The Ballad of Herr E.

    Somewhere a long time ago, two men stand facing each other in a round tower room. For the sake of pity and shame, let us call them Herr E. and Lord P. On our right, behold the coltish figure, understatedly clothed, and sleek blond ponytail of bespectacled, boyish Herr E.; on our left Lord P., aristocratic and deceptively youthful-looking, all velvet, rich auburn curls and sleepy-lidded smiles.

    They were lovers until a moment ago. But as Herr E. has just come to realize, they were never friends.

    Lord P.'s eyes glint emerald. Precisely, coldly. "What's the matter, darling?"

    "You could have told me." Forward Herr E., face blank. "You could have told me any time you wanted. You hid everything from me. Your life, my life: the life I could've had if I hadn't been so busy trying to scrape and bow and toady to you — For what? So I can end up like them? So you can lick my blood off your hands and mark me off on the list of poor fools who trusted you, let you get close, let you kill them? So you can waste the life you saved, just because you don't feel like leaving properly? You bastard — "

    The slap echoes across the room.

    "You bastard!"

    Out come the nails, slamming the taller man into the wall; before he can react, yanking him to the ground, teeth bared.

    "You monstrous, disgusting, horrible bloody bastard!"

    Lord P. yelps, out of shock more than anything — this is not the malleable, eager-to-please young naïf he's used to — but recovers quickly, fingers scrabbling at Herr E.'s throat. "How could I have possibly told you? You were supposed to work it out for yourself. They all were."

    "Work it out? Work it out?"

    As one they hit the floor, limbs tangling in a monstrous parody of the dark passion they'd so lately shared.

    "I'll show you how I'm going to work this out!"

    Lord P. winces as salt water spatters his ivory cheek; Herr E.'s face twists out of its usual flawless statuelike hauteur, sickened by the automatic unthinking urges of his own desire mixed with his own fury and loathing.

    "I — fucking — loved — you!"

    One hand goes to the hilt of his sword, and as it comes scraping out into the shivery air memories explode inside his head…



    Flash.



    A storm to rival the flood, and under it, deep in the woods, a young man is dying while another man watches.

    "Please… help me… I'll do anything you want, I can reward you… please, please, just don't let me die…"



    Flash.



    Safe and sound and full of gratitude. Gratitude that blinds him to the heightening familiarity, the hints, the touches that escalate, until there's no escaping — because he's also full of worship for the dashing figure that represents everything he always wanted to be (and was never allowed to reach, thanks to a cold and distant family), and by the time the touches have turned into removing clothing by firelight he wouldn't dream of refusing because he's convinced he's infatuated, wants more than anything to stay attached to this magnetic, magic man.

The cravat — his favorite red — hits the floor, and with it goes the last shreds of the person he's tired of being.



    Flash.



    "But why can't I come with you?"

    Herr E. knows his voice is cracking again, knows how pathetic it sounds, but he cannot and will not do anything about it. Lord P.'s generous lips bow into the smile that shows he's amused as he slips a hand between his paramour's collar and the fall of his queue, stroking the fair neck.

    "You'd be terribly bored, darling. And I won't be gone long. It's only a little change of pace."

    And when he returns smelling of smoky rooms, perfume and his little change of pace, Herr E. doesn't say a thing. Doesn't try to for long, at least. Not when those electric fingers he's so addicted to the touch of are knitting in his hair and casting aside its thin black ribbon tie, ready to carve into him the painful ecstasy that keeps him alive.



    Flash.



    And then long periods of disinterest, cold and inexplicable abandonments leavened only by the briefest of intimacies that wound more than they satisfy in their thoughtlessness. He's become a habit. Perhaps even a duty, one that's lost its excitement but still needs to be attended to, like a hastily married wife who has the misfortune to age.

    And there's not a thing he can do about it.



    Flash.



    And now it ends.

    Red, covering the walls…



    Flash.




    "What's the matter, charming?"

    Herr E. starts from his waking dream, blinking, and turns to see his small sweet wife smiling at him with the expression of wary concern she often wears in his presence; she knows him well enough to become suspicious when he sits quietly for too long. He remembers to smile, making her blush.

    "Oh — nothing. Really. I was just thinking about something that happened a long time ago."

    She smiles back more warmly now. Leaving her spot across from him on the cushy window seat, she snuggles herself into his lap (where she fits as neatly as a purring kitten, has done for more years than he can believe now) and runs a hand over his satiny hair. "I hope it was something nice."

    Flashes of memory…  

     "Not really." He deftly avoids her sharp glance, knowing it will see every detail reflected in his eyes. "It was one of those sad memories that you don't like me brooding over. But it wasn't so bad."

    "Oh?"

    "No." Winding his fingers into her hair — glinting coppery in the sunlight, so familiar; so similar, except that Lord P. never left the house before nightfall — he gazes through the window to where three of their children play. One of them catches his eye, immediately lighting up under her father's attention even at this distance, and waves, mouthing time-honored words as she runs to snatch up her lately abandoned jump-rope: Daddy, look at me. "It was before we were in love, just after we became friends. Sad memory — but I guess it was a good one at the same time. Or a valuable one at least."

    "You've sure got a lot of those."

    "Guess so." A shrug, as if talking about a spot of mud on his pristine white suit. "I'm just lucky I've got a better master now, right?"

     "Master?"

     "Sure. You. I've got to belong to someone, don't I?"

     "Of course not!" She crosses her arms, round girlish cheeks flushing in irritation (but also, he knows, with pleasure at the thought of him calling himself her own). "I thought you had that all figured out a long time ago. You don't hafta belong to anyone but yourself."

     "But that's so boring." He kisses her neck, then again; when she protests, a few more times. "If you belong to someone, it gives you a reason for living, a reason for doing… a reason for waking up, even. You know I like to be given something to do."

     "Well, you never were all that good at keeping yourself occupied," she jests, pawing gently at him.

     "Nope," he cheerfully agrees. He pulls back for a moment to look her in the eyes. "And now I don't have to. Because now when I wake up I can say 'How can I make myself better?", but it's not for any stupid selfish reason. It's so I can make you proud."

    The pleasure lasts for a moment, before replaced by unease. "But… you said that's what you wanted back then. You know, with him." Subject implied and understood by both. "Is that what you were thinking about? Because I don't — "

     "Not at all!"

    She blinks.

     "Okay, fine. I was thinking about him. But it's not the same situation at all. You know how I said 'stupid selfish reasons'? Well, that was one. He was one. It was never really about making him proud, although I probably would've had a fit if you told me that back then. It was more like 'if I make someone so magnificent pay attention to me, look how impressive I must be.' You helped me realize that."

     "I did?"

     "Yes. By telling me I didn't impress you at all."

     They laugh.

    "Seriously, though," he says at last, wheezing a little, "that's not why I fell in love with you."

    "What was it, then? My fortune? My knockout body? My glamorous family name?"

    He laughs some more, because of course she, sweet farmer's daughter, never had any of that. "Hell, no. It was because you loved me." Catching the Eh? in her expression, he explains. "Not my looks, or my talents, or my glamorous family name. Plain old who I am, cracks and all."

    It's this face that he loves best: almost surprised, beaming, round doll eyes aglow and plump lips parted in an innately lit display of fireworks joy. The flashes of memory are obscured by her illumination, always.

     "Dad's a blacksmith, remember? I learned it from him. Broken things need the most care."



    There'll always be that face flickering in the darkness, a pale flame waiting for him to close his eyes. But it's only a nightmare now, a bad dream that belongs to a scared boy reaching out for some meaning and seeing that meaning in appealing madness. And eventually, all nightmares end, giving way to the welcome sun washing the images of fear from our eyes.



    The answer wasn't long in coming when he asked her one night, when their love was still a soft new thing:

    "What does it mean when they say love is blind?"

    "I guess it has to be."

    "Why?"

    Her second answer, slower in coming, but no less confident:

    "Because it's so bright."