Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time, there lived a boy who gave up his heart. That is how the story ends. The story begins with a chime of bells, clamorous enough to silence the stars, as night falls on the eternal city. The iron gates open, and visitors arrive from far and wide, seeking to learn the mysteries of the majestic citadel in preparation for the Winter’s Ball. It is the only time when the guardians of the gate turn their omnipresent gaze; it is the only time when outsiders are allowed entrance. Yet, each and every year, the guests are greeted by spectacle. They see massive buildings with ancient columns, a shimmer of silver in every stone and statue, and even massive lawns still covered in growing grass. The only thing they don’t see are stars, but visitors don't notice that. 

When they make their way to the center of the citadel—an impressive feat of architectural prowess all around—they are greeted by warm hands and warm smiles, moved into warm rooms with warm beds, and given warm meals by warm fires. And, all along the way, they see all the children, working diligently and without end. Always studying, always smiling, their lives seem immaculate in every single way. They can’t help but comment: “Love, look how studious they are.” “They have so much going for them!” “If only our child lived here…” And all the citadel’s adults smile from cheek to cheek, exposing their awkward teeth, their pale faces beaming. “We’re so proud of our wards.” “We’re so proud of the opportunities we provide.”

Most visitors continue in this fashion. But in a few, they start to notice strange details and begin to ponder the peculiar nature of the children. They ask how it’s possible for any child to not cry, to not complain. As they listen, they never hear any sobs nor screams in the citadel. No outbursts nor outrages, just the calm complacency of an allegedly chaste community. Upon further investigation, some of them notice the blank stares that enter their eyes as they say “we’re ok” and “we’re so happy here.” A few of them catch a glimpse of the awkward angle of their incisors through their perfect smiles. However, none of them ever notice the silhouettes of tiny children within the top of the soaring clock towers. 

In the one to the northeast, the boy sits in a solitary chamber, a vial of blood dangling from his neck. He likes the days of the Winter’s Ball. To show the splendor of the citadel, the food goes from grub to glazed ham. To tend to visitors, the omnipresent gaze of the Guardians diverts for a few days. But he knows what will happen once the ball ends. The gruel will return and it will carry with it all the icy voices of the castle, whispering in the walls, afraid of the sun. The bloodsuckers in the walls tell him about the life he could lead, the life he should lead, if he takes their poison. 

“We are successful. Don’t you want to succeed, my child?”

The voices around him continue their siren song.

“We work hard. Don’t you want to work hard, my child?” 

Some days they are less kind, calling out to him with cruelty:

“You don’t work hard enough. You aren’t successful enough. You don’t do enough. Don’t you know you’ll never be enough like this?”

The boy always stays silent, not acknowledging any of it. Yet, do not feel sorry for the boy. He has always lived his life cherishing the small moments of rest and relief. The child has never been presentable to his guardians but he does not feel the need to be. The child never fits in but he does not think he should. He may never join the chorus of the “wise and successful” wards, but he does not think he wants to. He focuses on the light of life, the strength and sweetness of his life’s song. 

And, on this Winter’s Ball, he’s already plotted an escape from the place, coordinating with those in the other towers to make plans together. The stars, shining in all their radiant splendor, have always moved to protect the poor children captured within those clock towers. The stars link them and their dreams together, feeding their stomachs and their hopes while arming their bodies and their souls with little bits of salt and silver to ward against evil. For every night, while their captors pranced about the waking world, they would sit by the windows of the tower and they would write to each other, wishing upon all the stars in the sky that they would one day be free. 

So, as the visitors all leave, leaving behind a castle of viciousness and vice, the children’s plans are set in motion. They hide and they run, moving as quickly as they can outwards and upwards, escaping the gaze of the guardians by any means necessary. And, by the time the night falls—by the time the cruel custodians of the citadel open the clock towers, burned by salt and silver and even by the time their branded captors fly in every direction, desperate to seek their prey—every child was gone, running along the roads through the wilderness. They get far enough away that they cannot even hear the bells tolling far away, signaling the start of the chase. 

Yet, they know that the guardians are on their heels the whole time. So they run through the night, only stopping once they cross miles of mountains and ford fast-flowing rivers. Throughout the next day, they slept in the closest crook they could find, careful to already be on foot when the sun set. They kept walking for months, desperate to put distance between themselves and their pursuers. They never dropped anything, never left anything—not even the vials on their necks—for they knew the beasts behind them could track them, even by the smell of their breath. While they longed to stop, they knew from experience that every time they did, their rest would only last a few days before they heard the flap of wings from the horizon and had to start running once again. Do not feel sorry for them though; they had each other. A band of loyal companions side by side until the end. Though their voyages were long and though their lives were hard, they always had each other. They were arm in arm, hand in hand, forever and forever.

Yet, one day, when the boy woke up, he woke up alone. One cannot say whether they left him purposefully, unintentionally, or were forced to, but whatever it was, when the night came, it fell upon him alone. He cried out for his friends, hoping that someone would respond. No one ever did. So he started walking on his own, trying to find them. Every evening, he woke up to force his feet one in front of the other. As the days went by, he started pushing himself at a faster and faster pace, thinking, no hoping, that if he was just quick enough—just hard working enough—he would find his companions again. For the days seemed much colder now, lonely and long. For the path seemed more and more treacherous, dangerous and dark. For it even seemed like color started draining from the world, as he woke one day and could no longer see the stars. And slowly, he began to hear a whisper. 

“The problem is you care too much. And all about the wrong things. You cared about leaving; where did you end up? You cared about your friends, where are they now? So, why don’t you give that all up to us.”

For the first time, he cannot stop listening.

“You know you’ll never be happy like this. As yourself. As human. But you could be happy right now. You know how much it hurts now. Give it all up.”

At first, he tries to ignore it, just as he had back when he was captive. Yet, the next day, a storm hits, drowning the boy in an inky black drizzle. Doubt crept in through the rainfall—no companions to hold it back—and he began to despair, letting the raindrops soak into his skin, absorbing their doubts. On the first day, he starts to believe that he would never find anyone again: that his days would always be lonely, long, and sad. On the second day, he stops trudging through the water, and just sits in his stupor. On the third day of the storm, the cork opens. The vial tips and its dark contents pour into the boy’s mouth, burning up his throat, then his stomach, then his soul.

Do not feel bad for the boy. He feels nothing now.

Sebastian Cynn