Chapter Text
"God created the heaven and the earth. The light and the darkness. The firmament. He separateth the water from the earth. He createth the sun, the moon, and the stars. He createth the fish, birds, beasts. He createth man, and giveth him rule over all creatures. And provideth nurture for man and beast."
There used to be a time when you would be gazing at roses with wonder. Your eyes would be gleaming with amazement at their bloom that never seemed to turn dull. The thorns might be prickly like needles, but it could never deter your presence. Red as the crimson blood that dripped from your hands and soft as the velvet that you lie on whenever the night falls, roses were the only thing that inhabited your mother's greenhouse.
She loved them dearly although she never had the talent to grow them herself, being a noble's daughter and all.
Based on your familial history, your mother came from a lower noble background unlike your father. The main reason that your father married your mother was because he became enamored by her appearance and the way she carried herself. You could still remember your father saying that she was never the sharpest blade that a man could ever wield, yet her beauty was never to be denied.
Her hair was darker than the night, and her lips are as pink as the ripest peach. Her skin was the fairest of them all, and her eyes were comparable to the green that only a rose's leaves could create—deep yet full of life, glowing like emeralds when hit with the gentlest rays of the golden sun. Even when she passed, she looked the most alive as though she was just sleeping, waiting her only bud to tap her shoulders and wake her up from her slumber.
Her allure was one of a kind, and despite her being your mother, you have never inherited the qualities that made her be considered as "The Upper Society's Flora". You have always heard snide comments from other nobles, claiming they were disappointed to learn that you resemble your father a lot. Seeing your hair color that was simply like his and your eyes were being merely a deeper shade of his irises', you were indeed his spitting image.
You mind it not, for it shields you from the stares of the widows who were even older than your own father.
Rotting, senile, old men, who only wish to spread their self-proclaimed legacy, also wished to spread the legs of innocent younglings whose ages are a mere fraction of theirs. From their lingering gazes looking at the necks of female nobles who had not even reached their coming-of-age to their words asking their fathers if they had been betrothed already, some might think that not having your mother's grace as a curse, but for you, it was a gift.
For you, it was the highest blessing that the God above could ever give you.
Well, it used to be.
The moment you have turned your sixteenth, countless letters from men of varying ages have begun flooding the parlor room. Each paper contained intricate penmanship. Each paper contained their immeasurable, irrestrainable desire for a still fresh petal. Each paper contained flowery words complimenting your youthful beauty, attempting to coax you by telling you how much you looked like your mother.
However, their trickery would get them nowhere.
In contrast to your mother, who used to be even softer than the softest flowers, you were and still are the thorns that decorated her stem. Your etiquette might be of a noble's, yet the mind inside you was that of a common fellow. You were full of rage and disgust as you were full of ideas that a daughter like you should not have. You were too brilliant for your own good, and it keeps them from being able to reach you. Their foolish attempts for flattery will always remind you that in this society, a recently bloomed flower will be the most desirable, but when the petals start to wilt, her value would be diminished to that of a servant's.
And your thoughts were soon proven.
Each year you turned older, the fewer and fewer the letters have arrived, until there were none.
Before you knew it, you have already turned twenty-five, the last chance for you to find a husband.
"God resteth the seventh day, and sanctifieth it. He setteth man in the garden. He createth the woman. Marriage is ordained."
The floor where you have been kneeling for an hour was cold against your knees, even colder than the wind that has managed to enter the prayer room. In front of you was an altar where a wooden statue of His son stood tall, His right hand forming the sign of benediction. In your clenched palm stayed a rosary, its amethyst beads swinging as you shook. You kissed it before signing the cross, hoping that the Lord would finally hear your never-ending prayers this time.
"Father in heaven, I beg you," you wept. "I beg for your mercy."
You have no idea what it was that your father was suffering from. His heart was still beating, and yet, his flesh appears to be decaying. Like living corpse, he inhaled fresh air yet release an exhale of death. He exude the gagging scent of rot that could never be ridden by perfume, but when you open his lids to take a glance at his irises, his eyes still appear to be of those who are still alive.
Watching him succumb to his condition was gnawing you inside out.
He was just laughing with a companion at the most recent banquet held by the king as they talked about matters only men of the household are allowed to know and converse about, but the second he stepped foot out of the carriage, he fell onto the pavement, lifeless. There had not been any blood, and there had not been any signs of him experiencing any pain. So your father...your father could not have been dead.
But he looked dead. Even when he was breathing and his heart was still functioning, he still felt dead.
"Give me a sign, God. God, please, give me a sign not to end it. A sign for me not to euthanise him." You sighed, your breathing ragged. "I cannot go on like this."
You felt angry. You felt tired. You felt disappointed. You felt betrayed. You felt everything all at once. Your sanity was hanging onto a thin thread, and you were not sure when will everything snap. You were not patient. Oh, for God's sake, you have never been patient. So why? Why must He make you feel this?
"If it is Your will for him to die, take him already."
You held your rosary by both ends, gripping it so hard that the string was starting to stretch. However, before you could pull it apart and send the beads flying, a knock rang and bounced onto the walls of the room.
"Lady [Name], the sorcerer is here, your grace," the butler, who was standing opposite side of the door, said.
You swallowed thickly and tried to bury that heaviness settling in your throat somewhere it would not reemerge from. You rose from your position and put the rosary onto the table. You looked up and blinked several times before closing your eyes entirely, steeling yourself to survive this interaction without breaking down.
"Guide him to the parlor room and bring out tea and sweets," you ordered him.
Hearing the soles of his shoes clacking, you dusted your skirt. You immediately made your way to your room and checked your appearance at the vanity mirror. The bags under your eyes were prominent, and your lips are unhealthily pale. Your hair, although styled, gave off the impression that you were, in fact, not taking care of yourself. Inwardly, that is.
"It is a lady's duty to keep herself beautiful," you recalled your etiquette instructor remind you. "Even when grieving, you must look more than presentable."
You laughed at the brief memory, knowing that old hag turned to be the type of woman she hated the most. Ugly and wrinkly, as she would call the commoners, she looked no different from the women who never had the wealth to take care of themselves. If anything, those women still undoubtedly appeared better than her.
Deciding against dolling up, you went to the parlor room. There, you saw a young man wearing a black robe with green and silver accents. His hair was neatly divided and swept away from his sculpturesque face. As you let your eyes stay, you note the symmetry of his features. Similar to the prince of that particular fairytale that your mother loved reading for you before you retire for the night, he can only be described as ethereal.
Yet, his eyes haunted you.
"I suppose that you are the sorcerer."
"I am."
The richness of his voice startled you.
"I am glad that you have accepted my request." You momentarily averted your eyes from him and wordlessly commanded the maid to pour him a cup of tea. "I heard that you lived far from this kingdom."
"I do," he confirmed, his tone neutral. "I live in a place only my kind can perceive."
Picking up your teacup and the saucer below it, you sipped the liquid and nodded. A mystery, he was.
"Your name is Tom Marvolo Riddle, correct?"
How fitting for a puzzling man like him.
"That is indeed the name I use when I interact with the likes of you."
His eyes met yours, as if they were nudging your curiosity and waiting for you to pry about the details that should not concern you. You, however, did not question him. You kept your mouth shut.
In his eyes, you care not about who and what he was. Your gaze told him that you only interest yourself with what he could do to cure your father once and for all.
"Then, Sir Riddle, you see, we have tried seeking the help of many physicians," you began.
"But none of them were able to heal your father," he ended the sentence for you. "So you have decided to send a letter to me, a wizard."
"Yes."
"The procedures to address a letter to me can never be done by pure accident," he explained, his voice liquid smooth. "It requires the sender their whole certainty, because even the slightest amount of hesitation will nullify the call."
The pendulum swung back and forth, filling the silence while you searched for the right words to say. You put the cup down and breathed out through your nose. His face, which was previously devoid of any expression, morphed into amused confusion.
He chuckled softly, mirth evident in his words when he asked, "You are a Christian devout, are you not?"
"I am," you confirmed. "But the duchy is desperate."
Oh, who were you trying to fool?
It was not the duchy who was terrified of the future. It was never them. It was you.
"I am desperate."
If your father were to die, you would be forced to marry whoever it is the church assigns you to. Your father's riches would be transfered to him, and you would need to consummate with him the night of the wedding day to produce a child. If the babe turned to be a girl, you would need to spend another night with your spouse the moment the physician states that your womb has rested, which would undoubtedly be no longer a month after the birth. You would accept him inside of you in and out repeatedly, again and again, until you were able to give him an heir. The only reason you did not have a brother was because your father loved your mother dearly and wished to preserve her loveliness longer. Your husband would never be that considerate enough for him to stop. No man is.
"I care not anymore if you are a physician or a wizard as you claim yourself to be." You bit the flesh of your inner cheek and tasted the metal from your blood while it coated your tongue. "I need your rumored healing abilities."
You squeezed your eyes shut and pursed your lips. You pressed your palms together, resembling the hands of a praying person.
"I could have been fooling you." The words that was unhurriedly coming out of his lips made you snap your eyes open. "I could have been merely lying to you, and when I receive the payment, I could tell the church you have been contacting a man of who has been devil's work."
You bitterly smiled in a way that only a fatigued woman could do. You did not want to be vulnerable in front of the man who was sitting across from you, yet the growing enervation inside your heart has increasily turning you emptier and emptier every day that your father stayed ill.
"Trust and faith are the only remaining things I have," you muttered.
"Trust and faith?"
"Trust for you that you are not here to deceive me for my father's properties, and faith for the Lord that he did not send me another predicament."
Your answer pleased him. Due to what reason, you did not know. The way he has presented himself to you gave you no way of predicting him. In comparison to the other men you have met before, he was cavernous, and his demeanor held no cracks. He was unnerving to gaze upon, as though he was no human being.
Perhaps, he really was not.
"You do not seem to be concerned that I would tell the church about your existence," you pointed out, attempting to use his words against him.
"Even if you do," he trailed off. "No one would believe you."
His reply stunned you. The confidence in his answer was almost sickening, and yet, you have expected it.
"Of course."
Why would the church believe a woman? They would likely just accuse you of having hysteria.
Still, hearing it being spoken—spelled out for you—by a non-noble individual...you would be lying if you would say that you were not disappointed.
"What are your terms?" you shifted the topic back. "How much would your like your payment to be?"
He provided you no answer, which caused you to feel more anxious.
Does he wish to attain something else?
"What would you like your payment to be?" you pressed. "A mansion? A land property? A noble title?"
He shook his head slightly.
"None of them."
"Are you telling me that you'd work for my father's betterment without any promised payment?"
He let out an airy chuckle, smooth and almost lulling. He leaned into your direction and reached for your teacup with his right hand. Your tea, which shared the temperature of the room, released steam. The liquid even bubbled, boiling.
However, as quick as his smile showed, it vanished.
He sat straight, and the blankness of his face returned. He inserted his right hand back inside his cloak, his left arm moving. He pulled out a small vial of clear liquid, its flange sealed with a wax-coated cork. When you extended your hand to take it, your eyes moved to the mark that occupied his left forearm.
A serpent slithering through the holes of a skull.
"Pour it into his throat. If his condition improves, which I am confident that it will, I want you to provide me an experimental laboratory where I can do my work without anyone disturbing me," he said. "I want it to be separated from the manor."
You cleared your throat in a futile attempt to ignore the image.
"How large?"
"As large as your men could possibly build."
"The woman seduced by the serpent, enticeth her husband to sin. They both flee from God. They three are punished. Christ is promised. Man is dust. Man is cast out of Paradise."