The Castle of Colors

By Aeriel Holman

Everyday I wonder, as I glance out the window, Who truly loves me? Who truly cares?

There is no pretending for me here. I must be alone. No Knights dressed to shame the moon call to me, here—alone—in the lowest tower.

How long have I waited for he who rides free? I have been perched upon this sill, watching from afar as the countless stonewalls have been climbed around me. Every color of Knight comes for the rescue of his darling, my sisters who were not sisters.

Sky.

Earth.

Ash.

Blood.

They have left me in our prison while I bid farewell with tears choking the back of my throat. Most of my sister’s last words were laughter, arms encircling broad shoulders, so happy to be captured by a different cage they forgot to wave to us–to me.

No soul but icy wind and I now reside in this place, known as The Castle of Colors. My eyes are as gray as the clouds that hovers above the desolate brick and mortar tower. The pale hair I grow as rope is nothing but braided cobweb—proof of my long, cursed life… what was once our cursed life.

My sisters-not-sisters and I belonged to every color to find. We spent our lives gazing out tower windows, searching for him to come. Since my earliest memories I have been tended to by fae with no mouths. Each of us was stolen and resting here for a brave soldier to cross treacherous lands to fetch us to a Happily Ever After. We were told by invisible forces that we cannot readily judge as benevolent or malevolent… they said that this life–this is our fate… our destiny. Which made no sense, yet I soon learned. Which makes little more sense.

Our yellow sister–not the oldest nor youngest–Sunbeam was the first to be called. He was gallant, arms outstretched to catch. She screamed as she fell; but we did envy her.

Many more came.

One man brought a ladder. Another made wings. An especially ambitious Knight felled the tower. I could not watch it crumble. After the dust had settled, this crimson man was gone, and we no longer heard our sister-not-sister’s song of longing.

In due time, I am last, in a cobwebbed castle, full of dust. Perhaps the world outside my room is dead. Sometimes I dream a skeletal Knight gallops to my window, where a small light still flickers. His gray cloak of twilight freedom snapping against the storm where my withered hand is outstretched. 

But no… this eternity of aloneness must mean I have no Knight.

Now, I wonder, is that so horrid a fate?

Gemstone said to me, before she too would disappear in eerie mist, “Is this destiny of ours so wondrous? I have all time to sing our lovely song… When the Knights arrive, there is no more longing song. Or breath, perhaps, to sing.”

I did not understand her then, and am not closer to the violet logic now. Although, my own song of unrequited love goes on, much more beautiful than its past melody. It asks me, “Is love a better prison?”

I fear… I shall never know that answer.

By Aeriel Holman