The Game of Veils
A world of hollow masks
The halls of Wesbrooke bedazzled in all their grandeur. The gardens teemed with citizens and lords from every realm. And there they were—as the last flower of the vow fell into the pure flames that proclaimed their union... As that petal withered in the fire, something inside me withered too. Before I knew it, tears escaped my eyes.
“Are you okay, Bea?” Sheryl tugged my shoulder as she asked.
“I am quite alright—” A lie, after such a long time. I wiped my tears. “I just... maybe I’m too happy?”
I gazed at the scene before me, holding my ground. Never had I expended all my energy just to stand. In reality, I wanted to run towards the ocean, plunge my hands into its sands, and cry my heart out. But something nailed me to the spot.
“You aren’t fooling anyone, kiddo.” Cupid pushed through the crowd and stood beside me. Those words drew a gasp of pain from nowhere. Nearby eyes shifted to my tear-streaked face—they knew these were no tears of joy. I had to get out.
I turned, searching for an escape, but in this sea of people, with my vision blurred by tears, the only thing I could make out was the huge, lighted archway that might lead me away. I stumbled toward it, teary eyes nearly blind. My body failed me; every ounce felt heavier than the densest stars. As I clutched the archway, something dug into my skin. Warm blood oozed out—the sharp crystal carvings of it, invisible in my haze, now deeply engraved in my palms—just like how I clung to him; now I bleed.
I ran ahead, away from the arch, hoping to vanish into some unknown corner. Then something hit me hard in the navel. I shrieked and clenched the wall as fresh blood oozed out.
The sound of a thousand gasps filled my ears—the sheer horror of it all snapping me alert. In that moment, my tears dried, and everything sharpened into focus. There I was, on the stately balcony of Wesbrooke, overlooking the realm. My blood dripped along the pristine white rock of the railing and deck. The castle’s celebrated lights faded into the background against that dark red trail snaking over the stone.
I tried to run, but my legs buckled. I caught the railing of the stairs leading to the back. Nothing made sense back there. I trailed mindlessly wherever my instincts pulled me, ornaments falling off me and shattering in my wake. Before I could cross the gates into the woods and vanish down the trail—
“What in the Seven Heavens has gotten into you, Bea?” He shook me by the shoulders. My horrified eyes looked up at him. Even though I had nothing left to cry for, tears welled again. I tried to push him away with my bloody hands, soiling his ceremonial robes.
I began to sob. “Just go away, Greg. I have other things to ponder over, and I’ve already gloomed the day enough. Just leave—”
“Was anything wrong, Bea? Anyone who brought this upon you would be punished...”
I looked at him. How do I tell him—YOU brought this upon me? I bit my lip as tears flowed, then sank to my knees. He knelt too, trying to speak, but I closed my eyes and dissolved into sobs, wishing he’d just go away.
“Did you perhaps betroth your heart to Rosaline…? Is that why you’ve delved into such agony?”
I glared at him. I wanted to shout it out—but something held me back.
He pulled my hand over his shoulder and led me to the infirmary. The staff tended to my bloody hands.
“You do know there won’t be any consequences for the truth, right? It’s okay. I’m pretty sure I was a good rival in love—not everyone can win. It changes noth—”
Before he could finish, rage overtook me. “In the name of the Stars, Gregory! This costs me everything! It costs me my very being, my existence!”
He chuckled in surprise—I rarely erupted in anger. “I’m sure no conflict in love is that outrageous, Bea. It’s okay. Time has endless tales of men bewildered by the same beauty.”
“It’s not her, Greg. It’s you... Oh gods... It’s always been you.”
I finally let those words escape, as if life in me poured out with them. The agony of my confession echoed across Wesbrooke, drowning out everything else—settling into those halls like a shroud.
Anger, rejection, disgust—anything would have been a fair trade for the confession. But the laugh... the cackling that followed, joined by a million more. “You? For me? What joke from Theonia have you learned, dear friend? Have you been in those taverns for too long?”
He cackled as the last of me shattered in those echoes. The last spark drained away from my soul, leaving only a frozen, lifeless shell.
Silence settled. He walked past, then crouched mockingly before me. “Oh, seems like the Paragon of Olympus isn’t lying, lords and ladies! This might not be a joke at all!”
He knelt as his bride rushed into the infirmary—now flocked by all of Wesbrooke. “My darling, your dearest friend here has fallen for me. I know I’m a luxury to the lot, but oh my—to the other kind? This is fun.”
“Maybe a visit to the Summer Palace would work as a quick fix!” the Lord of Bristlewood laughed. “Try that, Bea! It actually works. We all have our sheepish fantasies, but the colors of the Summer Palace do just fine. You haven’t tasted the right things yet. I’ll do you a favor—let me pay for your travels to the Summ—”
“Don’t you dare speak another word, Gregory Kxylor of Wesbrooke.” I stood, locking eyes with him. “My proclamation of love might be a joke to you, but stop there. I now feel shame for losing my heart to filth like you.”
I turned to silent Rosie, head bowed, witnessing it all. I walked up to her. “Oh, Rosie, I pity you for wedding this abomination. I envied your life just moments ago—but dying with no one by my grave is better than this—” I looked at him, “That’s peace of another kind. I might live eons without a vow to another, but at least it won’t be this filth!”
“How dare you call the lord of the soil you stand on as filth!” The ministers ordered their sentries to charge. They forced me to my knees and slapped me.
I looked up. “He is filth, no matter where he stands—a being who can’t see through the veils of flesh can’t lead a realm to salvation.”
“That’s enough! Release him!” Rosie ordered.
“But—Lady Rosaline! He—”, she raised her hand to silence the guards, took my hand, and pulled me from the infirmary. Whispers trailed us, but none followed as the joke amplified—the laughter looming in those halls.
She led me to the stables, to her mare, then met my eyes. “Travel southeast. You’ll find the Never-ending Road—it will lead you home.” She pressed the reins into my hands.
“So you order me to leave after all this, Rosaline? Since when have you started behaving like a Wes—?” Realization struck. “Oh—you’re one of them now… Lacking on my part. My apologies, my lady, for falling for your husband.”
“Bea, you don’t have to lash at me like the waves of Aronor. Maintain your calm—mishaps in love are as old as time. Besides... I... I have nothing else to say.”
~☀️~
The memory lamp faded out in the looming dark of the Citadel’s Repository; it stopped hovering and slowly dropped into his hands. “That was the last I heard from her that day as I rode away from Wesbrooke’s hauntings…,” he murmured, placing the lamp back where he had taken it. “Never did I ever imagine I would be digging through the Cosmic Repository of Time to revisit those horrors again.”
We made our way back through the echoing halls of the citadel to the serene quiet of the tea garden. He drew a chair for himself at the table as the cups replenished themselves with fresh brew. “Better than narrating those horrors—something I am sure I would end up doing a very bad job at—I just let you witness them yourself. I must thank the memory lamps for that.” The cups clinked, and he let out a quiet chuckle.
Dearest Starling,
In light of recent events, and after endlessly musing over everything under the stars— I came to understand a few things.
The world is a living example of hypocrisy. It claims that everything it’s comprised of is beautiful and noble, yet it slowly discards the aspects of itself that don’t fit within its rigid framework.
When questing for the absolute, one finds it difficult to overcome this question: does that absolute they endlessly search for even exist, or does the world merely decree something to be part of the absolute as long as it serves or pleases them—or worse, as long as it is aesthetically accurate enough to dissolve into their illusion?
And this selective favoritism is not a trait of the world alone; any being within that world is no different. We forge our own “absolute truth” by meticulously choosing what it is comprised of—especially what we wish to be remembered as the past. I for one was no different in that aspect, in sculpting a story to be remembered. At one point, I even forgot to live the stories I was authoring.
It is funny how I referred to that memory you just saw as a ‘horror,’ as if I were underestimating how much I grew after it—or from it. Sure, it was a journey much like the voyage through the endless deserts of Myasa, but what is the value of a paradise at the end of it all if one is not aware of the depths of hell?
This winding path of life is often burdensome—but it is the “I” in us that makes it so. Do you realize that, Starling?
“I did this, I got this, I want this, I lost that, I— I— I…”—the desires of the “I” are the origin of this grand illusion of pain and pleasure. As long as a being glorifies that desire, the magnitude of both pain and pleasure is equally elated. This string that ties the world to desire is a curious thing: one wants to be free from it, but is too afraid of what will fill the void left behind when the game is gone.
Living for the world as the cosmos’s greatest showman must be tiring for all. I wonder if they realize that the collective truth of their existence will transcend realms beyond their grave—if they only tried to live, and not merely enact living. Even the enchanted dolls of Yeron can enact being alive—yet are they remembered after being reduced to dust? No.
So why romanticize this finely crafted past and call it the La Belle Époque, as the mid‑realms do, while your present can be just as lovely if you stop choosing what to remember and love it all—ugly and bliss, pain and elation, sad and low—without hypocrisy toward yourself?
Yesterday, the lords and ladies who gathered at the Citadel to neutralize the rising discord said, “How would this man, who lives like a heretic, ever help us preserve the greater good of everyone? He will just end up soiling us as well.” Oddly, I did not boil up this time, nor did I despair. I was rather relieved—for a reason I can’t quite articulate. For the sake of the hour, let’s say: I am no longer being a hypocrite to myself, nor am I outsourcing validation from the world. I am my own world now, and I feel resourceful…
Earlier, back at the Repository, I laughed looking at my troubled, perfectionist past self—look at him, trying to pour tea for the world with an empty teapot. Now I no longer have to worry about being that.
My serene face seemed to disturb the court; they were displeased by the absence of an outrage. But the Mage’s serene smile told me otherwise: things were proceeding according to our own leash. Alas, being a garden after being a battlefield for internal wars is unfamiliar—but needed.
And when the Lord of Aronor said, “Everyone in this court hasn’t changed since, but you, Betelgeuse—for one, something is different,” I could not quite witness the change he referred to. Yet things have indeed changed.
Relapsing back to old paths is still a possibility for us mortals. But owning your life—neither clinging to it nor trying to control it—is a peace of its own, my dearest Starling. It is an ecstasy no ale can bring.
And before I forget to mention—after hours of discourse in my court [and also after all the realms’ ministers crying out about the financial burdens of their realms], the lords and ladies of the court finally decided to halt all of their conquests. It was odd that they mustered up the rationale to do that, but thank the stars they did. This means the armies that shrouded the walls of Ivor—the realm that didn’t fall prey to any of the other realms—is finally open for discourse, now that the armies are out of the way. Hopefully, we—
(A loud thump rang against the door of my chambers, as if something heavy had hit it.)
There lay a letter outside the door at my feet, with the crest of the Ivory Tower… and it bore the words:
“Ivor long awaited this moment. Our realm awaits your arrival, Paragon of Olympus—or now, as they call you, Lord Betelgeuse of the Cosmic Citadel.”
PS: Raven has offered to bring letters from you to me, so if you have endless tales of your own my dearest starling, don’t shy away from sending for me.