Margaret’s origin: Souls and Roses 🩵🦷

*This story is under my folder “Souls and Roses”. Gacha Club character designs are under my forum: https://www.youngwriterssociety.com/topic/117842-my-character-designs-lt-33-3?start=180. Enjoy!*

Once, in the kingdom of Rosesilk, where the roses grew so tall they almost touched the sky, the water sparkled a deep, slightly purple hue and vampires, fairies, elves and humans lived, there were little twin human princesses named Margaret and Cordelia Iris’Iani.

Ten year old Margaret did not know everyone in Rosesilk enough to love them, but she loved living in such a wondrous and magical place, so she looked forward to the day when she’d be old enough to rule over everyone there, hoping to make everyone feel the happiness that she felt.

Her sister, Cordelia, younger than her by one minute, did not quite understand how the other creatures besides humans could get sick. She thought that only humans could be ill. But of course it couldn’t only be humans, every living thing had its weakness.

It was something that Margaret had to remind Cordelia about when she held a bug for too long, when she drank potions that gave her nasty yellow bumps, when she would take the swords from the armory and slash Margret with them. “I’m just playing! You’re not dead!”

No, she wasn’t dead, but the healing potions couldn’t erase everything. She still felt like she was bleeding when there wasn’t any blood at all.

There were moments when Cordelia would simply want to talk, when she would not do anything hurtful. It was such a moment for them both in their family’s flower garden, when they took turns putting flowers in each other’s hair. Margaret blinked her eyes a few times, for the trees and the bushes were becoming too distant to her. She was a little lightheaded after Cordelia wounded her.

Just a little, though. Not enough to make her faint in an important moment.

“Why are living things weak?” Cordelia suddenly asked.

Margaret paused. Her hands rested on the locks of curly brown hair that had sprinklings of baby’s breath on them, the leftovers of the bigger flowers she entangled in Cordelia’s hair.

“Because we can’t be immune to everything. We’re all going to die some-“

“But we’re humans and they’re not! Why are they dying? They’re supposed to be strong!”

“Maybe they have weaknesses we don’t know about. Maybe that’s why.”

Margaret didn’t truly know, but she hoped it was enough. The talk of death was a taste not unlike how her own blood tasted when it was spilling from her body. She didn’t want to shut Cordelia down like their parents did, but it still wasn’t pleasant to hear.

Cordelia said nothing for a while. Margaret listened to the sounds of the chirping birds and distant merchants, beginning to quite enjoy the peace and quiet. Was there harp music coming from the sunlight or just her imagination? Either way, it was all so beautiful.

“It’s not good to be weak. People don’t do what they are supposed to when they are. If Mom and Dad were sick then who would take care of the kingdom?”

“We would. There’s always someone else doing what the world wants and people there to take care of those who are sick. Doing what you’re supposed to do doesn’t matter if you’re sick. What matters is getting better. Why are you thinking about all of this?”

“I just want everyone to be strong.”

Late at night, covers over her face. Too many thoughts to fall asleep. The door slammed open and the sheets were pulled away. Cordelia’s eyes, wide and wild, her thin brown hand clutched around the hilt of a sword, its sharpened blade stabbing and stabbing as if Margaret were a beast to slay.

She screamed at Cordelia to stop, her throat raw and breaking.

“I want to see how weak you are!” Cordelia cried out.

Margaret kept screaming until she couldn’t. She lay there, feeling everything and nothing, wondering what her funeral would be like, until by the first pinpricks of morning, Cordelia lay next to her and Margaret found that she could move enough to tell her parents what happened. It was a limp and many falls as she walked, but she could do it.

Margaret’s hand pulled on a strand of Cordelia’s hair.

“Ow!”

“Sorry.”

And she was sorry, really, she was. She loved her sister very much. 

But her concealed arms still had dark purple-blue wounds.

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Years had passed since that conversation in the garden. In those years, Margaret had created a pink smoke infused with roses and her own desire for everything to live, pulled from her blood. With this smoke, this new potion, she released it over Rosesilk, to save all that were sick, all who breathed it would never die. It was a Blessing Spell, which was why after their parents had grown old and passed, Margaret was crowned Queen. 

She ruled with joy and pride, Cordelia stayed by her side. Never did she think of those troubling times ever again, for it seemed that Cordelia had calmed down over the years and learned to love everyone. 

On a dark and starless night, Margaret lay awake in bed, older, but still not feeling any wiser. Many loved her and she loved them, especially since she made the Blessing Spell, yet there were moments where she felt like it was never enough, that she couldn’t truly reach them. Some did not take to it well. Some only got sicker. It seemed that Margaret’s fainting spells and ghost blood from Cordelia had more of a grip on her than it did before the Blessing Spell. Maybe it really was hopeless.

But there will always be a way. You have to keep trying. Margaret thought.

She pulled the blankets over her face. She’d think better if she were hidden, without eyes staring at her. There weren’t any humans in her chambers but she still had her old dolls.

The door creaked open.

Margaret sat up.

“Who’s-oh. You should be asleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

Cordelia stood next to the open door, her large brown eyes peeking from her brunette curls. She wore a sweeping pale pink nightgown, a contrast to Margaret’s baby blue one. Cordelia always liked brighter colors.

Seeing her stand there, at the door, with red-black wrinkly circles under her eyes, shaking slightly, made her look like a child ready to bite.

Margaret recoiled and still asked:

“What’s wrong?”

“You. You’re wrong. Weak people don’t help anybody. They have to go away. You’re not helping them. You’re hurting them.”

Margaret gripped the sheets tighter. The opening feeling was back again, the skittering sensation of peeling skin and warmness of blood enveloped her. Why was Cordelia saying that for?

“I thought we were over this. Where are you getting these ideas?”

Cordelia stiffened, something in her eyes hardened.

“From watching you. You’re too soft on them. If they’re dying, they die. If anybody be foolish enough to help them, they share that fate.”

Margaret knew she had to run. Her heart beat faster, telling her to push off the covers, push Cordelia away, but she couldn’t move. It was like the phantom blood had hardened her limbs, coated her throat, sealed her cries.

Cordelia finally stepped into the faint moonlight, a silver sword raised above her head as she ran towards Margaret, her hands more firm and sure on the hilt.

Only one slash through the heart was what it took for Margaret to feel blood hotter than what she remembered escaping her, one slash to see Cordelia’s face set in a scowl and still, not enough to even call for help.

Just her and her sister.