Marionette
By Lacrimosa~
A solitary figure, garbed in ripped and grimy clothes mucked in mud, crouched next to a single white tombstone, leaning against it as he laid the side of his forehead upon it. He clutched an intricately sewn marionette against his chest, his albino white hair creating a drape around his head, concealing his face which the shadows of the night had courteously left undisturbed. There he sat, stoic and unmoving, as if in blissful sleep, even when the loud falsetto of the tolling clock tower bells started in its avowal of the time. Once, twice, thrice… A total of twelve times; it was midnight, eve of Christmas.
It was only whilst the last dong resonated across the silent graveyard, of which even the incessant chirping of crickets was not welcome, that the figure lifted his head, glancing left and right with caution, as streaming tears upon his cheeks glistened in the faint moonlight exuding from the waning moon hanging lazily in the starless expanse of the sky. He stood, pushing himself up with his lanky arms, vigilant of the puppet he clutched dearly in his hand, wary not to soil it on the ground. Walking backwards, he bent and placed the doll, with shaky hands, where it belonged; a wooden carved dollhouse of a manor serving as a podium, so meticulously engraved that even the flourishing ivy flowers were outstanding in their detail. Shock and disbelief ebbed away from his widened eyes with every step he took rearward, halting only when he could barely discern the arrangement before the tombstone, a settling of recognition overwhelming his eyes. There he stood, in a pregnant pause, before he ran apprehensively towards the stunning large scale replica of the dollhouse, of which garden he had been in; his back forward and his head backwards, as a harried expression etched itself onto his face.
He went through the oaken doorway, trampling and immaculately flattening a dishevelled welcome doormat. On he made his way, groping his way down the restricted dim passage –his back still facing his destination- before at long last arriving in a grandiose hall, with a proud evergreen tree at a corner, squatting to accommodate itself in the room, tipped by a flawlessly stitched fabric doll, of which resembled analogously of an adorable angel. Hung up above, were the celebratory flamboyant red, white and green illuminations, stringing across the lounge, blinking sporadically upon the group relaxed in their plush maroon armchairs. Towards this said gathering the male figure approached, huffing with trepidation as a look of foreboding was set over his features, his scurrying fit coming to a cessation as he identified a nobleman, donned in an impeccable suit, whilst a red tie, straightened in an ideal fashion and fixed to point that it seemed symmetrical, strangulated itself around his neckline. Upon the pale skin of his face, therein lay a saccharine smile, directed knowingly towards this eccentric youthful male, filching the immense horror striking his visage.
"Allen, meet Mister Tyki Mikk, a travelling merchant of whom was passing town. Look at the dolls on sale, he claims they are all handcrafted, and has a reputation of 'Doll Master'! Oh, they are just adorable!" the lone female of the group, a slim figure in an austere snow dress, introduced loquaciously, beaming as she gesticulated towards the guest.
Allen, with overt scrunched wrinkles of worry adorning his countenance, briskly meandered out, entering as abruptly as he had left, navigating through a maze of walls adorned with an assortment of paintings and uniformed doorways sprouting up intermittingly, only terminating his persistent traipse when he reached the centre of a room, adorned with rusty faint pink hangings and moth eaten curtains, of which were palpably once of an ostentatious verve.
All around him stood her little dolls, each meticulously stitched by their owner, sitting themselves in a neat circle with intricate woven eyes gazing upon him. She was before him, hunched over as she kneeled on the carpeted wooden floor of her bedroom, threading a single needle and string, before stretching her frail arms to undo a stitch.
Then she stated with melancholy behind a screen of apathy, "I must go."
"What are you going to do, Lenalee?" He inquired, a bit anxiously, as he felt an ominous ambivalence hanging about the air, even though he knew the answer.
The young female glanced up, with commiseration in her round violet eyes, pushing her straight black hair behind one ear, for it was blocking her spectrum of vision, and she gave a look of reluctance. In this one stretch of time, one message was clear to both of them: but she was averse to leave; loathed to part with him. Both were so deeply engrossed in this understanding, and what connotation lay beyond it, that they did not realise the dolls averting their glance towards her.
"At Eleven Fifty-Nine, a minute to midnight. The Doll Master strikes, his victim in sight. For our Mistress, he has come. So we must run, run, run." The dolls, even with their mouths still infallibly stitched, chanted, as if it were some sort of a mantra, enunciating each syllable softly as it echoed all over the room, mashing with the combined voices of choired whispers.
Slowly, the female stood, her purple eyes locked with his silver ones, and unwittingly drawn to each other, they neared, sharing a bittersweet kiss which told of their agony, their longing and their sorrow. As they parted –too quick in their opinion- tears simultaneously bloomed through their eyes, trickling down steadily to crash against the hand woven beauty of the dark blue carpet. Subsequently, they whispered, so softly that it could only have barely reached one another.
"I love you."
As he crouched next to a single white tombstone, leaning against it as he laid the side of his forehead upon it, with an intricately sewn marionette, with dull lifeless violet eyes reminiscent of that youthful lady who took contentment in her masterwork of dolls, clutched against his chest, he sat stoic and unmoving, whilst the loud falsetto of the tolling clock tower bells rang a total of twelve times; it was midnight, eve of Christmas. Only whilst the last dong resonated across the silent graveyard, that he dared lift his head, glancing left and right with caution, with streaming tears down his cheeks. Pale fingers wrapped themselves around a jewelled hilt lying innocuously upon the dewed grass, clinging unsteadily whilst he lifted the blade up to scrutinise it.
Then, as he pointed the antique sword, a curio he had found proudly displayed within the manor, against his neck, his eyes slid shut, tranquil in the sanctuary of the notion he had found to silence the turmoil of emotions burning within the furnace of his broken heart. One reason stood clear in his mind, prevalent in its clarity: he was doing this, for her. It was because he loves her. He loves her, he loves her, he loves her, he loves her, he lov-