Banshees.
Few didn’t know of their legend. Their plight. They were maidens of rot and pestilence left to linger, the strength of their unfulfilled wishes anchoring what remained of their mortal coil.
Young, sweet or beautiful.
Whatever they were, they were now something else.
They were vengeance. They were grief. And they were malice.
A personification of hatred, the sorrow of a broken promise leaving them twisted and torn. A vindictive shadow which nonetheless possessed claws, for their nails cut sharper than any creature even a failed circus could claim.
And that was not enough for me to falter.
Indeed, whether they were banshees birthed from bitterness or common ghosts drawn from children’s nightmares, I did not have the luxury of quailing in fear!
“Hmmmm … could it be here, I wonder … ?”
Thus, I proceeded with Starlight Grace in hand, illuminating the way as I lit up the corpse of a house far too large and lavishly decorated for a mere miner.
Beyond the ruined floorboards, the smashed mirrors and the dense cobwebs, furnishings and ornaments beyond the remuneration of any commoner stood out to me.
All evidence of pilfering, of course.
And so my sword burned even brighter as I assessed the most likely location for a hidden smuggler’s ladder.
A distinct problem.
Though I could see the minds of geniuses and learned sages, this did not extend to the inner workings of thieves.
And then there was the distraction of being in a house illegally squatted in by a banshee.
Bwaash!
A crashing noise from behind.
I swept around to meet the sound, blade ready as my righteousness lit up Coppelia’s innocent blinking.
Beside her was a flower pot, smashed into innumerable pieces. Soil spilled amongst the wreckage, forming a grave for the wilted daisy that’d been placed there.
I examined the mess closer.
White porcelain. Unadorned. No loss.
Even so, a frown was required.
“Coppelia! There’s a flower pot made of ceramic right there on the shelf! Break that one instead!”
“Hey!~ That wasn’t me!”
I raised a brow. She planted her hands on her hips with a huff.
“I have super eyes and do the whole balancing on trees thing. If I knock something over, it’s because I’m doing it on purpose to create atmosphere!”
“... Are you creating atmosphere?”
“I thought about it,” she said, still mildly indignant despite the admission. “But I think this is a pretty average haunted house. Nothing I need to fix.”
I flicked away a cobweb, so emaciated that it was practically a trail of drooping sadness.
As ever, Coppelia’s ratings were far more generous than mine.
“Yes, well, if you’d like to offer improvements to this 4/10 experience, then you shall have to speak with the current proprietor. A curious thing. I thought that a banshee would be more averse to our presence?”
“Banshees come in all shapes and sizes. Some do the whole, ‘I’m gonna eat your soul’, thing. But some of them just throw pots and pans at you instead. In short, they’re just grouchy old ladies.”
“Lovely. I see that a poor welcoming is the common standard wherever we go.”
Thoroughly tired of the constant disregard to my standing, I turned around again and continued my deliberate strides through these halls. I paused only to kick aside each carpet for a hatch which may exist. And also because woollen carpets were little more than scarves littered on the ground.
The guildmaster’s most incriminating feat yet.
Why, this man’s smuggling activities clearly earned him enough funds to afford a home with multiple fireplaces.
That meant he could afford silk as well!
Bwaashh!
Once again, I swivelled around, meeting my foe with a flaring of my sword.
Only the remains of a fallen tea cup greeted me. As well as Coppelia ready to profess her innocence. Unnecessary, of course.
Coppelia had standards. This banshee did not.
I was outraged.
First a flower pot and now a tea cup! What was next to be broken? A single spoon? The utter laziness! Why, I had no idea that the definition of a house of horrors was to stun me with the sheer lack of ingenuity!
“3/10,” I immediately declared, downgrading my assessment. “What is this? You cannot go from tearing the flesh from your face to knocking over tableware! You set the bar. It is your responsibility to improve upon it!”
A shamed silence answered me.
I immediately pointed to a grandfather clock at the end of the hallway.
“You! Banshee! Have this start ominously chiming as I approach, then emerge from the clock case, crawling like some diseased toad while covered in blood, mucous and the garb of a peasant girl!”
I approached the grandfather clock, generously slowing down my pace as I allowed for the creature to make its haunting exit.
It didn’t.
“See, Coppelia,” I said, turning to voice my complaints. “This is what happens when I try to offer my advice. Why do I even–”
I paused as a cracked mirror came into view.
My dissatisfied expression blinked at me. As well as the hovering banshee descending from the ceiling, bits of flesh still dribbling off as its arms reached down for me.
Hmm.
Better.
“A marked improvement. But you should really emit some manner of noise. Otherwise, I may never see you approaching.”
In response, a distorted mouth opened.
And then it wailed.
“RIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.”
A force like a gale struck me as I felt my hair blowing behind me.
Arduous. Pained. Unrelenting. Here was a wail to represent the worst of the human condition. An undeathly amalgamation of suffering squeezed into a shriek where each note choked upon unseen tears.
A deadly weapon. The wail of a banshee was enough to instil despair into the hearts of even the most courageous of knights. Even the heroes of fairy tales could do little but collapse to their knees in a puddle of tears as merely a fraction of the banshee’s torment bit into their souls.
Against such a cry, all I could do … was throw my arms up in exasperation.
“My apologies, but you shall have to repeat your cursed cry of existential torment. You see, I can’t hear it over the sound of my own far greater turmoil!”
The banshee paused. Even with its eyeless sockets, I could sense it trying to blink.
Indeed, this creature’s wail was utterly useless against me!
I stamped my boot, then pointed into its rotting, melting face.
“Why? Do you think an eternity of undeath and unfulfilled wishes is tragic? Were you perhaps a bride left at the altar? An orphan rejected by your parents? Well, I wager you’ve never once had to sleep under a roof infested by mould and the rodents that feast on it! The aura of despair you emit wards away all life–including the rats scuttling like conductors to my nightly chorus of insomnia! My aura of kindness, on the other hand, draws all manner of bedroom eating termites towards me! That is suffering!”
I was incensed!
This monstrosity sought to fill my heart with pain! It was already full!
Frankly, any banshee I met should be bowing their heads in acknowledgement at my daily struggles! Even now, I, a princess, had consigned myself to climbing down a ladder into whatever dreadful sewer awaited me … again!
I hadn’t washed away the scent of Rolstein’s well from my memories yet!
“No, mine is a pain far superior to whatever eternal heartache you have suffered. And if you carried even a single crumb of tact into undeath, then you would use it to wish me a swift journey as you point out the way I need to go!”
… And if possible, I’d prefer it if this creature could also haunt somewhere else, too!
As the owner of this home will doubtless see his property repossessed by the town, the continued presence of a banshee would significantly devalue it.
“WOulD … YoU … liKE … A … FLoWeR?”
I peeled back in surprise.
Words as disfigured as its form, yes. But still more comprehensible than anything a duke’s son said after two and a half glasses of Grenache Noir.
This banshee could speak.
And yet … that wasn’t the only cause for my sudden jolt.
Recognition struck me as I studied the tattered nature of her dress. Her uniform.
It was … a maid’s clothing.
Torn beyond measure, yes … but as someone whose inspections of the maid staff allowed for less compromise than a master-at-arms drilling new recruits, I could easily glean the ruins of an apron and a black frilly dress.
Then, I studied the banshee’s torn face.
Looking away from the eyeless sockets and the hollow lacerations, I recalled the bubbly face of a young woman I’d met only a short time ago.
Why, was this not the enthusiastic maid who peddled flowers on the streets in the name of her mistress? But how did she now come to wear such an appearance, when in the twilight she’d appeared so full of life?
I hummed in thought, then placed the question to one side.
Good hired help was a rarity as precious as any jewels. And to become lost in undeath was a fate unfitting of one who carried their duties past the furthest horizon.
Which is why–
“Your standards seem to have fallen,” I said, raising Starlight Grace. “Yet excellent service requires acknowledgement. And so I shall offer you the untimely retirement you deserve.”
The banshee responded by raising its arms. Nails grew before me, and what were already claws became knives as thick as a butcher’s cleaver.
Then, the monster struck.
Every nail swept towards my neck like so many guillotines. Yet just as the banshee’s existence was one of languishing despair, so too was its attempt to behead me.
As those wicked nails approached, I could count each of the snakes of the creature’s hair slowly dancing to a slow waltz of sorrow.
My hand gripped around my sword.
Were I truly classless, I would merely send Starlight Grace into the remains of the maid’s heart, ensuring her last act upon this world was one of malice. A wish for blood to stain even more of her broken and ruined dress.
But I was Juliette Contzen, 3rd Princess to the Kingdom of Tirea.
Mine or otherwise, I would not permit a worthwhile maid to find her final rest in such a dishevelled and shameful state.
And so–I swept my sword towards her tattered sleeves instead.
“You may have suffered an aeon of misery, but your reward will now be my moment of acknowledgement. So dance upon these silken seas, singing as the rain upon the waves. Knitting Form, 2nd Stance … [Dressmaking Needle]!”
The tip of my sword pierced the ghostly fabric.
And then–
I began to knit, threading Starlight Grace’s slender tip as I cajoled the deathly mist into a fully repaired puffy sleeve complete with buttoned white cuffs!
Ohohhohohohohoho!
Here it was!
My seamstress skills honed by the unremitting standards of the finest dressmakers my family employed!
A truly curious thing that dressmaking was ever a favoured activity amongst princesses. And yet we only wore that which was sewn by professionals of the craft.
A true shame. Even if I’d never sold a dress, I considered myself nothing short of competent.
And here, my skills did not go to waste.
Indeed, her working uniform might be in tatters, but I had seen worse … and I had repaired worse!
“Ohohohohohohohohohoho!”
Why, this was nothing to the challenges put to me by the leading designers in high fashion! Rather, this was a beginner’s course! The ghostly fog was as pliable as the flowers in my orchard!
Giving myself over to the familiar feeling of an artist at work, I sent my sword criss-crossing against every inch of the frayed dress, turning the irrecoverable into a splendid work uniform fit to grace the wardrobe of any royal maid!
Black frills! White cuffs! A cute apron! White socks and polished black shoes!
And … the pièce de résistance!
A frilly headdress, guaranteed to look fetching irregardless of head shapes!
My hand paused. As did the banshee.
For a moment, it was all either of us could do to examine the revised work. Gone was the torn fabric, replaced by a smooth and shining uniform without a single disfigurement.
Yet even if the dress was complete, the final product was not.
A dress, after all, was only as delightful as its wearer. And this one still lacked eyes. And much of a working face.
Thus, I rolled up my sleeves … and continued to work!
“Ohhohohohohohohohohoho!”
A flick here! A dab there! A twirl here!
My inner seamstress cried in joy as fibrous sinews swerved around Starlight Grace like the finest thread!
I fixed the banshee’s missing cheeks, clipped the nails, disciplined the hair, added a fresh daisy, batted the twisted limbs and then the wayward posture into place!
The result–
“Behold! The fruits of my labour!” I turned my blade sidewards, offering it as a mirror. “Look upon yourself and rejoice! For you have been touched by the hands of an artisan! No longer will mirrors shatter at your passing and children weep at your coming!”
The banshee peered at my sword.
What reflected was the very image of the maid who’d been optimistically selling flowers, her expression one of shock as her wide eyes–yes, eyes and not those sockets–blinked back at herself.
I smiled triumphantly.
Especially so as her eyes only became wider as ghostly tears suddenly poured from them. A response I expected of any maid after being personally groomed like an errant mare by me.
It was, after all, the same expression I spied in my own maids.
Perhaps not regularly. Maybe once a week. Or a month. But I could never mistake those tears of joy. For what else could they be, when every blemish and pore was studiously highlighted by me?
Still, I frowned at the tears.
They were ruining my work. But no matter. This was merely an act of benevolence. A courtesy before the send off.
Thus, moderately satisfied … I sent my sword thrusting forwards, paying no heed to the smile upon the banshee’s newly softened face.
The edge of Starlight Grace met the wraith’s form–
“Hiee?!”
Then promptly went straight through her.
I stumbled, bumping straight into the wall as I experienced the extremely unnerving sensation of sliding straight through a banshee.
Something which I was certain wasn’t possible.
They were haunted spirits, yes! But they were also corporeal!
I swivelled around, blinking in utter bewilderment as colour slowly came upon the maid. The warmth of moonlight filtered through windows no longer coated in a curtain of darkness.
Gone was the aura of malice.
All that remained was a smile as bright as the one I’d seen during the fading evening. A time where perhaps even a banshee could find solace, doing nothing more than selling flowers in the strange peace of twilight.
“Thanks!” she said cheerfully. “I’ve been trying to fix my bed hair for centuries now.”
The maid smiled and waved.
It was her final act as the moonlight enveloped her, leaving nothing but a memory as she faded like spring leaves whisked away during the night.
Silence pervaded the newly lit hallway.
But not for long.
“Ahhahahahahahaha~!” Coppelia bent forwards as she hugged her stomach. “What … What was that? Ahahahaahhha~!”
I rolled my eyes, then waited for my loyal handmaiden to finish.
“Ahahhahahahaha~ … you … you were … ahahahahaha~ … you were supposed to break the curse … ahaha … by buying … uck, hack … a flower … ahahaha~ … I didn’t know you could … ahahahaahh … ughh … ahaha … cleanse a banshee by … by giving them … a new haircut … ahahahaha~ … uughh … tummy hurts …”
“E-Excuse me! I am no witch hunter or curse breaker! How am I supposed to know the proper procedure?”
“Aahhhahahahahah~”
“Besides, only the result matters! Not only have I tamed the evil of a wandering banshee, but I also improved her uniform! Those extra buttons are the difference between serving a baron and a princess! This is not deserving of laughter, but wild applause!”
Coppelia hugged her stomach as her laughter was interrupted by hiccups and groans. She leaned against the wall for support.
Then … she promptly fell through it as a hidden door was revealed.
I walked over, then looked down at Coppelia’s surprised face, hand raised to my lips as I barely covered my graceful smile.
“... Ohohoho.”
My indignity forgotten, I stepped past her and towards the waiting ladder.
As always there were few better ways to drown out Coppelia’s laughter than simply adding my own.
And as the cold draft of an endless abyss swept up to greet me, I couldn’t help but wonder how it’d sound so far beneath the surface. The echo must be wonderful.
I should ask whatever waited below how it was.
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Banshees.
Few didn’t know of their legend. Their plight. They were maidens of rot and pestilence left to linger, the strength of their unfulfilled wishes anchoring what remained of their mortal coil.
Young, sweet or beautiful.
Whatever they were, they were now something else.
They were vengeance. They were grief. And they were malice.
A personification of hatred, the sorrow of a broken promise leaving them twisted and torn. A vindictive shadow which nonetheless possessed claws, for their nails cut sharper than any creature even a failed circus could claim.
And that was not enough for me to falter.
Indeed, whether they were banshees birthed from bitterness or common ghosts drawn from children’s nightmares, I did not have the luxury of quailing in fear!
“Hmmmm … could it be here, I wonder … ?”
Thus, I proceeded with Starlight Grace in hand, illuminating the way as I lit up the corpse of a house far too large and lavishly decorated for a mere miner.
Beyond the ruined floorboards, the smashed mirrors and the dense cobwebs, furnishings and ornaments beyond the remuneration of any commoner stood out to me.
All evidence of pilfering, of course.
And so my sword burned even brighter as I assessed the most likely location for a hidden smuggler’s ladder.
A distinct problem.
Though I could see the minds of geniuses and learned sages, this did not extend to the inner workings of thieves.
And then there was the distraction of being in a house illegally squatted in by a banshee.
Bwaash!
A crashing noise from behind.
I swept around to meet the sound, blade ready as my righteousness lit up Coppelia’s innocent blinking.
Beside her was a flower pot, smashed into innumerable pieces. Soil spilled amongst the wreckage, forming a grave for the wilted daisy that’d been placed there.
I examined the mess closer.
White porcelain. Unadorned. No loss.
Even so, a frown was required.
“Coppelia! There’s a flower pot made of ceramic right there on the shelf! Break that one instead!”
“Hey!~ That wasn’t me!”
I raised a brow. She planted her hands on her hips with a huff.
“I have super eyes and do the whole balancing on trees thing. If I knock something over, it’s because I’m doing it on purpose to create atmosphere!”
“... Are you creating atmosphere?”
“I thought about it,” she said, still mildly indignant despite the admission. “But I think this is a pretty average haunted house. Nothing I need to fix.”
I flicked away a cobweb, so emaciated that it was practically a trail of drooping sadness.
As ever, Coppelia’s ratings were far more generous than mine.
“Yes, well, if you’d like to offer improvements to this 4/10 experience, then you shall have to speak with the current proprietor. A curious thing. I thought that a banshee would be more averse to our presence?”
“Banshees come in all shapes and sizes. Some do the whole, ‘I’m gonna eat your soul’, thing. But some of them just throw pots and pans at you instead. In short, they’re just grouchy old ladies.”
“Lovely. I see that a poor welcoming is the common standard wherever we go.”
Thoroughly tired of the constant disregard to my standing, I turned around again and continued my deliberate strides through these halls. I paused only to kick aside each carpet for a hatch which may exist. And also because woollen carpets were little more than scarves littered on the ground.
The guildmaster’s most incriminating feat yet.
Why, this man’s smuggling activities clearly earned him enough funds to afford a home with multiple fireplaces.
That meant he could afford silk as well!
Bwaashh!
Once again, I swivelled around, meeting my foe with a flaring of my sword.
Only the remains of a fallen tea cup greeted me. As well as Coppelia ready to profess her innocence. Unnecessary, of course.
Coppelia had standards. This banshee did not.
I was outraged.
First a flower pot and now a tea cup! What was next to be broken? A single spoon? The utter laziness! Why, I had no idea that the definition of a house of horrors was to stun me with the sheer lack of ingenuity!
“3/10,” I immediately declared, downgrading my assessment. “What is this? You cannot go from tearing the flesh from your face to knocking over tableware! You set the bar. It is your responsibility to improve upon it!”
A shamed silence answered me.
I immediately pointed to a grandfather clock at the end of the hallway.
“You! Banshee! Have this start ominously chiming as I approach, then emerge from the clock case, crawling like some diseased toad while covered in blood, mucous and the garb of a peasant girl!”
I approached the grandfather clock, generously slowing down my pace as I allowed for the creature to make its haunting exit.
It didn’t.
“See, Coppelia,” I said, turning to voice my complaints. “This is what happens when I try to offer my advice. Why do I even–”
I paused as a cracked mirror came into view.
My dissatisfied expression blinked at me. As well as the hovering banshee descending from the ceiling, bits of flesh still dribbling off as its arms reached down for me.
Hmm.
Better.
“A marked improvement. But you should really emit some manner of noise. Otherwise, I may never see you approaching.”
In response, a distorted mouth opened.
And then it wailed.
“RIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.”
A force like a gale struck me as I felt my hair blowing behind me.
Arduous. Pained. Unrelenting. Here was a wail to represent the worst of the human condition. An undeathly amalgamation of suffering squeezed into a shriek where each note choked upon unseen tears.
A deadly weapon. The wail of a banshee was enough to instil despair into the hearts of even the most courageous of knights. Even the heroes of fairy tales could do little but collapse to their knees in a puddle of tears as merely a fraction of the banshee’s torment bit into their souls.
Against such a cry, all I could do … was throw my arms up in exasperation.
“My apologies, but you shall have to repeat your cursed cry of existential torment. You see, I can’t hear it over the sound of my own far greater turmoil!”
The banshee paused. Even with its eyeless sockets, I could sense it trying to blink.
Indeed, this creature’s wail was utterly useless against me!
I stamped my boot, then pointed into its rotting, melting face.
“Why? Do you think an eternity of undeath and unfulfilled wishes is tragic? Were you perhaps a bride left at the altar? An orphan rejected by your parents? Well, I wager you’ve never once had to sleep under a roof infested by mould and the rodents that feast on it! The aura of despair you emit wards away all life–including the rats scuttling like conductors to my nightly chorus of insomnia! My aura of kindness, on the other hand, draws all manner of bedroom eating termites towards me! That is suffering!”
I was incensed!
This monstrosity sought to fill my heart with pain! It was already full!
Frankly, any banshee I met should be bowing their heads in acknowledgement at my daily struggles! Even now, I, a princess, had consigned myself to climbing down a ladder into whatever dreadful sewer awaited me … again!
I hadn’t washed away the scent of Rolstein’s well from my memories yet!
“No, mine is a pain far superior to whatever eternal heartache you have suffered. And if you carried even a single crumb of tact into undeath, then you would use it to wish me a swift journey as you point out the way I need to go!”
… And if possible, I’d prefer it if this creature could also haunt somewhere else, too!
As the owner of this home will doubtless see his property repossessed by the town, the continued presence of a banshee would significantly devalue it.
“WOulD … YoU … liKE … A … FLoWeR?”
I peeled back in surprise.
Words as disfigured as its form, yes. But still more comprehensible than anything a duke’s son said after two and a half glasses of Grenache Noir.
This banshee could speak.
And yet … that wasn’t the only cause for my sudden jolt.
Recognition struck me as I studied the tattered nature of her dress. Her uniform.
It was … a maid’s clothing.
Torn beyond measure, yes … but as someone whose inspections of the maid staff allowed for less compromise than a master-at-arms drilling new recruits, I could easily glean the ruins of an apron and a black frilly dress.
Then, I studied the banshee’s torn face.
Looking away from the eyeless sockets and the hollow lacerations, I recalled the bubbly face of a young woman I’d met only a short time ago.
Why, was this not the enthusiastic maid who peddled flowers on the streets in the name of her mistress? But how did she now come to wear such an appearance, when in the twilight she’d appeared so full of life?
I hummed in thought, then placed the question to one side.
Good hired help was a rarity as precious as any jewels. And to become lost in undeath was a fate unfitting of one who carried their duties past the furthest horizon.
Which is why–
“Your standards seem to have fallen,” I said, raising Starlight Grace. “Yet excellent service requires acknowledgement. And so I shall offer you the untimely retirement you deserve.”
The banshee responded by raising its arms. Nails grew before me, and what were already claws became knives as thick as a butcher’s cleaver.
Then, the monster struck.
Every nail swept towards my neck like so many guillotines. Yet just as the banshee’s existence was one of languishing despair, so too was its attempt to behead me.
As those wicked nails approached, I could count each of the snakes of the creature’s hair slowly dancing to a slow waltz of sorrow.
My hand gripped around my sword.
Were I truly classless, I would merely send Starlight Grace into the remains of the maid’s heart, ensuring her last act upon this world was one of malice. A wish for blood to stain even more of her broken and ruined dress.
But I was Juliette Contzen, 3rd Princess to the Kingdom of Tirea.
Mine or otherwise, I would not permit a worthwhile maid to find her final rest in such a dishevelled and shameful state.
And so–I swept my sword towards her tattered sleeves instead.
“You may have suffered an aeon of misery, but your reward will now be my moment of acknowledgement. So dance upon these silken seas, singing as the rain upon the waves. Knitting Form, 2nd Stance … [Dressmaking Needle]!”
The tip of my sword pierced the ghostly fabric.
And then–
I began to knit, threading Starlight Grace’s slender tip as I cajoled the deathly mist into a fully repaired puffy sleeve complete with buttoned white cuffs!
Ohohhohohohohoho!
Here it was!
My seamstress skills honed by the unremitting standards of the finest dressmakers my family employed!
A truly curious thing that dressmaking was ever a favoured activity amongst princesses. And yet we only wore that which was sewn by professionals of the craft.
A true shame. Even if I’d never sold a dress, I considered myself nothing short of competent.
And here, my skills did not go to waste.
Indeed, her working uniform might be in tatters, but I had seen worse … and I had repaired worse!
“Ohohohohohohohohohoho!”
Why, this was nothing to the challenges put to me by the leading designers in high fashion! Rather, this was a beginner’s course! The ghostly fog was as pliable as the flowers in my orchard!
Giving myself over to the familiar feeling of an artist at work, I sent my sword criss-crossing against every inch of the frayed dress, turning the irrecoverable into a splendid work uniform fit to grace the wardrobe of any royal maid!
Black frills! White cuffs! A cute apron! White socks and polished black shoes!
And … the pièce de résistance!
A frilly headdress, guaranteed to look fetching irregardless of head shapes!
My hand paused. As did the banshee.
For a moment, it was all either of us could do to examine the revised work. Gone was the torn fabric, replaced by a smooth and shining uniform without a single disfigurement.
Yet even if the dress was complete, the final product was not.
A dress, after all, was only as delightful as its wearer. And this one still lacked eyes. And much of a working face.
Thus, I rolled up my sleeves … and continued to work!
“Ohhohohohohohohohohoho!”
A flick here! A dab there! A twirl here!
My inner seamstress cried in joy as fibrous sinews swerved around Starlight Grace like the finest thread!
I fixed the banshee’s missing cheeks, clipped the nails, disciplined the hair, added a fresh daisy, batted the twisted limbs and then the wayward posture into place!
The result–
“Behold! The fruits of my labour!” I turned my blade sidewards, offering it as a mirror. “Look upon yourself and rejoice! For you have been touched by the hands of an artisan! No longer will mirrors shatter at your passing and children weep at your coming!”
The banshee peered at my sword.
What reflected was the very image of the maid who’d been optimistically selling flowers, her expression one of shock as her wide eyes–yes, eyes and not those sockets–blinked back at herself.
I smiled triumphantly.
Especially so as her eyes only became wider as ghostly tears suddenly poured from them. A response I expected of any maid after being personally groomed like an errant mare by me.
It was, after all, the same expression I spied in my own maids.
Perhaps not regularly. Maybe once a week. Or a month. But I could never mistake those tears of joy. For what else could they be, when every blemish and pore was studiously highlighted by me?
Still, I frowned at the tears.
They were ruining my work. But no matter. This was merely an act of benevolence. A courtesy before the send off.
Thus, moderately satisfied … I sent my sword thrusting forwards, paying no heed to the smile upon the banshee’s newly softened face.
The edge of Starlight Grace met the wraith’s form–
“Hiee?!”
Then promptly went straight through her.
I stumbled, bumping straight into the wall as I experienced the extremely unnerving sensation of sliding straight through a banshee.
Something which I was certain wasn’t possible.
They were haunted spirits, yes! But they were also corporeal!
I swivelled around, blinking in utter bewilderment as colour slowly came upon the maid. The warmth of moonlight filtered through windows no longer coated in a curtain of darkness.
Gone was the aura of malice.
All that remained was a smile as bright as the one I’d seen during the fading evening. A time where perhaps even a banshee could find solace, doing nothing more than selling flowers in the strange peace of twilight.
“Thanks!” she said cheerfully. “I’ve been trying to fix my bed hair for centuries now.”
The maid smiled and waved.
It was her final act as the moonlight enveloped her, leaving nothing but a memory as she faded like spring leaves whisked away during the night.
Silence pervaded the newly lit hallway.
But not for long.
“Ahhahahahahahaha~!” Coppelia bent forwards as she hugged her stomach. “What … What was that? Ahahahaahhha~!”
I rolled my eyes, then waited for my loyal handmaiden to finish.
“Ahahhahahahaha~ … you … you were … ahahahahaha~ … you were supposed to break the curse … ahaha … by buying … uck, hack … a flower … ahahaha~ … I didn’t know you could … ahahahaahh … ughh … ahaha … cleanse a banshee by … by giving them … a new haircut … ahahahaha~ … uughh … tummy hurts …”
“E-Excuse me! I am no witch hunter or curse breaker! How am I supposed to know the proper procedure?”
“Aahhhahahahahah~”
“Besides, only the result matters! Not only have I tamed the evil of a wandering banshee, but I also improved her uniform! Those extra buttons are the difference between serving a baron and a princess! This is not deserving of laughter, but wild applause!”
Coppelia hugged her stomach as her laughter was interrupted by hiccups and groans. She leaned against the wall for support.
Then … she promptly fell through it as a hidden door was revealed.
I walked over, then looked down at Coppelia’s surprised face, hand raised to my lips as I barely covered my graceful smile.
“... Ohohoho.”
My indignity forgotten, I stepped past her and towards the waiting ladder.
As always there were few better ways to drown out Coppelia’s laughter than simply adding my own.
And as the cold draft of an endless abyss swept up to greet me, I couldn’t help but wonder how it’d sound so far beneath the surface. The echo must be wonderful.
I should ask whatever waited below how it was.
kayenano
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