Whispers at Witching Hour

Chapter 17

WARNING: This is a really tough, graphic chapter. Only read if you're sure you can deal with it. 

Musical inspiration: Me and a Gun – Tori Amos (2015 Remaster)

Faustus and Zelda entered their chambers at the Vatican Necropolis. Due to it being entirely underground, there was no natural light at all. Oil lamps and torches created a dim, suffocating lighting instead that was highlighted by the thick, cold stone walls.

The room was not particularly big, but not small either. On one side was a heavy dark wooden door leading to a bathroom that had the same stone walls, but tiles on the floor instead of the bare granite ground. They had a long day behind them, but one thing Zelda would not let go.

"Faustus. What will you do about Ambrose?" she let her raspy voice resound through the room.

"He will atone for his crimes as it should be, wife. By execution" Faustus announced matter-of-factly.

Zelda threw her hat on the bed in disbelief. "But he's my nephew!"

"And a murderer." His demeanour did not change a bit, just stared at her with his grey eyes. The black eyeliner made them appear like a snake's. Venomous.

"He's not!" Zelda insisted, holding his gaze. It was provoking him, she could see it.

Faustus headed for her, breathing out through his flaring nostrils, grabbed her by her throat and pressed her against the wall.

"Don't you ever-" his fist clenched around her throat, "-dare talk back at me again."

He raised his chin, waiting for the fear to make Zelda's eyes glisten. And as much as she tried not to give him this victory, she was only human, and her survival instincts kicked in. She struggled for air, gasping under his grip, eyes shooting red.

She could tell from the dangerous sparkle in his eyes that he liked it. He had always liked hurting her; under the disguise of satanic penance, in service of the Dark Lord. But she could see right through him. It had never been the Dark Lord. It had always been men.

He lowered her down against the wall, allowing her to get some more air, but not enough to give her strength.

With a last disdainful look at her frightened visage, he huffed, "Enough now," and moved his grip to her hair, dragging her over to the bed. "Be a good wife."

Zelda's head shot around to assure she was right about what he was insinuating, never minding the pain she was inflicting on herself by doing so. She had been right.

"I beg your pardon, Faustus?!"

He spun her around and pushed her to bend over on the high bed, a firm hand pressing down on her back. "What did I just tell you?" he hissed.

Zelda was in shock, not able to put an answer together. Her body froze as he pushed the skirt of her dress up, his other hand grazing over her exposed skin. His touch was almost gentle in contrast to his words, voice and hand in her hair, which made it even more perverse.

"You see Zelda, I happen to know about your business with that little whore of yours." He played with the hem of her underwear.

Zelda's eyes were fixed on a crack in the stone wall, strands of hair curtaining her face. Faustus could not see her biting her lower lip hard, drawing blood. But he could hear the whimpers stuck in her throat and found pleasure in it.

He thought he was in the right, because she had betrayed him. How come in the Church of Night it was common practise for men to be polyamorous but if a woman ever sought pleasure elsewhere, she was to be punished?

She tried to wiggle out of his grasp, push his hands aside, but he captured hers and pinned them down on her back, putting more of his weight on her.

"You know me Zelda, I'm very generous." His disgustingly long white fingernails played with the thin fabric left to shield her. "So, I'll make sure to meet your ways of pleasure."

He bore two of his cold fingers inside her, rubbing against the dry skin. "Come on Zelda, get wet for your husband."

His sharp nails cut her walls with every painful thrust; the spiky ends dug into the sensitive flesh. Zelda suppressed her whimpers, squinted her eyes, begging him to stop but no words could pass her lips. She felt his swelling against the back of her thighs and shuddered at the sensation.

He added another finger, curled them and scratched her insides until he could feel sticky liquid coating them, mistaking it for arousal or perhaps knowing full well that it was not that. "Oh, you like that, don't you?"

Faustus pulled out, she could hear him unzip his trousers and a second later he thrust into her until knees bent, and she almost fell. But he had her pinned tightly to the bed, made her his personal slave, took everything from her.

After what seemed like an uncountable amount of more excruciating thrusts he leaned over her just before he came and whispered in her ear. "You know my dear wife; she isn't who you think she is."

When he finally let go, he collapsed next to her on the bed, leaving her how she was and fell asleep shortly after. Meanwhile Zelda lay dead still, feeling the warm fluid flow over inflamed flesh. Her cheek was pressed against the mattress, hands on her back where he had kept them together. She could still feel his grip around them.

The crack in the wall was her only focus, how it split the stone in all directions, unsteadying the construction. The bricks crumbled where the line passed; just as she did. One strand of her hair stuck to her wet face the entire time, right across it. That was the line. All around its edges she could swear she felt her skin crumble.

Shaking, she slowly removed her right hand from her back and brought it up to her face to check for any missing crumbs of Zelda Spellman.

She remained motionless bent over the bed for possibly hours before she got up on unsteady feet and moved robotically to the bathroom. She lit the oil lamps with a snap of her fingers and sat down on the toilet.

It burned. Everything burned. She could hardly bear sitting, her insides stinging and twisting nauseatingly. Zelda stared down to the dark tiles and noticed the red stains emerging from her inner thighs. The blood had dried, she would have to wash it off.

Zelda reached for the tap that was close by, accessible without rising from the toilet seat, and gathered some water she then frantically rubbed over her legs. In her frenzy, she smeared the blood everywhere, sobbing silently before she finally managed to get it off properly.

She stepped to the sink and rinsed water over her hands. Once she got the stains off, she let the water run over her hands more and watched in a trance. Then, her gaze shifted to the mirror. A woman she had trouble recognising. One of her hands went up to her face to check for the crack she was sure she had in her skin. Her fingertips brushed over the line.

One of her unopened bags was there, most likely her toiletries. She opened it to get her hairbrush (her red curls were a right mess) but could not find it. It was missing. In its place she found a hairclip. Mary's hairclip. How did it get there? Her fingers latched onto the black material, tracing the golden ornaments as her bottom lip began to tremble. She pressed the hairclip into her palm and against her chest while her face finally broke free from its limp expression and contorted.

Zelda reminded herself not to make a noise and keep herself together. She needed to get through this, she had a promise to keep. So, she went back to the bed, crawled under the sheets, knees tucked to her chest and the hairclip safe in her hand.

She thought she could figure out a plan to run away in the morning, once she got some rest, but she did not know she would wake up to the sound of a music box on her nightstand...

_____ 

Edited 26/04/22