Chapter Text
Once Tristan was separated from his brother and Rachel, the masquerade ball became a blur of unknowns. Hundreds of dazzling dancers dressed in all manner of finery paraded around the ballroom. Silken capes, beaded velvet, shimmering embroidery. Fabric flowers that looked real, exotic feathers from birds Tristan could only dream of recognising, frills and ruffles to have been the envy and misery of many seamstresses in the city. It was something he had never seen anywhere else in his life. He could only imagine what the royal balls would look like, but then again, he had his doubts if such secrecy was allowed in the palace.
Tristan himself wore something basic – a black-and-white tuxedo and a mask with two dog’s ears perking up from the top. It was fortunately not too out of place with a vast majority of the attendees. The last person Tristan wanted to be as a newcomer was someone who stood out. Here, he could spectate and get a sense for what the many strangers of the ball partook in. As much as a masquerade ball could disguise someone’s identity, it could not disguise a man dancing with another man, not when outfits and hairstyles were so starkly coded to each gender like night and day.
It was times like these where Ardhalis truly felt like a city of sorrows. So, Tristan drank a glass of wine, and then another. Maybe with a few shots of alcohol in his system, he could forget he was gay. Unfortunately, it only seemed to make those in the crowd wearing dresses much more unapproachable. Actually, it seemed to make everyone unapproachable. Even if no-one remembered him after tonight, he was way out of his depth.
What was he thinking? He came all this way, to the academy, to the ball, thinking that he belonged anywhere else but the prison of his childhood home. All he ended up doing was proving his father right. He was failing his physical exams in the academy, he was too soft to face half of what the academy was preparing him for, and he was delusional enough to think that anyone in their right mind could be as queer as he was.
Why did he expect a woeful city to harbour the joy he so desperately sought?
He turned to leave, snaking through the vibrant crowd that moved like a waltzing tide threatening to wash away anything that he thought made him himself. Once he left the ballroom proper, he breathed labouredly like he’d just been smothered or strangled, otherwise he would have cried. It wasn’t like anyone would see the tears anyways.
He stopped when he was outside, in the moonlight-swathed gardens of the estate. The fresh breeze on his skin was somewhat sobering. He stood under a lamppost, by a small fountain walled in by hedges and garden beds of white flowers. The quiet hush of water, the wind stirring the tallest leaves, the distant symphony elsewhere in the estate – those were the sparse sounds that decorated silence’s company. In a way, the garden reminded him of home, where he would hide amongst the hedges when he didn’t feel like standing up to his father when he was being intolerant.
He would read the books Alexander got for him, imagining himself in someone else’s shoes, imagining himself in love. It had never felt more like a distant fantasy than it did that night.
“I am glad I am not the only one to find more solace outside of the party.”
The voice startled Tristan. He had not realised there was someone else in the gardens with him, but now he realised he was not alone, he noticed there was a man standing on the other side of the fountain. His morning coat was black, his shoulders framed by sections of golden embroidery that glistened in the moonlight. Tristan could make out the form of the mask he wore – an elegant white mask with large white ostrich feathers pluming from the sides, almost overshadowing his dark hair. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, and his voice, but Tristan couldn’t place it. He had met many people over the past few weeks and trying to single out a single person out of the many he had met while he was inebriated was impossible. All he could deduce was that the man spoke like a nobleman, and he seemed about the same age as Tristan.
“I cannot say I expected to find anyone else out here. The gardens are certainly beautiful, are they not?” Tristan said as he approached to accompany the stranger.
The man did not look around to inspect the flowers. Instead, his gaze beneath the mask fell on Tristan. “As are you.”
The compliment caught Tristan completely off guard. He could have mistaken it for a simple friendly remark, but never once had any friend called him beautiful.
“You flatter me, but you are complimenting a mask,” Tristan told him, neither accepting nor denying the compliment.
The pale-masked man made a gesture of indifference. “Sometimes a mask can reveal more about someone’s heart than their own face. It is a way to wear your heart on your sleeve without others judging you for who you once were.”
“Then you have a very dignified heart,” Tristan said. If they both wore masks, there was no harm to be done in a bit of flirting.
“Really? I would have thought my mask seemed more… bitter.” The man touched his own mask in contemplation, feeling its decorations as if trying to understand what was seen in it.
“Ardhalis is full of great bitterness. You are the lesser of that, sweet even.”
“I never would have thought of the harsh caw of a crow nor the vindictive hiss of a swan to be sweet,” the man said. “You must be ever sweeter, to bless a stranger with such unrelenting kindness.”
“You speak of strangers as if they are vagabonds. In you, dear stranger, I see a king uncrowned, a prince that belongs somewhere other than in a garden with a humble simpleton.” His remark was met with silence, and the man seemed a little tense at the mention of kings and princes. Perhaps he had gone too far with endless flattery, but it didn’t seem the right time to stop. He recalled a poem from a favourite book of his, a story of two princes falling in love in spite of adversity.
“Wherefore does thou grief prolong,
“Cut thy soul, usurp thy heart?”
Before he could continue, the man finally spoke:
“Prove thine absent spectres wrong,
“May we dance, before we part?”
The stranger approached and extended a hand towards Tristan, such a mannerly and precise gesture dedicated just for him. He could have mistaken such politeness and eloquence to be directed towards royalty.
This man was a stranger, one as fleeting as the summer night they stood underneath. He would disappear at dawn’s approach, into that fading starlight, and never to be seen again. It was tragic, and yet to have an opportunity like this, Tristan could afford the heartbreak. He took the man’s gloved hand in his own, gently pulling him forward. A little emboldened, his other hand roamed to the man’s waist, taking the lead. The swathing melody of their surroundings, dominated more by the ambience of the night than the gentle music being played elsewhere, ushered them to waste no time in taking their places and moving into a slow dance.
It was a little awkward at first. A combination of nerves and the other man trying to figure out where to put his feet led Tristan to accidentally step on one of his feet.
Immediately Tristan stopped and blurted out: “Oh my gods I’m so sorry-”
“No no, it’s fine. I didn’t feel it.”
“Are you sure? My shoes are rather sturdy, and they can do serious damage.” Tristan neglected to mention, for good reason, that he had these particular pair of formal leather shoes reinforced in case of emergencies, although they were mostly deceptively strong just to deceive his father into thinking his pathway in life was more passive than it actually was. The direst circumstance the shoes had faced was when Tristan had kicked his brother for… reasons and left him bruised for a solid week.
“I’m sure. It’s fine. Heels are worse,” the other man humoured him.
Tristan laughed. Heels did seem a nightmare and he could only imagine how many times the swan-masked man had faced the business end of those foot spears to make that comment.
“How often do you do this, then, dear Swan?” Tristan teased. “Enchanting lone souls in moonlit gardens?”
“How often do you seduce strangers with your impeccable taste in literature?” The man responded without missing a beat.
Tristan led the Swan through a spin and a slight dip. As he held the man close to him to prevent him from falling, a fleeting moment of intimacy and vulnerability in their dance, a playful smile presented itself upon his face. “Literature isn’t the only thing I have good taste in, so it seems.”
The Swan didn’t seem to know what to say to that. His words, his breath, had all been taken away by this stranger. He managed a laugh, overcoming his momentary fluster. “You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?”
“You’re too precious for me to shut up about it.” Tristan told him softly, that deep, suave timbre to his voice enriching the impassioned atmosphere about them. Their arms locked around each other like they would never separate as they paced around the small courtyard. The soft glow of lampposts cast across each other’s faces intermittently, fleeting glimpses where, for a second, their gazes seemed to reach deeper than the darkness of their masks’ eyeholes. The fragrance of the garden’s flowers swept across the little space between them, a scent that was surely now forever tied to this memory for both men.
The dance was slow, for there was nothing more purposeful than moving in sync with another kindred spirit. Neither truly knew each other, not by name nor by face, but they felt so deeply about each other while they rocked from side to side in their embrace. For once, for that tranquil moment, it was simply two people in love, whatever type of people or love that may be. It felt like hours while they were in that moment, but when the great clocktower of the city rung out for midnight, it suddenly felt like such a fleeting moment of time they had been together. Neither of them wanted it to end, but reluctantly they came to a halt and faced each other.
Moonlight stretched across their masked faces, no longer quite so unfamiliar to each other. There was curiosity there, intrigue, but nothing so cruel to treat the other as an oddity. There was a comfort in their anonymity, which grew to despair and desperation as their dance finished. The Swan was surprised, then, when Tristan moved a hand towards his face. For a moment, he froze, wondering if Tristan intended to demask him, to find out who he was, to break the convention of the masquerade. Instead, Tristan caressed the Swan’s cheek.
“Thank you,” Tristan said quietly. The way he spoke was filled with emotion, such that even Tristan himself could not describe how he felt. It was sadness, it was courage. It was hope and heartbreak and happiness. Perhaps it was even passion and pride. So much more could have been said, with words that Tristan struggled to place, but words fell rather short of something so cherished between them. Instead, the Swan gave him a small nod, to know he understood completely.
“It’s hard to say goodbye so soon, isn’t it?” the Swan said, his voice thick with melancholy.
“I have faith we’ll meet again, so why would I say goodbye?” Tristan smiled. “But for now, I have to go.” He parted from the stranger he had grown so fond of, though it felt like forcing two immense magnets apart.
Though the Swan had his doubts, he returned the same sentiment. “In that case, I’ll be seeing you.”
“Until next time, handsome,” Tristan teased as he waved goodbye.
The Swan paused, out of sight, stunned.
Now hold up just a second-
/////
Tristan followed Alexander from the car to the house. He was in a daze, so overwhelmed with all that had happened that he felt like passing out. Then again, it was probably the alcohol. He walked up the stairs to the front door, something which his feet disagreed with, and he found careening into the doorframe. Okay, it was definitely the alcohol. How had he been so confident earlier? Had his nerves finally caught up with him?
Alexander heard the sound of Tristan’s collision with the entryway and helped him regain his footing and close the door behind him. “Everything alright Tris? You haven’t spoken since you got in the car.” Tristan took a long time to process and Alexander, impatient for a response, pinched his cheeks and jostled him about. “Do you copy, Tristan? Hellooooo?”
“Alex…” Tristan finally said with a very empty-headed expression, and Alexander stopped shaking him to listen. “I think I’m gay.”
“No shit. How much did you drink?”
“Uhh…” Tristan tried to think, but it was a lost cause. Who had the mental capacity to do things like think when his mysterious, masked dance partner from the party was all that inhabited his brain? “I don’t think I’m that drunk, just… uh…”
“Did you actually find a dashing young fellow to spend some time with?”
“Maybe,” Tristan said, although judging by how flushed his face was and the hopelessly giddy smile on his face, it all but confirmed the fact. “It turns out quoting Vincent-unapproved literature is… very effective.”
“I’m glad my valiant efforts from those years were not in vain. I’m happy for you, Tristan.”
“Thanks Alex,” Tristan said, and then broke out into a huge yawn. “…I need sleep.”
His older brother yawned as well, evidently in the same boat as him. “Get as much as you can, you have classes tomorrow.”
“Fuck,” Tristan groaned defeatedly, and clambered up the stairs. “Why must reality be so cruel and deny me the tender embrace of another?”
Alexander watched his brother ascend each step, staggering like a dead man risen from the grave once more. “Reality is going to be a lot more than cruel tomorrow when you get a hangover.”
“Reality is already cruel enough whenever I have to see your dumb face,” Tristan mumbled back. “G’night, ‘Lex.”
“Night, Tris.”
/////
“I thought you said you weren’t going to attend the masquerade.”
The voice caught Dakan by surprise, but at the same time, he somehow expected it. He was right in front of the door to his private quarters, so close to having gone through the entire castle unnoticed. If not for Lizbeth, it would have been a perfect night. It was dark, and yet he could make out the pale skin of her face and her dark grey eyes.
Lizbeth had only been in Ardhalis for a few years and yet was already very smitten with Prince Philip. Dakan had sat and watched as Philip, his dear friend, was warped by her influence. She was a cunning thing, never wearing any aggression on her sleeve but with fangs curled just out of sight. Dakan had seen her strike before, fast and vicious, with no mercy.
He contended with the discomfort and anger stirring in his chest at her presence. “I did not want anyone to pry,” he responded tersely, casting her a meaningful look. “Gods forbid I indulge myself for once without the whole world knowing of it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am turning in for the night.”
“There is no need to be so hostile towards me, Rhysmel,” Lizbeth told him. “But go back to your sulking if you must.”
Dakan gripped the feathered mask in his hand a little tighter as he felt his emotions stirring. He knew better than to speak out of turn but being subservient to the likes of her made his blood boil. He should have walked into his quarters and let the matter go, but he couldn’t resist it. His eyes, glinting in the dim light of the hallway, fixed on her like a barb in a wound.
“You humiliated me,” he said in a low voice.
Lizbeth crossed her arms and eyed him evenly. “This again? Nothing is stopping you from moving on from that. It was a long time ago. Stop being childish.”
“You used me, and I’m not going to forget it.”
Lizbeth took a step closer, scanning the mix of emotions from the night that resulted in a reddish tint to his face. “You are drunk.”
Dakan’s gaze remained steady, but he fleetingly moved a hand over his own face self-consciously. “I hardly drank.” It was true. He did have a little to drink, but not nearly enough to be irrational. He was well aware of how sober he was at all times. He had to be.
“You should consider if you’re even reasonable enough to be having this conversation.”
“Do not make it seem like I do not know myself. I will not tolerate you dragging me through the mud any more than you already have.” In truth, he did not know why he continued to seethe at her. Perhaps he just wanted to have the last word for once.
“Judging by your mood, I’d take it there was precious little meaningful company tonight?” Lizbeth scrutinised.
“As a matter of fact, there was,” Dakan told her with a triumphant grin. “Sorry to prove you wrong, your majesty.”
“We both know no-one would want you without the mask,” Lizbeth shot back, and she was pleased to see a scowl replace his smile. She continued. “Not even that… who was it again? That rowdy good-for-nothing law student, whatever you see him as.”
“He’s a good friend, nothing more,” Dakan told her firmly. “What is it that you want from me? Was that ball not enough? You already have Philip. You won that game. Do you want to tear me apart purely for your own satisfaction?”
Lizbeth closed the distance between them, too close for comfort. It brought back phantom pains in his foot as the memory resurfaced from the ball. Her voice was a crass whisper, like the hissing of a snake. “It brings me no pleasure to involve myself with you any more than I have to. I know what men like you are like.” She leaned in even closer, poised right beside his ear, a hand gripping at his lapels. He recoiled slightly, his stomach twisting. He wanted to shove her or do anything that would get her away from him, but he couldn’t bring himself to. She continued to speak. “You hide in the shadows, whisper in people’s ears. You get in over your head over all the things you don’t have, all the things you think you deserve, all the changes you need to make to this world. You lie and claim innocence, but there is always spite and selfishness in your heart. You would tear apart this kingdom if you had the chance.”
She backed away, expecting him to break his composure once more. Instead, he raised his chin a little, steel in his eyes, and responded placidly: “I am indebted to my King. I will serve him and his people faithfully for his generosity towards me. I only desire to see this kingdom less miserable.”
A sardonic flick of Lizbeth’s lashes was a characteristic little eyeroll of hers. “Oh please, Rhysmel. Your chivalry bores me.”
Dakan held her lightly by the shoulders and pried her away from him. At an arm’s length, he leaned a little closer, with a level glare. His expression was dangerous, one of a wolf’s. “If I had none, I would have pulled apart every word you had ever told me for that entire ballroom to see. I would have had my revenge by now and left with you with nothing.”
“So you say.” Lizbeth said dismissively, but it was a weak refute. She shrugged his hands from her arms and returned a bitter gaze. “I am not the one who has to hide behind a mask.”
Once again, he smiled as he responded coyly, emboldened by the magical masquerade he had attended: “Who said I was hiding?” He opened the door to his chambers behind him, giving a sarcastic bow as he stepped into the room. “Good night to you, Lady Lizbeth.”
With that, he closed the door, ending the conversation. He listened for a moment longer as Lizbeth sighed to herself, muttered something intelligible about him and walked off with the distinct clacking of her heels. There was a rush of satisfaction he had from having the last word, to proving a point, then it subsided into silent contemplation as he set down his mask on a nearby table. He remembered the dance he shared with that stranger, his words coming to him as he traced over the porcelain surface of the mask.
Ardhalis is full of great bitterness. You are the lesser of that, sweet even.
Then there were Lizbeth’s words, equally as potent. We both know no-one would want you without the mask.
As if he was meant to dismiss the warmth of the other man’s hand clasped with his as being ingenuine. Was he meant to just ignore how the other man held him so surely by the waist, and so tenderly caressed his face? Words so soft, yet starkly honest. He had only seen that in one place before.
Until next time, handsome.
“You certainly are something, Tristan.”
/////
The royal ball was a memory that plagued Dakan’s mind over and over, like a swarm of locusts to a field. It happened before Dakan met Alexander at college, when most of his life was still centred around suffocating within the walls of the castle.
Dakan and Lizbeth were good friends at the time. She had been new to the city, one of many women hoping to court the Prince, although she had expressed to Dakan that she thought her odds were hopeless. Dakan liked talking to her as she was a change from the usual aristocrats that he hated associating with. He told her plenty about how Ardhalis worked, how their formal occasions worked. It was hard to remember anything explicitly positive that happened from their short friendship, only the whispered gossip between Lizbeth and the other nobles that he overheard. “Could you believe Rhysmel wanted to dance with me? I told him I was interested in Philip and yet he kept being so desperate.”
Dakan had never heard her speak that way to him before. Granted, she usually talked to plenty of people when she wasn’t around him, but he had never noticed her being quite so brash. He felt betrayed, and before he could stop himself, he confronted her. “I have never interested in you in that way, Lizbeth. I see you as a friend.”
“That’s not what you told me,” Lizbeth said haughtily. “You wanted to dance with me. You were adamant about it, even after I said no. You even told me to wear this hideous dress.” She knew her words had more sway than his. Her smile was all too telling.
Dakan had, indeed, asked her to dance, considering she was the woman he was closest with. She had agreed easily, unlike what she told the nobles now. She had asked him what dress she should wear. Mortified by the tale being spun about himself, he struggled to find the words to refute. Lizbeth’s little posse were laughing at him. What did he look like to them, he wondered? A lonely man desperate for a woman’s company? A liar. “You were the only person I trusted.” It was the only thing he could think to say.
“How sad,” one of Lizbeth’s companions chortled. The rest of them giggled and followed:
“Take a hint, Rhysmel.”
“They’ll never allow you in court.”
“Why do the Aevasthers keep someone like you around?”
That rhetorical question hit him hard. He was nothing without them, no-one. He was little more than a stray that the royal family liked keeping.
“What makes you think Lady Lizbeth would dance with you?”
Somehow, the shock of hearing that question made something snap within him. He needed some truth to get out of this situation.
“Because ballroom etiquette dictates that only a man and a woman may dance as partners,” Dakan said tensely. “If I’m being honest, I would much rather dance with a man, but that is apparently not a choice.”
“So that’s it, is it?” Lizbeth said. “You wanted to make Philip jealous? You know he would never swing that way.”
“How dare you, you two-faced cur!” Dakan snapped, his voice disturbing the guests closest to him. “Philip is like a brother to me!”
The insult stirred Lizbeth, who stepped forward, purposefully and incidentally slamming her heel down hard onto his shoe. “Don’t bring down Philip’s good name by thinking of a disrespectful mutt like yourself as his brother! Who do you think gave you that title, Sir Rhysmel?! Would the King not be ashamed to see how you act with it?! As if anyone would dance with someone as vain as you!”
Dakan remembered reeling from her remarks. The world felt like it was spinning, and he struggled to maintain his balance. He felt like he was falling from a wolf’s jaws, completely torn apart for everyone to see. Everything was out in the open – his relationship with Lizbeth, the sentiment he had for the Prince, his romantic interests, his heritage, his isolation. Everything had been splayed across the ballroom for Ardhalis’ aristocracy to pick at. He thought Lizbeth was similar to him – outcast, headstrong, trying to find a place to belong – but she was vile above all else. He was a fool to not see that sooner
He staggered on his injured foot and crashed into none other than Philip. The Prince looked at him, confused. “Rhysmel, what’s wrong?” Dakan’s wide eyes flickered from Philip to Lizbeth. Philip was a good friend, a good man. He was kind, affable, but he folded under any pressure or influence. Much like gold, he was shining and pure, but soft and malleable. Lizbeth would crush him and fashion him into a blade. He could see it already from the venom in her eyes.
Dakan wanted to warn his friend, to stand his ground and stop Lizbeth from continuing her rampage. But who was he to do such a thing? She was right. He was useless, a nobody. He did nothing but drag Philip down. He was only in his position because he was pitied. Anything he could say against Lizbeth would just be used against him, and the other nobles did nothing to stop them, for they all looked down on him and considered him an affront to high society.
“Forgive me, your majesty. I will be leaving now,” Dakan apologised briefly, desperately fighting back tears. He glimpsed Lizbeth’s thin, satisfied smile before he turned and rushed out of the hall.
From his chambers, he listened to the distant music swell as he tried to stop crying for hours. He felt like a child, and yet the tears wouldn’t stop. It was juvenile to think that what Lizbeth said had left him in such a state. His sobs hurt as he tried to stifle them, forcing his breaths out through little gasps and whimpers.
“Stop crying. You’re better than this,” Dakan told himself, finding himself frustrated with how weak his voice sounded. He sounded like the mutt Lizbeth said he was. A mangy stray desperately clawing at the heels of the royals, whimpering and whining. They didn’t care for him. They only pitied him.
What else had she said? As if anyone would dance with someone as vain as you!
It stung Dakan in a different way, riling up his anger instead of leaving him defeated. He clung onto that feeling, that determination. “Maybe I don’t deserve my title… my position… any of that…” Dakan muttered to himself. “But she’s wrong if she thinks… I don’t deserve love…”
Clinging onto this small seedling of hope, he pushed himself up to his feet and to his bookshelf, singling out a title he knew all too well. He lay down with it and opened it, the pages falling open to a passage marked with a folded corner. A smile broke through the tearstains, a sense of comfort and security washing over him as he read his favourite part of the story again, mumbling the words quietly.
“Wherefore does thou grief prolong,
“Cut thy soul, usurp thy heart?
“Prove thine absent spectres wrong,
“May we dance, before we part?”
If Lizbeth was wrong about that, she was surely wrong about plenty else.