Chapter 31
THE TALE OF THE THREE SISTERS
Every inch of his skin was covered in livid scars, ugly wheals and deep, purple-tinged pock marks.
Red, suppurating sores glistened, following the silver scar lines which wound sinuously around his arms, flowing outwards and downwards to cover his entire body.
The marks created a map of his pain, scored into his flesh over millennia, each a tribute to his punishment.
The devastation wrought across his body, the extreme and terrible damage to his face, limbs and torso were of such cruel and heinous disfigurement, it was difficult to discern the possibility that this mound of flesh had once been a living, vital man.
His eyes were closed but his chest fluttered; he was alive.
‘What have you done to him?’ said The Queen and there was an authority in her tone her sisters had long since forgotten.
‘Me?’ said the man. ‘I have done nothing. You have caused this, you and every other person who has ever experienced love.’
‘Love?’ exclaimed The Baroness. ‘This is not love. What do you know of love?’
‘I know it takes many forms,’ sneered the man. ‘Where does your heart lead you, Baroness?’
‘Love is the tale that defines us,’ said The Princess, her calm, cold voice cutting across the conversation before the man could taunt her sisters any further. ‘Love shapes our destiny, it sets us free, but its intensity can hold us as prisoners in the darkest parts of our mind.’
‘Who would have thought you would be so wise, Princess?’ said the man. ‘Shall I tell you a tale?’
‘No,’ the voice from the bed was withered, grating, a rasping sound from the gates of Hell. ‘Leave, do not listen to him. He is the lie.’
The three sisters moved a step closer together.
‘Father?’ said The Queen.
‘Leave,’ he implored.
‘Or listen,’ said the man, ‘and discover the way to end your quest.’
The three women paused.
‘Do you think he knows?’ whispered The Queen.
‘He might,’ said The Baroness.
‘He might not,’ said The Princess.
They exchanged a confused look. Each woman remembered, they had experienced this before, thousands and thousands of times. One answer would free them, one would send them back around the white path to the gates.
A shimmer of light filled the room and, as it did, The Queen and The Baroness stepped forward, their eyes glazed.
The Princess made to follow, then she saw the women, a fleeting blur as they spun around her, whispering the word ‘No’, imploring her, their eyes wide with compassion, before vanishing in a swirl of light.
Her mind cleared and she felt the power and positivity of true love flow through her, giving her the strength to save them all.
‘We shall hear your story,’ said The Queen and The Baroness.
‘You chose well,’ said the man and clapped his hands in glee, ‘and you, Princess?’
‘No,’ said The Princess.
‘No?’ The man turned to her in fury.
‘No,’ she said. ‘We are the story, we are the tale and, if you begin, we shall be back on our horses, riding the white path to Hell.’
‘Who told you this secret?’ screamed the man, his face blurring to reveal his true and hideous visage.
‘The women,’ she whispered and, before he could speak again, The Princess pulled the blade from her boot.
It glinted, sharp, wicked, quicksilver in the flickering candlelight of the tower room and in an instant, the man lay dead at her feet.
‘He is the Keeper of Hell,’ she said before either of her sisters could speak. ‘He has been spinning us around his maze of despair for thousands of years. His death was the only way to free ourselves.’
‘And is this place Hell?’ asked The Baroness.
‘Not any more,’ replied The Princess. ‘This place is what we choose, it is where we take control and follow our true paths to love.’
‘Do we want love if this is where it leads?’ asked The Queen, her eyes upon the man in the bed.
‘Love did not cause his agony,’ said The Princess, turning to The Queen. ‘It is the loss of love, the abuse of love, the denial of love that caused this torment. Love heals, it doesn’t destroy.’
‘Sorrow caused from a love that society says is forbidden is an incipient pain,’ said The Baroness.
‘It holds an intensity of despair of such strength, it will absorb the soul, the heart, the very essence of being and leave no room for reason. When denied, the loss of love is a darkness beyond all other, a well of pain so deep it feels like the sharpest blade across the heart. This creature has used our pain against us but called it love.’
They looked at the broken body of the man on the floor with no pity.
‘He was the antithesis of love,’ said The Queen.
‘He was its dark twin, the cold night to the daylight of love. When I was alone, fearing death, convinced all love was lost; doom engulfed my senses, flooding every cell of my body with ice-sharp shards of hopelessness, loneliness, fear and regret. I was helpless, maddened by my belief that all happiness was lost forever. I was convinced I would never again feel joy or laughter, never feel the beauty of loving another, nor experience the alchemical reaction of love as it sends each soul soaring to the stars. Now, I feel hope again.’
‘The scars caused by a broken heart have the longest memories of all,’ said The Princess, her eyes drifting towards the figure on the bed as she spoke.
‘They are an everlasting legacy because the wounds of the heart never forget how they came into being. The body appears to heal but the scars of love’s betrayal, those gossamer lacerations, whisper outwards, infecting the mind, the soul.
The slightest irritation, the tiniest disappointment, an insignificant or thoughtless word causes these hibernating scars to glow, red and angry, smarting, splitting, rearing up, fearsome beasts, roaring with anger to weep blood forever. ’
‘He has absorbed eternity’s pain,’ said The Queen.
‘Every broken heart has been his to endure,’ said The Baroness.
‘He has given away his hope,’ said The Princess.
‘What shall we do?’ asked The Queen.
‘We will save him,’ answered The Baroness.
‘How?’ asked The Queen.
‘With love,’ replied The Princess. ‘The answer is always love.’