Sleeping Beauty

Disclaimer: SaGa Frontier and its characters are property of Squaresoft. You know the rest. This story is rather focused on Ildon and Asellus, somewhat. Critics would be greatly appreciated, since I need to improve.

Fourteen years ago, the news had come to Ildon when he was refining his sword techniques. Rastaban had come to him simply to break the news, secret gleaming in his eyes. But that was Rastaban, always with secrets in his mind; Ildon had never paid it much attention.

As he descended the stairs, Ildon thought bemusedly about the bizarre news. Orlouge, in his chase for his missing mistress Princess Rei, had his carriage run over a human girl. Accidents happened, and this was merely one of them. What had made Orlouge decide to take the human girl back to Chateau de Aiguille with him? Ildon felt that he ought to feel puzzled about it. Yet centuries of living had dulled the mystic prince to such feeling; life had ceased to amuse him. That was the price of immortality, he thought once. The Prince of Black Wings had stopped thinking about it since.

On and on he took his path through the stairs. Chateau de Aiguille was connected with stairs from one room to another; Ildon had wondered once whether the one who built it knew of any other architecture apart from stairs and bedrooms. Fuchsia and white roses glowed, illuminating his path in the ever night Chateau de Aiguille.

Ildon had caught a glimpse of the girl’s lifeless body as it was carried away by Orlouge’s servant. Her clothes and chestnut coloured hair were dyed reddish black with blood. It was unsightly, to see life crushed like that. Mystics feared death for they were immortal; Ildon felt the irony amusing.

He learnt then that Orlouge had not merely brought the girl’s corpse back with him; he infused the girl with his own mystic blood, hence making the girl the first half-mystic to ever been created. Ildon felt unease spreading among mystics in Chateau de Aiguille, each discontented with Orlouge’s decision, each coveting Orlouge’s blood. To receive the Charm Lord’s blood meant to receive his love, and countless mystics in Chateau de Aiguille had waited centuries for that honour. He, on the other hand, felt nothing. He was not immune to Orlouge’s charm, but it was not in him to desire more; Ildon was content where he was.

Some time later, Ildon was summoned to Orlouge’s chamber. The Charm Lord was sitting smugly, a playful smile on his lips. Ildon remembered how he used to love to see that smile, he remembered when it held him in an enchanting, unbroken grip of charm. He wondered when Orlouge’s charm on him had started to wear off. Orlouge smiled, seemingly satisfied with himself; Ildon felt that the Lord had found a new toy to play with and he was to be the one to put the toy back in the box when Orlouge’s done. Orlouge’s maids stood in a perfect circle around him, heedful to his needs. Ildon offered a courteous bow, and the Charm Lord approved with a wave of his delicate fingers.

“Ildon, you are to attend my daughter’s upbringing as a proper mystic, one that is worthy of my name.” It took Ildon several good seconds to realise whom Orlouge meant with ‘daughter’. The half-mystic. Ildon was ticked; he had thought the half-mystic to be Orlouge’s new toy, not his daughter. Not that there’s much difference…

“Why the silence, Ildon? Do you wish to disobey me?” the Master of Charmer said with a mocking smile. Ildon held his gaze away from Orlouge, fearing that the latter would know what was in his mind, yet knowing at the same time that his mind was pretty guessable. But he had to give a reason, at least to distract the Charm Lord from cornering him further.

“Such never crossed my mind, my Lord. May I be as rude as to offer a suggestion?” Ildon lifted his eyes to meet with Orlouge’s, and the Charm Lord seemed amused by this display of bluntness.

“Speak, servant.”

“I have no qualm to raise my Lord’s daughter, however I feel that I am lacking.” Orlouge raised his chin a bit, a gesture which Ildon had long recognised to mean ‘explain’. “I am refined in the art of swordsmanship, and I trust I can teach my Lord’s daughter all there is to know about swordsmanship. However, I am not as refined in the art of manners, and I believe that swordsmanship alone is not enough for a mystic to be worthy of my Lord’s name.”

Orlouge’s interest seemed to be piqued by Ildon’s words. He tore his scrutinizing gaze away from Ildon, much to the latter’s relief, and stared nowhere in particular. Ildon was not too interested in what the Charm Lord was thinking, he felt that it was good as long as the thought did not involve him. Thinking of someone else to put the toy back in the box, aren’t you…

“You raised a good point, Ildon. Your presence is no longer needed.” Ildon gave another courteous bow and disappeared. He learnt that the girl was in a comatose state with no clue as to when she would awaken, and until she did, his duty was put on hold. As such, he thought no longer of the matter.

That was fourteen years ago.

Years passed unnoticed in Chateau de Aiguille, and Ildon had paid no heed to the comatose half-mystic. As long as she had not awaken, he did not need to have anything to do with her. But now he found himself walking to her chamber. His mind was uncertain whether he needed to go there, but his steps did not falter.

Ildon reached a chamber no different than other countless chambers in Chateau de Aiguille. All of them had a princess sleeping inside, imprisoned in a coffin. All of them, Orlouge’s mistresses, only to arise from their coffin when summoned by the Master Charmer. All of them, sleeping an eternity… Orlouge had put all of his mistresses in coffins when his first mistress, Princess Rei, stole Orlouge’s power by sucking his blood and fled from Chateau de Aiguille. Orlouge was chasing her when the human girl happened to step in his path. What a turn your fate served you, half-mystic.

The inside of the half-mystic’s chamber was no different from the others. A simple decoration of mirrors, glowing white and fuchsia roses, but no coffin. In place of a coffin, there was a bed on which a motionless figure lay. Ildon thought it peculiar that the half-mystic was not placed in a coffin. Then again, what threat can a half-mystic posses?

Ildon stepped slowly toward the motionless figure. He was pretty sure that the sound of his steps would not awaken the half-mystic; still he moved silently. As he approached her, the first thing he noticed was a striking difference from the limp corpse he had seen fourteen years ago. He remembered a chestnut coloured hair dyed reddish black by blood. But the figure sleeping before him had emerald coloured hair. Its colour was more or less like his, with softer hue. The mystic blood in her had somehow changed her hair colour.

Next Ildon noticed that the girl still wore her human clothes, although it was no longer dyed crimson. Orlouge’s maids must had washed the clothes and put it back on the girl. Ildon made a mental note to get the girl a dress appropriate for mystics, only to realise that he had put the order years ago. Shortly after the girl arrived, to be exact.

He advanced further to see her more clearly, and was frozen. He felt as if frozen in enchantment, but he knew that this was not magic. It was enchantment indeed, but not magic. For a moment – for but a flickering moment, he thought he saw Orlouge’s sleeping face. A face as handsome as it is beautiful and as charming, yet without the cunning that would usually play on its lips and malice behind its eyes. The mystic prince was enthralled; this was the very face that had landed him in the Charm Lord’s iron grip.

He leaned over to touch that face when his eyes got the better of him. The face was no longer there, instead there was the face of the half-mystic, seemingly asleep, a face he had never seen before. Ildon pulled back his hand and stood transfixed. His mind frantically sought an answer to his confusion and came up with a definite answer: Orlouge’s blood.

Mystics of Chateau de Aiguille used blood for magic. They craved blood too, but not as much for hunger as it was for magic. This had earned the Charm Lord’s mystic clan a darling nickname of ‘vampires’. And the clan had used the nickname for full effect, spreading silent terror in the heart of humans. And as expected, the blood of a mystic lord such as Orlouge was powerful. The blood of the Charm Lord… and that blood, in this half-mystic’s vein…

Ildon stood still, watching the girl’s face. She seemed asleep, undisturbed. Carefully, he seated himself on the edge of her bed such as not to touch her yet able to observe her face. Even at a closer distance, his eyes fooled him every now and then. At times he would saw her face as what it was. But most of the time, he could only saw Orlouge’s face. Asleep ever peaceful, ever beautiful, ever innocent…

After some time, he could no longer saw the faces. What he saw then was a mixture of both: the face of Orlouge and a human girl. The face was such an amazing combination of both, resulting in a face with androgynous beauty. Orlouge’s long eyelashes and her peach-coloured lips, Orlouge’s charm and her youth, his beauty and her innocence. The face looked, above all, like how a younger Orlouge would, had his mind not twisted and his soul turned crooked. Although weakened, the Charm Lord’s blood was still powerful. At least, enough to show its mark on the girl.

Ildon sat still, captivated by the face he now saw. He stared transfixed, not wanting to tear his gaze away from the face. Time passed meaninglessly, and Ildon could no longer tell how long he had been like that. He wondered, how her waking face would look like. He wondered if she would speak the way Orlouge speak, or if she would smile the way Orlouge smile. When will you wake up, little lady?

As Ildon sat motionless with his gaze fixed, something in the back of his mind nudged him gently. And he was reminded of a fairy tale which he had heard long time ago, when he was still travelling in the human world, of a princess cursed to sleep until a prince came to wake her up. He remembered how it was said that the prince had to defeat a dragon and make his way to the princess’ room in a castle full of thorns, and how the enchantment was broken when she woke up. As the curse was lifted from her castle, the thorns disappeared, its inhabitants woke up and the castle returned to what it was before the curse fell on them.

Ildon laughed silently. Foolish tale.

The mystic prince smiled amusedly at the comatose girl. It crossed his mind that this girl had been human after all, she would had surely heard of the fairy tale. What would you do if this is your fairy tale, little girl? Ildon reached out a hand to touch her cheeks. What would you do if you were the princess? Caressing her cheek, he luxuriated in its smoothness. What would you do, if you wake up and the prince’s not there, and your castle’s still under the curse? Ildon amused himself, taking parallels between the princess in the fairy tale and the girl. He compared the thorny castle in the fairy tale with Chateau de Aiguille, a palace of roses that knew not of day. Well, at least there won’t be any thorn to scratch your smooth skin. He continued the little entertainment in his head, predicting what would the half-mystic ‘princess’ do when she woke up and found that ‘her castle’ was still under the ‘curse’. He continued to satisfy his imagination until the comparison came to Orlouge. Smiling, intrigued, he leaned over her closely. And what will you do, if you wake up and find that the dragon’s waiting for you?

As the mystic prince resumed his adoration for the sleeping face which was merely inches apart from his, his felt like he had missed a point. What did the prince wake her up with? And he quickly remembered the answer. He remembered it as the most ridiculous thing in the tale. A kiss. What can a kiss do?

Ildon had no idea why, but he leaned even closer, his long emerald locks of hair falling on her, brushing against her face softly. He kissed her lips lightly; it smelled faintly of roses. Their lips merely touching, he kissed her still, revelling in the softness of her lips and the pleasant smell. When he withdrew, he could not tell whether to feel ashamed of taking advantage of a comatose girl, or to regret that a kiss was all he could get. I wonder, what does your voice sound like?

The emerald haired man sat still, taking pleasure in the girl’s peaceful face. And waited. A part of him whispered faint hopes for the fairy tale to be true, so that she would wake up and provide answers to his questions. Another part of him mocked that wish, for it was never in him to believe in a silly fairy tale. Yet, a part of him asked, begged him to stay, to wait, for oh just a little bit longer… and he gave in.

The Prince of Black Wings continued to wait for some time, until finally the mockery in his head overwhelmed the wish. He walked out of the half-mystic’s chamber, mocking himself to have believed in a silly human-invented story. As soon as he reached the chamber’s entrance, he disappeared.

Inside the chamber, the air stirred. The half-mystic moved her fingers slowly, as if feeling her whereabouts. With some effort, Asellus opened her eyes.

The sleeping beauty had awakened.

Before you read this letter, let me ask you something. Have you ever met a kiss-stealer?

If you did, then what you will read will have no use for you. If you have not… then read on. Maybe you’d have the most wonderful of luck and you’d never meet them.

I met one of them, once.

I survived, but my best friend did not.

But first, let me tell you what a kiss-stealer is. Like the name implied, they steal kisses. It may not sound like anything harmful to you, but I’ve seen what they’ve done. They are, well, monsters. That may not be the best choice of words… they’re delicate, they’re exquisite, but they’re still monsters, like the beasts you watch on various wildlife program on TV.

…rather than an explanation, maybe I’d make you understand better by telling.

Like I said, I met one of them.

When I first saw him, I thought he was the finest thing I’d ever seen. He moved with grace, and his gestures were filled with sensual invitation. I’ve always thought there’s something in it, a certain kind of predatory awareness, a hidden smirk in every gentle smile… and I had always thought that I was only imagining it.

But I should had trusted the signs, should had trusted my own judgement.

When he spoke, his voice was soft and sweet, like the lull of sirens, the songs of mermaid. His touch was electrifying; it was as cold and refreshing as morning dew, and as terrifying and dangerous like the claws of a panther. And his presence invited unbidden imaginations, alien longings, unimaginable fantasies and forbidden dreams.

True, being around him always made me nervous and jumpy, dreading the moments he looked into my eyes, in fear of what he might saw there.

Maybe he did see it all.

At that time, his target –or victim– was my best friend.

She was the sweetest girl I’d ever known, and he took her away.

She was naive and a dreamer, and she fell for him. Hard.

There was not a time when she would not talk about him, not a time when she would not think about him. And she rapidly changed; her world was no longer her own but his, and she breathed for him. I should had seen the danger, should had warned her against it, against giving yourself so completely to a stranger when they had just met.

And to think that I had been happy for her.

I guess back then I was a naive audience, too ignorant to think about anything else apart from whining about how my best friend was drifting apart from me. And too blinded by jealousy, that he chose her and not me…

But this letter isn’t about my jealousy.

I watched him weaving his silken web around her, ensnaring her inside and leaving me outside. I watched him slowly shifting her mind that she trusted him more and more each day, and me less and less each day. I watched how she built a pedestal and placed him on it, and revered him. I watched it all until suddenly I realised I was already a stranger to her.

By that time it was already too late.

I learned later that this is how a kiss-stealer always worked.

Thy are creatures of dual existence; they are elegant and dangerous, kind and cruel, refined and beastly, tender and brutal, forgiving and avenging… but most of all, they are ugly and beautiful.

To their targets, they always appear as what they are wanted to be, as what they are expected to become. They’d give their victims a feeling that they had found what they were looking for, and they would fall for these majestic beasts… and the beast would steal a kiss, and the deed would be done.

Does it sound ridiculous to you, that a kiss could be harmful? That, I’ll leave to you to decide.

One day my friend came to me and told me excitedly that he had kissed her when she had not expected it. I had smiled for her, but deep inside I felt that I had lost. I could not explain what I had lost to; I just felt it.

The following days I saw him less and less, and her world crumbled little by little. She would come to me, lost and bewildered, seeking an answer which I did not have. And there was nothing I could do, but soothe and console her.

One day he disappeared, and her world shattered.

Her bewilderment had then changed to despair, and her questions turned to choked sobs. I did what I could for her, while blaming and hating him for it. I told her this, and she threw a rage, believing that he’d surely come back for her and all misunderstandings would be cleared. I begged her sorry and never said another word about him. I only tried my best to be there for her.

It seemed that it had not been enough.

He never returned, and I guess she did what she thought was the last thing she could do to go to his place –wherever that was– to get him back.

When I found her, there was not much to do. Her body had went cold and stiff, the cold water in the bathtub was a red nightmare and her arm was a ragged, criss-cross pattern of torn flesh and pain. The knife on the floor had been a silent witness and accomplice.

And I cried for the hours too late to change.

But I did not mourn for her long. I guess I was bitter then, that she had cast me away and returned when she herself was cast away. Maybe I had grown distant from her, I could not tell.

But I knew what I wanted to do. I set out to find him. Not out of revenge, I think, but because I was drawn to him; I just felt like I wanted to find him, needed to find him.

…ever since I started this unreal quest, I’ve met numerous people, most of them surviving victims. They taught me what a kiss-stealer was, and what they did.

Kiss-stealer live by stealing kisses. But it’s not just that; along with the kiss they steal other things; trust, independence, logic… and most of all, your heart. But to get all of these they must first condition the victim to be willing to give it. And it was usually easy.

But more important than that, I also met those who met a kiss-stealer and emerged triumphant. And they taught me how.

You see, while cultivating their victims, the kiss-stealer unwillingly also develops sympathy for them. And this is a gap to make use of.

You see, to be victorious against a kiss-stealer, you have to steal its kiss.

It’s like reversing the process; develop their sympathy for you until they entrusted you with their life, then steal their kiss.

This is the only way to defend yourself.

That was what I was told, but I had never found out if it was true, the process; I had never met another kiss-stealer since then.

But I think I’d find out soon.

Yesterday, after so long, I saw him on the streets. He looked just as I remembered him; his eyes were still captivating, his smile still sensuous and his charm had not wavered.

He greeted me warmly when I spoke to him, not recognising me at all. He talked to me like I was a stranger, so I played along. I told him that I had mistaken him with someone else, and he just laughed. But I didn’t plan to let go of him. We talked for a while, and I think in the end he trusted and liked me, enough to consider me a friend.

And that was the beginning just as I expected it to be. I had made cautious plans, and in the end I am confident that I will be triumphant. I would see to it that he falls. Hard.

And I would enjoy the moment when I finally stole his kiss.

I started writing this letter somewhat in the name of charity. I doubt I’d know the person reading this letter, and I doubt you’d know me. But I know that at least someone would read this letter, and it might mean something, it might be helpful for you. At least I harbour a hope that it would be so.

At the very least, now you know what the kiss-stealer are. I pray that you’d never meet them; but if you do, at least I told you how to be victorious.

If and when that happens, I hope you would remember me and pray for my quest.

Tomorrow I’d make copies of this letter, and leave it in various places, and wish that one of them would reach those who need it.

And I know how silly this letter seems, but I believe that it’s necessary that I wrote it.

Let us steal the kiss-stealer’s kiss.