#phthirdweek

*****

The room glittered and gleamed. The chandeliers, the polished marble tiles, the wine glasses, the clothing of the dancers, and his smile.

Jack stood on the sidelines. The black and white players spinning before him, coming near him in flashes and fake smiles.

Outside, snow fluttered down onto a darkened ground, he couldn’t see past the wind and flakes to a world beyond. He had to stay inside, or else the storm might overtake him.

Storm inside. Storm out. Between two evils, how do you know which is worse?

They didn’t know they were simply chess pieces. That this was simply a game, that they would be sacrificed, all for the sake of the king.

Once, he had found their twirls and fanciful garments fascinating; the masks shined and their feathers climbed towards a twinkling ceiling. He looked on with longing, then.

Now, the word fake grew out of the crevices where their eyes were meant to be, it crept along their porcelain cheeks, their feathered heads, their bejeweled necks—and they didn’t see the vines, the spiders, linked together into chains, strangling them, driving fangs into their chests.

At the same time, sickness pooled in his own heart, started creating ripples towards his thoughts, reaching his words, crashing upon the shores of his actions.

A sickness called hate.

It took him far too long to realize the motions held no meaning. They were all just tumbling in the dark and the cold, trying to make meaning of the moves when there is none. The shimmer on the surface of the water was reflected from a sky they could never reach, not something buried beneath that they could touch, hold, and keep, if they just held their breath long enough.

The same was surely true for the waters in his own heart.

At least, that’s how it seemed, and what he told himself.

Black and white. No color. Pawns and knights in a grand game of chess.

What was real?

What would happen if it all just…stopped? What if we called the world, the dance by name?

A pause. A flicker. A flash. Color.

First it was red. Red like lamplight, in the night-soaked brightness of the room, a lantern of hope, guiding him across the lifeless waters to a land where there was more light like hers. Red that burned—could it burn down the masks? Like blood. Like roses.

Red in her eyes.

Then it was her hair, a splash of brown, flowing between the sides of black and white.

Then the violet of her dress, like she was the only royal in a council of fools, and common sense.

He lost track of the moves to stare her way.

*****

One day, as I met a girl—brown hair, eyes red as roses in the snow—who wasn’t wearing a mask. A ray of sunlight breaking through the shadows. She told me she could see through the masks too. But instead of hating the world in general for the practice, she questioned, she wondered, and she cheated the game.

And looking into those red eyes, I realized nothing else mattered. Not the world, not the deadened grasp of humanity, the music, the moves, or the masks.…Just her.

I tried to follow her, but in the mix of feet, in the unlearned moves, I myself was trampled to the ground.

So I resolved to learn the dance—not to live, not for the dance itself—but to follow her. To trade partners until I found her hand. I had to get up, to sew together a mask, glue on the feathers with blood, and pull the jewels out of dead men’s hands.

Horror is the word, I believe. The one to describe the things I did. I think you’ll find that both joining the dance, and subverting it, will inevitably lead to that word. I followed in the steps of people who did worse than me. Danced with partners whose masks were sewn into the skin. I did things that’ll make you shudder to think.

All part of the dance.

                                   Nothing but her.

*****

Outside, silent snow turned to to the taps of rain, asking to get in.

As he stared the girl’s way, the other dancers knocked against his shoulders, they trod on his feet, and scoffed at his incredulity.

He looked over their shoulders, trying to catch another glimpse of the one real thing in the sea of falsity.

She faded.

Fear, desperation set into to his fast-beating heart.

And, at last, he moved.

Out from the sidelines, into the mix of motions.

But instead of following their moves, he was a wrench in the perfectly moving machine.

The other cogs knocked into him, he tripped into the workings, fell to the tiles beneath, was kicked by the steps, and lay beneath, watching the movements of the gears ticking above him. The waves washed over him, sent him tumbling into the current, and he couldn’t keep up.

“Lacie!” he reached out for her.

And on the floor, his gaze on her fading footfalls, he realized that that the pattern was too ruthless to break. Kicked and beaten by the dance, he realized that the only way to follow her, was to join the dance itself.

He wouldn’t give up. He’d follow her footprints through the forest of feet and fakes.

If he’d bend the rules a little.

After a long time of taking moves I hadn’t learned as a child, setting them into my hands and feet, the day came when my hand found hers.

She…didn’t remember me.

No peppered, cheerful hello. No pretense, or pretending.

No mask.

My free spirit. My unmasked beauty. My blood red girl. My Lacie.

In eight years, she still hadn’t changed, been chained; she was still the same dash of color in a world of black and white fakes. A player in a world of pawns.

Despite all the things I had done, I knew she was the one person who would still accept me.

The time we spent together after that, the days in the sun…I never wanted it to end.

But.

*****

After the moving maze, the muddied world of men, the journey to get back to her, his hand found hers.

Something real, something dynamic, instead of stagnant, something warm to the touch, not metallic and cold.

Standing before him—at last—was his pride, his prize.

She was on the other side of the endless ballroom, off to the side, her head turned, gaze out the window. But she was still dancing with someone. Slowly, their moves less cold and mechanical.

He didn’t bother with the pretense of the dance, or courtesy towards the one she was currently dancing with. He threw his arms around her, and held her tight.

The shock in her eyes told him something wasn’t quite the same.

—(Or maybe he wasn’t quite sane)—

Did she not remember him? That moment when color entered his world?

What was all of time for him, was a passing glimpse for her.

It didn’t matter. As long as she didn’t cover those pretty eyes with the mark of a fake.

And she never did. Not as long as he knew her

“Jack.” She placed her hand on his cheek, running her fingers along his skin, pushing a strand of his hair behind his ear.

She smiled, and it was the only real thing in the sea of masks.

But that smile didn’t last forever; it became a twisted thing, etching itself onto her features.

A thing that certainly didn’t belong to her, even now.

Was this her mask? Could her face have been a mask this whole time?

She pulled away from him.

“You fool.”

He drew in a sharp breath, and it pierced his heart.

“You really don’t see it, do you?”

She gestured grandly to the room as a whole.

What? What didn’t he see? This was how it had always been. Nothing had changed.

She grabbed his chin and made him look away from her.

“Look at them.”

Then he saw.

The dancers around them weren’t just dancers, strangers, background.

They weren’t strangers at all.

Or maybe they were even less known to him than strangers would have been.

Many of them were wearing the same green outfit he wore presently, others were in red, and blue, some wrapped in a thin blanket…They all had the same blonde hair, sometimes in a braid like his, others messy and short. And they all still wore masks, as if the emotions could be written and plastered on rather than felt—happy, sad, angry…that disgusting smile…

His disgusting smile.

Each and every one of them was himself.

Had it always been this way? Since the beginning? Or had they become this way? Somewhere in the middle, had strangers morphed into mirrors?

The music faded out, and the rain outside grew louder and louder until he couldn’t help but turn to the window, as if to demand some peace and quiet.

The drops that dribble down, and splattered across, the panes were not clear, or grey, or blue.

That red he had once found so fascinating, once begged for, was painting the world.

He swallowed.

As he realized the change in scenery, all the other Jacks stopped, turning to him with mechanical motions, and faceless expressions, some creepy army of past-self-dolls.

“Lacie,” her name on his lips, he turned to her, his one hope, his one safety in a world that had fixed its canons against him.

She was no longer beside him.

Laying in his hand was a limp chain.

He didn’t want to look, to follow the trail; he feared what he would see. But he chased the links to the ceiling—

Her body, suspended in the air above, like she was one of those twinkling chandeliers. Her body, pierced by chains.

That red rain was inside now.

And below her, looking his way, was someone else. Someone who wasn’t wearing a mask.

*****

My Lacie, who lied, and died at the hands of her brother. For the simplest crime of never wearing a mask over those red eyes. For the simplest crime of existence.

Oswald. Her brother.

I should have hated him, perhaps. For taking her from me.

And there was a part of me that did. Surely. But he loved her too, you know. And it was some sick sense of duty that threw her into the pit, not his own will.

I was a question in his eyes, and he was an answer in mine. There’s something about mutual darkness between people; being able to look into someone else’s soul, and see your struggles reflected, and yet…not yourself… Something that we call friendship.

The first thing he saw was his cloak, like a wave, breaking across his shoulder. Crimson, just like her eyes.

Just like her blood he spilt.

Then his eyes, violet, like her dress. A violet that was sharp, and cold, and unforgiving as a winter storm. Then it was the black of his hair and clothing. A deeper black from the dancers before. A darker sky.

He was the black king, after all, wasn’t he?

                      "Lacie is dead,”

                                               “I killed her.”

*****

It wasn’t malice, or revenge. It was the requirement of a leader.

Or at least, they poisoned his mind, and made him think so.

I’m sure he would have joined me, if he wasn’t such a fool. If he wasn’t so wrapped up in his own ignorance.

(An ignorance that was my fault).

Joined me to get her, that is.

Death isn’t quite the right word. She was cast into the Abyss, into a place where no return.

But I learned that the masks, the dance, the masquerade, goes by another name:

Chains.

Chains come in many forms. There are the chains that killed her, the ones that we create contracts with. Chains between people, and the chains we create for ourselves.

Then there’s another type; this world is a ruin—(I always knew it)—and the Chains around it are the only things keeping the world from the Abyss. They fall between the lines on the pages of our story, into the places our eyes can’t see.

Or, more accurately, keeping the world from her.

Blood red world. My gift for my blood red girl. And I didn’t care how blood I spilled in the midst. Not really. Not enough.

This world is rotting anyway. I’ve known it from the start. But not to her. She saw the light. She saw the stars. She saw that there was something real behind those shimmering lights. That maybe it wasn’t all on the surface. Maybe there was something beneath the waters that we could reach.

And I’d bring the world she loved to her.

The door closed with a large bang, sending puffs of loose flakes his way.

He stood there for a moment. Then, his brows set, his arms crossed, Oswald plopped down on the stone steps, back to the doors, incensed by her recklessness, and disregard for his on wishes. There was nothing wrong with sitting and listening to a choir singing, but there were times for such things, time they surely didn’t have. They had to keep going.

She always did things like this; running off without his say-so.

Inside, the world was a dream in white and gold. The glass sent colorful stained patterns onto the floorboards, wreaths and evergreen boughs lined the pews and pedestals, candles shone from the chandeliers and there were even some in an advent wreath at the front. The pretty music was coming from a small circle of women at the front of the church; the notes fluttered like butterflies let loose into the vaulted ceiling of the place, coming down to land on her ears. Lacie’s eyes widened, a smile breaking out across her face.

There were a few other people there, praying, alone, together, a pastor studying the scriptures, another kid, trying to get some relief from the cold.

“Hello little one!” a man’s voice came from her side. He was wearing long white robes that told her he worked at the church. “And what might you be doing here?”

“I just heard the pretty music and thought I’d stop by to listen!” she beamed.

“Well we’re happy to have you.” He smiled back. “Would you care to sit?”

Lacie nodded, shimmying into a pew at the back.

The man went about his own business, as she sat there for a little while, watching the music float by. She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there—(Oswald still shivered in the cold outside, but refused to enter on principal)—but someone who was sitting a few pews up stood to leave. Upon passing her, he turned, the gentle smile, transforming into something akin to fear, or disgust.

“Hello sir!” Lacie kicked her feet back and forth.

Without response, he sped his pace, hurrying out.

I wonder what his problem is, Lacie mused, returning to the music.

Soon enough, as the light outside continued to fade, another person turned to leave, and when she saw her, her expression morphed too.

This time the man who had spoke to Lacie earlier came up beside her.

“Excuse me, but may I ask whatever the matter is?”

“A…” her voice was quiet, shaking, but passionate enough to hear, “A child of Ill-Omen!”

She pointed an accusing finger and Lacie, as if her existence was a crime.

The proclamation ran its course through the space, and set an end to all the pretty music.

Oh. This again.

Everyone turned upon the girl in the last pew; standing on their tiptoes to get a good look at her, recoiling, or trying to exit unnoticed.

She hopped up off the pew, standing tall, that defiance reappearing later in the show.

“My name’s Lacie,” she put a hand on her chest. “And I’d thank you to call me by it.”

Outside, Oswald saw the first person leave in a hurry, then as others filed out, he heard them mutter with icy breath A Child of Ill-Omen.

He stood up quickly, looking back in horror towards the church. All grievance forgotten.

What if they were hurting her? What if they tried to take her away from him? What if…What if…

He burst through the doors, his eyes darting across the room until he found his sister standing at the back, the rest maintaining a healthy distance from her, whispering things about misfortune, ill omen, eyes, and the color red.

He marched up to his sister—“Come on, Lacie”—took her hand in his, in the same way she had before, and tried to pull her away from the place.

“But Nii-sama…” she protested softly.

She always thought she could change their minds. That people like that wouldn’t always be filled with hate, with fear.

“We’re leaving.” His voice may have been a child’s, but his tone held the finality of an adult’s.

They continued to whisper.

He hated to hear those cursed words.

And with that hatred turning cold fingers into fists, he turned towards the crowd, cursing them in return,

“She’s not an Ill-Omen. She’s my sister.”

“Come on, Lottie, let’s make snow angels!” Lily giggled.

The older woman grinned back, and, without a moment’s thought, flumped back into the snow.

The child did the same, both waving their arms and legs, creating wings for themselves out of the cold. Fang and Dug stopped and turned, shocked at the childishness of their comrades, then they smiled at each other, trying not to laugh.

“Come on, it’s fun!”

“I think we’ll—” Fang began, but Dug’s body thudding against the ground interrupted him.

Fang rolled his eyes, laughing before he fell beside Lily.

As they lay there in the snow, laughing, watching the flakes fall from the navy sky, perfectly peaceful, perfectly happy, Lottie heard something.

“What is it?” Fang asked when he saw her sit up.

She paused, listening.

Light notes to drifted to her ears. It was a sad song, sung by a deep voice—as if he the notes themselves were trying to reach heaven, but they were pulled back to earth by the depth of his voice.

It was coming from the church on the grounds. It was a Christmas song, an old one, about bells and hope and stars and children.

She stood—careful to avoid messing up her snow creation—before rushing towards it, as if a string was connected her to the words.

“Hey, Lottie!” Lily called.

She pranced up the steps, pressing her ear to the cracked oak doors.

Could it be?

No, surely he wouldn’t. Surely she wasn’t hearing this, hearing him. Surely this wasn’t what she thought.

It was Glen’s voice.

There were rumors that their master could sing, but, ever the strong and silent type, he would never prove or deny any such allegations. Maybe he didn’t think it was worth his time (as they often found was the case with him and most fun things) maybe he was embarrassed to do it front of people, especially his servants—(it was, however, hard to think of Glen embarrassed)—maybe there was some other reason, like it reminded him of something long ago, and he didn’t want to talk about it…

She placed her hand on it.

Should she go in?

As long as she didn’t, nothing would prove her wrong, would prove that it was him.

Because surely it wasn’t him.

And if it was, he probably didn’t want her coming in and interrupting him. He might yell at her, or punish her.

They never intended on telling Glen, but there were a few Christmas carols they practiced every year—more like Lily made them practice, (though they grew to quite enjoy it)—just for a little something to keep them going during the season. And the song floating through the door just so happened to be one they had practiced.

She took a deep breath.

Could it be?

Could she? Could she find the strength?

Dare she?

She let it out in the form of harmony, pouring from her own lips, the source of the music coming from both inside and out now.

A snowball fight had broken out behind her, and their shenanigans came to a halt at the sound of her voice.

The voice inside stopped too.

She should have guessed as much.

She took another breath, her heart pounding, but she didn’t stop.

As she continued, somehow, the voice inside decided to continue, softer now.

If she moved forward—steps to the song, steps in the snow—what would he do? Would he run off like some scared animal? Should she stay out here for the entirety of the tune, never proving or denying her suspicions?

There was nothing left to do.

Her harmony wasn’t any good out here.

On a particularly long note, she pushed open the doors, stepping in on her little red heels.

Upon seeing her, he shot up.

The singer was, in fact, Glen. All black clothes and hair, his cheeks bright red—(she’d never seen him so embarrassed before. But she probably didn’t look much different).

Before they could decide to stop or continue the song, before he could bolt, or she could pull him back, Lily ran in through the door, Fang and Dug at her heels.

“Hey! Whjya stop?” she demanded.

They stared at each other, eyes wide.

Maybe he just didn’t think anyone wanted to listen.

She nodded at Lily, and started at the place they had left off.

Dug came in next, his voice even deeper than Glen’s, (and not nearly so melodic), still a welcome change to his usual silence. Lily was a bit unpracticed, but the high notes fell from her tongue. Fang next, admiration is his eyes as they turned to Lottie, who couldn’t help but smile.

Glen looked at the ground, and didn’t resume.

Lily stopped, puffing her cheeks in exasperation. She scuttled up to her master, pulling on his cloak.

“Lily!” Lottie stopped too, running up to grab her, scoop her up, and stop her (causing Fang and Dug to stop as well) “You can’t talk to Glen-sama that way!” she shout-whispered.

“But he’s not singing!”

“He doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to.”

There was a moment. Then—

“It’s alright,” the words were dull and held the usual lack of emotion, still they were the last thing she expected to hear.

She looked up, sure her shock was written all over her face.

Fang took Lily from her, and placed her on his shoulders as the two of them started again.

Charlotte and Dug joined quickly, but this time Glen’s voice joined theirs.

It made her want to cry, to hear him singing. All of them, together, like a family, and him…but, like all moments of paradise, the song had to come to an end.

And with the last note, Glen pulled his cloak close, and marched out, leaving nothing but cold wind in his wake.

They didn’t know that was a song that had once pulled Lacie, out of the cold, and that he was singing to remember her. They didn’t even know if he enjoyed singing with them, or if he hated every second. They didn’t know if he felt the same way they did.