The duality of a secondary persona

The dawn of spring was quiet.

There were no birds up to chirp, no crickets to weave their songs, and no breeze to make the grass dance.

That is why, when I heard their footsteps march across the entranceway, and step out of the door that squeaked wildly from its lack of oil, and crunch against the gravel of the path that led away from our home, I began to despise my parents.

There had been no goodbye, no letter to explain themselves, and no utterance of ‘I love you’, or ‘I’ll miss you’.

The Emperor had withdrawn the nobility of my family’s name, and we had been left with nowhere to go.

My father had turned his gaze away from a marriage that had been arranged for him, and subsequently married my mother, an heiress from Spain. It was in such a way that his namesake had turned against him, and sought to hunt him down.

They had tried to take me along with them, but I surmised later on that they realised the life of a sheep chased by a wolf was no life for their child, and so they left me in safety in my lonesome.

I wasn’t recognised under my own family name, and so I was ignored. I was simply left alone, with no one, nowhere to go, and nothing to call my own.

All I had to carry along with me was a novel, which had been illustrated gently, in a language I did not understand.

I was a crying child that had been sitting alone underneath a waving willow, which seemed to rain emerald leaves upon the soil to mimic a storm. When my tears had run dry, I had fallen asleep underneath the breeze.

When I had awoken, there had been a note tucked inbetween the wilted pages of my book, and upon reading it, my heart began to ache.

In lettering that had been shoddily written, beside a sunflower that had been crudely drawn, was a single sentence that meant more to my heart than any other.

And so, as I set down the note that simply read ‘I love you’, I began to cry inwards.

Minutes passed, and my tears dried against my cheeks. When hours had passed, I began to cry once more.

It was then that a girl, a bit older in aesthetic than I, appeared beside me, taking a seat in the soil despite her white-laced western-style dress.

“Did you enjoy the note I left for you?” She asked of me with curious eyes.

“You were the one who did that?” I asked of her amidst my shuddered breaths.

“I was told ‘I love you’ were words that make people happy, and you looked like you needed it…” She spoke softly in response. “I’m sorry if I hurt you more.”

I did not respond, and so there was silence between us, only filled with the slight waver of the gentle breeze that continued to wash over the willows.

“Do you enjoy that book? I thought it might be your favourite, if that’s all you choose to carry with you…”

“I cannot read it…” I sobbed gently. “How could I know if I enjoy it if I cannot read it…?”

“Then, do you want me to read it to you?”

I looked towards her with widened eyes, almost in disbelief that such a girl could make sense of the runes inked onto the parchment.

“Yes, please.” I nodded slowly, wiping the collection of tears away from my eyelids.

Taking it from my hands, it seemed bigger in her grasp. As she gazed at the quiet illustration of its cover, her expression grew noticeably excited.

“It’s in English, and the author has a vaguely European name.” The girl smiled. “It’s titled ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’.”

She used her fingers, which were long, perfectly trimmed, and devoid of callouses, to flip through the pages until her thumb touched against the first letter of the first sentence, which had been enlarged and embellished in design.

“Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do:-“ She started to read aloud.

For days afterward, she would come to me often, and sit underneath that same willow tree which danced against the spring breeze, and speak in a soft voice a language I didn’t understand, of which she would promptly translate afterwards.

And for years afterwards did I begin to live alongside her, in her home with her father’s blessing, who seemed to have taken me in like a son, of which he had none. In those years she read to me more and more, for her father was a merchant who could afford to fill her bookshelf with bound parchments of flowery descriptions, and in turn I fell in love with how words could be woven.

And so, I only referred to her with respect, calling her ‘Ms. Nagahiro’.

I had thought I would always protect her heart, and offer her a place to live where she had once given me one, and that’s why I imagined it had hurt that much more.

—-

The steam of Aethine was a constant, and I found myself needing to constantly wipe the haze away from the lenses of my spectacles. They would often fog over in an instant, and I was left blind to the fading beauty of the world around me.

I sat gently upon the bronze pipework of a rooftop, gazing down at the bustle of the streets far below me. In my endless exploration of Aethine, I had managed to find such an entertaining spot not far from where I had first appeared.

My days were often filled with my work as the secondary personage of the ‘Baron of Lilacs’. However, there were periods in between those times where my heart felt uneasy.

I felt strange being so idle.

There was someone that stood gently beside me, suspended high above the bronze cityscape. It was in such a way that we were almost close enough to grasp at the orange smog that hung within the sky.

I could see clearly that she was someone I had come to know once before. She held the vastness of an ocean within her gaze, its glimmer apparent underneath the hazy red sun. Her darkened skin looked almost golden underneath the reddened sun, and her cheeks held a gentle pink blush.

She wore a lacy and ruffled black cloth skirt which held a belt-like corset around her waist. Tucked prim underneath her corset, she carried on her shoulders a lantern-sleeved white-satin blouse, a long white ribbon folded gently underneath the v-neck hemming.

“My name is Theresia.” She said softly, sitting beside me as she kept her gaze affixed on the red hazy sky. “Theresia Hayes.”

“It is nice to meet you Ms. Hayes.’ I spoke kindly. “Is this a place you come often?”

She turned away from the sky her eyes had locked upon, meeting mine with a kindness that my heart couldn’t understand.

“You should call me Theresia, not Ms. Hayes.” She spoke with a smile. “This is not the first occasion we have met upon, isn’t it?”

“No, I don’t imagine that it is.” I responded.

I let out a loud sigh, turning toward her once again. My palms felt hot against the metal pipework I had been sitting upon, but it felt like nothing in comparison to the heat of my face.

“Then, Theresia..” I spoke apprehensively. “Is this rooftop a place you enjoy?”

“It is quiet here... away from the bustle.” She said in return, refusing to elaborate.

I couldn’t help but laugh upon hearing her words. The steaming machinery beside us whistling and buzzed, loud creaking noises often erupting from gears in parallel as if it was all some strange orchestra in harmony. It was anything but quiet.

But to her, it was as so. I could not argue with the peace of another, however. I only wished I could exist while using her eyes for but a minute. I would have liked to feel the peace of the machinery as well.

“I enjoy my work, but it is nice to have a moment of peace away from endless thoughts sometimes.” She continued with a smile on her face.

“What do you do for work?” I asked of her.

“I’m a playwright.” She smiled. “I write plays.”

“I know what a playwright is.” I laughed.

Her expression seemed to beam upon mentioning her work. It was a change within her attitude alike to a child given a chance to show off her toys.

“Have you heard of the Baron of Lilacs?” She asked of me.

My eyes widened in an instant, and I could only afford to offer a dry response amidst my racing thoughts. Within the world of Crelle, it was the first time I had met someone who knew of my moniker, and so my mind was sent into a spiral.

“Yes. I’ve heard much about them.”

“He has inspired me time and time again.” Theresia spoke in an affirming tone. “Tomorrow’s play will be one I put my utmost effort into. He has made me feel such a way.”

She clutched at her shirt, as if to ease the aching of her turmoiled heart.

“I’m sure you can do it. You’ve started on a path that only has one exit.”

“What exit is that?” She asked of me.

“The end.” I smiled. “For better or for worse, your play will finish. Thinking in such a way, there’s nothing to worry about, is there? It’s not something you can wholly control, so you may as well let fate worry about it for you.”

Her eyes widened, a breathless expression upon her face which quickly curved in an amused fashion. The wind seemed to whistle wonderfully against the chords of the bronze-lain machinery, as if the warm breeze had begged to join in.

“Then, would you like to come see my play?” Theresia offered to me, her eyes filled with a wonder I could not parallel in any fashion. “I’ll let fate decide, so come witness the ending of my path.”

Her brilliant passion towards her works was intense. It was seemingly so vast that I felt as if I would be swallowed whole in the face of her horribly-subdued excitement.

“Yes, I would love to see your play, Ms. Hayes.” I smiled in return.

It was not as if I had much to do tomorrow. My life over the course of a month had become an endless cycle of playing the role of the Baron.

In turn, Theresia extended her hand, which held a sheet of parchment tucked between her elongated fingers. As I took it in mine, I realised that it was the same sheets she had spilled into a carpet onto the stone path of the bronze city, illustrated with her image.

“Why do you like the Baron of Lilacs specifically?” I asked of her.

She thought for a moment, before turning towards me with a wonderment in her eyes.

“It is not often that I have seen his words in person. Only once or twice have I had such a pleasure.” She shook her head in disappointment. “But... everytime I see them, whether in a newspaper or with my own eyes... my heart feels calm. Eerily calm, even. The Baron of Lilacs is a peace lurking within words.”

I held a face of shock while listening to her. I had heard simple praises in the past, but nothing had ever been uttered so deeply towards me. It was an aching joy that tore into my heart, for I was unused to it in so many ways. Sitting with her words was a weight that I so desperately wanted to accept.

I wondered if what I was doing was that meaningful. Could I be allowed to feel proud of my own efforts?

“I am in love with the Baron of Lilacs, in essence...” Theresia smiled softly.

That word stung my heart, for a reason I could not place. That sentence was filled with holes, not in context of grammar, but in my perspective of its emotion.

Looking into the endless ocean of her gaze, I could see well the truthfulness that lurked in her eyes. Yet, it wasn’t something I could readily accept then. I had decided to keep my mouth silent and sewn when it came to the identity of the Baron of Lilacs.

“Yes, they’re a pretty unique person, aren’t they?” I laughed.

I didn’t know why I was like this.

I wanted to tell her ‘I am here’.

But my heart wouldn’t allow it.

My heart couldn’t accept her kind words.

My heart was a gateway that disallowed praise.