|
The White Magic Key - Prologue By Ladymage Samiko (ladymage@mailcity.com) Comments: To my inspirations: William Gibson and the cyberpunk style, Archangel Protocol by Lyda Morehouse, and (patting personal copy) A Dictionary of Angels by Gustav Davidson. And, of course, all of the writers of the songs that I've quoted. ~~~~~The Chronicle~~~~~
It is raining today. Storming, actually. Most of the Keys--with the exception
of those unable to leave their rooms for various reasons--are gathered on the
top floor of the building known as the Palace. They usually go up to the roof,
which is landscaped as a good-sized park, for the weekly gatherings. The Board
feels it is good for the Keys to meet each other, to talk. It keeps the fragile
ones sane. And when Keys talk shop, they often come up with new ideas that keep
Masters coming back for more. It is amazing how creative those boys can be.
There is one Key who never talks to anyone during these hours, not if he can
help it. He is sitting at a window in the far corner today, watching the rain.
He almost seems a part of it, a still moment in the picture frame of the window,
an old daguerreotype in a beautiful composition of blacks and greys. To watch
him is to see true nobility, all poise, elegance, and simplicity. He is sitting
now. When he stands, his height makes him impressive, the young king ready to
pardon or condemn. Sitting, you are caught by the softness of his face, the
innocence in his eyes. For now, he is the child prince, raised to a world he
does not yet understand.
Few see that the expression on his face is truly expressionless. Or that, in
spite of his straight back and relaxed hands cradling a cup of tea, he sits as
close to the wall as he possibly can and never once does he seek to speak to
someone.
doko made mo tsuzuite iru ne It continues on forever ~~~~~End Entry~~~~~ "If you'll excuse the intrusion?" The White Magic Key glanced up to see one of the Palace staff, a handsome young man named Castor, standing next to him. He smiled politely. "Of course, Castor. What may I do for you?" It was incredible, Castor thought, that in spite of two years in the Palace, the White Magic Key was seemingly incapable of infusing that phrase with any level of innuendo. But it was comfortable and he was always flattered that the Key remembered his name. Very few Keys ever bothered to ask what it was in the first place. "Your Master has returned, sir," he informed the Key. "He requests your company when you are available." A slightly raised eyebrow was the Key's only reaction to the news. "Very well," he replied. "If you would, tell him I shall be there momentarily." "Very good, sir. I shall inform him immediately." With that Castor vanished in the soft-footed, self-effacing way that characterized all of the Palace staff. Ame no mukou hitori shizuka ni Silently I stood in the rain "But, Tor!" Marius was a small step away from falling to his knees and begging the Key to. . . To what? Explain? Obey? Leave? "Tor, I don't understand! Why won't you come? I'm talking about your freedom; it's not like you have to stay with me once you're outside!" The Key turned away from the picture window to face Marius. On his face was a sympathetic, somewhat pitying smile. "But do you not see, Master?" he said quietly. "I do not wish for freedom. I have no desire to be 'outside.'" "But-- but--" "No, I see you do not." The skirts of the grey robes he wore swirled slightly as he turned fully and settled himself beside the distraught young Master. The brunet looked at him beseechingly with tear-filled brown eyes. "You see, Master, this is were I belong. The Palace is my life; it is who I am." "But it doesn't have to be!" "Master," the Key replied patiently, speaking slowly, as one would to a small child. "The Palace is the reason I exist. I was born only because I was meant to take my place here as the White Magic Key. It is bred in me, Master, bred in my blood and bone. I shall never leave here, nor do I wish to. Here, I am surrounded by beauty and learning. Here, I have everything I could ever need. Here, I fulfill my duty as a member of the Toreador family. Outside. . . Outside has nothing I want." "But I love you!" Marius cried, the tears finally slipping down his cheeks. "And I am very fond of you as well, Master," the Key replied, taking a handkerchief from his sleeve to gently dry the young man's tears. Marius tore himself away, glaring accusingly at the grey-robed figure. "You don't understand! You don't understand at all! You're 'fond' of me! You don't love me! I don't think you love anybody! Or anything!" With those words, Marius ran from the room, slamming the door behind him. Adam Jeremiah Toreador did not move; he merely watched his former Master leave. "Poor boy," he said. "Poor, foolish boy." Uso no egao, boku ga dekinai I can't make lying faces ~~~~~The Chronicle~~~~~
The words the Toreador spoke have more truth than Marius knows. But then,
perhaps Marius' words have more truth than Adam--no, not Adam. His name is Tor
if one wishes to be informal--himself knows. Tor spoke the literal truth to
Marius; he was bred by the Toreadors for the Palace more carefully than a dog
breeder plans for a champion; his bloodlines extend back over a thousand years
and his genetic patterns are next to perfect. Though this is not common
knowledge; according to his family and the public, his genetic patterns are
perfect. But "There are more things in Heaven and Earth. . ." even if humans
are unwilling to recognize that fact. After all, how can the Toreadors, even
the Toreadors, account for the fact that Tor has a Heart? For the family has
been left without one for generations. And yet, though he does not love the
young Master who has just left him, he feels for him.
As the weeks pass, he doesn't bother to wait for Marius; he knows as surely as
Marius himself that the boy will never come back. He does not understand
it--and is sorry for it--but he knows that the boy has been hurt. Instead, he
busies himself with his books and music. A few more Masters come and go; they
are familiar and each is greeted with warm courtesy and politely attended to. A
new Master comes and he is welcomed with the same courtesy Tor gives all of his
Masters. But this Master does not notice--for he does not know--how Tor seems
to pull into himself, how he is on the brink of sidling away from his Master's
advances. I see and know, but he does not, for he sees only the large grey eyes
that look up at him, the child face, the boy before him who seems so terribly
young. It does not matter to him who the boy is or how he reacts. That Tor
refrains from bolting only because he is a Toreador and that is not how a
Toreador would behave. And because he does not understand why this Master is different, why this Master--like a few others--makes
him want to run to the depths of the Palace and lock the door behind him.
He is alone when the Master leaves. He breathes a sigh of relief and tries to
piece together shattered nerves. Fighting back nausea, he wraps a robe around
himself and pads out of his room and over to the window. It is cloudy again
today, though it does not rain, and the world is a soft canvas of greys, which
soothes him. He is too high to see the bustle of people in the city below and
so the view is peaceful; it is empty and comforting.
He leans his forehead on the glass, the smooth surface distractingly cool.
Conceding defeat at last, he staggers back to bed. Sleep is what he needs. To
calm his body as his mind and spirit erase the last vestiges of the pedophile
who has just taken him.
Tor is awakened abruptly when the curtains of his bed are jerked back. For a
brief moment, the fear washes over him; his Master has returned. But he blinks
carefully and raises himself slowly as he recognizes Fan, another of the Palace
staff.
"Would your Highness be so kind as to stand the fuck up?" Fan sneers. "Though
you may have the luxury of lying in bed all day, I damn well don't. And I have
less than an hour to clean this crap up before your next lover boy arrives. So
if it wouldn't inconvenience you too much to do your damned job?"
In surprise, Tor's eyes almost widen. Never before has he been given so short
a time to prepare. And after one such as his previous Master, he is ordinarily
given a full day to recover at the least. Still. . .
"Of course, Fan," he replies courteously, rising. "I will endeavor not to get
in your way."
Why are you scared? ~~~~~End Entry~~~~~
|