Masque

Masque
by Graycet

I kneel, feeling raindrops falling lightly on my back. My hair is damp from the storm, and it clings to the nape of my neck as I bow my head. Bleeding from numerous wounds I still maintain my stature of submissiveness; my muscles, though stiff and weary, do not give way as I hold my rigid stance. Such is the respect I have for my Queen.

From my line of vision I see only the crimson hem of her dress, glistening stars of molten gold string from the edges of the black lace that overlies upon the first layer of blood-red cloth catching my eye every time she moves. But her dress, though made from the finest silk and gems our kind could find, will never be able to rival her beauty, so perfect and flawless in its majestic shell.

Far across our land people had whispered, only daring to whisper, about the golden iridescence of her eyes. And I, who have seen her more times than any other of her people, still have not been able to climb out of the enchantment of her gaze. For when she looked at one, all others would be drawn to look at the person as well, and it would be as though the sun herself were shining only for that person alone.

This was how I feel now, as she beholds me in her besotting gaze.

“You greet me with silence.”

Her voice is so pure, so crystal in its elocution that I can hardly breathe as she speaks. It has been nine years since she had first spoken to me, and yet every time I hear her voice, I can see in my mind’s eye the memory I hold so deeply.

I was eleven years old, so young and foolish at that age. Born of noble blood I thought of any other of my kind to be less than me. But she could never be contained in any of our race. She is a deity all on her own. Sitting in the midst of my father’s garden I was lost in idle dreams, singing softly to myself and stroking the fawn feathers of the eagle given to me by my father when I came of ten year’s age.

She sang to the tune of my song, startling me, for it was one I had just been composing in my mind before she came. Her features are no less refined than at present, and the elegance in which she carries herself no more blemished than her chalice brimming of immortal beauty.
She had come to me with a plea, a request to become her masque, her shield from all who posed a threat to her empire. And I, still captured from her radiant absoluteness, agreed without hesitation, pledging my life and soul in guarding her life. My single purpose in living since then has been such, and I stood strong amidst the dangers that came my way as I did. She was from that moment on my Queen, to whom my allegiance, bound in love, lay.

Thusly, nine years later, on this very night, I found myself fighting a dozen strong and heavily armored men who dared speak ill of my Queen, and I had nearly lost my life in keeping her honor, and mine, intact.

I do not dare to look up at her, and though when my eyelids shut I can picture her exact features, it will never be as breathtaking as beholding her with my very eyes.

She is as perfect now as she was then when I first saw her. And my pledge of life has yet to be dulled by time or by shed blood, and it is the same of my love for her.

Yet it is a hopeless love, and this I know.

She speaks once more, noticing my disquiet. “What troubles you, my knight?”

“Nothing, so long as you are kept the light and Queen of this kingdom.” I answer softly.

She steps towards me, and I feel my knees nearly falter in their stance. “You have lost much blood tonight.”

I bow lower, trying not to give in to the darkness threatening to overtake my vision.

“No price will ever be too high.”

She startles me by kneeling, as she has never done this before. Her dress folds gracefully at her side as she lowers herself to my level, gold pellets from the lace clinking idly on the marble floor. The drops of ruby embedded onto the edge of her gown brushes against my incised hands.
But I barely notice the sting of my wounds. She is so close; it is undeniably intoxicating.

I cannot contain it, to impede the impulse of looking at her. And as her cold fingers touch the edge of my chin in the action of lifting it up to make me meet her gaze, I willingly do so.
I ignore the feeling of glass bound anguish embedding themselves deeper into my heart, for I know that so long as she remains Queen, nothing will come of my desire. Paradoxical is it that my life is unequivocally pledged to aid her in the sustaining of her crown and throne.

“A rebellion stirs against me, and I know not what hither may come.” She says this with perfect calm, and it is only with my practiced knowledge of her features that I can see anxiety seeping into her eyes. Her words trouble me as well. “What I do know, is that this price is too high for me.”

Her hand falls from my chin, and I flinch from the absence in her actions her usual warmth.
I am careful not to stagger in my words, for the loss of blood has made it hard to breathe.

“What price would that be, my Queen?”

She does not speak for a long time, and I worry that she will not answer.

Her hair, brilliant in their scarlet locks, cascades down slowly past her shoulders as both her hands she rests on the floor. Her head is bowed, and her crown glimmers even more so in the slowly ebbing light. But I know her eyes, though not meeting mine, shimmer more than the diamonds intricately woven into the silver strands of her circlet.

“Strong men from the North bring their trade with them, as well as harsh words against a people who allow a Queen to lead them.”

“Your people will not be so easily swayed.” I tell her softly.

She brings her head upwards, and it is only then that I see the whirlwinds of trepidation in her auric eyes.

“You know not their hearts of treachery,” She says mellifluously. “Soon you shall be alone in your love for me.”

“Would you so easily doubt your people?” I reason. I long to hold her face, to keep her spirit from breaking as I fear it would. But she is stronger than I could ever dream to be, and this sometimes makes me wonder whether I am really her masque at all. Yet the threat of the loss of her kingdom is not something she has faced before. “They may prove to be more loyal to you than you have faith in them to be.”

My Queen shakes her head, and more than ever now I sense her weariness, her sudden frailty.

Never before have I seen her so on the edge of a reality that no one else but she could live.

“Do you trust me?” She asks suddenly.

I answer without even having to think. “Always.”

“Then trust me.”

She pushes herself to her feet once more, straightening and beginning to put on the flawless façade she has built for the world to see. My eyes follow her movements, as fluid as they are, and I cannot help but feel a sudden sadness, though, sadness for what, I know not. I look towards the dying sun, and to the embodiment of the star herself trapped in the form of a mortal. The outstretched sea that spreads beyond the Courtyard where we stand, the vermilion horizon twining endlessly with the ocean so deep, are echoed in the person my eyes behold.

Slowly, she walks to the edge of the marble steps that is built atop the rocky cliff that juts out from a great mountain overlooking the land. The Courtyard of Flitsoul is laid upon this cliff, with golden railings and silver etchings engraved into the marble pillars that support the domed roof shadowing over the deserted vestibule.

I suppose it is only fitting that the Queen and her most loyal subject should meet here, as this was the ancient coronation hall of the Royal Family.

But here, talk of sedition escapes me. In recent times, over the sea many strong warriors had come ashore, speaking of seeking only superior trade and greater livelihood than the ones they had endured in their resident land. And so pieces fell to fit when it came upon me that those men I had fought earlier tonight had not been of native blood. Their spite towards the Queen of this land had caused many ill-willed rumors to take flight among even the nobles of the Royal House, and I have already punished the perpetrators of these misspeakings by making them pay with their lives. I have not considered, though, even for the smallest instant, that an act of treason would arise among the courtly men and women of Amestria.

A Queen of sorrow looks towards me now, standing on the edge of a sea with her hair glimmering like jewels spread across the sky. She knows that what she speaks is true.

“In a fortnight, this empire my forefathers and I have sacrificed lives to build will be nothing more than what beauty is where the light ceases to exist.”

“Is there no other way?” I ask her gravely. She knows as well that I would do anything in her name, and that she holds mine with as much authority as my own mind.

She holds my gaze for a long while before speaking again, and in my heart I know that what way out the Northerners have offered her is something she would be hard pressed to choose to do. Even for the keeping of her empire.

“They wish for me to marry the leader among them.” Her sorrow is immediately overcome with anger, and in the carnelian light her eyes become cold and bitter. “They come not to live like commoners among us, but to overthrow the Royal House of old. They sought to overcome us by mere power, but now they have opted to use their clever words to trap a terrible mindset upon my people.”

The faintness has begun to recede from my consciousness, and the fury that surges through my veins leads me to forget of my wounds and whatever pain they were causing me.

But I cannot help but consider the possibilities of the Northerners’ offer.

“Yet if you accept their proposal, you need not step down from your throne.” I say to her. “Some measure of control may still remain with you.”

She draws near to me again in silence, and places a hand on my damp shoulder, not caring what blood may stain her fingers.

“What have I ever done to offend you so,” She replies without spite, but instead a deeply woven undercurrent of melancholy. “That you would barter my soul off to the most terrible of mankind?”

“If it would please you to know, were you to give me permission to slay every foreigner in this land who dares speak malice of you, then I would do so this very night.”

My Queen sighs at this, and the sound echoes softly around us. “The seeds of sedition have been sown in the hearts and minds of my people. There is no point in eradicating the ones from whence they came.”

Slowly, ignoring the numbness of my bloodless feet, I stand, and once more her hand drops from me. But before it falls I catch it with my tainted hands, and I look down, upon my entwined fingers around hers.

“What would you have me do, my Queen?”

So long a time passes that she does not look at me, turning instead to the blood red sea of cerise hues. The rain has still not settled, and I see the faint sparkles of the dewdrops on her cheeks, and the way they catch light and emit such angelic eminence.

I cannot remember clearly the last time I held her hand with such practiced familiarity, but I do recall that it was raining as well, and as we walked among the pathways leading towards her father’s graveyard she had asked for my hand to steady her footsteps.

Such sadness in her eyes then as it has now, and her tears hidden well beneath the drops of rain that slid down her weary face. When she lost her father she was at the crucial point wherein she
would be old enough to forever remember him, yet young enough to desperately need his guidance. As it was, the week before her father’s passing was the day we had so fatefully met. And I have never seen such frailty incorporated in her since, until now. Perhaps she knew, before even the whisper of death passed the doctor’s lips, that her father’s end was near, just as she seems to know now.

I take another step towards her, and she turns to me so suddenly that I see the fear I so wished would not appear instilled in her movements.

“Indeed I wonder,” She sighs, grief underlying her mellifluous voice. “What would you do for me, my knight?”

I do not answer. There is no need to; I already see in her eyes that she knows what I would say.

“That you would no longer have me as your Queen,” She whispers softly, her voice almost breaking as it passes through her painted lips. “This I would have you do.”

She pulls her hand away from mine, and I tremble suddenly as though the sun herself has left me alone in this frozen world devoid of all warmth.

Macabre edges threaten to steal away the one thing left to me to keep me ashore as rain and wind pull against my body waking me to emotions willing to fly.

Rain falls upon the open wounds and closes my eyes, and it is merely instinct which enables me to hold on as darkness reels at my consciousness.

“Would you speak the truth if I would ask you why?” My voice does not falter as I speak now, but I do know that in a few moments time my body, so lacking of blood, shall.

“Yes,” She answers after a pithy flirtation with quiescence. “I would.”

“Then it shall be I who would not.” In my attempt of humor I deeply fail, yet strangely it is the love I behold for my Queen that does not, for though it is well secreted underneath her veneer, the corner of her lips tips upwards, and such a change it brings to her face that she looks not like the Queen she was just seconds ago.

And though I do not ask her to, she chooses to answer my question, her voice is barely a murmur, and in the pitter-patter of water colliding onto the marble floors her words are nearly lost.

“Too much of a burden, would it be, were I to be forced to stand upon an altar with a foul demon whilst among the crowd stands a perfect knight, unable to speak for me, fight for me.”

It is the pain inflicted by her words, as much as intense exhaustion that forces me to plunge back down to the ground once more. My knees give way and I crash down to earth, heavy with dread and consternation for the future of which she spoke.

And why would that future be? Is it not the purpose of my life to be her masque? At this moment is it not my very purpose in living to speak for her? To fight for her?

My hands lay upon the cold surface of the marble floor, and the chill in the sea air brings little relief to my weariness. There is blood on the hem of the Queen’s dress, though the cerise hues are not seen upon the satin. It is my blood, I realize, that stains her dress. It is the same blood on the floor, blood that was shed in the name of protecting her, that taints her fingers as well. All of this, she knows. Meaningless and worthless was the life I led before she gave me purpose, filling my eyes with such light never to be seen again in this world. Yet here she stands in the dying sun, a depiction of her image fading from my sight; irony being that the death which threatens to take her from me is the death I am prepared to face for her name and honor.

So what is she asking of me? To save her by forsaking her? For the first time in a very long time, there is no sense in what she says, unless it is so well hidden that even I, here timeless companion, do not fully grasp what she means to say.

There must be a deeper truth to all of this.

My fingers reach towards the silk strands woven into the intricate fabric of her dress and I sink lower to the ground.

“Ask of me,” I say, my words are fading, and my voice finally turns gaunt. “And consider it done.”

“You are being forsaken by your strength.” She answers instead.

I shake my head forcibly, but the exertion of energy nearly tilts me sideways.

Words so often said in the course of our companionship ease of out my mouth. “If there is need enough, a way is often found.”

She sighs, so lovely and heartrending a sound, for the third time tonight. Again she kneels, and the scent of ivory and jade embrace me, and another memory takes over my heart.

Still, even now, the etched reflection of a fire so great on the calm surface of the lake that once flanked the chalet where my sisters lived burns in my mind. Marauders had come, carried by a strong east wind, stealing away everything of my family’s fortune, including the lives of the only blood relatives I had left. I do remember how the ripples of water echoed in never-ending wrinkles as tears slid down my face unhindered, falling into the endless abyss of dark waves. The anger melded with frustration as I regretted how I left my family in the reckless hands of fate, choosing to guard someone who was not my kin in place of two girls whose lives were placed in my care by my father in his passing. Girls who were so innocent; barely transcending into womanhood and were so much in need of my protection as I later, much too later, realized. How I agonized with grief, as I understood how blinded I was with my misguided love that I relinquished all else I once had in my life.

If ever my loyalty had wavered from my allegiance, it was then, and even as I tried to push back the thoughts that kept rising, kept pushing back underneath my consciousness that my service to the Queen was to be held at fault for this, haunting voices murmured words and notions I would never consider were I not buried underneath such anguish as I was then. How vivid that remembrance will forever be ingrained in my mind and my heart.

Yet clearest still is the memory I have of how my Queen found me broken, swathed in the cerulean blanket of dusk, at the edge of the water whose depths I wished so much to drown forever in. Her warmth, her very presence alone, somehow stilled me, raging though my emotions had been. Arms around me, hair fluttering like angel’s feathers on my chest, my tears staining the amethystine shawl that she had wrapped around her bare shoulders, amidst all this words were no longer necessary.

It was the only time she ever released me from her service, to mourn for my loss. But mourning came not easily, and only after I desecrated whatever was the root of my family’s devastation was I able to grieve properly.

Only after had I been able to return, to serve under she who was the only thing I had left once more. And ever since, never again have I left her side, because hopeless though it may be, I cannot deny that I have lost all else but her.

Given this, would I leave her now, could I, if she were to reaffirm her charge?

This question brings me back to reality, and the melancholy of the past flows fluidly to the present.

“Three things I would ask of you,” She starts to say, the amber tints of her eyes threaded with sadness barely seen now in the growing darkness. “Three things I would consider to be done.”
I do not speak, for I know what she would have me committed to do. She takes my silence, though, as a same kind of acceptance were I to have answered yes.

“One,” She says softly. “That you would not forget me as I am now, and whatever you may hear in the future, may it never taint your regard of me.”

I wish deeply that I could touch her face, to convince her that she need not worry about that particular request, but now my strength fails me when I need it most. I try to resurface from the drowning sensation that is overtaking me, gossamer flashes of shadows erupt before my eyes but I try and hold on. My eyelids, beyond my control, close, encasing me completely now in darkness.

“Two,” I hear her continue, her voice even softer than before. Her fingers wind around my left wrist and twist it slightly, that my blood-stained palms are exposed to the chill air. I almost flinch as the cold bites into my open wounds, but I, weak as I am, so easily conquered by her touch, can do nothing but allow her to do as she wishes with me. From around me the rustle of fabric sounds and my eyelids flutter open to look at the icy metallic object placed in my upturned hand.

My eyes adjust to the dimming light and the shape reveals itself to me: a masque, delicately refined in its hollow contour, gilded wings flickering upon the intricate carvings made on the silver. I look to her in askance, but she gives me no notice, staring still down at the entity she has placed in my hands.

“Two,” She says again, shadows flitting about her eminent face in all glory and splendor. “That in five years time you would attend the Saint Augustëne Masquerade, wearing this masque I give to you. Without a question of doubt, should you be there.”
Confusion is evident in my face, I am sure, but the lack of having full capacities at a moment’s hand renders me helpless as I open my mouth and close it again to no effect.

“Lastly,”

She stops.

It is here her voice breaks, as she proceeds to the third and final request she would make to me. I do not wonder at the searing hot liquid that falls on my hand, nor do I have still the willpower to lift her chin and tell her not to cry. My physical form no longer listens to my wishes, and I feel helplessly trapped in a prison of a body so devoid of any capability.

“That you would leave this place of our long amity no longer my knight, and I no longer your Queen.” She pauses again, but before I can ready myself to speak she puts her other hand upon my cold and unfeeling lips. “Also, that your name will be yours, and yours alone to give and use to whatever whim you please, no longer be it mine alone to use, whatever binds I have put on you be they broken. When you wake in the morning, flee this land, return not until five years have passed. This is what I ask of you.”

“You,” I say, my voice is barely a whisper and my lips almost drawn close from the touch of her hand. “Seem to have lost your ability to count.”

“That your last words to me would be in the context of scorn.” She returns swiftly in an impassive tone.

“I apologize.” I try and smile, but my lips can barely tip upwards from the strain of my body giving way at last to the injuries I have sustained. “But I still do not understand.”

She smiles as well, perfect lips forming a curve held without amusement such as mine. “You will.” She says simply, then pauses for a fraction. “I will find you.”

I no longer feel her warmth suddenly, and I look up, strands of black thread flickering across my eyes from the movement. Her hands leave me as she slowly stands, and the moment she rises is the moment the last edge of sunlight flits over the land, a shaft of ruby light catching on her face, before the sun is completely swallowed by the land stretching over the horizon.

“I may not live to yet understand,” I murmur, knowing that even with the sound of rain my words are heard by her. “But I have lived to see such beauty at the threshold of light, not faltering from darkness, but becoming an iridescence on its own.” I pause for breath before I continue, air escaping me in uneven gasps. “That in itself is more than any of our kind who walks the earth could dream of.”

I do not know how, but all of the sudden I hear a different rhythm amidst the monotonous dewdrops, hitting the marble floor with such gravity that could not be the same with the anonymity of the rain. Tears are falling from her now starless eyes; this I know with a startling certainty.

“No longer my knight but ever a knight at heart.” I hear her faint voice, blurred around the edges with a soft splendor of sorrow. “Fear not for your life. You will live,” She pauses, and in the split second her voice shatters I hear her deep regret. “And so you will understand why it is such that I ask of you.”

The moon has not yet risen, nor has any key of light left of the departed sun to give me the saddest glimpse I would ever have of the Queen my heart had timelessly loved.

I hold on, fighting for consciousness until the soft footsteps that echo around me fades completely, melting into the back of my mind. Then I let gravity herself take me, the quintessence of the earth and rain wrapping me in a cosset of gossamer sleep.
Darkness, I think wearily, will be much welcome after this.

•••

The uneven jostling of the wagon wakes me and releases me from the ensnaring web of dreams I have been trapped in as of late. The ethereal images still linger at the edges of my mind even as I try in vain to chase them away. But there is no sense in doing so, as everywhere I look among the land of Amestria brings back everything I forced myself to forget when I left five years, three months, two weeks and six days prior to this moment.

Young children still play about the streets, joyous laughter and festive moods loiter among the common people, and this calms me. At least here where innocent citizens reside the corrupted influence spread by the Northerner King’s rule does not seep through. And in a way I hold certain gladness for the thought that the middle periphery of the once mighty and noble empire still persists to this day a people of happiness and simple contentment. And as the carriage I ride makes its way to the very inner workings of the empire, I grimace at the thought of associating once more with the so-called politics and purity of the higher echelons of Amestria; vile creatures woven into the affairs of state, who think nothing of this land as more than the roots for their riches to from whence grow. Only one thing keeps me from not attending the abhorrent festivity.
Sighing softly, I look down to my hands, shadows embedded into the myriad of scars on my palms, and study the gold-rimmed ivory invitation given to me personally by a high-ranking army officer who came by the chateau several leagues from Amestria’s main city, a simple town where I took up lodgings years ago. The sunlight shafting through the windows of the coach play along the glittering ink of the letter I hold, an extravagant script I suppose was written by the Duchess Marquetåinté herself.

The Noble House of Marquetåinté would be honored by your presence at the annual Saint Augustëne Ball. We ask of you to join us as we bear kind tithing to the Time of August, a time of patronage to be much cherished by the Saints. The Masquerade will last officially for seven days’ time, however were it found to be necessary, you shall not be held for wholly of seven days’ time; we of the Marquetåinté issue you safe passage to and from our lands regardless.


May the light of Autumn Augustëne guide your path,
Sachienne le Jardier Marquetåinté.


I have already lost count of the times I read and reread this invitation so dear, but still the vague connotation of the Queen’s last wishes to me do not seem to appear utterly yet. The House of Marquetåinté is known across the continent for their celebration of the Saint Augustëne fête, yet it is only now, six days ago, after a handful of years filled with hollow ignorance concerning any of Amestria’s affairs, do I accept Sachienne le Jardier’s incitement. But not out of honoring the Duchess do I go, but for the dream I had just moments ago, words spoken to me by a woman who I have not seen for roughly five years, that drives me to attend, with which beside me on the plush leather seat of the coach lies the masque I would wear. The silver has not tarnished since the day it was given, nor have I dared touch it from the time on for fear of it vanishing forever from my grasp, for it remains the only physical shard of hope that I harbor that I may find my Queen once more.

Six days have since passed, yet there has been no sign of the woman of which I seek. Countless others, though, flaunt themselves at young men such as I, yet not one of them catches my attention. I barely see their seductive smiles as I pass them with nothing more than a polite nod and a smile, done simply out of courtesy, of my own. And when asked by fellow men who wonder at my impassivity to these fair maidens of such, I merely laugh amiably and tell them that such opulence is wasted, so spent in vain, on me, for I have seen such beauty that carries not only on the porcelain fragility of the face, but in the spirit and soul of the entity. I have seen the sun in all of her effulgent splendor, I will add with genuine warmth in my smile, and against it I find that only the sun herself can compare.

“We have arrived, General.”

The youthful voice of my excited coachman cuts through the autumn air, his tone vibrating with anticipation. He has yet to enter the gilded gates of the Marquetåinté Square, the six-acre atrium of marble, glass, and gold built especially for carousing times such as these. I see the wonder and amazement plainly exuded from the boy’s expression and I admit that during the earlier years of serving under the Royal Court I gazed and gaped as much as he. It takes months, years even, of walking past or through the Hall frequently before one can resist the impulse of breaking off in the middle of a train of thought by merely being entrapped in fascination; may it have been caused by the angels’ delicately carved faces and wings that flanked the walls or the molten gold pouring in fountains, a shimmering and dazzling affluence few men have seen in their entire lives, placed at each of the four corners of the square with a trickle of liquefied silver encircling it. Or may it yet be, most distracting of all, the portrait of the late Queen, her flawless beauty somehow captured in paint and pastel hues, hanging as a banner behind the Royal Tables that were partitioned higher than the rest of the hall, beside which a banner of the King, though rarely noticed due to the beauty which lays near it, rests as well.

Surely, were any man in pursuit of paradise in the land of mortals, it would be here he would finish his quest.

Hearing a well-enounced sigh, I look to my coachman again, who is really just a boy, and I smile to myself. Yes, his besotted admiration for this splendor is justifiable. Yet amidst all the glory of the Hall of Marquetåinté, I hope he never will get his chance to enter this place, for it is not only a place of merriment and fantasies, but also a dark and dangerous one filled by politicians and courtiers with devious plots wound against each other.

My gaze returns to the edifice of which I am about to enter. There is no chill of winter yet staining the air, but a great bonfire echoes inside the Hall, fiery tongues of flame evident even above the towering walls bordering the vestibule.

The young boy who is still resting his lanky body against the side of my coach sighs once more. “I do wonder, whether there shall be a day when I shall see the inside of this magnificent Hall.”
“Would you believe me when I say that there is nothing inside of that place that can compare to the eternal glory of a sunset?” I ask him, smiling faintly.

“You smile,” he returns swiftly, yet with a touch of hesitation that makes him appear unnecessarily cautious. “Yet there is sorrow in your expression. If I may ask this out of curiosity, what hinders your happiness, my lord, when there is such celebration about?”

My glance at him is more appraising this time, for the implication of his words betrays the scrutiny he has of my moods.

But I decide to tell him a piece of truth, for it is bottled up so in my heart that I fear I cannot contain it any longer.

“Inside,” I begin, and though my gaze strays over to the golden gates we stop across from, my vision loses focus and I suddenly see instead, through my mind, the thing that has most value inside of the wretched Hall. “Is a portrait of the late Queen, hanging over the long table where the Royal House sits. This amidst all other brilliance contained within the Hall is the crux, the vitality upon which this empire once drew strength.”

“The Queen, the one who the Northerner King claims to be dead?”

The boy’s voice wavers slightly, and I turn to him in curiosity, breaking off from the vivid images patterned in my mind.

“Yes.” I say softly.

“And what of this portrait that causes your unhappiness?”

A dark chuckle escapes me.

“That this empire is built because of the blood and nobility that is embodied in her, yet people so easily believe that such sovereignty is so rapidly lost; showing no effort in wanting the truth.”

My companion looks at me with an overcast expression, his solemnity evident.

“This is because the truth has never been far from our consciousness. Such a Queen she was, that no one can grasp the concept of her death; even the Royal Court and the Nobles, all the citizens of Amestria simply conform, in fear of the King taking displeasure in them.” Anger etches on his brow. “After the King announced her passing, the people did not once show the slightest hint of grievance; this in itself is the highest tribute of allegiance we can still confer to her.”

My heartbeat becomes irregular at hearing these words, but I keep myself from garnering hope that might be so easily lost.

“And what news has there been of her since?” I ask silently.

“Not a whisper, Sir.” He replies, knowing full well of my lack of knowledge concerning the rumors and gossip that so fleetingly is spread to the streets from the Courts. “But it is wrongly thought of, that we, people of Amestria, are no longer a people of the Queen.”
I pause before acknowledging his statement.

“I will take heart in that.”

A strange chord touches my emotions at this, and I feel such sudden calm surge through me. Hearing these words come from a boy who is barely a ascending into manhood, yet whose faith and conviction in the true Throne is tempered so strong, makes me smile with such true joy that I realize I have never smiled to this extent in the span of five long years.

I had come to this empire knowing full well the rumors the Northerner King was spreading throughout the land; that the Queen, once the core entity of this land, had passed away. But whether due to my tenacity or my absolute unwillingness to forsake my love, I have put naught belief in this fool of a tale five odd years ago when I first heard of it, even when it was coupled with news that a week prior to her death she had married and crowned the leader of the foreigners as King of Amestria. And till now, nothing has changed of my image of her; nothing will tarnish the auric beauty she is clad in as I behold her in my mind. And through this, the first of what she has asked of me, I have done. I somehow understand in fragmented ways the choice she made.

“The final Masquerade will begin any moment now, and I actually feel willing to go.” I tell him, my tone light with a strange and disquieting ease.

My coachman takes in the geniality of my expression and bows lowly, bidding me farewell as he prepares to take the journey back to the inn from whence we had come.

“I shall come back in a manner of hours, Sir.”

I pause, a split second before, in one fluid movement, I let my fingers catch the edge of the masque so beloved and hold it firmly in my grasp. Then, alighting completely off my coach, I turn to the boy holding my door open still, and smile once more at him.

“Thank you.” I say to him unreservedly.

He nods amiably, not knowing fully how much he deserves my thanks; my hope has risen because of him, and he is the cause of the reassertion of my faith, through his own.
And as I enter the Saint Augustëne celebrations, once more time flies from my hands; not mine to take hold of, nor mine to control. The night passes by in a swirl and blur of shifting colors, never-changing in their infinite hues as I search for the face so burned inside the deepest echelons of my memory. And suddenly realizing the quick approach of the last hour, a painful veracity strikes me.

After this night, the only thread of correlation I have left with my Queen will forever be lost.
So I stand, unmoving amidst the endless sea of dancing couples, my masque still held against my face in perfect composure. Helplessness nearly drowns me, and I cannot impede thoughts of grief, thoughts of regret, and of the deepest sense of longing I have ever felt in the whole of my existence.

Have I waited five years for naught?

Is this longing of gossamer and macabre emotions forging a path that will eventually lead to nothing?

I cannot help but allow a sigh to escape me. Even if that would be the truth, I would still never garner the valor and strength to perish the memories I hold so closely to my heart.

I am one who looks for the sun even after her last light, one who refuses to lose hope of life and love even past the fading etches of twilight.

But my conversation from a while ago comes forth again in my mind, and something stills inside of me.

So long as my Queen is alive, then I shall be content with what I have; so many years left of this lifetime to be spent with idle dreams of her, yet, I think to myself, it is better to simply cherish the thought of her still having life, than losing her forever to the sinister bonds of death.

Then, unexpectedly, I sense first, more than see out the corner of my eye, a pale hand coming to rest at the edge of my sleeve. Her touch startles me in a way I have seldom felt before.

The masqued woman’s voice is mellifluous and hauntingly familiar. “That you are waiting for someone, I assume?”

I turn to her rapidly, but with her hair that sparkles in its carnelian sheath falling over the edge of her perfectly shaped face and with the black masque lain across the bridge of her angled nose concealing her eyes glittering so iridescently with the rubies and damask carvings engraved upon the surface, her identity is utterly hidden from me.

“Yes,” I answer breathlessly. The very presence of this mysterious lady diminishes any grief I had harbored earlier; and in place of it was a deeply rooted sense of heartstrings and melancholy.

A curve appears on her darkly painted lips, “Would you dance with me whilst you wait?”

A declination almost slips past my mouth before I can even reconsider. For how does she differ from all the other countless stunning women who have passed my way since? How many women have offered a dance, with hidden insinuations buried with the elocution of each word? Perhaps they find the deep and burning desire hidden well beneath the undercurrents of my eyes to be something in which to find interest. I lift a hand to run impulsive fingers through my dark hair, damp from the moist air that fills the Hall, and strands of black locks fall across my forehead and brush against the masque I amorously wear.

But somehow, it is different with this woman, with her enigmatic eyes cast downwards, not glancing at my face. Numbly, I move to accept her offer.

A chime sounds over the tides of people, signifying that an hour is all that remains of Saint Augustëne’s seven-day masquerade. The quartet of violinists strikes a chord of familiar melody, and festive couples hurry to keep up with the pace.

Without second thoughts, I hold a hand towards the nameless woman in her black silk-woven dress, laced with diamonds and black pearls across the corset on her small waist. But the simple curve of her smile itself outshines the dark beauty of her gown; not one of the myriads of diamonds or rubies coming close to rival in the contest of flawless perfection.

“I would dance with you, my lady.” I smile back, fully besotted by her captivating persona.
Step by step, second by second, I slowly realize that the scarce time I have left to me to seek for my Queen is slowly wasting away. But I cannot help myself, and I cannot break myself from the interlocked embrace of blithe dancing that I hold with the still unnamed woman before me. And as her gleaming hair, fluttering like angels’ wings as we trod across the hall in footsteps attuned to the music, brushes across her face, I resist the impulse to catch the crimson tresses between my fingers. We do not look at each other as our bodies twine to the passionate strains of the violinists’ composition, but out the corner of my eye, I see that her smile remains in place.
Then, after a full round of threading and weaving finely executed patterns across the marble floors along with several hundred other nobles and aristocrats, she, though still not catching my eyes, finally speaks once more.

“That is an interesting masque you wear.” She pauses in somewhat contemplation before continuing. “How did you chance by it?”

An edge of glass bound anguish cuts its way somehow deeper into my almost forgotten distress.
The corners of my lips tilt in an effort to make light of the matter, but I know my façade so wearily made is not much of a convincing one.

“It is a much treasured gift,” I say softly. “Given to me by my—” my voice lowers to a rough whisper to keep from breaking. “It is given to me by a person whom I deeply love.”

Her smile deepens, and I pull the slightest inch away from her face. Though her gaze is not turned to me I somehow feel vulnerable in her presence.

I twirl her in a half-moon stance. “And what of yours, my lady?”

Merely a trinket worth nothing of heartrending value.” She answers, then as I circle around her and catch her hand again as she dips in perfect measure to the song, her countenance is suddenly tinged with lament. “I lost a masque so dear to me, years ago, and even now all else fades in comparison.”

“How did you lose it?”

The words barely leave my lips when the song abruptly ceases, and all movement around us loses pace in fluid motions as a slow and lingering melody replaces the mood of the crowd. The unknown woman still held in my arms does not make motions to conform to the patterns to which all others are following, and in a brief and shattering moment her eyes flicker to mine.
And the world stops.

Eternal amber and ocher lights spiral in breathtaking auric eyes. And in this split second, the realization hits me with such force that I momentarily forget how to breathe. Years spent in dreaming of this moment, of even the slightest glimpse of such splendor incomparable, in one instant, dissolves as she turns from me, my heart nearly tears from me as I lose sight of her eyes.

I cannot help myself, and I take a step towards her in despair.

“Indeed this is how.” I say softly, answering the question I had just asked, and though the noise is thick in the air I know she hears me. “I remember it just as clearly.”

She stops in mid-stride, and I approach her hesitantly, making my way through the crowd.

I draw close to her, breathing in the faint essence of jade I have so long been lost without. “There is nothing left to leave behind, so why are you still walking away?”

“A fine line is drawn,” She replies finally after a long moment of quiescent silence. “Between the things your heart desires, and walking away from them is the only choice that does not require choosing.”

I look at her, and I understand.

“You chose life.” I say selflessly.

Then, at last, her face angles up towards mine, and in this moment it is as though the sun herself shines up at me.

“I chose you.”

I shake my head halfheartedly.

“There is no need any longer for masques,” I tell her quietly.

A cool hand catches the edge of my face, and I surrender myself, so easily drawn to her presence.

“Your love has always been my masque.” She whispers, golden eminences burning into the topaz blush of her irises. “And there is always need for love.”

And truly, I love her.

For in eternity shall she be my Queen, and forever also, shall I be her masque.