This freebie story for my surreal, steampunk Work in Progress, On the Other Side of the Mask was the result...
Lord Ruthvyn’s entire estate, from its gilded walls to its marble staicases was a birdcage. How many songbirds had been trapped within one of his bedchambers, smothered in luxury and madness, forced to sing until they dropped?
“Be grateful you were chosen.” Olympia shot Byron a smoldering sulk from under dusky eyelashes, shadowed by the brim of a top hat. An elaborate violet ribbon wrapped itself around it, matching the purple waistcoat and cravat she sported, a departure from her usual black bodice with purple laces. The effect was the same, contrasting with her lustrous blue eyes, more metallic in their brilliance than human orbs ever were. “I would have given anything to sing for our lord, but all I could manage was one miserable note.”
She slapped a gloved hand against the shield upon the wall, which depicted a wyvern rearing back its head at a tangle of thorns.
“It’s different.” Byron studied the coat of arms, the pattern in the bramble. Every thorn looked like a tiny, skeletal hand, reaching for pleading fingers to the haughty wyvern. “Wasn’t there a single rose in a griffon’s claw before?”
“Is that what it looks like to you?” Olympia cocked her head, turning her attention to the shield. “Everything changes in our lord’s estate, shifting in the eye of the beholder.”
“Tell me.” Byron had no right to give this lady, this favoured servant of Lord Ruthvyn, who’d been here far longer than he had orders, yet he allowed an imperious note to color his tone. How far could he push Olympia? “What does it look like to you?”
“Fancy yourself quite the little lordling with your lily white skin and your dainty ways, don’t you?” Olympia sneered, but there was a flicker of something very like in her sapphire eyes. Fear was a weakness Byron could exploit, even if it brought him dangerously close to being like Lord Ruthvyn himself.
“Once I was very much like you.” Byron could hear the echo of his new master’s melancholy voice in his memory, visualize those delicate hands, the narrow nose, the lustrous dark eyes shadowed with memories of a passion he could no longer feel, no matter how much he might hunger for it in others. “And you, my exquisite rebel child, are destined to become exactly like me.”
No. He would not. Byron was only using the techniques of the enemy to defeat the enemy. He didn’t enjoy the flicker of fear in a woman’s eye, even if she was yet another tool of that enemy.
Well, maybe he enjoyed it a little.
“To answer your question,” Olympia’s languid, sardonic tone brought him back to here and now. “I don’t see a coat of arms. I don’t see a shield at all. What’s on the wall is a long, wooden staff, perfect for beating a useless dummy with.” She leaned forward to touch the shield.
It vanished, becoming the very rod she described, carved with intricate, menacing symbols which might have been another language, or pictures too small to detect.
“You see?” She caressed the symbols with an intimacy, even though he detected a slight tremour in her satin-covered fingers. “It’s also perfect for hoisting a poppet high in the sky, right before you set her on fire.”
“Why does it take on such a shape for you?” Shelley would have asked this in a gentle, inobstrustive manner. For Byron, it became an urgent demand. “What dread do rods and staffs hold for you, Olympia?”
“What makes you think I dread them?” Olympia tossed her head, knocking the top hat askew. Stray ebon curls escaped from beneath to cling to her cheeks, emphasizing their doll-like perfect. She truly appeared to be more of a poppet than a woman. “Do you fear shields, little songbird? Or do you yearn to hide behind one?”
“Often.” There was something liberating in admitting this, even empowering. “A rod or a staff can offer comfort, according to ancient prayers from the lost world outside Paradise, but you see it as a tool of injury or death.” He cocked his own head, mimicking and mocking her gesture. “Something to beat someone or something with, or to hold her prisoner while you burn her.”
“You’re assuming I’m seeing myself as the victim being beaten or burnt.” She twisted her ruby lips into a smirk, but there was definitely fear in Olympia’s eyes now. The emotion brightened them, making them even more lustrous.
What would Lord Ruthvyn’s dark orbs be like, illuminated by such emotion? Perhaps a midnight sky, given vibrancy by the stars caught within them? A bit like how Shelley’s eyes sometimes reminded Byron of the sea, reflecting the sunlight above.
No. He recoiled a bit at his own thoughts, comparing Shelley to Lord Ruthvyn. The two were nothing alike. His feelings for his one companion and the tyrant whom held them both captive were completely dissimilar. Nor would he ever frighten Shelley, or take delight in Shelley’s fear. The very notion chilled Byron to the bone, bringing an abrupt halt to his fancy.
“Ah, it’s not so simple, is it, little songbird?” Olympia gazed at him, as if she’d guessed his thoughts. She allowed her sneer to soften into something vulnerable, almost human. “We all hold the potential to be victim and villain. Whether or not we can master our potential is another matter.”
“Can you?” He asked the question in a more gentle manner than his previous queries. He’d seen her fear, savoured it. Now he felt dirty, more than a little ashamed of how he’d revelled in his power over her.
“There’s a reason I’m Lord Ruthvyn’s servant and doll.” Olympia lifted her hands to adjust her top hat with a simple dignity, which belied her words. “Not all of us have what it takes to be pale lord and ladies, even if we are their favourites.”
Byron gazed at her, unsure how to reply to this. “Slavery is a state of mind as much as it a state of being.”
“The fact that you can view slavery thus shows how much farther you’ve come than I ever could.” The mocking smile returned to her lips. Olympia shrugged, dismissing her own words with a gesture. Once more, her eyes grew opaque, emotionless, a doll’s. “Not that I care to understand your words too clearly.”
There was something contradictory in her manner. Byron was certain that the face she presented to him was nothing more than a mask she wore, one Olympia had come in believe in over time.
Not that she gave him a chance to say anything about it. Olympia turned her back on him and marched out of his room.
Well. She wasn’t an ally, much less a friend. She was, perhaps, someone who could be worked upon, persuaded, manipulated. Given time.
Byron bit his lower lip. He tasted blood and bitter triumph, for it had been a petty victory scored against Lord Ruthvyn’s minion, one Shelley would have found cruel.
Cruelty might be called for, if he wanted to reclaim Shelley and get out of here. Byron would have to do much better…or worse than that.
He sucked on his lip and swallowed the bitter taste of himself.
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