Serena Burke likes archaic kinds of fun (persephere) wrote in raveled, @ 2016-10-22 14:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! decade: 1980s, ! log, serena burke |
week 1 prompt: homework
WHO: Serena Burke
WHAT: Prompt VII Homework
WHEN: 1981
WHERE: Serena’s room, Pulcele Hall, Canterbury.
WARNINGS: Functional parent-child relationships! Also some incredibly brief mentions of murder, domestic violence, suicide, sororicide, and infanticide.
When dinner was finished and the Burkes were comfortably ensconced in their favourite drawing room, Serena was summoned. “Come here, my angel.” Julius Burke held out his hand, and Serena stepped into the curve of her father’s outstretched arm, letting herself be drawn in close to his chair to look down at him expectantly. “Yes, Daddy?” She was ever the responsive one, eager to please. Nearby on the chaise, fingers flickering over her embroidery, Felicity hid a fond smile. “I’ve brought you something, Serena. Ignatius picked it up in a little boutique in Vladivostok, and I thought it might be time you tried your hand at something as delicate as you are.” There was a smirk playing about his lips that belied his words; Julius was well aware that the little slip of sunshine that composed his youngest daughter could burn white-hot and scalding. That Serena, for all her softness, had a stubborn core at which he was currently prodding, waiting to see what she would do. Predictable as the sunrise, her face lit up. Opportunity and interest; Serena was happily willing to repay her father’s faith. “What is it, Daddy? May I see?” May I have it and hold it and learn its secrets and make it one of mine? She was far too excited, and Julius far too indulgent, to draw things out any longer. He was a man who delighted in his daughters, in giving them things, and that included the secret, arcane spells of his line, and the opportunity to work them to their own advantage and test what depths they could plumb to. With a gentleness incongruent with his frame, Julius placed the the object in soft, outstretched hands. “A little ivory comb that caught Borgin’s eye. It seemed perfect for you. Let me know how you get on, darling.” He drew her close to kiss her temple, well aware that Serena only had eyes for the treasure she held. Her breathless thanks was all but lost to Serena whisking out of the room, her remaining family sharing conspiratorial smiles as the sound of eager footsteps retreated. ~~~ Seated at her vanity, Serena’s hands moved without conscious thought as she beheld the delicate comb. “Aren’t you a pretty little thing?” she mused, reaching into the open mouth of the porcelain apple nestled between potions and perfumes to pluck a pinch of what lay inside. It was dirt, in fact, soil dug from beneath the oak trees that shaded the resting place of her ancestors. She and Felicity would collect it together by the light of full moons, from the corner of the estate with the most potent connection of family to land. It was this she scattered gently into the ancient stone bowl, humming to herself. Next, she tore some strands from an Augury feather, as her breath began to slow. The world outside of her bedroom was falling away, her focus narrowing to her own intent to test the comb’s secrets. It was so pretty, so pale, much like Serena herself. She stroked gently at the carved phoenix, and barely felt her wand in her hand as she drew it to her lips. “Tell me,” came her soft whisper, as the skin split beneath the holly and crimson welled up to catch the light. “Teach me,” as she brought the teeth of the comb to catch her blood, bright red against the white that had begun to glow. “Show me.” Serena licked at her lips and stirred the artefact into her preparation, feeling the trembling power of the stories that were straining, now, to flow out of it and into her mind. Clutching tight to her wand with her other hand, a chant rose up from the girl at the mirror. Not the clean, precise latin of everyday spells, but something older. Something on the very edge of language, words that remembered before memory and did not die. She was rooted to her little stool, unable to move from it even if she had wished, but her mind was free to be at one with the treasure in her hands, and Serena felt herself tumble headlong inside of its history. It was always the most recent first, a mistress who did not know it had been sent by her lover’s wife, whose pride at wearing the comb melted away with the rest of her features as the poison took its hold. The screams still echoed as a new scene rose up, a frightened bride resorting to her last defence against an unworthy husband. Down and down Serena fell, through decades and into centuries of strife; past jealous sisters and quarreling ladies in waiting. A beautiful woman locked in a tower was followed by a desperate mother robbing a plague of yet more victims, and on and deeper until her mind felt a thud. It was a forest, maybe an olive grove, but no. Trees she did not recognise in a night dark and loud with predators, came hurrying robed figures. Their low undertones spoke in a language lost to time, but Serena knew to follow. She sped through branches that could not touch her, until the night was overtaken by a glow. In a thicket, tangled in thorns and spell-woven chords, twisted the beast. Its frightened cries were drawing the fangs and and snarls of the the darkness ever closer, and Serena beheld merciless haste. First its horn was cleft from its flesh; not ivory but a unicorn twisting in pain and fear. Next, the dull glint of an onyx blade was drawn across its neck, coating bowl and bearer in the thick silver of its blood. Fistfuls of mane and tail were harvested by yet others, until clawed danger had come too near and apparition forced the comb’s own memory to a new locale. More blood magic, woven by women, as the hunters guarded outside. Flickering light and fast moving hands carved beauty from pain, and soon the form Serena knew emerged from within the horn. Its glow pulsed and shone, a pure and blue light that set shadows to dancing. But the consuming radiance did not last, and as the teeth of the comb were stirred into a bubbling, black cauldron, the night air was rent with a scream. It did not echo outside; indeed the men never heard even a whimper, but the horn of a pure beast soaking in a darkened melange was a test of wills, a breaking of hearts, a transgression of old laws. Serena was transfixed, her blood on her tongue seemed to throb in time with the ebbing of the horn’s dying light. Entranced and enraptured, both hands went to her hair, gathering and twisting as she watched the comb become what it was now, as she felt it in her right hand and used it to pull in loose golden strands. The comb was poised, ready to be plunged into the flaxen nest and nestle against her skull, to claim a new scalp and add a score through the centuries before a knock broke her perfervid trance. Her father’s voice was an anchor to her present, a warmth and an envelopment drawing her back home. “Serena, angel. Mind if I come in and you tell me what you’ve found?” Her soft sound of assent came unsteady, and she clutched at her vanity for strength as she looked up at the tall man with a wobbly smile. “Oh Daddy, I’ve so very much to tell you.” |