PT1: The Empress
Title: Roth
Story Type: PT Original
Wordcount: 3,518
Summary: Legends do not bear scrutiny, for we rarely like the truths we find behind them. A story of boy meets girl in the least likely of situations.
Notes: Hell, I don't know. Suddenly transgender! Don't ask me where this came from, except that my oldest (actually my very first) friend is a trans man and Different For Girls is my favourite film in the history of ever. Though R and I are as platonic as it gets and he is NOTHING like Gyte. At all. Like, if there's a spectrum of masculinity, R and Gyte are opposite poles. Actually if R were like Gyte I might fancy him...Gyte's hot...
Also, I don't speak much (read: any) German, nor is Roc meant to resemble any Germanic culture ever. At all. I just liked the sound, really. The names are made up and so is the setting. Well, Karl is a real German name. Oh! Pronunciation guide:
Bekke - Becka
Gyte - Gee-tuh
Boethe - Buh-tuh (like Goethe, see? Also impossible to accurately describe without the IPA at my disposal.)
Hope that helps.
Roth
I'm sure there was a time when I, like everyone else on this spit, loved The Empress. I can almost remember it, when I was young and my head was an empty vessle for pouring stories into. I suppose I thought back then that I was special, that the red hair growing from my scalp made me important, and irreplaceable, and grand.
But that was a long time ago, back when my back still straightened and my hands were still soft. Back before my family faded into nothing more than a bittersweet memory. Back before I learned to hate The Empress.
That's what they call her. The Empress. It's not her name, of course. It's not even her real title. She's actually Baronness Elisaboethe. We call her Boethe in the House, those of us who bother to mention her at all.
We're told, when we're little, that having red hair makes us blood daughters of Boethe. We believe it, too. At least, I believed it. A man with red hair is a fine thing in our country, because he is a messenger of Boethe, and the woman who catches his eye stands a chance of birthing her next disciple.
My father's hair is the colour of wet sand. No one's really sure where my red hair came from. I wonder sometimes how my mother felt, when I was born. If the surprise was a happy or sad one. I don't know. I haven't seen my mother in thirteen years.
That's how long I've been in the House of Boethe. Outside these walls, people call it the Rothenhaus, because the doors and the roof are red as the hair on our heads. Inside, though, the walls are white and floors are brown and the reddest thing in the place is Her portrait, hanging in the dining hall, the front hall, the common room, and every bedroom. So that everywhere we look, Boethe stares down at us.
I didn't come to hate her all at once. Her smile once looked benevolent, rather than smug. Her lush red dress once looked fine and lovely, rather than boastful and blood-like. I used to compare the colour of my hair to hers, and feel privileged. Now, I resent it.
I guess, before I came here, when I had a different name and a mother and a father and two older brothers, I imagined my life at Rothenhaus would be all soft pillows and sweet food, where my days would be full of painting and music and running through lush gardens as birds sang songs dedicated to me. When I arrived, when I saw my tiny cell of a bedroom and first took a scrub brush in my hands, when the first callouses blossomed on my palms, I tried to convince myself that I was working toward some great reward. That one day I would parade through the streets of Roc in a red gown, my sacred hair tidily secreted away under a net of pearls and silk, just like the other Emperial Maidens I'd watched as a small child.
Thirteen years later, after I've repaired and crafted those same hair nets, after I've bled into the red dye of those gowns, after my sweat has salted their sweet food, I have stopped hoping. I have grown to hate the way Boethe smirks down at me from every room. I have learned in no uncertain terms, just how fondly Boethe regards her "daughters".
The first thing they did when I came here was to capture my name in a piece of paper and bind it away with red ribbon and red wax. I am Bekke now, and there are times I struggle to remember what my own mother called me. They made me a handmaiden in the service of The Empress's First, the women who can claim a direct lineage to Boethe herself. It was the first inkling I had that I wasn't really Botehe's daughter, and it sowed the first seed of bitterness in my breast. That seed has since sprouted, and it's branches have grown to encase my heart.
Because the truth, the truth they'll never let us tell, is that it's all a lie. Boethe spoke at length about a woman's duty and destiny to bear children, how a women is blessed with the strength and power to create a new life, how her blood is spilled every month because there is too much life in her body, and that a woman is never so fulfilled as when she has crafted a new soul in her womb. But her daughters? Us red-headed "chosen"? We are forbidden to have children. Only the First may become mothers.
I'm glad. I would hate to have a daughter, and risk condemning her to this life.
Because Boethe's red hair was rare, and precious, and made her mysterious and grand. And she wanted to keep it that way. That's why red-headed women who aren't her own lineage aren't allowed to have children. That's why red-haired daughters born to peasant mothers and noblewomen alike are swept off into Boethe's service. so we remain rare and sacred and mysterious. That is why a red-headed traveller who ventures into the lands of Roc is treated like a king, even if he hasn't got two coppers to rub together. So that Boethe never becomes merely a women. So that Boethe will be always a legend.
The bitterness, the anger, the hate is mine. It has grown inside me and clawed and my insides and made me strong and dauntless.
The plan, however. The plan was Gyte's.
Gyte and I, we were close. Always. When Gyte came to the house, I was still new and scared and full of hope, and lured to Gyte's sadness like a ewe to a bleating lamb, and offered to share my cell. Gyte was my light, my warmth, a balm to my weariness and misery. Gyte was a poet, a philosopher, and more a prisoner than any of us.
And it was Gyte, quiet, timid Gyte, who hatched the plan that brought us here. To you.
I recall that night. Our night.
'Bekke.' Gyte said to me, one night in the shadow of the moonlight. 'Bekke, I have a secret to tell you. and you must promise me you will not cry or run from me when I say it.'
'It's late, Gyte.' I complained. 'Your secret can keep until the morning.'
Gyte's head shook from side to side. 'It can't Bekke. I must tell you now or I will lose the courage.'
I sighed. 'Then tell me, and let me sleep.'
Gyte drew a sharp breath, muscles tensing beneath the rough cotton shift. 'I must leave the House of Boethe. And I cannot wait any longer to do it.'
I sat up. I remember my hair tumbled over my shoulder and one eye. My hair was not as long as Gyte's, because Gyte almost never got into trouble, and our hair was only ever cut in punishment.
'I must leave the House, Bekke.' Said Gyte. 'Because...I am in love with you.'
In my memory, the moment that followed Gyte's confession spanned a thousand lifetimes. In reality, my heart must have beat only a dozen times.
'You cannot love me.' I insisted, fumbling in blindness for my words and finding only the wrong ones. 'You and I are sisters.'
Another headshake, and the monlight silvered the tears tracking along Gyte's cheeks. 'We are not. Boethe is not my mother.'
'But--but. We're daughters. Both of us.' My heart beat wildly, and in my fear I spoke nonsense.
'I was never a daughter, Bekke.' Gyte confessed. 'Not Boethe's, not my mothers. My father never sired a girl.'
I thought on that. Gyte was loathe to bathe with the other girls, and shy of undressing around me, but had done both several times when there was no alternative.
'You are.' I fumbled. 'I've seen you.'
Gyte frowned to the moon. 'My body is a lie. I'm like a story bound with the wrong cover.'
I looked at Gyte then, fairere and slighter and prettier than me, with red hair to the waist and pale skin and long, nimble fingers and a face ever so much more delicate and fine boned than mine. Gyte was undoubtedly a beauty, a find prize for any man given the freedom to court. And those eyes, like the bluest, most distant reaches of the sea. Were I a man I could ride to war for such eyes.
'My eyes tell me you are a daughter, Gyte.' I said. 'How may I trust anything else? Either you are lying to me, and you are cruel, or else this is some madness and you need treatment.'
Gyte's face fell, and my heart's thorny wall flaked and broke a little. 'I have wondered, many times,' said Gyte. 'If it were madness. I thought myself mad, and sick. But I tell you, Bekke, with all my heart, that I am a man. I have come to believe I was cursed in my mother's womb, and my body exchanged for another's. I imagine now that some beautiful girl, fair and sweet and lonelye as I, got my body, and now toils in her father's fields with arms too large and skin too rough and a face too covered in unwanted whiskers, sneaking in desperation into the beds of men who will have her and not knowing why. I imagine sometimes that we might meet, and fall into each other's arms, and in our embrace our curse will be broken and our bodies restored as they should be. But now I love you, I would not embrace her, even if she did exist.'
I frowned. 'How do you know you are not simply a woman as...loves other women.' We lived soully amongst our own sex in the House, it was not unknown, though it was not encouraged.
Gyte stared up at the ceiling. 'I wish I could tell you how, Bekke. I know I am not the roughest of men. In the correct life I would have been a student, I think. Always with my cap and my fingers stained in ink. I am first a poet, Bekke, and a lover of beauty such as yours. But beyond and beneath all of that I am a man. A man who loves a beautiful woman, who owes his life to her stone kindness.'
It was...strange. As Gyte spoke, and as I watched the movments of both hands and face, I began to see...not a change, no. It is like watching the cooking fire so long that you begin to see shapes in the flames. Nothing about Gyte's body changed at all, that would be mad. But I saw...him, taking shape under and over the delicate body I knew so well.
Perhaps Gyte is right, and there is a magic about him, because I will never know what made me kiss him that night. Perhaps it was my loneliness. Perhaps I loved Gyte always but my heart kept it secret from me until it knew Gyte could love me in return. Perhaps, in the presence of the first man I had seen in so very many years, my body simply craved what it thought it could never have. Whatever the reason, I tumbled into his bed that night, took his face in my hands and bent my head to whisper in his ear, 'I believe you, my poet.'
His breasts were soft under my hands, his lips gentle against my skin, and in the morning we planned our escape. No man could live under Boethe's roof, and I would not let Gyte go alone.
We began with cloth, pilfering measures of fabric and sewing needles and thread meant for the First's gowns. It took many weeks, but we managed to fashion a doublet and breeches for Gyte to wear. Gyte suggested he leave in skirts, as he came, but I knew two red haired girls would draw too much attention, and Gyte's hair was too long to wrap in a scarf without fear it would tumble free. Gyte's deft fingers crafted me a net of blue silk, though he could steal no pearls, which I kept under my pillow at night and stroked with my fingertips in time with Gyte's soft breathing against my back.
When Gyte's first set of men's clothes was done, we contrived to have Gyte caught stealing extra portions of food from the kitchens. The food he stole was meant for the First, so it was crime enough that the Over Sisters held him down and chopped his hair with one of the sharpest cleavers. Gyte cried bitter tears over it, and I thought him a fine actor, until he confessed to me that night, tucked in my arms, that he'd been proud of his hair, and that without it he almost worried his head might float off of his shoulders. I laughed and called him a silly boy, but I held him close and trailed my fingers through what was left of the lovely red locks until late into the night, when he finally fell asleep.
In his contrition, Gyte volunteered to work the grounds. It was high summer and pulling weeds from the gardens was tedius, painful work and he often came back red-skinned and sweating, and I would dip my sore hands into balm and rub it over his skin as he whimpered into his pillow. But it gave him time to observe the men at guard at the House gates, and when his skin cooled enough he would spend our evenings imitating their walk and their stance as he practised lowering his voice.
For my part, I began to gather supplies to fill the bag I'd sewn from some of our scrap cloth. It was not a pretty thing, but the stitches were sturdy and the fabric strong. I filled it with what food I knew would keep, and our warmest cloaks, and sewing supplies, and what balms and salves I could find. It was not enough, not without money, but that would have to be tomorrow's worry.
We made our escape late at night, when the House was asleep. Gyte donned his men's clothes, slipping out of his dress for the last time. He held the grey skirts in his arms for a long time and ran his fingers across the harsh wool.
'Strange.' He said to me. 'I believe I will miss it. Is that odd?'
'All of your notions are odd, my poet.' I told him. 'This one...less odd than most.'
He smiled at me and slid his feet into his sturdiest boots. Girls of the House were not given ladie's shoes, at least, so Gyte's feet would not betray him.
Mine might, though. Gyte's clothes were made of fine materials, as was my hairnet. So I found I had to pilfer more fine cloth from my sewing duties to make myself a dress a fine lady might wear. I took care to keep the skirts long enough to cover my boots. Dresses I can fashion in my sleep, but I've not the first clue about making slippers. The First have cobblers of their own for that.
'You look so lovely, Bekke.' Gyte breathed, once I was gowned in my new finery. 'I find that if I do not kiss you now, my life is wasted.'
I rolled my eyes, but gave him his kiss. My poet was an encourageable romantic. And he looked so fetching in his red doublet, it was hardly a chore to indulge him.
We slipped out through the kitchen door, which was unguarded. There are stone walls around the grounds, so the only part of the House guarded at all times is the gate. At least, it was then.
Gyte positioned himself at the windows to the main hall, while I checked the scarf on my head to make sure my red hair remained hidden and proceeded to make a terrific noise in the bushes by the wall just beneath an overhanging tree limb. I added a few whispered curses for effect, and then hissed in a louder whisper, 'Karl! Karl, where are you stupid boy? Mama will skin you alive for this! Karl!'
Gyte shushed me loudly and one of the guards hurried from the gate to us. I widened my eyes and clasped a hand to my mouth as Gyte jumped and moved himself between the guard and I.
'Oh, Karl!' I moaned. 'You see what you've done! We'll be locked away!'
'Hush!' Gyte snapped, and the guard glowered at us both.
'Who are you? What are you doing here?' He demanded.
I fell to my knees and clasped my hands. 'Oh please, sir! Please don't hurt my brother! He's only a foolish boy, he meant no harm. I'm sure he saw nothing in the Rothenhaus, please!'
'Boy?' The guard turned his eye to Gyte. 'Explain yourself.'
Gyte squared his shoulders and tilted up his chin. I doubt he would have been able to put on so brave a face if he had not seen this same guard idly scratching his genitals just two days before. 'I have every right to be here. My hair is red, too.' He said. 'Why should I be barred from my own sisters?'
The guard laughed, and I almost sighed in relief.
'Oh is that what they are, boy? Your sisters? I doubt you would be as much a brother to him as you are to this one.' He tilted his head to me.
Gyte tilted his chin. 'I would.' He insisted. I didn't laugh, just. It was no lie.
The guard shook his head and chuckled. 'I'm sure you would.' He turned to me with a conspiratorial sigh. 'Don't worry, sister. He's not the first young man to try his luck at Rothenhaus. He won't be the last. See your mama gives him a good tanning and he'll straighten out.'
I got to my feet and grabbed his hand, kissing it profusely. 'Oh thank you! Thank you, sir!' I babbled. I whipped round to Gyte, careful not to dislodge my scarf. 'Come, Karl! You will pay for this.' I made a show of fishing in my pack for Gyte's cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders with brisk motions. 'Think of your health, idiot child! You'll catch your death!'
I marched him across the grounds and toward the gate. I tried not to kick up my skirts as I walked, to keep my boots hidden, but I knew they could be explained away easily since I was climbing over walls after my "little brother". I didn't look back the whole way, and I made sure to avert my eyes and bow my head when we passed the other guard, smirking by the gate.
We didn't run until we were out of sight of the guards. Once we rounded the first corner, concealed by the night on an empty street, Gyte grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me against the wall, kissing me soundly with all his might.
'My beautiful, blazing Bekke!' He breathed. I had not seen such heat in his eyes since the night of his confession. 'I can't...the way you...' he gave off trying to praise me and kissed me again.
'Write me a verse some other time.' I chided him, once I could speak again. 'We must be free of Roc by dawn.'
We ran.
That is our story. I swear it to you now, that all of it is true. We came to this town weary and hungry, and perhaps the might of Roc is on our heels. Perhaps we are both forgotten. I don't know. But I come to you now to ask for compassion, and for mercy. My cursed poet and I are no strangers to hard work, and we will do whatever needs doing. We don't ask much, only that we may live. Only that you believe us.
You see, Gyte's love has softened my heart too much, and to lose him now would scar me forever. I may not survive it. I will do all I can to keep us together.
Where will we go? I cannot say. Perhaps we will stay here, if we are welcome. Perhaps, when we are well and Gyte is strong enough to travel again, we will move on. Perhaps we will seek out the woman who got Gyte's body, and try to break the curse. I wonder if he would be happier, to be seen by the world as he truly is.
Do I believe in curses? Ha. No. I do not know if Gyte has a beautiful kind of madness, or if it is a matter of medicine, or if it is something I cannot yet define, and perhaps never will. I'd like it to be magic. Gyte is a magical sort of man. But I lost hold of magic long ago. But I do know this, if I know anything.
Gyte is my own to love. And always shall be.
End
Whew! Just in time. 58 minutes to spare. I got hit by a nasty cold this week and I thought I'd never finish this. Hooray for last minute energy bursts.
Anyway, there you go. Your first Project Tarot story. And if you were wondering, no. This is not a gender politics thing, it's just a story I wrote. But if it makes you think and it makes you talk, cool. Cool, cool, cool.
Story Type: PT Original
Wordcount: 3,518
Summary: Legends do not bear scrutiny, for we rarely like the truths we find behind them. A story of boy meets girl in the least likely of situations.
Notes: Hell, I don't know. Suddenly transgender! Don't ask me where this came from, except that my oldest (actually my very first) friend is a trans man and Different For Girls is my favourite film in the history of ever. Though R and I are as platonic as it gets and he is NOTHING like Gyte. At all. Like, if there's a spectrum of masculinity, R and Gyte are opposite poles. Actually if R were like Gyte I might fancy him...Gyte's hot...
Also, I don't speak much (read: any) German, nor is Roc meant to resemble any Germanic culture ever. At all. I just liked the sound, really. The names are made up and so is the setting. Well, Karl is a real German name. Oh! Pronunciation guide:
Bekke - Becka
Gyte - Gee-tuh
Boethe - Buh-tuh (like Goethe, see? Also impossible to accurately describe without the IPA at my disposal.)
Hope that helps.
Roth
I'm sure there was a time when I, like everyone else on this spit, loved The Empress. I can almost remember it, when I was young and my head was an empty vessle for pouring stories into. I suppose I thought back then that I was special, that the red hair growing from my scalp made me important, and irreplaceable, and grand.
But that was a long time ago, back when my back still straightened and my hands were still soft. Back before my family faded into nothing more than a bittersweet memory. Back before I learned to hate The Empress.
That's what they call her. The Empress. It's not her name, of course. It's not even her real title. She's actually Baronness Elisaboethe. We call her Boethe in the House, those of us who bother to mention her at all.
We're told, when we're little, that having red hair makes us blood daughters of Boethe. We believe it, too. At least, I believed it. A man with red hair is a fine thing in our country, because he is a messenger of Boethe, and the woman who catches his eye stands a chance of birthing her next disciple.
My father's hair is the colour of wet sand. No one's really sure where my red hair came from. I wonder sometimes how my mother felt, when I was born. If the surprise was a happy or sad one. I don't know. I haven't seen my mother in thirteen years.
That's how long I've been in the House of Boethe. Outside these walls, people call it the Rothenhaus, because the doors and the roof are red as the hair on our heads. Inside, though, the walls are white and floors are brown and the reddest thing in the place is Her portrait, hanging in the dining hall, the front hall, the common room, and every bedroom. So that everywhere we look, Boethe stares down at us.
I didn't come to hate her all at once. Her smile once looked benevolent, rather than smug. Her lush red dress once looked fine and lovely, rather than boastful and blood-like. I used to compare the colour of my hair to hers, and feel privileged. Now, I resent it.
I guess, before I came here, when I had a different name and a mother and a father and two older brothers, I imagined my life at Rothenhaus would be all soft pillows and sweet food, where my days would be full of painting and music and running through lush gardens as birds sang songs dedicated to me. When I arrived, when I saw my tiny cell of a bedroom and first took a scrub brush in my hands, when the first callouses blossomed on my palms, I tried to convince myself that I was working toward some great reward. That one day I would parade through the streets of Roc in a red gown, my sacred hair tidily secreted away under a net of pearls and silk, just like the other Emperial Maidens I'd watched as a small child.
Thirteen years later, after I've repaired and crafted those same hair nets, after I've bled into the red dye of those gowns, after my sweat has salted their sweet food, I have stopped hoping. I have grown to hate the way Boethe smirks down at me from every room. I have learned in no uncertain terms, just how fondly Boethe regards her "daughters".
The first thing they did when I came here was to capture my name in a piece of paper and bind it away with red ribbon and red wax. I am Bekke now, and there are times I struggle to remember what my own mother called me. They made me a handmaiden in the service of The Empress's First, the women who can claim a direct lineage to Boethe herself. It was the first inkling I had that I wasn't really Botehe's daughter, and it sowed the first seed of bitterness in my breast. That seed has since sprouted, and it's branches have grown to encase my heart.
Because the truth, the truth they'll never let us tell, is that it's all a lie. Boethe spoke at length about a woman's duty and destiny to bear children, how a women is blessed with the strength and power to create a new life, how her blood is spilled every month because there is too much life in her body, and that a woman is never so fulfilled as when she has crafted a new soul in her womb. But her daughters? Us red-headed "chosen"? We are forbidden to have children. Only the First may become mothers.
I'm glad. I would hate to have a daughter, and risk condemning her to this life.
Because Boethe's red hair was rare, and precious, and made her mysterious and grand. And she wanted to keep it that way. That's why red-headed women who aren't her own lineage aren't allowed to have children. That's why red-haired daughters born to peasant mothers and noblewomen alike are swept off into Boethe's service. so we remain rare and sacred and mysterious. That is why a red-headed traveller who ventures into the lands of Roc is treated like a king, even if he hasn't got two coppers to rub together. So that Boethe never becomes merely a women. So that Boethe will be always a legend.
The bitterness, the anger, the hate is mine. It has grown inside me and clawed and my insides and made me strong and dauntless.
The plan, however. The plan was Gyte's.
Gyte and I, we were close. Always. When Gyte came to the house, I was still new and scared and full of hope, and lured to Gyte's sadness like a ewe to a bleating lamb, and offered to share my cell. Gyte was my light, my warmth, a balm to my weariness and misery. Gyte was a poet, a philosopher, and more a prisoner than any of us.
And it was Gyte, quiet, timid Gyte, who hatched the plan that brought us here. To you.
I recall that night. Our night.
'Bekke.' Gyte said to me, one night in the shadow of the moonlight. 'Bekke, I have a secret to tell you. and you must promise me you will not cry or run from me when I say it.'
'It's late, Gyte.' I complained. 'Your secret can keep until the morning.'
Gyte's head shook from side to side. 'It can't Bekke. I must tell you now or I will lose the courage.'
I sighed. 'Then tell me, and let me sleep.'
Gyte drew a sharp breath, muscles tensing beneath the rough cotton shift. 'I must leave the House of Boethe. And I cannot wait any longer to do it.'
I sat up. I remember my hair tumbled over my shoulder and one eye. My hair was not as long as Gyte's, because Gyte almost never got into trouble, and our hair was only ever cut in punishment.
'I must leave the House, Bekke.' Said Gyte. 'Because...I am in love with you.'
In my memory, the moment that followed Gyte's confession spanned a thousand lifetimes. In reality, my heart must have beat only a dozen times.
'You cannot love me.' I insisted, fumbling in blindness for my words and finding only the wrong ones. 'You and I are sisters.'
Another headshake, and the monlight silvered the tears tracking along Gyte's cheeks. 'We are not. Boethe is not my mother.'
'But--but. We're daughters. Both of us.' My heart beat wildly, and in my fear I spoke nonsense.
'I was never a daughter, Bekke.' Gyte confessed. 'Not Boethe's, not my mothers. My father never sired a girl.'
I thought on that. Gyte was loathe to bathe with the other girls, and shy of undressing around me, but had done both several times when there was no alternative.
'You are.' I fumbled. 'I've seen you.'
Gyte frowned to the moon. 'My body is a lie. I'm like a story bound with the wrong cover.'
I looked at Gyte then, fairere and slighter and prettier than me, with red hair to the waist and pale skin and long, nimble fingers and a face ever so much more delicate and fine boned than mine. Gyte was undoubtedly a beauty, a find prize for any man given the freedom to court. And those eyes, like the bluest, most distant reaches of the sea. Were I a man I could ride to war for such eyes.
'My eyes tell me you are a daughter, Gyte.' I said. 'How may I trust anything else? Either you are lying to me, and you are cruel, or else this is some madness and you need treatment.'
Gyte's face fell, and my heart's thorny wall flaked and broke a little. 'I have wondered, many times,' said Gyte. 'If it were madness. I thought myself mad, and sick. But I tell you, Bekke, with all my heart, that I am a man. I have come to believe I was cursed in my mother's womb, and my body exchanged for another's. I imagine now that some beautiful girl, fair and sweet and lonelye as I, got my body, and now toils in her father's fields with arms too large and skin too rough and a face too covered in unwanted whiskers, sneaking in desperation into the beds of men who will have her and not knowing why. I imagine sometimes that we might meet, and fall into each other's arms, and in our embrace our curse will be broken and our bodies restored as they should be. But now I love you, I would not embrace her, even if she did exist.'
I frowned. 'How do you know you are not simply a woman as...loves other women.' We lived soully amongst our own sex in the House, it was not unknown, though it was not encouraged.
Gyte stared up at the ceiling. 'I wish I could tell you how, Bekke. I know I am not the roughest of men. In the correct life I would have been a student, I think. Always with my cap and my fingers stained in ink. I am first a poet, Bekke, and a lover of beauty such as yours. But beyond and beneath all of that I am a man. A man who loves a beautiful woman, who owes his life to her stone kindness.'
It was...strange. As Gyte spoke, and as I watched the movments of both hands and face, I began to see...not a change, no. It is like watching the cooking fire so long that you begin to see shapes in the flames. Nothing about Gyte's body changed at all, that would be mad. But I saw...him, taking shape under and over the delicate body I knew so well.
Perhaps Gyte is right, and there is a magic about him, because I will never know what made me kiss him that night. Perhaps it was my loneliness. Perhaps I loved Gyte always but my heart kept it secret from me until it knew Gyte could love me in return. Perhaps, in the presence of the first man I had seen in so very many years, my body simply craved what it thought it could never have. Whatever the reason, I tumbled into his bed that night, took his face in my hands and bent my head to whisper in his ear, 'I believe you, my poet.'
His breasts were soft under my hands, his lips gentle against my skin, and in the morning we planned our escape. No man could live under Boethe's roof, and I would not let Gyte go alone.
We began with cloth, pilfering measures of fabric and sewing needles and thread meant for the First's gowns. It took many weeks, but we managed to fashion a doublet and breeches for Gyte to wear. Gyte suggested he leave in skirts, as he came, but I knew two red haired girls would draw too much attention, and Gyte's hair was too long to wrap in a scarf without fear it would tumble free. Gyte's deft fingers crafted me a net of blue silk, though he could steal no pearls, which I kept under my pillow at night and stroked with my fingertips in time with Gyte's soft breathing against my back.
When Gyte's first set of men's clothes was done, we contrived to have Gyte caught stealing extra portions of food from the kitchens. The food he stole was meant for the First, so it was crime enough that the Over Sisters held him down and chopped his hair with one of the sharpest cleavers. Gyte cried bitter tears over it, and I thought him a fine actor, until he confessed to me that night, tucked in my arms, that he'd been proud of his hair, and that without it he almost worried his head might float off of his shoulders. I laughed and called him a silly boy, but I held him close and trailed my fingers through what was left of the lovely red locks until late into the night, when he finally fell asleep.
In his contrition, Gyte volunteered to work the grounds. It was high summer and pulling weeds from the gardens was tedius, painful work and he often came back red-skinned and sweating, and I would dip my sore hands into balm and rub it over his skin as he whimpered into his pillow. But it gave him time to observe the men at guard at the House gates, and when his skin cooled enough he would spend our evenings imitating their walk and their stance as he practised lowering his voice.
For my part, I began to gather supplies to fill the bag I'd sewn from some of our scrap cloth. It was not a pretty thing, but the stitches were sturdy and the fabric strong. I filled it with what food I knew would keep, and our warmest cloaks, and sewing supplies, and what balms and salves I could find. It was not enough, not without money, but that would have to be tomorrow's worry.
We made our escape late at night, when the House was asleep. Gyte donned his men's clothes, slipping out of his dress for the last time. He held the grey skirts in his arms for a long time and ran his fingers across the harsh wool.
'Strange.' He said to me. 'I believe I will miss it. Is that odd?'
'All of your notions are odd, my poet.' I told him. 'This one...less odd than most.'
He smiled at me and slid his feet into his sturdiest boots. Girls of the House were not given ladie's shoes, at least, so Gyte's feet would not betray him.
Mine might, though. Gyte's clothes were made of fine materials, as was my hairnet. So I found I had to pilfer more fine cloth from my sewing duties to make myself a dress a fine lady might wear. I took care to keep the skirts long enough to cover my boots. Dresses I can fashion in my sleep, but I've not the first clue about making slippers. The First have cobblers of their own for that.
'You look so lovely, Bekke.' Gyte breathed, once I was gowned in my new finery. 'I find that if I do not kiss you now, my life is wasted.'
I rolled my eyes, but gave him his kiss. My poet was an encourageable romantic. And he looked so fetching in his red doublet, it was hardly a chore to indulge him.
We slipped out through the kitchen door, which was unguarded. There are stone walls around the grounds, so the only part of the House guarded at all times is the gate. At least, it was then.
Gyte positioned himself at the windows to the main hall, while I checked the scarf on my head to make sure my red hair remained hidden and proceeded to make a terrific noise in the bushes by the wall just beneath an overhanging tree limb. I added a few whispered curses for effect, and then hissed in a louder whisper, 'Karl! Karl, where are you stupid boy? Mama will skin you alive for this! Karl!'
Gyte shushed me loudly and one of the guards hurried from the gate to us. I widened my eyes and clasped a hand to my mouth as Gyte jumped and moved himself between the guard and I.
'Oh, Karl!' I moaned. 'You see what you've done! We'll be locked away!'
'Hush!' Gyte snapped, and the guard glowered at us both.
'Who are you? What are you doing here?' He demanded.
I fell to my knees and clasped my hands. 'Oh please, sir! Please don't hurt my brother! He's only a foolish boy, he meant no harm. I'm sure he saw nothing in the Rothenhaus, please!'
'Boy?' The guard turned his eye to Gyte. 'Explain yourself.'
Gyte squared his shoulders and tilted up his chin. I doubt he would have been able to put on so brave a face if he had not seen this same guard idly scratching his genitals just two days before. 'I have every right to be here. My hair is red, too.' He said. 'Why should I be barred from my own sisters?'
The guard laughed, and I almost sighed in relief.
'Oh is that what they are, boy? Your sisters? I doubt you would be as much a brother to him as you are to this one.' He tilted his head to me.
Gyte tilted his chin. 'I would.' He insisted. I didn't laugh, just. It was no lie.
The guard shook his head and chuckled. 'I'm sure you would.' He turned to me with a conspiratorial sigh. 'Don't worry, sister. He's not the first young man to try his luck at Rothenhaus. He won't be the last. See your mama gives him a good tanning and he'll straighten out.'
I got to my feet and grabbed his hand, kissing it profusely. 'Oh thank you! Thank you, sir!' I babbled. I whipped round to Gyte, careful not to dislodge my scarf. 'Come, Karl! You will pay for this.' I made a show of fishing in my pack for Gyte's cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders with brisk motions. 'Think of your health, idiot child! You'll catch your death!'
I marched him across the grounds and toward the gate. I tried not to kick up my skirts as I walked, to keep my boots hidden, but I knew they could be explained away easily since I was climbing over walls after my "little brother". I didn't look back the whole way, and I made sure to avert my eyes and bow my head when we passed the other guard, smirking by the gate.
We didn't run until we were out of sight of the guards. Once we rounded the first corner, concealed by the night on an empty street, Gyte grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me against the wall, kissing me soundly with all his might.
'My beautiful, blazing Bekke!' He breathed. I had not seen such heat in his eyes since the night of his confession. 'I can't...the way you...' he gave off trying to praise me and kissed me again.
'Write me a verse some other time.' I chided him, once I could speak again. 'We must be free of Roc by dawn.'
We ran.
That is our story. I swear it to you now, that all of it is true. We came to this town weary and hungry, and perhaps the might of Roc is on our heels. Perhaps we are both forgotten. I don't know. But I come to you now to ask for compassion, and for mercy. My cursed poet and I are no strangers to hard work, and we will do whatever needs doing. We don't ask much, only that we may live. Only that you believe us.
You see, Gyte's love has softened my heart too much, and to lose him now would scar me forever. I may not survive it. I will do all I can to keep us together.
Where will we go? I cannot say. Perhaps we will stay here, if we are welcome. Perhaps, when we are well and Gyte is strong enough to travel again, we will move on. Perhaps we will seek out the woman who got Gyte's body, and try to break the curse. I wonder if he would be happier, to be seen by the world as he truly is.
Do I believe in curses? Ha. No. I do not know if Gyte has a beautiful kind of madness, or if it is a matter of medicine, or if it is something I cannot yet define, and perhaps never will. I'd like it to be magic. Gyte is a magical sort of man. But I lost hold of magic long ago. But I do know this, if I know anything.
Gyte is my own to love. And always shall be.
End
Whew! Just in time. 58 minutes to spare. I got hit by a nasty cold this week and I thought I'd never finish this. Hooray for last minute energy bursts.
Anyway, there you go. Your first Project Tarot story. And if you were wondering, no. This is not a gender politics thing, it's just a story I wrote. But if it makes you think and it makes you talk, cool. Cool, cool, cool.