The Lord and my Lady

Woods all around. They stretched as far as any eye could see. Nothing existed beyond or within these woods, nothing good that is. Deep within the heart of the woods lived a Lord of sorts. He once commanded the little village that lay surrounding his manoir. These days the Lord had little to command but his home. For a time he paced along his dark dusty hallways leaving only a trail, where his feet shuffled passed. Ghost-like, he made no noise walking from room to room as if to check on his guests, of course there was none to be found.

        Down the stone stairwell into the mass hall his search would end. There he stood frozen for a time. While around him, underneath the shadows they watched. The eyes of every dark thing that lived within his manoir. They moved when they should've stayed frozen. They breathed with no lungs in their chest. As the Lord stood motionless like a statue should, they came to life instead.

          The sound of a slow tear, pulling at the seams of reality creeped maniacally from the room, as the dead breathed and the living ceased. Surrounded, by the sound of ripping terrible, dusty, dry, molded flesh, the Lord did not move. The stone stairwell cracked and the 25 foot ceiling shook loosening yet another bolt. As though, all of his will demanded on it, the Lord crooked his neck upward. Above his preview darkness rose spiralling upward animating everything it touched.

        A hardened grin grew and spread across his entire face replacing any other feature as it widened. “My Lady,” he spoke aloud with a hint of anger. Tight lipped, he grinned with pure unadulterated delight. The manoir shook as if it was cold or disgusted. The Lord affixed his gaze on one painting that hung center in the mass hall. This painting was the only one to still retain its lifeless form. Even though it was void of life, it held the Lord's gaze for quite an inappropriate amount of time.

      This painting was a woman, a beautiful woman.  She had dark shoulder length hair with streaks of grey throughout her crown. With porcelain skin and odd lavender eyes that seemed to hold a soul. She was adorned in the finest Chinese silk the color contrasting her porcelain skin. Like a rare black pearl amongst a sparkling reef of iridescent shells. Something small and cold lingered on the Lord's shoulder and for a moment his grin dimmed. Not from fear as one would think, but pain with a hint of loathing, self loathing. As quickly as the feeling came it flew away and his treacherous grin regained control of his face.

      Tiny steps crept down the stairs as the Lord remained still, staring at the only painting that remained so lifeless. The footsteps came closer as they descended the final step of the stone stairwell. “My Lady,” the Lord repeated once again, with teeth clenched tight. His gaze did not leave the painting not for even a single moment as the tiny fingers connected to the tiny body whose tiny feet had crept down the stairs, reached out to touch him. The weight of it broke his mind even further. Without a word the Lord shook like the manoir and like the manoir yet another tether broke free.

       Just like before, out of his mind, the tiny finger did fly and once more the Lord stared. Drawn deeper into the painting every detail more alive than even himself. She stood lips rouge, cheeks flush with both hands outstretched. The Lord stared at her lips as though they were going to speak and he need not miss one syllable. But she would not speak, move or do anything at all. Grinning insanely he invoked, “my lady!!” All the dust within the manoir formed a shadow, a mischievous form bent on silence was born in that moment.

      This shadow loomed over the Lord menacingly, threatening to silence him permanently. The Lord, just as insane as before barely flinched. His grin, far more teeth than lip he exhaled than inhaled deep. Again looking deep into the only thing that would not move. The Lord could feel the manoir shake again as the dust, once a shadow, took its rest upon the old stone manoir. Now, all of the Lord, looked disheveled. His hair a dusted mess, his face smeared with grease, no matter, his sanity still eluded him as his teeth ground down upon each other. He grinned hard and dark invoking all the darkness in the manoir to breath, to descend upon him.

      He fell to the ground drifting in and out of consciousness. Seeing her as he drifted further away. His eyes flickered like a candle being forced out. All he could manage before being knocked completely out was to hear the whispers of the manoir. The whispers that came to life as he fell into a deep exhaustive slumber. The manoir lived and breathed as he slept and dreamed.

      Days passed and the Lord of the manoir remained unconscious and in his dreams he was in the manoir searching desperately for her. Cruelly his dreams denied him even the painting of her image. When he finally awoke on the third day he sat up and placed his feet upon the cold stone floor and wondered where his slippers were. No matter he threw his cashmere robe over his necked body and walked to his chamber door.

       This day would go as every other day for the Lord, wandering from room to room checking on guests that didn't exist. Down the stone stairwell into the mass hall he would eventually head to gaze upon the painting and call out to his lady.

     But on this day the tiny feet attached to the tiny body whose tiny fingers would reach out to him would stay away. For this tiny being was far too sad to be discarded again. Instead she watched from her favorite perch on the unicorn statue that had been created just for her. All the way up at the top of the stone stairwell she watched and whimpered knowing he would not even see her. Knowing that he hadn't seen her in two years. It was almost as if she had been made a ghost on that day, two years ago. His voice echoed up the winding stairwell to greet her like an old friend. When his head crooked back he stared straight at her, but saw nothing.

      The tiny girl shuddered as he grinned in the most terrifying way imaginable. She shut her eyes and wished him away. She opened her eyes to see that he was no longer looking up. Now he was fixated on her again, the painting. The tiny girl's attention moved to the maid who beckoned for her to get down from the statue. She responded accordingly. “Ivy dear go play he'll be fine.” A lie the little girl swallowed knowing it was so. For two years she had merely been a ghost and the Lord had only wanted one ghost., the one he had lost. So instead he turned all others into ghosts including her. The tiny girl who he once called daughter.

      She walked past him, tears in her eyes as she knew he would never remember that she too was still alive. She knew he'd never stop begging for the lady, her dear mother, to be alive. She glanced quickly at the painting that drove him mad and for a brief moment she wished as he did, to hear her laughter. To see her smile and smell her sweetness throughout the manoir.

      Two years had gone by since her mother died and not one day did she not cry. The little girl averted her gaze and walked quickly to go and play. She thought on it and decided she would no longer be that ghost. With those tiny feet that connected to that tiny body or those tiny fingers that tried desperately to prove they lived.

      She decided she was done crying. She could only hope that one day the Lord of the manoir, her father, would decide to see her again. Until then she decided she would carry on.