The battlefield was small, though the numbers were many. Hundreds of small soldiers- all opposing one. One small soldier clad in lavender instead of white. One small soldier who knew things that the others would long for, if they only knew it existed.
Only, this wasn't just a battlefield; it was a mansion. And the soldiers were not just soldiers, but children. Pale and dressed in white lace nightdresses, eyes focused. And of course, this being no ordinary battlefield, and the warriors being no ordinary warriors, their general was not an ordinary man.
He did not stand in front, nor in center, nor in back. He seemed to ease through the cracks, a vapour of many colours- of black and red, yellow and gold. Death and life. Hatred and lust. Lust that mocked love, that promised and never gave.
This general was their Master, and they followed him without question. He soothed them when they cried in terror- terror that he created. He wounded them and then used their weakness to force their trust. Not a man. A vapour. No, not even that. The Master was the Master. It was as simple as that.
And the Master's children were hardly children, and this mansion was hardly home. No, this was a dollhouse, and these tiny bodies were his dolls. They obeyed without question; they let him bend a twist their minds and bodies however he wished.
They would please the Master, and in return, they would live. Mock love. Mock comfort and security. Mock Master and mock life.
All but that one little girl in lavender. She knew no name and went by Child, as did all of the master's little play toys. This particular little girl, clothed in a gown that flowed out behind her, knew truth.
Which meant that she knew the Master was a lie.
And that meant that the master had not even mock love left in his heart for her. It meant that this little girl in lavender must die. And die she would. The Master knew.
“Ssssweet Child,” Master purred, “why must you deceive us so? Your mind is stained so horribly it can not be cleansed.” He lifted a finger, a misty tower above the white-clad minions' heads. Two red eyes opened slowly, pupil-less and consumed by a blood-lust so powerful it sent a chill through that one small girl's bones.
She said nothing, but remained in the center of the large room. Her chest rose and fell quietly, though her heart was throbbing, so quickly was it beating. She stared ahead, unblinking, straight into those horrible red eyes. This young girl in lavender could not be moved.
“You say nothing, though I know what's on your mind,” Master hissed, his misty vapours forming twisting around the tiny ankles. It seeped into their skin, causing it to bubble. But the children remained still. Their faces contorted in pain, but no scream penetrated their lips.
Child lifted her tiny head higher. “You lie. You are deceitful, a wretch. These are the words spoken to me by the Veiled King.” Her voice held strong, despite her fear. She kept her eyes away from the agonized faces of the children she once knew, training them on those terrible red voids.
The mist seemed to tighten its grip against the children, sinking into their skin quicker than ever before. Their skin bubbled, then blistered and were covered in horrid sores. Finally, a scream sounded in the room. Three hundred agonized voices, filling the room and causing the ground to shake.
The girl in the lavender gown threw her hands to her ears, though her eyes remained open. Rather than a calm look, they were narrowed into a glare. A glare centered at her Master. The Master who had no reign over her anymore.
“You lie,” she repeated. “Release them!” She was screaming over screams, one voice against three hundred. One voice against three hundred that carried above the rest.
The Master grinned. Not that it was visible. No. But she could feel it, feel his lips turn up into a sickening sneer.
“Simple minded fool!” came the reply. “They will not be released! They are mine. You can not comprehend this because your mind has been soiled by wicked dreams!”
It was then that the mist lifted, only so slightly, to where those three hundred heads sat on those six hundred shoulders. Now the vapours were sinking into the skin on their heads, disappearing into their hair and causing their faces to twist into frightening expressions.
That one lavender-clad girl shivered, then trembled. But she simply would not back down. That small army stepped forwards as one, and she held her ground. The first of them trailed now beastly claws across her skin, and still she held firm.
The sound of ripping fabric filled her ears and the feel of blood trickled down her skin. She winced and squeezed her eyes shut to hold back tears, but she refused to move. She couldn't if she tried.
“There is no one else,” the Master hissed. That already venomous voice seemed ten times as lethal. “I am Master, there is no other. No other who holds such power.”
The clawing continued. And then came kicking and biting. Pain spread threw the girl's body and she fell to her knees, covering her head with her arms. “No!” It was a simple word. But simple words hold power. In more cases than not, such a simple word holds more power than some of the most elegant, long words imaginable.
No is one of those simple words.
The attacks stopped, only for a moment. A snarl from the Master wielded no result. The vapour poured in through their eyes and noses now, and finally the attacks continued. The whole time, our one small little girl, the one clad in a now torn, lavender gown, whispered the same thing over again. Tiny, simple words with so much power.
“I believe I can be freed.”
And she didn't stop until the whole world had faded from her view, and the horrific noises ceased to be heard. Now there was only one thing in her mind. One voice, filled with a passionate love that this small girl could not begin to understand.
You are free, and you are Mine. You are Mine and you are loved. The voice held more sincerity than the small girl had ever heard. And more than sincerity was the love. Such a passionate love had never been spoken. You are the daughter of a King. You will rise up and live with me, and you will be called Passion.
And when Passion finally awoke, she felt no pain. No daunting fear that gnawed relentlessly at her. She woke to no blood, no horrible vapours or pupil-less red eyes. She was not sprawled out, limbs twisted at frightening angles, on a cold marble floor.
Instead, Passion woke in a bed more comfortable than she thought possible. Her eyes opened to light so pure and intoxicating, she had to close them again. The second time they opened, they were staring directly into the face of love. Love that wore two crowns. One made of thistles and the other made of pure gold, studded with the most perfect jewels you could ever hope to see.
Passion smiled, and this King called Love smiled back, eyes twinkling. She was finally home.
