will come to you.”
The refracted rainbow receded from the flagstones and the church fell into darkness. The Thorn Princess turned and walked out of her home into the waiting halls of the Twilight Prince.
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She is asleep in his lap, her blush curls slipping through his fingers like silk as the night breeze drifts lazily over them. The courtyard is quiet and he had hoped that the familiarity of flowers in bloom would soothe her, let her know that she is safe.
His instinct was correct, as he knew it would be. Her eyelids drooped long before the moon reached its highest peak.
She has had a long night, he supposes - it is only right that she finds rest where she can.
Then, within his heart, a movement. It is a subtle, quiet motion, as though a part of him is readjusting to find a position more comfortable. Hope - that elusive, ephemeral thing - stirs and he smiles against the tears in his eyes.
“She is coming, Anya,” he whispers to the girl, who only nuzzles closer to him.
He holds her tight and looks up to the stars above them, reading the script written within them and preparing himself for his role.
She will be here soon. It will all begin again.
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It should not have been so simple to enter the fortress of a legendary being, but then some things were still capable of surprising her.
The Thorn Princess walked across the lowered drawbridge of Westalis Castle, an austere structure built from crumbling brick and rotting foundations that somehow managed to maintain its dignity.
An ancient king clutching to his throne with arthritic hands, she thought with a derisive snort. Apt for the Twilight Prince.
His legacy was one established in the stories of old, as immovable and deep-rooted as the cliffs his castle was built on. The Twilight Prince ruled over a kingdom of night, a man of a thousand lifetimes who had razed entire nations, brought countless innocents to their doom. He was a figure clothed in shadow, his appearance constructed by whispered stories around dwindling campfires. He was the darkness behind your eyelids, the cold chill felt even beside a hearth. He was the corruption in every bad decision you made and the Sickle of the Devil.
And now I am entering his home.
She came to the door, a tremendous structure of wrought iron and wood. The knocker was shaped like an eye, its pupil dilated and lid hooded. As she raised her hand to touch it, she could have sworn she saw it flicker towards her, assessing her. The Thorn Princess took a deep breath and knocked.
The door opened with a wail, exposing a grand entry hall illuminated by a glimmering crystal chandelier. A man stood beneath it, hair a halo of tight curls and eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“I am Yolanda Briar,” she said, the name she once held rusty on her tongue. “Your master has taken my ward.”
“Your ward?” the man scoffed. “She was locked up in an orphanage.”
“She was only there whilst I journeyed to the adjoining village,” she lied, fingers grazing where her blade hid beneath her skirts in an act of reassurance. “Her father was taken by the vampires when she was but a girl. I am the sole provider.”
“The master has chosen her,” came the reply, the man flicking his hand dismissively. “She is yours no longer.”
“She will always be mine,” Yolanda snapped, bunching her fists against her side. “Your master cannot compete against a mother’s love.”
“My master,” he spat, crossing the space to jab a finger against her chest, “can do as he pleases. You would do well to remember that as you leave this place. You shan’t be offered another chance.”
She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and gathering herself before she looked at the man once more. He was so small before her, so pitiful and small. She took his hand in hers, pulled it away from her chest. With a strength bestowed upon her as a Lion of God, she pushed his hand back towards his wrist. The man screamed as she snapped it in two, the delicious sound of shattered bone echoing throughout the space.
“I have no master but my God,” she said coldly, staring down at the man who now sobbed at her feet. “I do not fear him.”
“Is that so?”
Yolanda’s head snapped up to the sweeping staircase beside her. The Twilight Prince stared down at her, impossibly beautiful and impossibly dangerous. Despite herself, her breath caught in her throat. Across the room, his eyes were bright and luminescent as arctic ice, and he held her gaze as though they had met before.
He cocked his head, his muscles coiled as if ready to spring.
“Let’s see if that remains the case, Yolanda Briar.”
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Her daughter.
She had no daughter, of course. Yolanda knew this, the girl knew this, and perhaps the Twilight Prince knew this, too. But as Yolanda sat opposite the little girl, with hair the colour of the springtime sunset and eyes that seemed older than her minute years, she could imagine her fetal movements beneath her taut skin, feel the contractions of her labour in time with her heart.
She looked at the child and was struck with the awe she had only ever known when praying to her God. The awe of creation and being created in kind.
“Anya, this woman says she is your Mama,” the Twilight Prince said, his body draped across an ornate fireplace as he watched the child carefully. “Is this truth?”
The girl - Anya - tilted her head, assessing Yolanda carefully through sleepy eyes. The Thorn Princess stayed as still as her breath, held tight in her lungs for fear of any motion at all startling the girl away from her. The child hopped down from her rickety stool, her frothy cream dress fanning out around her like icing on a pastry, and approached her.
The Twilight Prince has dressed her prettily, Yolanda thought absently, watching as Anya came close to her. It is the dress of a princess... of a child who is loved.
The little girl brought a tiny hand to Yolanda’s cheek, feeling the warmth there. Yolanda leant into the girl’s touch, lightly covered her hand with her own.
I am human like you, sweet girl, she thought, keeping her eyes locked with the child’s. I have come to take you away from this place. I will keep you safe. I promise.
A smile broke across Anya’s face and she nodded, an affirmation that scored itself on Yolanda’s heart and soul. She looked over her shoulder at the Twilight Prince, who was watching impassively. “Mama.”
He raised an eyebrow, though whether this was disbelief or surprise, it was unclear. “Is that so?”
“She has confirmed it,” Yolanda said, squaring her shoulders and staring down her nose at the vampire. “You are honour bound to release her.”
“Honour? You believe me to have honour?” He laughed, a melodic but dangerous sound like the rush of the current. He offered Yolanda a humourless smile. “Madam, I left my honour on a battlefield before your ancestors drew breath. The child is my ward.”
“What right do you have to her?” Yolanda snarled, pushing to her feet and taking a step towards him. Her hand twitched for her weapon and the vampire’s eyes - an impossible cerulean blue, too cold and too clear - flashed down to the motion.
“About as much right as you, Yolanda Briar,” he replied, his lip curling back to show a razor sharp canine. “Tell me, why do you want her so?”
“My soul sings for her,” Yolanda said with the easy confession of prayer. She paused, eyes widening as if she could hardly believe she’d said it, but she knew in her heart that this was true. “God has chosen me to be her mother. This I know.”
The Twilight Prince frowned, though there was no malice in his expression; rather, he looked as though he were truly contemplating her words, holding their weight against the truth of his own.
“She sings for me, too.”
Yolanda scoffed, shaking her head. “You do not have a soul.”
“Don’t I?” he asked quietly, eyes losing focus before he swallowed and glanced to where Anya hid behind Yolanda’s skirts. A small smile spread across his lips and he dropped down, holding out a hand to her. “Anya. Do you wish it?”
The little girl stepped into the space between them, her face turning from the Prince to the Princess with a seriousness that should not have been borne by one so young. Finally, she held out a hand to each.
“My Mama and my Papa. Anya wishes it.”
Yolanda met the Prince’s gaze, her stomach curling into a tight knot. God had willed her here; the Shopkeeper had insisted it was so. And Anya… Anya wished it.
She walked to the girl’s side and fell to her knees, resting her head in the child’s palm. She buried her hands in the plush carpet, grounding herself as tremors wracked her body. The Lord had led her to the lion’s den and asked that she lay amongst them, all for the sake of the lamb.
From her peripheral vision Yolanda caught movement. She raised her head minutely and watched, entranced, as the immortal Twilight Prince, the Destroyer of Realms and Thief of Souls, prostrated himself before a girl made of roses and starlight.
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