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Let us march together, O happy hour
To the beat of upbeat drums
Without worries or concerns
Here at the grand Carnival of La Mancha (La Mancha!)
Through the heart of La Manchaland, the great parade marched.
Hundreds upon hundreds of bloodfiends sang their songs in unison, their unique voices, dances and outfits united in a quest to bring joy to the world.
Thousands upon thousands of people cheered together, feathers and backstreet dwellers from every district across the city gathered to bear witness to the glory of this endless carnival.
And at the center of this jubilance, she alone stood upon a great carriage of purple, The Princess.
The grandeur of the parade could not be matched, for it alone was the great Carnival of La Manchaland. And yet, when the princess was present, not one person cared for the song or the march.
For anyone who bears witness to her being, there are but two colors in the world—hair of white and eyes of crimson devouring the sight of all who are present.
She was the lady of the parade, the noble Dulcinea of La Manchaland.
She cared not for the suffering inflicted upon her.
She showed not the bloodlust consuming her soul.
Dulcinea was the most beautiful, the most elegant. She was to be the unreachable moon in the starlit sky, shining brighter than any other.
The lady of the parade, the daughter of Don Quixote.
How long has it been since she’s felt her title?
How long has it been since the father showed care for her? Consumed by his dreams as he was.
She was not what he wanted, she was not whom he loved. She could only be the light he hung in the sky, forever struggling to hide that she had long since sunk deep below the sea.
Dulcinea could never hope to be what her father wanted, she could never hope to share the joy of the humans who marveled at her presence.
This eternal parade was nothing more than an illusion, they were nothing more than a starved snake devouring its tail in search of sustenance. This endless cycle called La Manchaland, Dulcinea had long resigned to perpetuate forevermore.
Though the bloodfiends tired not, the sun must eventually set. Great fireworks were unleashed upon the sky, heralding rest in the kingdom of joy.
Dulcinea walked away as the march came to a close, her duties for the day done once more—to begin again when tomorrow comes.
But nay, it appeared as though the work of the princess was not yet done, for through guard and fence a lone girl ran.
With huff and puff she stopped for a moment, and with a shy demeanor brought out a bouquet of flowers.
‘It’s the same color as your hair.’ The little girl whispered, praise of her beauty trailing off into silence.
Similar, yes, yet it was not her hair. She was of platinum, so near perfection, yet not quite there—only enough to fool eyes in the distance.
The flowers however were of true purity, white as the moon in the starlit sky.
Before she could say a word or take the bouquet, the girl brought out another from behind her back.
‘It’s the same color as your eyes.’ She whispered once again.
Close, yes, yet it was not her eyes. Hers were of red and orange, not crimson as the flowers suggested—close, but not quite.
The flowers would fit her instead, the one whom her father loved so dearly.
‘They’re different.’ The princess said, yet the girl shook her head.
…
…
…
Ah, Dulcinea saw it now. Within the girl’s eyes, the truth revealed.
It mattered not that the dream was fake, it mattered not that she was imperfect. For the girl who stood in front of her, the joy the princess brought was real. That was why the people had come, to believe that ideals existed.
Could she share in their joy? She couldn’t say.
She could only force happiness upon her face and put on a mask of lies—to gracefully endure this cycle forevermore.
But when she took those flowers with a small thanks, perhaps the smile she wore became just a little easier to bear.
Once a month, the girl came—a familiar pair of white and crimson clutched behind her back.
When all other eyes had turned away from her, she alone would witness her imperfection. Her hair of platinum, her eyes of orange—the girl must’ve seen it at least a hundred times as the years passed.
Yet she still came, and she still whispered her adoration.
Dulcinea did not know her name, she couldn’t even recall her face or voice.
But in those small moments, perhaps there was joy in her heart, and perhaps she believed that she was loved by all those who cheered.
Perhaps she believed that their love could fill the hole in her heart, and perhaps she believed it could quench the thirst in her throat.
Was that why she spent her precious blood to maintain the youth of those flowers?
Was that why every bouquet still lay in her room to this very day? Fresh as the moment at which they were gifted.
It mattered not, the love she held for that little girl was nothing more than a mistake, one that still haunted her.
Their love did not fill a hole, their cheers did not quench her thirst.
Nay, they were nothing more than tiny stakes that pierced her wounded heart, silently awaiting the chance to make her suffer.
She could not bear the curse forever, the one sided love she held for her father could only stretch so far.
When she struck that man down in the middle of the parade, she found the little girl clutching his hand, whispering the word ‘father’.
It felt liberating, to finally have blood flow down her mouth, the joys of life returning in full.
It filled a hole in her heart, yet the sight of the weeping girl created a thousand more.
Perhaps she regretted it, perhaps that is why she reached out towards the girl, a ‘sorry’ on her lips.
It mattered not, what was done, was done. There was no returning those who were bitten.
The girl had come to Dulcinea a hundred times, and each flower gifted was a jagged stake.
All two hundred were pulled at once, tearing her heart and soul asunder.
There was only one thing that could fill those holes, so to drown the sorrow she continued to drink.
She drank.
She drank.
And she drank.
Yet the hole would not be filled.
Every person dried of blood would bear the girl’s face, as impossible as that was, pulling apart two hundred stakes more.
There was no going back, what was done…was done.
Dulcinea could not survive with a heart so wounded, so all she could was try to fill it.
Again.
Again.
And again.
But eventually, the blood ran dry.
…
It was so very silent, not a single cheer in the air, no song in her ears.
She opened her eyes, and found herself sunk deep below the surface of a great ocean, the sun no longer seen.
Yet when she gazed down, she found no end to the depths.
So she arose instead, struggling with all her being to reach the surface, telling herself that things would still be the same.
But when she finally found a gasp of air, she wished she had sunk to the endless depths instead.
She only heard one thing, the muffled waves of a great sea.
All that remained was her imperfect being, and a sea of crimson stretching out to infinity.
“Casetti.” She called out.
“Yes, mother?” He asked.
“What was the name of your sister?”
Casetti shook his head. “I don't know which kindred you refer to, mother.” The prince of the parade replied.
Dulcinea hummed for a moment, gently caressing the crimson flower in her hand.
Perhaps it was for the best. What was done, was done.