Letters of Love

 

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Cast

 

A young lucidian student

Composed of blue crystal seemingly hewn from the heart of a glacier, this young, robustly-built academic is evidently one of the Institute, the guild's badge emblazoned upon the left breast of his robe. Clad in a scholarly black robe that billows around his crystalline form, he also wears a pair of spectacles that rest on the tip of his symmetrical nose. Glassy topaz eyes and chiselled features characterise his broad, expressionless countenance. He carries a crystalline notepad and pen in either hand, prepared to log whatever records he must.

 

Xieyla Blackwing

This trill possesses a waifish figure, her skin alabaster-pale. Only a hint of red colours her pallid cheeks, though her dark eyes are as bright and full of life as a robin's. Her crest of feathers is an atramentous sable hue, matching the thin wings that flutter weakly against her back. Her lips are the pale pink of carnation, and her hands are small and slender. She is attired in a simple linen dress of cornflower-blue and remains barefoot. A simple locket of tarnished gold rests in the hollow of her delicate throat.

 

Eighan Cloudwalker

1: With soft green eyes and caramel skin, this young trill is a sight to behold -- his slender frame and graceful, though hesitant, delicate hands bestow upon him the mien of a developing artist. Plumes of passionate carnelian bedeck his head, casually swept across his forehead. His mantle of feathers echoes these vibrant colours, framing his lithe figure in lustrous reds, beryls, and oranges. Forgoing jewellery or other adornments, he is clad in a tunic and leggings of simple cut but lavish fabrics.

 

2: With metallic green eyes and caramel skin, this middle-aged trill is a lean figure of sharp angles and harsh lineaments. Dry, stained hands from oil pigments and acrylics bestow upon him the mien of an experienced artist. Plumes of passionate carnelian bedeck his head, casually swept across his forehead. His mantle of feathers echoes these vibrant colours, framing his lithe figure in lustrous reds, beryls, and oranges. Forgoing jewellery or other adornments, he is clad in a tunic and leggings of simple cut but lavish fabrics. A length of plain ebon silk is tethered at his upper arm, fluttering with every movement he makes.

 

Veriosa Blackwing

This tall and slender trill woman is clad in a black gown of austere cut, her posture prim and straight. Perhaps the only physical characteristic that betrays her age, plumes of grey-flecked ebon have been twisted into an elegant chignon and held with an ivory pin. Her wings are an unadulterated shade of sable black, folded tidily behind her. Her face is smooth and unblemished, calm and cool in demeanour.

 

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Scenes

 

Museum

A sweeping corridor of lustrous onyx serves host to several silver-framed paintings and statues, spaced far apart and all monochromatic in pigmentation. Featuring austere likenesses of presumably honoured Collectivists, the centremost of all these masterpieces is housed within an artificially-lit alcove. Ropes of ebon velvet, borne aloft by waist-high silver poles, sequester each work safely out of arm's reach. The floors are polished marble, pristine in hue, carefully maintained so that nary a scuff nor blemish mars their veneer. Imbuing the pale stone with a hallowed glow, a melancholy light filters down from the windowed ceiling, silvering every surface with a fragile sheen.

 

Prop: Oil painting

This oil painting has been bound in a frame of pale silver, polished to a luminous gleam; however, the filigree pattern of windswept plumes betrays the true antiquity of the piece, small traces of tarnished metal evident in the grooves. Languid brushstrokes sweep in gentle contours to form the figure of a young trill maiden, seated upon a velvet stool and clad in a simple evening shift of dove white. Echoing the shadow of her slender, lowly fanned wings, a crest of sable feathers frames an alabaster-pale countenance beset with dark eyes. Her lips are curved into a wistful, melancholy smile, and one hand tenderly touches the locket at her graceful throat.

 

Xieyla's House

A home of modest means, the Blackwing house carries an air of lacklustre plainness necessitated by humble resources, with many of its once-elegant furnishings now faded and frayed by time. Representing a sitting room on the right and a bedroom on the left, the stage has been divided in two with a wall down the centre, with a plain wooden door allowing passage between the two rooms. Both rooms appear immaculately clean and tidy, but somewhat dilapidated and threadbare, though the small bedroom is enlivened by a vase of blooming roses, a stack of colourful artist's sketches, and, somewhat more ominously, a wastebasket filled with blotted white handkerchiefs.

 

Eighan's House

A bright, airy studio illuminated by narrow clerestory windows, this colourful chamber is clearly the abode of a maturing and enthusiastic artist. The room is crowded nearly from wall to wall with easels, painting frames, sculpture plinths, and workbenches bristling with painting palettes and brushes. Carelessly set every which way amidst the clutter are paint-speckled furnishings: a narrow bed, some shelves, and a crystal chair and desk. A single large painting takes pride of place on an easel beside the desk, displaying a nearly finished portrait of a young trill maiden, her pale, alabaster countenance dominated by dark eyes and a wistful, melancholy smile.

 

Old Museum

A sweeping corridor of lustrous onyx serves host to several silver-framed paintings and statues, spaced far apart and all monochromatic in pigmentation. Featuring austere likenesses of presumably honoured Collectivists, the centremost of all these masterpieces is housed within an artificially-lit alcove. Ropes of ebon velvet, borne aloft by waist-high silver poles, sequester each work safely out of arm's reach. The floors are polished marble, pristine in hue, carefully maintained so that nary a scuff nor blemish mars their veneer. Dancing across the pale stone in flickers of beryl, sunlight's radiance illumines the museum.

 

Prop: Painting

This oil painting has been bound in a frame of pale silver, polished to a luminous gleam; however, the filigree pattern of windswept plumes betrays the true antiquity of the piece, small traces of tarnished metal evident in the grooves. Languid brushstrokes sweep in gentle contours to form the figure of a young trill maiden, seated upon a velvet stool and clad in a simple evening shift of dove white. Echoing the shadow of her slender, lowly fanned wings, a crest of sable feathers frames an alabaster-pale countenance beset with dark eyes. Her lips are curved into a wistful, melancholy smile, and one hand tenderly touches the locket at her graceful throat.

 

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Scene I

 

The susurrus of silk flutters through the air as the curtains part unto a museum corridor, lofty walls hewn of lustrous onyx and polished floors constructed of pristine marble. Monochromatic paintings decorate the corridor, all of noble, long-parted Collectivists. Melancholy strains of pale moonlight filter through the glass-panelled dome above, illumining the environs in a fragile sheen of silver.

 

Soft footfalls make themselves known, accompanied by a faint tinkling of crystal.

 

A young lucidian student wanders through the corridor, gazing at one portrait studiously and penning down notes, occasionally pulsing a hazy grey as he pauses in thought, speaking in an undertone to himself. An academician's robe of severe black billows around his frame as his slippers silence his steps.

 

A young lucidian student moves on to the central alcove, where shadows are banished by an array of soft lights. There, he gazes at the portrait of the trill maiden with no more or less attentiveness than he paid the first painting, glassy eyes sweeping over the maiden's wistful countenance, her wings, and her clothing, finally resting upon the plaque beneath the piece, naming the girl.

 

A young lucidian student: (In a monotone, penning notes on a crystalline pad) Xieyla Blackwing. A trill woman of low birth, indicated by the plainness of the portrait's background and clothing, yet the decadent materialism of the old society is demonstrated by the attention she brings to the jewellery at her neck.

 

A young lucidian student turns a cloudy grey for a few moments, staring at the maiden's face.

 

A young lucidian student: Feelings imparted are those of 'joy,' as evidenced by the upward curve of the mouth. Purpose of portrait unknown.

 

A young lucidian student: (Swirling with cloudy greys) The student hypothesises that it was a betrothal portrait, to advertise the trill's qualities deemed attractive by social standards, such as symmetry of the face and exaggeratedly large eyes.

 

A young lucidian student pauses in his dictation, suddenly glowing a pale, curious green. Glancing down momentarily at the velvet roping off the painting from the general public, he jumps over it easily.

 

A young lucidian student walks closer to the portrait. He reaches out, tugging gently at something behind the painting. With the rustle of parchment, a sealed letter yellowed with age is teased free, falling into his awaiting hands.

 

A young lucidian student: (To himself) Perhaps this will help with my report on the historical paintings of this wing.

 

A young lucidian student breaks the red wax seal, unfolding the letter and reading aloud the fine script that covers the page.

 

A young lucidian student: 'Dear Xieyla, there are so many things that I want to say to you, that I should have said to you before you left. Most of all, I am sorry. I am sorry for everything. I was too cowardly a friend. You did not deserve a friend like me. You deserved far more. You deserved the truth. You deserved everything life chose to deny you, and you did not know.'

 

"Still, I hold onto the hope that, perhaps, after my thread is chosen and cut, someone will find this and know the truth. Xieyla, let me write this final letter to you. I miss you."

 

The curtains lower, shrouding the museum once more.

 

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Scene II

 

Accompanied by the sleek whisper of silk, the curtains part to reveal a home of modest means, its rooms threadbare, lacklustre, and plain. The worn antiquity of the furnishings bespeak an old elegance, faded with the passage of many years. Two rooms take pride of place: a sitting room on the right, and a bedroom on the left. A wooden door with worn lintel divides them, the chambers similarly tidy, free of excess or dust, save a couple of vases with freshly-picked geraniums and chrysanthemums.

 

Xieyla flies into the sitting room with great speed, crest and feathers whipping out dramatically behind her. She passes through the doorway into the bedroom, quickly shutting the door and locking it.

 

Xieyla leans against the door, running her fingers disbelievingly over the red seal on a letter she holds tenderly to her chest. She briefly presses her lips against the creamy parchment, her eyes closing, her expression one of beatific gratitude.

 

Xieyla: (In a soft murmur) I can't believe he wrote back so soon.

 

Xieyla hugs the letter to her chest, beaming widely. She turns to the desk and seats herself demurely in the chair beside it.

 

Xieyla takes a rosewood letter opener and carefully breaks the seal. The soft whisper of parchment accompanies her motions as she removes the letter from the envelope and unfolds it.

 

Xieyla: (Reading aloud) My dearest Xieyla.

 

Xieyla: (Her face softening with love) The hours pass so slowly without you here. I find myself thinking of your face, your bright and beautiful eyes, deep and dark as a moonlit lake. And your feathers...

 

Xieyla murmurs to herself the remainder of the letter, a tear falling from the corner of her eye as her hand unconsciously clutches at the locket around her neck.

 

Xieyla: (In a shaky, emotional voice) Please send me a picture of yourself, that I may linger on more tangible thoughts of you -- I would never forget your face, but it is difficult for a mind of anyone but an artist to capture in thought the perfect lines of your cheek, the softness of your mouth, the loveliness of your eyes.

 

Xieyla is suddenly taken by a coughing fit, covering her mouth with a handkerchief. Swallowing, she takes up a pen and begins to write on a fresh sheet of blue parchment.

 

Xieyla reaches inside her desk, pulling out a stack of artist's sketches.

 

Xieyla: (Murmuring under her breath) I know Eighan drew a picture of me sometime... Ah! Here it is.

 

Xieyla separates a sketched parchment drawing of herself from the rest of the papers.

 

Xieyla smiles softly, rolling up the parchment and securing it with a sable piece of twine.

 

Xieyla: (To herself) There. All ready for Eighan to pick up in the morning.

 

Xieyla tilts her head, turning her attention to a leather-bound book on the desk, the text of better quality than any other piece of furniture in the room. 

 

Xieyla: Hmm, I think I'm ready to begin again on my poetry. Aunt would like that.

 

Xieyla pulls the book to her and begins sounding out scansion and phrases aloud, pausing to jot down notes every so often. Her brow furrows in concentration.

 

Xieyla: (Experimentally) Though through the liquid skies --

 

Xieyla coughs abruptly, hastily muffling her mouth with her handkerchief, still clutched white-fisted in her hand. Without looking at the handkerchief, she tosses it behind her towards a wicker laundry basket, filled with other white cloths.

 

The handkerchief just misses the bin, falling to the floor and unfurling to reveal blots of dark red in its crumpled folds.

 

Xieyla continues pondering phrases, muttering, "And with the evanescent strains of song..."

 

A distant knock at the front door sounds in the midst of her recitations, echoing throughout the house.

 

Xieyla looks up, her expression brightening.

 

Xieyla: Oh! There he is! He's so quick!

 

Xieyla hurries through her bedroom door to the front of the house, smoothing down her feathers before opening the door. 

 

Xieyla: (Happily) Eighan!

 

Eighan steps across the house's  threshold with a smile, brushing back his carnelian feathers tousled across handsome features.

 

Xieyla: (Immediately) I've finished my letter! Could you please take it to the post office?

 

Eighan: (Blinking) Ah, already, Xieyla? But I just delivered the one from Rethok to you a few hours ago. I was just checking to see how you were.

 

Xieyla: (Blushing) Ah! Sorry, I guess I'm a bit greedy. I just love his letters so.

 

Eighan offers a wry, though languid smile to Xieyla, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

Eighan: So how are you feeling?

 

Xieyla shrugs her thin shoulders, looking away.

 

Xieyla: (In a cheerful voice as she turns back to him) I'm doing well. Just started again on my poetry.

 

Eighan levels Xieyla with an evaluative gaze.

 

Eighan: (Flatly) There was more blood, wasn't there.

 

Xieyla: (Crossing her arms and looking away) No, just a regular cold. Normal, clear sputum.

 

Eighan: (At length, looking at her carefully) I'm telling the doctor.

 

Xieyla: (Grabbing Eighan's arm, her eyes pleading) No! Please don't, they'll stick me with those needles again and suck all the blood out of me anyway!

 

Eighan: (With a small sigh) I won't deliver the letter if you won't let me report your condition to the doctor. You have to get better, Xieyla.

 

Eighan pauses, glancing down for an instant before turning his plaintive gaze back to Xieyla.

 

Eighan: Rethok would want you to get better.

 

Xieyla looks as though she is about to protest, but slumps her shoulders in resignation, heaving a sigh.

 

Xieyla: (Looking up at the carnelian-feathered trill again) All right. But you have to promise to take my letter to the post office right away.

 

Eighan: (Smiling) Right away. I promise.

 

Xieyla: (Cheerfully, as though nothing had happened) All right! Let me get it, it's in my room!

 

Xieyla bounds off lightly to her room, skirts swishing.

 

Eighan rocks idly on his heels and toes as he looks around, taking in the spare amenities of the sitting room: the broken grandfather clock, the old upholstered couch and armchair, the swept but modest fireplace. His brows knit subtly as his gaze crosses the faded portrait of a severe-looking dark-winged trill, but he soon catches sight of Xieyla returning and smiles warmly.

 

Xieyla skips into the room, her wings fluttering as though their small forms could possibly carry her.

 

Eighan: (Wryly) You're happy. Did he say more nice things this time?

 

Xieyla: (Laughing) Of course! You know him, even war can't keep his spirits down! He even asked for a picture.

 

Xieyla: (Blushing) I hope you don't mind. I gave him one of the sketches you did of me.

 

Eighan hesitates for the barest moment as he takes the sealed letter and tucks it carefully into his satchel.

 

Eighan: I don't mind.

 

Xieyla claps her hands in delight.

 

Xieyla: Now, shoo, go deliver it like you promised.

 

Xieyla gently pushes at Eighan's arm. She smiles up at him expectantly.

 

Eighan rolls his eyes with a long-suffering expression.

 

Xieyla: (Pouting at Eighan) I'm paying a very dear price for this, you know. You're betraying me for just one speck of blood.

 

Eighan: (Under his breath) And of course I believe it was only one.

 

Xieyla: (Daydreaming) He might answer tomorrow night, even. I asked him very nicely to send a reply quickly.

 

Eighan smiles slightly, nodding.

 

Eighan: Of course, Xieyla. We'll see. You know, he is busy on the front lines and --

 

Xieyla: (Pushing Eighan out the door) Thank you!

 

Eighan shakes his head as the door snaps closed behind him. He begins to make his way through the wards of Hallifax.

 

Several flickering crystal signs pass the stage, marking Eighan's path across the winding crystal platforms. When he passes one named 'Ministry of Postal Services,' he briefly looks up, his mouth twisting slightly before he passes it by, never hesitating in his journey.

 

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Scene III

 

Instead, his path continues upward into a brilliantly lit crystalline hallway. He opens a door into a cluttered studio and stumbles tiredly inside, weaving his way through a jumble of easels and plinths toward a lone, paint-speckled desk against the wall.

 

Eighan passes a hand over his eyes wearily, pulling out the chair at his crystal desk and slumping forward in it.

 

Eighan: (Murmuring) So what has she written to Rethok today?

 

Eighan undoes the tie of the rolled parchment, flattening it out carefully on his desk. He removes the sketch of Xieyla from the letter, taking a long, measured look at it before gently moving the picture to the corner of his desk.

 

Eighan takes up the letter itself in his hands, his eyes roving its contents.

 

Eighan: (Reading the letter) 'My love, I have enclosed a picture for you as you asked. Eighan was the one who sketched this portrait of me, back when I was able to go outside and see the flowers of the Aviary.'

 

Eighan: 'I miss the days when the three of us would go out and explore the city as children -- there were always wards and towers to inspect for imaginary monsters, fleshpots, Illuminati, and ghouls.'

 

Eighan glances up, the ghost of a smile upon his softened features. He allows himself a moment of reverie before returning his attention to the letter, murmuring under his breath.

 

Eighan: 'I haven't been feeling too well lately, Rethok. I miss you. When will this war be over? When will I see you again?'

 

Eighan's soft smile abruptly fades.

 

Eighan: (In a whisper) If only you knew.

 

Eighan looks up as there is a knock on the door. With a perplexed look, he opens the door, an elder woman austerely dressed in black sweeping into the room with authority.

 

Veriosa turns to Eighan with a swish of her stygian skirts, glancing at the sparsely-appointed room before nodding politely in his direction.

 

Eighan acknowledges Veriosa with a curt nod of his own.

 

Eighan: Lady Blackwing. 

 

Veriosa: (Softly) You are doing well thus far, Cloudwalker. Her spirits have gone up considerably since the last letter, and she is more than halfway finished with her magnum opus.

 

Eighan: (A trace of bitterness edging his tone) I'm glad you're so happy about it. I'm running out of things to say. I know nothing of the battlefield, I can't satisfy her curiosity about what troubles he supposedly faces!

 

Veriosa waves her hand dismissively, her expression turning scornful.

 

Veriosa: (Her voice growing harder) Use the anecdotes of war in the library, ask the veterans of the city of their experiences -- how you accomplish your task, I care not, as long as it is done.

 

Veriosa: (Silkily) You knew what this job entailed when I hired you, Cloudwalker.

 

Eighan: I cannot maintain the illusion of love solely on borrowed memories!

 

Veriosa: (With an icy edge to her voice) You shall have to. As long as she's happy, she writes. As long as she writes, the honour of House Blackwing grows.

 

Eighan: (Emphatically shaking his head) No, I'm done! I am done playing around with her mind so that you can get the prestige you do not deserve.

 

Eighan: (Inhaling sharply, then practically spitting the words) She deserves to know the truth!

 

Veriosa arches a single imperious eyebrow at Eighan, her lips curving into a mirthless little smile.

 

Veriosa: (A hint of warning to her tone) Do you remember the circumstances of our agreement, when we found that Rethok died on the front lines? Do you remember why we are doing this in the first place? Why we would never tell Xieyla?

 

Veriosa: (Her tone growing saccharine, though no less dangerous) What will happen if Xieyla's 'dearest Rethok' suddenly disappears, and his letters along with him? What will happen to our poor, sick, lonely Xieyla?

 

Veriosa: (Examining her nails idly) Will the news be too much for her? Will the grief be enough to trigger a fatal attack on her lungs?

 

Veriosa: Will she die, thinking that the light of her life has been extinguished... or worse, abandoned her?

 

Eighan tries to speak, and but manages only to sputter incoherently in impotent anger.

 

Veriosa: (Looking up at Eighan) And if you tell her the truth? That you were the one pretending to be Rethok? That her dear, childhood friend was reading her heartfelt letters, deceiving her for months? How will she feel about that, in addition to the news of Rethok's death?

 

Eighan: (Stuttering) N-no. S-stop this!

 

Veriosa: (Relentless in her barrage of words) Isn't it better, more logical that she remain alive and happy? You're helping her live, Cloudwalker. And her name shall go down in history -- she will be remembered when she finally does pass, as Xieyla Blackwing...

 

Veriosa prowls over to the desk, picking up the sketch of Xieyla and examining it with vague interest.

 

Veriosa: (Putting the picture down carelessly) Hm, what was I saying? Ah, yes, she shall be remembered as the young Master Artist who made countless, valuable contributions to the literary culture of the Beacon of Harmony, who faced death with bravery and love, despite her incurable disease.

 

Veriosa casts her frigid gaze towards Eighan, a slight smile curving her mouth.

 

Veriosa: Just keep writing the letters, Cloudwalker. Or else she'll die sooner than either of us wish.

 

Veriosa brushes past Eighan as she moves to withdraw from the chamber, though she pauses at the threshold.

 

Veriosa: (In a gentler voice) I keep her alive because she is useful. Perhaps you ought to think over why you keep her alive if you're so eager to tell her the truth.

 

Veriosa: (Mildly) It might help with the more... sentimental portions of your letters. The 'illusion of love,' as you so quaintly put it.

 

Eighan says nothing, moves naught, giving no indication that he hears her words.

 

Veriosa's faint smile broadens as she gives a final glance back over her shoulder.

 

Veriosa: (In a murmur) Remember, she expects a letter tomorrow night, Cloudwalker.

 

Veriosa steps outside, gracefully pulling the door closed after her.

 

Eighan stalks over to his desk, his expression grim. He glances at the picture before taking pen to paper again, the whisper of his scrawling the only sound heard as the the stage fades into darkness.

 

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Scene IV

 

Light gradually fills the stage, revealing Xieyla lying in bed looking even paler and more fragile than ever. Dark shadows mar the delicate skin below her eyes, which are fixed wearily but hopefully upon the doorway as if in forlorn anticipation of a long-awaited visitor.

 

Eighan rushes into the room, feathers whipping out behind him, clearly distraught. His clothes are askew, his tunic inside-out, and his normally artfully-tousled crest is mussed as though from restless sleep.

 

Xieyla smiles with tired eyes as Eighan enters the room, waving from the bed.

 

Eighan: (His voice panicked) Xieyla! What happened? I heard you collapsed!

 

Xieyla shrugs lightly.

 

Xieyla: (In a thready voice) I guess I forgot to eat breakfast.

 

Xieyla offers a small smile, plucking at the coverlet to hide more of her body, though a large purple bruise on her elbow is starkly evident, and her skin is mottled and almost blue-tinged. She winces with the movement.

 

Eighan: (Quietly, his eyes lingering on her bruised skin) Xieyla...

 

Xieyla: (Her voice thready and weak) Eighan, could you deliver this letter for me?

 

Xieyla pulls out a letter from underneath her pillow, holding it towards Eighan, who takes it and places it in his satchel.

 

Eighan pulls up the chair from the nearby desk beside the bed, sitting down in it and burying his face in his hands momentarily.

 

Xieyla looks at Eighan, tilting her head.

 

Xieyla: (Quietly) It's okay, Eighan.

 

Eighan emits a huff of breath, looking up at her from beneath his fringe of carnelian feathers.

 

Xieyla: (Looking away) I guess I should have told him things were more serious. Maybe... he would have come home then.

 

Eighan frowns deeply, looking down again and massaging his temples.

 

Eighan: (Muttering) Maybe, maybe not. It's hard to say.

 

Xieyla bites her lip, looking beseechingly at Eighan.

 

Xieyla: (Plaintively) Do you think it was my fault he left?

 

Eighan looks up, concern written across his features. He reaches over and clasps Xieyla's small, pale hands in his own, the hale caramel of his skin overwhelming the moon-white of her hands.

 

Eighan: (Softly) Of course not. He was only doing his sworn duty to the Collective. He would have stayed by your side if he could, you know that.

 

Eighan: (His voice becoming strained) He always writes you, if only just to tell you that he loves and misses you. That he wishes he could be with you.

 

Eighan forces a laugh and shakes his head.

 

Eighan: Give him a little credit.

 

Xieyla smiles, her face relaxing slightly, though her features are still drawn tighter than normal with pain.

 

Xieyla suddenly gives a rattling cough, the force of it shaking her frail form in the small bed. 

 

Xieyla covers her mouth with a wrinkled handkerchief she clutches in her hand, weakly falling back onto the pillows and trying to pace her breathing. Blood drips from the corner of her mouth, its vivid red all the starker against her pale skin.

 

Eighan: (With a note of urgency, placing a hand on Xieyla's shoulder) Are you all right? That's normal, right?

 

Xieyla simply nods, though her eyes do not quite meet Eighan's.

 

Eighan hesitates before stroking his fingers through Xieyla's crest of mussed feathers, pushing them back from her sweaty face.

 

Eighan: (In a murmur) You feel warm.

 

Xieyla's shoulders shiver a little with laughter.

 

Xieyla: (Hoarsely) A little fever never killed anyone.

 

Eighan: (With a weak smile) They certainly don't help, though. Do you need some water or something?

 

Eighan makes a move as though to get up, but Xieyla stays him with her small hand on his arm, light as a feather.

 

Xieyla: (Fear evident in her gaze) No, please stay.

 

Eighan settles back into his seat, regarding Xieyla with unmistakable concern as they sit in silence for a few moments.

 

Eighan: So where are the doctors?

 

Xieyla: (Pausing between sentences to breathe) They were here earlier. They spoke to Aunt. She said they prescribed rest for now. No more needles.

 

Xieyla and Eighan share a smile, just before her body surrenders itself to another fit of coughing into the bloodied handkerchief. Her breath is laboured, shallow, rattling. She reclines against the pillows, seeming somehow smaller than before.

 

Xieyla: (Quietly, her voice a mere breath) I wish I could have seen him one last time...

 

Eighan: (Abruptly cutting her off) Don't talk like that! You'll... get better.

 

Xieyla smiles weakly at Eighan.

 

Xieyla: (In a murmur) Tell him I tried to wait, when you see him. I think I forgot to say it in my letter.

 

Eighan's brow furrows.

 

Eighan: (In a hoarse whisper) He knows.

 

Xieyla smiles thankfully at Eighan before closing her feverish, glassy eyes.

 

Xieyla: I think I'll sleep now, Eighan. Thank you for delivering all our letters. He likes poetry, did you know that?

 

Xieyla's voice and words grow softer, her pauses growing longer in between phrases.

 

Xieyla: Maybe he'll read mine when... Aunt publishes it...

 

Xieyla's hand rises slowly to tenderly clasp the locket cradled in the hollow of her throat.

 

Xieyla: (Breathing out) Rethok.

 

Xieyla drifts into sleep, her breathing shallow and her face slightly more relaxed than in waking.

 

Eighan gazes upon Xieyla's slumbering form, yearning and guilt etched into his expression.

 

Eighan gently touches the girl's hand, leaning forward to kiss her softly on the forehead, pushing back sable feathers from her pale, perspiring face.

 

Xieyla stirs slightly, though does not wake.

 

Eighan: (In a quiet murmur) Stay happy, Xieyla.

 

A hush falls over the stage as the trills are cast in darkness for a few moments. When the lights come on again, the bed is empty, and Eighan is standing beside Veriosa Blackwing, staring at the empty space where Xieyla once was.

 

Veriosa: (With a serene smile) Your work is finished here, Eighan Cloudwalker. Our contract is now terminated.

 

Veriosa gestures graciously to the entryway.

 

Veriosa: But, as you know, the non-disclosure agreement is still in effect.

 

Veriosa: (Giving Eighan a small, secretive smile) You understand, don't you?

 

Eighan makes no response, staring with red-rimmed eyes at the bed's empty, crumpled sheets.

 

Veriosa: (Musingly to herself) Now, arrangements must be made for the dedication ceremony of her book... I wonder if we ought to have black roses, or something a bit more colourful. A careful balance must be struck between mourning and jubilation, after all.

 

Eighan's jaw clenches.

 

Veriosa slowly, almost lovingly strokes a fingertip down the spine of the richly-bound book she holds in her arms.

 

Veriosa: Perhaps black and gold, then.

 

Veriosa: (With a laugh) Why not? We can certainly afford it!

 

Veriosa: I cannot believe how quickly it took off! Post-mortem publications truly are the way to go.

 

Eighan: (In a low, seething whisper) How dare you.

 

Veriosa: (Whirling back to face the young trill) Excuse me?

 

Eighan bares his teeth in an ugly snarl as he turns to Veriosa.

 

Eighan: (Raising his voice) How dare you! How dare you make light of Xieyla's suffering! How dare you use your own dying niece for money?

 

Eighan: (Yelling) To glorify yourself!

 

Eighan advances on Veriosa, who backs away quickly, holding the book in front of her as though to shield herself.

 

Eighan: I will tell everyone of your deceit and selfishness. I will tell them what you did to her!

 

Veriosa's countenance remains composed, though a flicker of fear crosses her expression unbidden as he violently clenches his fist, mere inches from her nose.

 

Veriosa: (Her voice turning harsh) You are bound by Law! We had a contract!

 

Eighan: (Throwing up his arms and shouting hoarsely) What do I care! There is nothing left for me! She is gone!

 

Veriosa's mouth twists into a snarl, and she suddenly flings the heavy book at Eighan, who stops abruptly to catch it.

 

Veriosa: Don't you see? She's not gone! Her name lives on, and if you disclose our little 'agreement,' her name will be sullied by the scandal.

 

Veriosa: (In a hiss) Not only Blackwing, not only Cloudwalker, but Xieyla.

 

Eighan grips the book so firmly his knuckles turn white.

 

Veriosa begins examining her pearl-like nails, her demeanour suddenly exuding calm and disinterest.

 

Veriosa: (Icily) And really, what have I ever done but ask her to contribute to culture and the family's honour, to bring glory to our Hallifax? The judge shall find no fault in that.

 

Eighan bares his clenched teeth at Veriosa, his feathers and clothing dishevelled, looking for all the world like a caged wolf.

 

Veriosa: (Enunciating every word) You on the other hand, will have broken the terms of a contract. You will have broken the Law.

 

Veriosa: (Whispering in a silky voice) If you try to reveal me, I will unmake you. If you stay quiet, Xieyla's memory will remain pure forever in the hearts of the Collective's citizens.

 

Veriosa: (Whispering) You cannot win, Cloudwalker.

 

Eighan's feathers bristle wildly, his entire form tense with barely suppressed fury, but he glances away in defeat, eyes narrowed.

 

Veriosa gracefully steps to one side so that Eighan no longer looms menacingly over her. She nonchalantly sweeps her crest feathers back into a tidy chignon.

 

Veriosa: (In a silvery murmur) I'm so very glad you've come to your senses, Cloudwalker.

 

Veriosa: Understand that this agreement is as much for your protection as Blackwing's, and behave yourself accordingly.

 

Veriosa sweeps elegantly out of the room.

 

Veriosa: (In a clarion tone) I expect you gone by the time I return from placing these orders for flowers. If not, I will report your trespass and intrusion of privacy to the custodians of peace.

 

Eighan lowers his head at the sound of the front door closing, his wings limp and lifeless, and his body quavers with a trembling sigh.

 

Eighan: (In a whisper no louder than a breath) Xieyla...

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

 

Scene V

 

Darkness envelops the stage once more, and the curtains fall to conceal the setting for a few long moments. When once again they rise, the stage is flooded with the sun's gentle radiance from the sky through a glass-panelled dome. A museum gallery spreads across the stage, filled with beauteous paintings and remarkable sculptures. At the centre, two museum curators struggle to adjust a portrait perfectly upon the wall.

 

Eighan looks on with visible annoyance. No longer a lanky apprentice, his features have matured into the harsher lines and steeper angles of middle adulthood. His countenance bears the telltale wrinkles of being permanently pulled into a frown, his green eyes more shadowed than they were in youth, but with a sharp, metallic glint previously unpossessed.

 

Eighan: (Harshly) Do you not have a balancing instrument readily available for these set-ups? It's still crooked!

 

Eighan grits his teeth as the curators nearly drop the painting in their effort to straighten it.

 

Eighan: (Clearly exasperated) Stop! You're going to drop it! Here.

 

Eighan practically snatches the painting from their hands, only careful not to touch the canvas itself.

 

Eighan: Leave. Let me handle it.

 

Eighan watches as the two curators scurry off, muttering under their breath to one another. Once satisfied that they've gone, the trill returns his gaze to the painting, and a vague smile flits across his expression.

 

Eighan contemplates the trill maiden's countenance, surrounded by the perfect silence of the onyx corridor.

 

Eighan nods after a few moments and carefully hangs the portrait within its nested alcove, his actions born of a tenderness belying his harsh exterior.

 

Eighan pulls out a final letter from the folds of his carnelian attire, the creamy parchment's rustling amplified by the stillness of the hall. He breathes in and exhales, looking up at the painting with a lost look in his eyes, the first hint of the youth who lost his dearest friend, so long ago.

 

Eighan: (Reading haltingly from the letter) Hello, Xieyla. There are... a great many things that I would like to say to you. Things that I should have said before you... died.

 

Eighan: Every day I wish you were alive, and sometimes I wonder if the terrible things we did were for the best. Because... I would never have wanted to make you sad. I was so cowardly. I was so worried for you.

 

Eighan turns away from the portrait as if to escape its watchful gaze, his own focused intently on the parchment in his hands.

 

Eighan: Rethok died seven months before you did. Remember when there was a month in between his letters?

 

Eighan glances back over his shoulder, his face drawn.

 

Eighan: You were so worried, we almost had to resort to house arrest to keep you from going out in the field after him. That's when…

 

Eighan: (In low, hushed tones) That's when your aunt bound me to the contract, telling me it was for your health. That it was the only way to keep you alive.

 

Eighan: I wrote the letters to you in Rethok's hand, but all of those words were true.

 

Eighan turns back to the portrait, resting one hand delicately on its silver frame. The other, still grasping the letter, falls to his side as he continues without his script.

 

Eighan: (Earnestly) I love you, Xieyla. Then, now, and always. And even if you were writing to Rethok, I wanted those words to be for me. It was a selfish deed, I know. I should have told you the truth.

 

Eighan gently grips each side of the portrait's frame, his glistening green eyes arrested by the figure's gaze.

 

Eighan: (With a note of resignation) It was as though you saw only Rethok, even after he left. There was no space for me, for the emotions I wanted to reveal to you.

 

Eighan stops abruptly, his hands trembling, and releases his hold on the frame.

 

Eighan folds the letter up without ceremony, taking some soft red wax from his pocket to seal the missive. He presses his signet ring into the wax, imprinting the insignia of House Cloudwalker.

 

Eighan: I hope you are in a better place, Xieyla. I hope that where you are, Rethok is too. I hope you are both happy.

 

Eighan finally slips the letter behind the painting, taking extra care to ensure it is hidden from plain sight.

 

Eighan steps back, folding his arms across his chest as though suddenly unsure. His fingers touch the black mourning ribbon tied around his opposite arm.

 

Eighan: (With quiet resolve) I'll visit tomorrow, Xieyla. I'll see you again.

 

Eighan walks away, disappearing from the corridor, his footsteps fading into silence.

 

The stage lights gradually shift into a dusk-tinged lavender, sending the corridor awash in twilight's hues before finally darkening with night's heavy cloak.