Circus of Silence

-finale-

~*~

            The last Witch of the Circus Everlasting once believed she was a good person. Truly had been, long ago. But the days when little Rosie Maybrush would hold her mother's hand as they sat in the church, the days when she would scribble desperate messages to her father in London, pleading for him to come home and make her mother smile again, were gone. Decades had passed since she'd named the Circus Everlasting's tiger. Rulers had risen and fallen since she'd taken the name of Hecate for herself.

If Rosalind Maybrush had still been a good person then, she certainly isn't now.

 For one: she didn't tell anyone but her favourite carnies about her planned escape. She'd allowed rumours to circulate about a new grandchild being imminent, and she'd let them imagine their freedom was in their grasp. It gave her more time to work. More time to search. More time to reflect and think through all of the terrible things she'd soon have to do.

Secondly, she never faltered in her resolve. She'd seen feral children, men with an unquenchable desire to gorge themselves on fire. She'd seen people with hands growing out of their eyes. She'd seem people die after attempting escape too many times.

She saw light for the first time in Whisper's eyes when she came back to them, a young woman, with colour in her cheeks and purple ribbons holding up her hair.

She saw hope when she pulled something small from her bag, saw it spark as she saw through the guise of the nasty, gnarled hag.

"I'll fetch them," she said, tossing back her head, letting golden tresses fall from white matts in a flow down her back. That wasn't the style now, but it had been a very long time since she'd kept up with the trends. A long time since she'd cared about people from the Outside.

Or at least the ones who didn't stand before her now.

She returned with two men on her arms; ever faithful, ever loyal. Two who were quite ready to give up their toil. Quite ready to embrace their lost friend and hear the telling of their sweet end in her own voice.

Love touched Whisper's smile as she produced a newspaper clipping and stood back as they read the headline printed triumphantly there:

ARMISTICE SIGNED. WAR IS OVER!

With it, Rosalind smiled back. She neatly folded that newsprint, slipped it in the bodice of the metamorphic dress she'd give one more wear.

"Witch," said the no-longer Silent Girl, that girl whose true name was louder than a whisper. She took Rosalind's still-soft hands and there was warmth in her touch, affection rather than fear in her tone. Rosalind was almost sorry to see it go.

Sorry to see a delicate hand extend to the heavens, to the world beyond and ahead.

Quiet. Forbidden. Mysterious.

"Welcome home?"

A cool breeze blew through the gateway, lifting skirts and tangling hair. In the Circus Everlasting, summer never ended. But now, it appeared they were approaching autumn. She saw colour in the leaves and crimson to match in cheeks.

Rosalind nodded. "I am for the air. This night I'll spend unto a dismal and a fatal end," she said. And she meant it- because after that night, she was Hecate no more.

Which brings us to the third bit of proof of this theory I've spun: with all her worrying and reflecting, you'd not expect her to have so much fun. Silly child, I told you, this story wasn't worth a shoe.

Now I'll sit back and watch as their story is passed on to you.

~*~