The Framekeeper’s Lament

Thursday

The room lay silent, its corners draped in shadows that whispered tales of absence. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting patterns of light on the dust motes that danced in the air.

The Framekeeper sat in his old, worn armchair, facing the dimly lit fireplace, its soft glow casting flickering shadows on the walls. The wine coursed through his veins, its warmth spreading a delightful languor as his eyelids grew heavy. Peace was a luxury he hadn’t felt in a long time. All he cared about was in front of him—the wine and the warmth the fireplace gifted; behind his back, nothing mattered.

“And that’s twenty-three.” The voice came loud and clear behind him. The Framekeeper froze mid-sip, the glass hovering just inches from his lips. He let a smile spread across his face and took the halted course with a gulp.

“Thanks for counting, Your Catherine,” he thanked the figure behind him. “Care for a glass?” With a smile, he extended the glass towards her.

With a delicate, almost absent motion, she pushed it back. “No, thank you.”

“As you wish, Catherine. More for me.” The Framekeeper took another sip.

“Why don’t you look at me, Gregory?” Catherine spoke, her voice full of authority. “Are you afraid to face me?”

“No.” The Framekeeper tilted his head slightly. The smile still lingered on his face as he looked up from his half-full, half-empty glass and glanced quizzically at the woman beside him.

Catherine of Aragon stood there, just like the same Catherine he had met years before.

“Centuries. We met roughly five centuries ago,” she corrected his thought. “Are the frames your own creatures haunting you, Gregory?”

“They can’t haunt their owner,” he answered, the smile falling bitterly from his face.

“You are not their owner, Gregory,” she replied, her eyes not leaving him. “Not anymore; I can feel it. Take a look behind you and see how dust-covered your frames are.”

“Catherine, why are you here?” He turned to her, leaning just close to see if she was really a vision, a phantom perhaps, beneath her figure.

“You kept thinking of me; the frames brought me here. Now you tell me, why am I here, Gregory?” She took the glass of wine from his hands to get his attention.

“I don’t know,” he extended his hand to grab the glass back. “I really don’t; my thoughts feel like a simmering pot right now.”

“You want to end it,” Catherine pointed out.

The Framekeeper sank into the armchair and took a deep breath. “It seems so. Do you remember how we met, Catherine?”

“I do. You weirdly appeared in my chambers; you said I was your first client,” she recalled. “You didn’t lie, did you?”

“I didn’t; you were the first, and that’s why I was nervous.” He fiddled with his curly hair; it brought comfort.

“I remember. The frames swayed me in a second; they don’t spare the hurting soul. Is your soul hurting, Gregory?”

“I wish it hurt, but mine has lost its essence.”

“Who is the culprit?” Catherine of Aragon stood up with the question. She knew the answer just by the way his eyes lost their light and his body stiffened.

The Framekeeper looked up at her. To him, she hadn’t changed at all; she was the same queen he had met on his first mission. She had asked so many questions then, as she did now. Catherine was a strong woman, but fate wasn’t in her favor. Not even in the frames.

The Framekeeper took a breath, inhaling the smell of wine tangled with the ashy burning scent of the wood from the fireplace. He got up in a swift motion and turned around, facing the most undesired things in all the lifetime he had existed. He opened his arms, and laughter broke out of him—a repressed one, the kind you let out when you don’t know how to feel, when you are breaking.

“There, my queen! There are the culprits! Off with their heads!”

“The frames?!”

Friday

The Framekeeper felt a chilling air seep through his bones. The sudden cold made him shiver, and goosebumps arose all over his body, heightening his awareness of his surroundings. His eyes fluttered open. The place was familiar—his place.

The blood-red carpet made him feel dizzy again. He put his hand out for support and pushed himself up, rubbing his temple to ease the throbbing pain. He was alone. Again. At the mercy of the surrounding frames.

“It is cold; I need to light the fireplace,” the first thought came to him. “Why am I trying to survive? Why can’t I just freeze to death instead?”

“You are a Framekeeper, that’s why. Framekeepers guard magic frames.” A voice spoke from the direction of the fireplace. “I already lit it, Grigoriy.” A man rose from stirring the newly lit flames. His figure was broad, carrying the weight of passing centuries and the chilling cold of Russian winters. His attire was royal, exuding power.

The Framekeeper chuckled and shook his head. “Look at my favorite tyrant, lighting up the fireplace for me.”

The man didn’t say anything; his cold, calculating, and troubled eyes pierced the Framekeeper’s face. “Grigoriy, it looks like you have grown a sense of humor. With the passing centuries, loneliness must have been unbearable.”

“Ivan, my Czar, is that what you say to an old friend?”

“I say what I want, whenever I want.” The Czar sat down in the Framekeeper’s worn armchair. “You had company yesterday.”

“So do I today.” The Framekeeper took a bottle of wine from the ground and offered it to the Czar, his hand extended, waiting for him to pick it up.

“Wine is for the weak,” Ivan declined.

“Oh, I forgot; Ivan the Terrible would rather be dead than caught drinking wine,” the Framekeeper joked.

“You are getting better at knowing me.” The Czar drummed lightly with his fingertips on the armchair. “So you want to end it, don’t you?” A judging tone surfaced in his cold demeanor.

“I am not sure yet,” the Framekeeper answered. “Why are you all questioning me?”

“Because that’s what we do—ask questions until we get answers.”

“Well, here is my first question: Why should I tell you?”

“I know better.”

“Even when you burned down and killed half of your kingdom?”

“Even then. Why are you getting aggressive?”

“I am resembling my Czar.”

“If you tried to truly resemble me, you wouldn’t be here this long.”

“I know. If I truly resembled my Czar, I would have killed my only son.”

A maniacal laugh broke from the Russian man. “I like you, Grigoriy. I always did, since we first met, but…”

“But what?”

“But you pull yourself into the mud. I killed my son, and yes, that haunts me; even dead, something haunts me. I am haunted by my acts because I lived, but nothing haunts you. Because you only existed.” The Czar spat out every word, intended to cut deep. “I know you are disgusted with yourself, disgusted for envying me because I could live like a human.”

“Nothing about you is human.”

“Is there anything about you?” Ivan pointed his chin at the man sitting on the blood-red carpet. “Grigoriy, flesh and bones do not make you human.”

“I am a Framekeeper; I am a human.”

“Then why aren’t you surrounded by them?”

Sunday

The Framekeeper had been awake the entire night, observing the frames. He hadn’t done that for a long time. He had left the windows open, letting the chilly winter air frost the room. The cold seemed to clear his mind. When he first accepted the offer to be a Framekeeper, nothing had prepared him for the consequences. Centuries had passed, and he had never forgotten.

He may have forgotten his name, but not that day when he lay on the snow, beaten and bloodied. He may have forgotten where he was from, but not the way that man had come to help him, even though he felt foreign and unknown to him. He may have forgotten the purpose of life, but never the way frames absorbed everyone’s soul and dispersed them. They lost all sense of reality. But they had been happy.

He couldn’t count how many times he woke up repeating what he said to the assigned.

“These frames are a gift for your troubled soul…” And they had always answered, “With what would these wooden frames help my soul?” Some with pride, some with remorse, and some with pity. He never said they would help.

Those frames never helped, that’s what the man told him. And he saw the results. When he used to return to take them, they all tried to save the frames from him. They gripped them like mothers do with their infants. How bizarre!

“Then why aren’t you surrounded by them?” Ivan had asked him. By who? By humans. Why wasn’t he surrounded by humans? Oh, he had many theories why. No answers, only theories. He made a pact centuries before. He sold his mortality, the very reason that makes him human, to an unknown hero. What did he see in this life that made him want to live forever?! His mind screamed. But he only knew that he wanted to live.

“…you only existed.” The Czar’s words ignited bubbling anger within him. So much to say for a tyrant.

“If he had been in my place…” His thoughts stammered.

“At least, I was a father… I killed my son, but at least I was a father, meanwhile you don’t know why you exist, Görkem,” Sultan Suleiman, a favorite of the Framekeeper, had said. Uncertain when.

“I EXIST BECAUSE I AM A FRAMEKEEPER!” At the thought, he hollered out to the vacant room. His voice echoed off the walls, lightly awakening the frames.

They became alive at his angry voice. They glowed one by one. They looked like bones waiting to be hugged by flesh. The flesh was their own master: The Framekeeper.

“I WANT TO BE HUMAN!” he cried out. The frames, as if they understood his pain, glowed again, this time with more effort.

The Framekeeper looked at them. He was their master, their guardian, yet he had forgotten how many he had, whose they were. He lifted his head, his eyes roaming the walls. The frames were perfectly placed, one starting a story, the other finishing it. Bonded.

Let us help you! the frames sang in a choir. Let us help you!

His laughter erupted unexpectedly, a jagged sound that echoed off the walls, trembling with a haunting mix of sorrow and madness. It was a laugh that seemed to defy the very essence of joy, reverberating like a broken melody. Tears streamed down his cheeks, glistening in the light as they mingled with the manic energy of his laughter. Each peal was punctuated by gasps, as if he were simultaneously crying out in pain and exulting in a twisted sense of relief. His eyes, wide and glassy, reflected deep turmoil.

The sound was both unsettling and poignant, a chilling reminder of the thin line between laughter and despair.

You poor creature, let us help you!

Between the sobs and tears, his voice quivered with a mix of anguish and defiance. “Why would I need your help?” he gasped, the words spilling out like a torrent. “I am your master!” Each proclamation was laced with frantic intensity, the contradiction of his position echoing in the air. The laughter that had once filled the room now mingled with the gravity of his assertion, creating a jarring juxtaposition. His eyes, still glistening with tears, burned with erratic fervor as if he were trying to reclaim control amidst the chaos that enveloped him.

You are fading! the choir sang again. Forgetting.

“What am I forgetting?” the Framekeeper asked, confused, his ears throbbing from the loud choir.

Your memories, creature, it sang. Where were you yesterday? It sang again.

The Framekeeper hated his emotions, his despair, his rolling tears.

Where was he yesterday?

He was thinking, trying to find a memory amidst the chaos in his mind. He tried to open every drawer of his memories.

“Burn them!” The order of Sultan Suleiman had surprised him. “Burn them, as they are the reason for your madness, for your pain!”

“Burn the frames!”

As the realization washed over him, the frames seemed to exchange glances, a flicker of triumph igniting in their paintings. What had once seemed like a distant uncertainty now felt like undeniable truth; he was fading…

He let his eyes wander around the pictures one more time, each royal face trapped in the frames, their gazes heavy with expectation. One by one, the frames fell, shattering against the floor with a cacophony of broken glass and splintered wood. He didn’t need a command; a primal instinct surged within him, compelling him forward. He slashed at the remnants of each portrait, tearing away the shackles of history that bound him.

With each frame he tossed into the fire, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders, the flames licking hungrily at the remnants of a past he no longer wished to bear. The fiery glow illuminated his features, casting flickering shadows that danced across his face, revealing a sense of liberation he hadn’t felt in centuries.

The wall stood bare, a haunting void where once vibrant portraits had captured the essence of history. Shadows of what once was lingered, echoing the past in a chilling stillness. He was free—free from the burdens of memory, free from the legacies that had shackled him for so long.

Yet, in the corner of the room, a solitary frame drew his gaze, its emptiness profound and haunting. This frame was unique, canvas-less, an unfinished vessel awaiting a royal that never came. For a moment, he hesitated, gripped by a mix of dread and curiosity.

As his fingers brushed the ornate edges, warmth surged through him, spreading from his fingertips to his heart. Inside the frame, he glimpsed her—beautiful yet lonely, a spectral figure yearning to be whole. Unlike the others, she was alive.

His mind screamed for him to resist, to cast her aside like the others. But his heart—oh, his heart had its own desires, its own will. It refused to let go. He could feel her longing, echoing his own, and the notion struck deep—he could feed her, give her form, a purpose, just as he had once craved for himself.

Tears streamed down his cheeks, uncontrollable and hot, blurring his vision as the weight of his choice settled heavily upon him. He was caught in a tempest of desire and despair, knowing that embracing this new entity meant risking everything he had fought to escape.

Am I doomed? he thought, his heart racing with both dread and excitement. He could feel the pull of destiny tightening its grip, urging him forward.

In that moment, he realized he was no longer just a Framekeeper; he was just beginning to love.

With a deep, shuddering breath, he took a step closer, the shadows around him swirling with anticipation. The final frame beckoned him, promising a new beginning. And so, with trembling hands, he made his choice.

He hugged the frame tightly, feeling the cool wood against his chest, a sensation both comforting and suffocating. Memories flooded him—Catherine’s desperate embrace, her longing to be free; Ivan’s somber grip, filled with regret; Suleiman, proud, holding onto his legacy—they all loved the last frame.

As he clung to the frame, he felt his soul begin to drain, the warmth of life being replaced by the cold grasp of memories long forgotten. Chains of duty and despair wrapped around him, tightening like a noose. Each breath became harder to take, a struggle against the inevitable.

The frame pulsed with energy, drawing him deeper into its embrace, and he could feel the essence of those who had come before him swirling around, intertwining with his own. Their hopes, dreams, and regrets infused the air, a cacophony of voices whispering in his ears, urging him to succumb to the pull of the past.

Desperation surged within him. “No!” he cried, though it was more a plea than a declaration. He wrestled with the rising tide of despair, knowing that with each heartbeat, he was becoming a part of their legacy—one he had fought so hard to escape.

The empty frame became a mirror, reflecting not just his face but the faces of all those who had been consumed by the weight of memory and obligation. Each visage whispered of lost dreams and unfulfilled promises, echoes of lives lived and forgotten.

And in that moment, he understood the cost of love and the price of immortality. The desire to preserve the past threatened to consume him whole, and he felt his identity slip away, like grains of sand through his fingers.

In a final act of defiance, he turned his back on the last frame, breaking free from the hold of the past. But even as he walked away, the voice of the frame lingered in his mind.

You will remember us, Framekeeper. You will always remember us.

He felt a chill envelop him as he stepped out into the wintry dawn. The world outside was untouched, pristine in its beauty, yet heavy with the weight of his choices. As the sun rose, he felt the warmth of its rays, a new beginning flickering on the horizon.

Will I truly remember? he wondered. Would he carry the burden of their memory, their love, or was he destined to be eternally trapped in the shadows of a past he had forsaken?

For the first time in centuries, he breathed deeply, the air filling his lungs with the promise of a new day, one where he could forge his own path, unshackled from the ghosts of the past.

Today

The room lies silent, its corners draped in shadows that whisper tales of absence.