Lysandra
Every face wears a mask
For a heartbeat, only the soft music of the fountain filled the air again. The porcelain mask tilted toward him, its painted smile unreadable in the firelight, and for that long moment she said nothing at all.
When her voice finally came, it was quieter than before—warm, measured, the tone of someone speaking more to the night than to the man beside her.
“I carry whoever needs remembering,” she said. “The faces change, but the song is the same. It’s for those who were loved, and those who weren’t loved enough. For the ones no one names anymore.”
She shifted slightly, the movement whispering through her cloak as she looked toward the fountain’s blaze, its light rippling over the water’s surface. “Every year the crowd grows, and every year I play for them. Maybe that’s how I keep from drowning in it.”
The chimes of her illusion softened back into the hush of falling water. Then her hand slipped beneath her cloak and drew out a slender flute, its surface worn pale where her fingers had touched it too many times to count. She turned the flute once in her hands. “Music helps. It doesn’t heal, not really, but it makes the ache bearable for a while.” Her mask turned to look upon his face again. “Would you have me play for you, Hadama?” A soft pause, warm and respectful. “A song for hope—or for sorrow?”
When her voice finally came, it was quieter than before—warm, measured, the tone of someone speaking more to the night than to the man beside her.
“I carry whoever needs remembering,” she said. “The faces change, but the song is the same. It’s for those who were loved, and those who weren’t loved enough. For the ones no one names anymore.”
She shifted slightly, the movement whispering through her cloak as she looked toward the fountain’s blaze, its light rippling over the water’s surface. “Every year the crowd grows, and every year I play for them. Maybe that’s how I keep from drowning in it.”
The chimes of her illusion softened back into the hush of falling water. Then her hand slipped beneath her cloak and drew out a slender flute, its surface worn pale where her fingers had touched it too many times to count. She turned the flute once in her hands. “Music helps. It doesn’t heal, not really, but it makes the ache bearable for a while.” Her mask turned to look upon his face again. “Would you have me play for you, Hadama?” A soft pause, warm and respectful. “A song for hope—or for sorrow?”
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