The Descent

As you see. the next installment of the story is not... in its usual form. I am stepping away from poems for a while. It takes ages to keep a written coherent form. But I will return to that sooner or later.

This story is indeed part of the Knight’s Tale. However, I needed a new medium for this bit. Introducing a new character, the Puppetmaster, in the days before the main story takes place. The form is supposed to be akin to a letter of admission of guilt.

I hope you like it. I hope it makes sense the first time around. And lastly, I hope you like this enough to stick around for what comes next.

The Descent

People wonder why I hate the light of day. I hate it because it is an impediment to the work I do. Always has been. No puppetmaster would step in the light, lest he breaks the magic of the show he puts on for the masses. And show me a man who doesn’t enjoy a little magic from time to time. My work is better done in the dark, the attention of the public affixed on the puppets and the show. In the eyes of many, I am just a tool. I play the fool, the few that have business with me, only see the mask and garb of my office. Most nights, it is quiet enough to hear a mouse snore. Quiet enough to dull the senses of normal folk, a feat most people achieve only by drinking themselves under the table. Probably the reason why I don’t like alcohol. In my field, a proper tool is as good as long as it is sharp.

This night, however, is not one of those nights. The streets are alive and, inside the castle, it is brighter than ever. The candles and hearths are lit, in your honor. After all, it is your wedding. The hall is decked for the festivities, in your colors and his. You look happy. The two of you are seated at the table on the dais, at your father’s side. A few guests ask of your brother. As always, is nowhere to be seen. Few outside the family know his condition wouldn’t allow him to join us for the entire night.

Your father stands up to hold the customary toast, bestowing the gods’ and king’s blessings on you both. The nobles cheer. From my seat close by, I raise my tankard and down my ale in a single breath. The man at your side is oblivious to my presence, thinks me just another nobleman. Just the way I like it. You however, meet my gaze. I can survive his ignorance, but your smile pierces my heart worse than a flaming arrow. I grit my teeth as I return the smile and have my cup refilled. The servants bring out the next course and, while everybody is paying attention to the food in front of them,I stand up and, if you were to hear the servants tell it, evaporate into thin air. Little do they know of the hidden passages. Minutes later, the guards see a cloaked figure making its way out of the castle, but lose it in the crowd gathered outside the gates. Those brutes couldn’t track a wounded rabbit when fully awake, let alone someone who wants elude them when they’re partially drunk. Were it any other night, I would have invited them to one of my shows, but even the puppets get a night off to enjoy the party.

The tavern is packed to the brim, except for a corner dark enough to hide my identity, even without a hooded cloak. I didn’t need to worry though. The patrons take me for a petty lord, far too unimportant to be seated in the castle halls, and pay me no attention, which is just fine. I loosen the strings of my coin purse and empty a sizable amount on the table. A couple of rounds later, my newly found mates are happily drunk, the innkeeper retires for the night, happily counting the silvers. His wife and daughters are left to tend to the rowdy crowd, guarded by a boy, who was holding a sword far too heavy for him.

As I drown my sorrows in rivers of wine and ale, my thoughts drift back to the look you gave me at the ball and, slowly, resignation sets in. I am honor bound to serve your family. My loyalties have always lied with you. My little princess. My love. My queen. With each cup, I realize more and more that I have lost you. Anyone else remind me of the good old tradition of a member of the royal family to have a paramour. But… I have taught you too well. That would create complications you do not want. At least not if you want a long and prosperous rule. Not to mention, you would be too honorable to break your vows, heartfelt or not, even for me. Especially for me.

In my half-drunken state, I start to ponder taking my life. All I need is a length of rope, and I am within spitting distance of the tavern’s stables. But what good would that do? You’d probably mourn for a week, maybe two, then you will move on. The world doesn’t stop in its tracks for a fool. The court even more so.

Soon enough, I spot her, a shapely bar maid. One of the innkeeper’s daughters most likely. A cute little thing, she has been working here all her life and still can’t recognize me without the trappings of my so-called office. I see her eyeing the coin purse. She’s been doing that throughout the night. Even though the tavern is as busy as it has ever been, with lordlings and servants gathered for the royal wedding, she finds a way to serve mainly around my table, chatting up my inebriated table mates, listening and giggling as they regale each other with stories of their own lands, flaunting any symbols of measly power they have. I watch this display and snarl in disgust. My reaction does not go unnoticed. Always the good host, be it driven by her father’s teachings or by the thirst for gold, of which she knows I still have plenty, she asks in the sweetest of voices if there is anything she can do to brighten my night. With a growl, I tell her to keep the wine flowing. She does just that.

Throughout the night, I must have drank close to a firkin, yet only now I feel the alcohol slowly going to my head. The insufferable noise inside the tavern is muffled. My pent up stress of the past couple of days turns fades away and I become comfortably numb. For the first time in forever, my senses are dulled. It has been far too. Almost forgot how it feels to relax, to remove yourself from the burdens of the day. Of life. A bitter smile creeps on my lips. She sees it and laughs. A familiar laughter. I look at her. Through the veil of the bacchian fumes, I see your features upon her face. I blink. She is not you. Yet, she is here, you are not.

I close my eyes and, out of thin air, I conjure a gold coin. I hear the gasp of wonder as she believes my sleight of hand to be magic. I toss it to her. She catches in mid air and thanks me. I ask her if she wants to see more and she says yes, clapping as enthusiastically as a child seeing her first puppet show. It has been a while since I have seen anyone have that reaction. It reminds me of yours when you first saw that simple trick. I can’t say if she is putting on a role, to cheer a grumpy patron for a bit of gold. If she is, she’s damn good at it. And if she is, why should I care?

I decide to put on a show, each act designed to delight and mesmerize my lovely audience, each trick meant to enthrall her, to pull her into my web. Eventually, she asks me to read her fortune. A lowly request. She might look like you, but she lacks your spark. I take her hand in mine and, with each proclamation of a bright future, I kiss her hand. I see her flush. She puts on a sheepish smile.

I pull her in my lap and kiss her breathless. She wrestles out of my arms and, after a moment spent catching her breath, she takes the lead. Her smile turns wild and she returns the kiss tenfold. This time, she takes the lead, taking my hand and pulling me up from the table. Pushing through the crowd, she guides me out of the hall and up the stairs, to one of the few free rooms.

She lets go of my hand and closes the door. It takes me a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. She walks towards the bed, slowly unveiling her left shoulder. She turns her head and I see a inviting smile gracing her pretty little face.

That smile reminds me of you. I am enthralled at the sight. I step close behind her and, putting my arm around her waist, I gently kiss the exposed shoulder and work my way up the neck right, ending up right under her ear. The smell of her hair, the warmth of her sun kissed skin, they are intoxicating. I feel her shudder at the touch of my lips. Still holding her close to me and kissing the nape of her neck, I slowly unlace her bodice and her blouse and pull them off. I run my finger down her bare back, along her spine. She moans quietly and takes a deep breath. I stop for a moment. She turns to face me. I see her in all her splendor and I am speechless, shamelessly staring at her naked body. She reminds me of a nymph. She giggles, pleased at the reaction she got out of me, and, grabbing me by the collar, pulls me close and kisses me.

I breathe her scent in and, if possible, get even drunker. Your effect on me is incredible. I break away, to look at you, when you gently take my hands in yours and raise them up. There is no time for you to notice my surprise, because you quickly take my shirt off. When I start laughing, you shush me with a finger, but you can’t stop giggling yourself. You put both your arms around my neck, pull me close, and, in one flowing move, you jump and wrap your legs around my waist, pressing your bosom against me. I can feel the warmth radiating off of you the moment your skin touches mine. I close my eyes in pleasure.

Normally, that would have been enough to thaw out any lonely man’s frozen heart. However, something, I don’t know what, is holding me back. I return the embrace and, holding you tight enough to stop you wriggling, let out a deep sigh. You stop giggling and suddenly I feel your wet lips on mine. Before long, I kiss back, slowly going down your neck, nipping and nibbling along the way, and nestle in between your breasts. I can hear your heartbeat. It is more soothing than I would have thought, even though it is a little fast. I can feel you tremble as I let out a soft moan.

Still holding tight, you lean backwards and fall on the bed, pulling me along with you. I slowly open our legs and reposition myself. I hear a soft cry and see tears welling up in your eyes as I enter you, but I can’t stop. All I can do is kiss your neck and go as slow as possible for as long as possible. Soon the cry turns to soft moans, as you start enjoying it. Pain turns to pleasure, as you start to go faster. For the first time in what seems like forever, I give in and let instinct take over.

If anyone was still awake at that hour, they would have banged on the door to demand us to quiet down. Yet, no patron is sober enough to care. The innkeeper definitely wouldn’t want to disturb any customer, even if it sounds like they just might destroy the shoddy furniture. Repairing it will be just another chore for the boy.

I can’t say how long both of us lasted. I wake up what seems like hours later, to the cool darkness of the room. The sky outside still has a dark blue hue, a single crimson ray piercing it. The creeping sun looks like a bloody cut on the fabric of the universe.

My head is pounding, I can feel every heartbeat clanging like a brass bell. My mouth feels like I have eaten moss and not the fresh kind either. Sticky sweat covers my body. My arm and chest feel unusually warm and I can barely move. Someone is nuzzled up against me.

Could it be true? Could it possibly be really… you? You have no business being here. Not in the same bed with me. Slowly, yesterday’s events come back to me. The wedding… The royal feast… The tavern… A stir snaps me back to reality. I can finally see who I am in bed with. Relief washes over me as I notice it’s not you, followed by a pang of regret. I take a moment to look at the young girl that spent my night with. A sweet little thing. But she is not you.

Shame bubbles up as I start remembering, realizing my own weakness, something a man like me should not have. Last night, I wanted to take my life, but what would that say of the man who brought down empires without lifting a sword. Losing my wits, my single and most prized possession, to drink, even on your account, is something that should never have happened.

She stirs again. I run my fingers through her hair. I have to admit, she has provided a much needed release. However, even though she has been a delight to have, right now she is nothing than a loose end. Sure, I could pay her off and leave her be. But I do remember how she looked at the coin purse. She may be simple, but even a moth will always be drawn to fire. And a loose end must be dealt with before it ends up unraveling the canvas.

She sighs deeply and she smiles at me. I smile back and gently push her off. Her skin is cool to the touch. She’s too sleepy to notice me getting on top of her. I caress her cheek and go down her neck. Her eyes snap open as my fingers curl around her neck, pressing and squeezing, closing like a vice. She is trying to gasp for air and scream at the same time, but all I can hear is… silence. I see the tears flowing. As much as I would want to stop, I am committed to this course of action. After all, she is nothing but a vulnerability, a loose end. She digs her nails into my hands, trying to pry the fingers away. She is almost spent, yet she finds enough strength to reach out and claw at my face. Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in my left eye. But I don’t release my grip. The silent screams subside as she slowly drifts away.

I get up, go to the water basin and splash some my face. I can barely open my left eye. It is still ginger to the touch. She drew blood. Can’t blame her. She may have lacked your spark, but she was not that dim witted to give in to death without a fight. A few red drops fall into the water. I look around and find her blouse. Looks clean enough and it’s not like she is going to miss it. Should do the trick until I can patch it up back in my quarters. I rip a bit and tie it just so that the wound is kept covered.

As I put on the rest of my clothes, I wonder how to make my escape from this wretched place. It is quiet. Nobody knows her fate, nor that I am the one she shared her bed with. I could jump out the window, even though I haven’t done that in a long while. But then I remember she did provide a much needed release, it would be bad manners to leave her like this.

I close her eyes and wipe away the sweat off her now cold skin, before I arrange her body in bed. If someone should come in, it would appear as though she is sleeping peacefully. Just as I pull the covers over her, I notice rivulet of dried blood on her inner thigh, as well as a splotch of red on the sheet. Was she a maiden? She couldn’t have been… could she? I mutter a curse under my breath. I decide to empty the remnants of my coin purse on the table next to the bed. After all, it was what she was after all along.

I open the door and listen. Not even a single peep. I slowly close the door behind me and deliberately make my way down the wooden stairs, stepping over my former drinking mates, who were now snoring, far too drunk to make their way home or to their rooms.

The sky is still dark enough to see the stars twinkling. The crimson ray  on the horizon turned to shades of orange and dark yellow. The street is deserted, even the most diligent of the village’s denizens still sleeping off last night’s excesses. Apparently so are the gate guards. None of them even budge when I accidentally kick one of the bottles lying empty on the stone floor. I will need to remember to punish them. But not now.

I make my way to my quarters and clean the cut. Still can’t open my eye fully. A look in the mirror shows a thin scar, spreading across the eyelid and a little under the eye. An easily recognizable mark. For a puppetmaster, someone who should always stay in the shadow, it may come to haunt me.

My reflection sends me a wicked grin. If there is one thing I hate about this mirror, it’s my counterpart’s impertinence, his enjoyment over my building frustration and desolation. It’s like he’s patiently waiting for something. For once, I willingly act on my first impulse. In one fluid motion, my left arm reels back and snaps forward, towards my reflection’s nose, dead set on wiping the stupid grin of its face. The result is less than satisfactory. The impact sends a shock from my fist through the wrist and into the elbow, effectively numbing it. What’s even worse? The mirror is shattered into a hundred pieces, each and every one showing him, laughing at the futile attempt of ridding myself of him.

I pick the bits of glass from my hand and wrap a cloth over it. These tiny gashes I can easily hide. The face, however, is another story. I patch it as best I can, avoiding my counterpart’s gaze. To my dismay, the scar doesn’t go unnoticed, my glamouring skills aren’t as good as I’ve thought.

Everybody sees it that very same day. You look worried, the king stares, but neither of you says nothing. However, the damn fool, always tongue in cheek, always quick witted, does speak up. Sinister, he calls me, in a flurry of proper and pig Latin. Not long after, he considers it suitable to dub me Lord Sin, a name that puts a smile on your father’s face. He starts using it on a daily basis. The lords pick it up as well and start using it during councils. Even you begin using it, sheepishly at first, then teasingly, even sensual at times. I play it off.

The scar. The name. All are a reminder of my moments of weakness. But, each time you speak it, it twists the knife. With each and every utterance, my blood is boiling more and more. Something all of you will soon regret.

Enough for now, my dearest. Time to set the stage and get the puppets ready. You will definitely not want to miss the next show. It will be my greatest and will require cold blood to pull off.

To be continued...