The Pale Prince
He lives in a castle so high that on a rainy day all he can see from his window is a sea of clouds – white and solid like snow mountains – as far as the eye can see. The sun that shines over him is always harsh, unobstructed by any object, undisturbed by any weather condition, mercilessly hurting his eyes and burning his pale skin. So he sleeps through the day and wakes up at dusk, when light is soft and warm. Creamy. Caressing his cheeks and the delicate skin on the palms of his hands.
Look at him as he wakes up with the moon. His bare feet clap on the hardwood floor as he walks towards his small washing basin in his creased pajamas and a crown sliding off his left ear. Fuck. Another day in the tower. He breathes in the moldy air that smells like old churches. The dirty mirror over the basin reflects an object rather shapeless and ambiguous in the ever darkening conditions. The pale prince forgot what he looks like frankly. Maybe he looks like nothing at all. Maybe he’s barely even there. He just knows he hasn’t aged a day since he was put in this castle God knows how many years ago.
He brushes his teeth, not looking at the mirror. The toothpaste tastes of roses. He likes roses. It never runs out, even though the tube is always half empty. Just one of the peculiarities of the castle.
A wild goose flows by his window. She sits on the window sill, tilting her head, glancing at him curiously. She opens her beak, as if she wanted to say something, but he already takes a gun that hangs on the wall near the washing basin and he shoots at the bird. He misses but that misses the point. The feathery motherfucker flies away and leaves him alone. Good riddance. He hates those things. Always looking at him as if they pitied him. They want to tell him the stories about the world outside of the castle. About the teal seas and golden beaches. About wild dogs that beg for food outside small cafés. About the bustling streets full of lovers holding hands, old women strolling with their grandchildren, shop owners shouting at the top of their lungs, trying to sell the passersby their goods. About the slender hands of women and their long, dark hair dancing in the wind. He wishes to hear of no such bullshit. He has important things to do.
He takes out a cigarette from a silver case, the initials EB engraved on top. These are not his initials. Whose then? He cannot remember. Or maybe doesn’t want to. We walks to the dilapidated khaki sofa that sits at the centre of the chamber. The old ketchup stain on the fabric glistens in the dark. The pale prince sits next to it, then takes out the lighter. Lights the cigarette. Lights the candles stuck into the iron candelabra crouched at a small mahogany table in front of the couch. The cigarette end glows. The silvery smoke dances in front of his eyes. He likes looking at it. It’s his meditation. He inhales, the smoke filling his lungs. There is a tiny pain hidden there. No. We’re not talking about his heart. That old thing is as dry as a twig on an old tree in the dead of winter. If you take it in your hands it will just snap in two with a crack. Don’t take his heart in your hands. You’re going to destroy it for good. No, the pain is a little lump at the bottom of his lungs. This will be his undoing. Unless, of course, his crinkled, creaky heart will do him in first.
He starts sorting through the mail. That’s always the first thing he does after he wakes up and brushes his teeth. Fresh piles of mail always appear at dusk on the little mahogany table, on a big, silver tray. No need to question that. There are usually some coupons for discounted paper towels. Why paper towels? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. There are usually also some phone bills that he never pays. He has no phone. Only a little radio that plays nothing but static. Sometimes he thinks he can hear a jaunty tune hiding there somewhere in the buzz. But then the feeling passes. He hasn’t heard a human voice for ages. His own voice is as frail and creaky as his heart. He doesn’t know whether he can use it anymore. Maybe the years in the castle have turned him mute.
He continues to sort through the mail. It’s the usual portion of SPAM, coupons and administrative notices. He puts the cigarette out at a small silver ashtray. Same EB initials engraved on that one. He wants to get up and leave. Eat some cereal for breakfast. Drink his black coffee, thick like chocolate and bitter like old age. But then he stops in his tracks. He notices an elegant crimson envelope at the bottom of the tray. Why didn’t he notice it before? He takes it in his hand. The paper is smooth and thick. It smells of incense and roses. He likes roses. You know that already. An uneasy feeling is creeping up his chest. He feels a lump in his throat. There is an emblem in the corner of the envelope. Two golden swords, crossed. He knows what this means. With his hands sweaty and shaking, he opens the envelope.
The Queen of Swords
The gentle wind is stroking her face as she gets out of her car. The sun is going down, painting the world golden. She parked the black Bentley at the side of the road. She’s been driving for hours, her back is killing her. She does a few stretches, then takes a silver cigarette case out of her pocket. She has many pockets in her pinstriped suit. They are larger on the inside than on the outside. She hides everything in there. Her dreams. Loose change. Old phone bills that she never pays. Thick, black chaos. Her swords.
She glances at the case. The initials JC are engraved onto it. These are not her initials. With a carefully manicured hand she takes out a cigarette, then lights it up. She looks at the glowing cigarette tip. Then inhales the silvery smoke, before she blows it out to the wind. A lock of red hair escaped from her loose bun and now is getting in her face. She puts it behind her ear. This really is the end of the fucking world – she thinks to herself, as she looks around. There is not a soul in sight. Just the sea of green grass glistening in the setting sun – as far as the eye can see. A few trees by the road – here and there. Some birds. The rustle of the leaves in the wind. The golden rays of last sunlight kissing her freckled face. It’s very peaceful. She might as well enjoy it while it lasts. There will be no peace where she’s going. There never is.
She did not choose her destiny. We never do, do we. But she tries to do her job the best she can. There is a silent dignity to just accepting your fate. She throws the cigarette butt on the ground. Put it out with her black suede boot. Then she gets into the car. She still has several hours of driving before she reaches the hight castle.
The Pale Prince
It’s midnight. The chambers of the pale prince are very quiet. He sits by his desk, cigarette in his hand. The ashtray is full of buts. He smokes one after the other, but they never run out. Whenever he takes his silver cigarette case – there is always another one. He fondles the case mindlessly now with his right hand. Feeling the cold, smooth metal. He runs his fingers over the EB initials. Gasps quietly. There it is – the little pain inside his chest. Maybe it’s the tiny lump in his lung. Maybe not.
But enough of this. He has work to do.
He puts the case on the desk, then stares back into his crystal ball. He needs to make his choices for the night. He sees faces in the ball. Scraps of life. A little girl playing with dolls at the side of the road. A large dude at the gas station, dead stare, getting inside, his gun propped ready. A beautiful woman putting on a creamy red lipstick on her soft lips in front of the mirror. One third of them is going to die today. Which one third? That’s for him to decide. But not really. He cannot make the decision based on emotion or preference. He needs to be objective and random. His hands are cold as he directs those who live to the right, those who die to the left. His hands are always cold. No-one has touched them in ages. It’s chilly in the tower too. He makes his decisions with ruthless efficiency, as he sips his bitter, black coffee. He is the Death Himself. He counts quietly in his head. One – lives. Two – lives. Three – dies. The little girl – lives. The killer at the station – lives. The lipstick woman – dies. He observes as a masked intruder gets into her apartment and shoots her in the head. That’s the thing too. He needs to see this. He needs to witness it, silently. That’s the last service they are given. By him. They are not alone. Not really. Someone sees them. Observes them like a moth crouched on the wall in the corner of the room.
Those decisions need to be made by someone. So he makes them. He decided long time ago that this is the best way to go about it. Just counting it out. One, two, three. That’s why his heart has shriveled and dried. This old thing just gets in the way. That’s why he shoots at the wild geese at his window sill. That’s why he forgot the owner of the cigarette case and of the EB initials.
But not really.
He swallows hard, as he remembers the crimson envelope. He slipped. Last week. And they noticed. Of course they noticed. Dumb motherfucker. Idiot. How could he think they wouldn’t notice. He slipped. Like a sappy novice. But there was the thing. He just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t. He closes his eyes and he sees the image of the woman inside his head. She had a delicate, freckled face and a mop of red hair that reminded him of someone he didn’t want to remember. And she was pregnant. That was the thing that did it for him. The baby. They were to die a gruesome death too. Car crash. How could he let this happen. But then again – how could he not let this happen. They were the „Three”. He should’ve directed them to the left. But he didn’t. Why was that such a big deal, for fuck’s sake? Why COULDN’T he cheat the system just a little bit? They have given him all this power and they required him not to do anything about it. What was the fucking point?
Ah, but that were the rules, you see. He knew the rules, you see. You cannot be Death Himself if you can be swayed by emotion or greed or the need for power. You need to be objective. Your hands need to be cold if you are to do this job. Your heart shriveled.
You might stop here and wonder – what did he do to deserve this fate. Why was he placed in this chilly, tall castle with no-one by his side, having to watch people die gruesome deaths every night?
Ah. That’s an ignorant question to ask. He didn’t do anything. Life is just not fair sometimes – even in fairy tales. Sometimes you’re just born at the wrong place, at a wrong time. Sometimes your father is a dumb motherfucker with gambling addiction who has driven his family to ruin. Swimming in debt. So you sell your soul to the devil. Or the angel. Or the management of the high castle. They are all the same really. You just do what needs to be done. And then you do your job the best you can. There is a silent dignity to just accepting your fate.
But then you slip. You do a dumb mistake, because of your stupid old heart. And then you get a crimson envelope with two golden swords in the corner. Crossed.
He puts his face in his hands. He doesn’t cry.
He probably doesn’t remember how to cry.
—
It’s getting late. Dawning. Sweet light, the color of a raspberry milkshake pours into the chambers. He stands in front of the mirror, looking at himself intensely for the first time in years. Tucks at the lapels of his suit jacket. He looks really odd in this formal attire, but this is a formal occasion after all. It wouldn’t be respectful to just don a T-shirt and some jeans. He straightens the crown that sits on his head. This thing is so fucking heavy. What would it be like to just take it off for the day? His neck would probably thank him for it. He looks at the dark circles under his brown eyes. He looks at the hint of gray at his temples. Has it always been there? He remembered his hair had this warm, rich sheen. Dark brown. It looks a bit dull now. But it must have been already so when he entered the castle. You don’t age in a castle. He clears his throat. Tries to say something out loud. His voice sounds so soft and raspy. It’s like a rusty sword that hasn’t been used for too long.
He runs the dialogue lines in his head. What is he supposed to say to her? He writes the scripts in his mind.
“Hello, Elisabeth. It’s nice to see you after all these years. Why don’t you come in. Coffee?”
He shakes his head. Sounds like he’s some fagot at a British tea party.
“Oh, hi, Liz! You look good. Haven’t aged a day!”
Yeah, obviously she hasn’t aged a day. That’s the part of the deal, isn’t it. Also: “Liz”? What the fuck? He never called her “Liz”. Nobody ever did.
A gentle knock at the door makes him freeze. He clears his throat again. Feels like he’s already sweating in this fucking suit. He must be careful not to take the jacket off. Why would he take the jacket off though? OK, enough of this. He needs to answer the fucking door.
He walks up to it. Takes one big breath, straightens his crown once again, then he opens it.
She really DIDN’T age a day. Her delicate face looks very tired though. There are dark circles under the green eyes. She must have driven the whole night.
“Jason.” – she gives him a short nod.
He doesn’t say a thing. Just nods in return and lets her in.
“Coffee?” – he murmurs under his breath, not looking at her, going into the little kitchenette. “Or do we just get into…” He pauses.
“You have twenty four hours to complete the trial” – she says softly. “No need to rush.”
He shoots her a glance. She stands there in a relaxed pose, her back against the door frame, arms crosses, looking like million dollars in that pinstripe suit of hers. A wisp of red hair came out of her bun and gets in her face. He wants to come to her, take it and put it behind her ear. Touch the delicate, freckled cheek. Smell the rosy scent of her hair.
He doesn’t. He does none of those things.
“Are you hungry?” – he asks instead.
“Yeah” – she nods.
“Sandwiches?” – he looks through the cabinets.
“You have peanut butter and Nutella?”
He snorts.
“Do I!”
“Crunchy or smooth?”
“Bitch, please. Do you take me for some fucking barbarian?” – He looks at her. She has that big smile that lights her green eyes up. It’s asymmetric: the left corner of her mouth lifts higher than the right. He puts a jar of peanut butter on the table. “Crunchy. This is a decent house. We have standards here.”
“Do you now?” – she comes to the table and takes the jar in her hands and starts studying the label with a frown. “Fucking hell, dude. You eat this shit? You ARE a barbarian.”
He puts the plates on the table and puts bread in the toster.
“You don’t like my peanut butter – you can just munch on dry tost”.
“Jesus, you’re such a grouch” – She shakes her head with a tiny snort.
“You like it.”
They sit at the a table in silence that is warm and comfortable. They eat tost with peanut butter and Nutella. It’s like they’ve been doing it for the last ten years. Every day. Like there has never been a gap between them that is measured in months or maybe lifetimes.
“Thanks.” – she says as she puts the knife on the plate and stands up. She does a little stretch. “Would it be OK if I took a nap now? I was awake the whole night, driving”.
“Sure” – He starts collecting the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. “Take my bed”.
“Are you sure?” – she tilts her head slightly. That wisp of hair getting in her face is driving him crazy.
“Yeah” – He shrugs. – “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“All right”.
She puts her hand in the pocket of her pinstripe suit. Then she takes a huge golden sword out of it. She puts it on the table. There is a silence so heavy it can crush your bones.
“Twenty four hours, Jason.” – She looks at the watch she takes out of her pinstripe pocket. – “Actually twenty three.”
He feels his old shriveled heart going into his throat.
She looks him squarely in the eye. Then she goes out of the little kitchenette.
He hears the bang of the bedroom door shutting.
—
He’s sitting at the kitchen table, looking at the sword. Outside the sun is high in the sky, pouring its merciless light all over the high castle. Inside he’s there, his cold hands moving mindlessly across the pajama bottom. He took off his suit already. He tried to catch some sleep on the sofa. He couldn’t. So he went back to the kitchen and now he’s sitting there, just looking at the thing. He swallows. He doesn’t want to do this. But he will have to do this. These are the rules, you see. He knew the rules, you see. He takes the sword in his hands. It’s cold and heavy.
He stands up. No need to prolong this agony. It had to be done – sooner or later. He wonders whether he should dress himself up again. It seems appropriate. But once the decision is made, he cannot bring himself to wait anymore. He just goes to the bedroom, a sword in his hand.
She’s lying there, on his bed, on her side, red hair sprawled throughout the pillow. He feels a sharp pain in his chest. God. How can he ever do it? He walks up to her. Is she wearing her suit in bed? He notices the pinstripe fabric. Ah, no. She just has a pinstripe pajama. He cannot help but smile. Then the pain in the chest becomes even sharper.
She moves. Then she opens her eyes and looks straight at him.
“Do it” – she whispers.
He feels his heart in his dry throat. Suddenly his knees feel shaky. So he sits at the bed, by her side.
“You have a pinstripe pajama” – he says weakly.
“I do.” – she props herself up. “It has pockets too.” – she points to several pockets on her chest. “See?”
He lifts one corner of his mouth. The left one.
“What the fuck do you need pockets in your pajama for? Like… what do you keep in them?”
She shrugs.
“Stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Mhm.”
He puts the sword on the floor. She looks at him.
“The trial needs to be completed one way or another, you know” – she says.
“I know” – he takes her hand. “I still have time”.
He moves his fingers over her knuckles. He traces her almond-shaped fingernails and strokes the delicate skin of her palm. She gives out a sigh.
He looks at her.
“Your hands are very cold” – she says.
“I’m sorry” – he looks at her full lower lip. It’s the color of raspberries. He wonders if they taste like raspberries too.
She takes his hand in hers.
“Aren’t you afraid?” – he asks her.
“Of course I am”. – She holds his hand. It’s getting warmer. For the first time since he entered the castle.
“They never pass the test though” – He looks at her.
“So far it hasn’t happened.” – She has a tired look on her face.
“Why do you think that is?”
She’s silent for a while.
“They brought the test upon themselves in the first place” – she answers after a moment.
“You think they do it purpose?”
“I think… I think one just gets tired, you know.”
He takes her hand to his lips and starts kissing her fingers. Gently. Sensually. She gasps a little.
“What would you do…” – he’s looking at her, as gently caresses her hand – “What would you do if this was your last day?”.
She puts her face closer to his. He sees the tiny freckles on her cheek, little lines on her raspberry lower lip. That wisp of hair is getting into her face again.
“This” – she answers.
He puts the wisp behind her ear. Then he gently kisses her lip.
The Queen of Swords
The gray light of dawn in creeping into the small bedroom. She’s lying on his bed, naked, looking at his face. She’s not saying anything. She trying to remember all the small details of him. The hint of gray in his temples. The way he moves his head just a bit when she strokes it. The way his smile fights its way into his eyes but never quite reaches them. She wonders whether it ever did. Whether she has even seen him fully happy. Ecstatic. Singing under the shower or dancing of joy. Maybe he was happy when he was a little kid. But she is not sure. Maybe he never was a little kid.
His crown is lying on the floor. No need for it now. Or ever.
He moves towards her and kisses her. Very slowly. His lips are very soft and gentle. He smells of sandalwood and roses. There is something grassy in there too. Like a meadow after the rain. And something bitter.
“I will have to go soon, you know that?” – she asks him quietly.
“I know.”
“You can still pick up that sword.” – Her voice trembles just a bit.
“You know I won’t.”
She feels her chest contracting, as if someone clamped it in vice. She closes her eyes.
“I hate this, you know. I don’t want to do this.”
“I know” – he says quietly.
“Why?” – she feels a rush of blood going to her head. She clenches her teeth. „Why the fuck is it always me who has to do it? WHY?! Why don’t any of you have the fucking balls to do it? Why are you all so WEAK?!”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. He averts his gaze.
“You said it yourself, you know” – he says. “One just gets tired”.
She gets out the bed. She doesn’t want to look at him. She collects her pinstripe suit then goes out to the bathroom to take a shower.
She goes into the shower and lets the hot water wash over her.
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.
She wants to scream. She starts hitting the ugly blue tiles of the shower wall. She turns the hot water tap off and turns the cold water tap on. She lets the torrents of frigid water shock her body and she lets out a shout.
Then she goes out of the shower, dries herself. She sets her face into this professional, cold expression she practices for those very occasions. She dresses, then starts to methodically put her makeup on. It needs to be impeccable. She finishes off with a red Chanel lipstick. Number 54, Paradoxale. She clears her throat, straightens her suit and gets out.
He’s waiting for her already. He put some trousers and T-shirt on and is now standing in front of his bad, hands in his pockets. The crown is still lying on the floor.
“So what do I do now?” – he asks. “Do I need to like… lie down or something?”
She shakes her head.
“No need. You can be standing. I actually prefer that.”
“OK.”
She walks up to him, looking him straight into the eyes. There is something in them. A silent request.
She takes a golden sword out of her pocket and she drives it into his chest. He gives a little gasp, then he falls to his knees. He doesn’t fight though. They sometimes do, when shit hits the fan. But he just tries to do his job the best he can. There is a silent dignity to just accepting your fate. She admires that about him. They are very similar in that respect.
She takes a sword out of his chest. He looks at her unblinking, as she lifts her hand and takes his heart out. Very gently. That old thing barely beats. It’s small like the heart of a sparrow. She looks at it. She wants to kiss it.
“Do it quickly” – he whispers.
She closes her eyes. She feels like her own heart is screaming. But these are the rules, you see. And he made his decision.
“Thank you” – she says.
“No worries” – he answers weakly.
She looks at him for that last time. She then takes his heart in her right hand. She squeezes it quickly. Tightly. It snaps with a crack. The pale prince falls to the floor, his body disintegrating until nothing remains but a pile of ash. She releases the grip of her right hand. A handful of dust falls out of it to the ground.
She takes a look around.
Tomorrow someone from the administration will come to clean the chambers. Maybe they will redecorate. This place could seriously use some refurbishment before a new prince is appointed.
She kneels by the pile of ash and takes a silver cigarette case that lies at the bottom of it. She dusts it with her left hand. There are initials EB engraved onto it. She opens it, takes a cigarette out, then puts the case into her pocket. Collects her swords. Lights the cigarette, takes the last look around the bedroom.
Then she leaves the high castle for good.
