Tu Es Ma Lumière

180 - The Ghost Children

The castle had been cloaked in a veil of black since last autumn. The candles had been smothered, the bright sunlight from glass panels had gone dark. It had felt colder, quieter, darker, as if even the almighty God grieved the loss of the two children. The walls weep and whisper to each other, holding the memories of the beautiful little children in their cold greyness. The portraits gasp and cry as they no longer see the gold and black rush past at inappropriate hours, white and blackness following them just inches behind. Court grieves properly, as she should, but an uncomfortable air settles on the floor, like dust after weeks of servants forgetting to sweep the stones. It threatens to choke and smother with its darkness, the only thing that could be done was to bow to it's clutches and weep the loss of a future so bright and sunny, forever smouldered for nothing but bloodlines.

Nannies and courtiers gave the Queen such sympathetic looks that bordered on belittlement. Even her husbands beloved mistress had cast his wife a pitying look every now and then. The fire of the Medici still sparkled in those hazel eyes at times such as this, the only sign of life the Queen really lets out these days. Other times, except when she remained with the children who's hearts still beat and who's lungs still took and gave breath, that fire had been completley vacant. A dark nothingness had taken its place, and that was more frightening than any poison she could have whipped out at any given moment. The Queen of France still remains in her black robes, from dawn to dusk. She does little else but sit at her desk, or kneel on the nurseries carpets, and weep. A shell of the resilient spitfire she had been even eleven months ago.

The King throws himself into his duties like never before. Head first, he focuses on strengthening his weeping soil and grass and water so they can avenge the beauty the world had cruelly been denied. He feeds the poor, so they can grow stronger, so they can suit up in metal armour, so they can project all the anger and the grief onto the isle not that far away, the one that chilled the warmth, the one who took away the different world, the better world, that those two little children would have brought if they had the chance. His allies that gather around the table no longer slither around him, waiting for him to crack, to take as much power and money as their grimy hands can gather. They grow spitting mad at the pathetic boy King across the water, his regent included. It's an ironic thing -is it not?- that this is what it took to gain unification from the council that circles the table? It is not money or power that does it, but spilled blood. And what magnificent blood had to be spilled to gain the courtiers on side.

The Queen is as Catholic as they come, she does not believe in spirits. She fights the superstition that kept her strong in the decade of barrenness. She cannot believe in ghosts, but she is haunted all the same. It's a horrid thing, to be haunted, to be so close to everything she wanted, but just a few inches too far away. Out of the corner of her eye, she is haunted by the ghosts of her children. She can see them, and she is desperate to hold them. More often than not, in the dead of night when nobody remains in the hallways, she runs through the corridors in an effort to catch a proper glimpse of her beautiful little golden child and the one he had loved the most. Yet, no matter how far she runs, no matter how fast her small legs move with the effort, she is always just a little too far away. The one she bore and the one she rose for years. Gone. Just gone, but at the same time, not gone at all.

The walls of Chambord rewinds to the warm springtime, to give them strength to get past this bitter winter that had engulfed all else. They show the two children as they chase each other down the hallways. Echoes of their laughter caw from vacated premises, sending chills through whomever hears it's spines. The children, one blonde, one ravenette, they hide behind the turning of walls and run with childish joy and exuberance that can only belong to those such as them. The two of them, they wear untroubled beams and look to none but each other. Little pitter patters of tiny feet echo in the corridors, her white dress' hem is lightly stained with green dew from the grass. His hair is as unkempt and unruly as it always had been when they had spent an afternoon out in the bright sunlight. They wear no bruises, there is no blood on their clothing. They are happy, they are untroubled by the world of the living. Yet, they are gone. And the Queen is driven into madness by her grief.