masquerade.

illuminated.

chapter summary ; for the first time, under the glimmering lights, there he is, his mask stronger than ever.

chapter warning ; familial issues/abandonment, trust issues, light angst?

✩‧₊˚☾

it happens a little too fast. you're fifteen, and your mother stops oiling your hair for a moment, making you snap your eyes open from the relaxed state of your body.
"your father and I were discussing your future," she says, and her soothing voice grates against your ears because you knew this news could not be a good one. when your 'future' was in question, you weren't given much of a choice, really. it was one of two routes, either those choices or uncertain poverty at the hands of a merciless god.
they weren't god. you were sure no god could be as cruel as this, but you were fifteen. how would you know? you're sitting on the cool floor in your childhood house, in the belly of the beast as your mother had asked you to. it smells like the night - faint Jasmine and the fire burning in the little fireplace in front of you. your house, your beast, was far smaller than the richer folks that conditioned you into being there, but a little larger than the ones more unfortunate than you - the ones without any familial connections and controls pulling on feeble life that they willingly created.
the Marleyans weren't gods, yet they controlled your life as one. you were sure of it, because even while giving mercy to your family, you were still trapped by people you knew were seventy or older, people who only smiled gleefully when inferiors were shamed. the inferiors in question, however, were you. your people. your mother, your father, your grandfather, your brother. in this beast - this house that was paid off as a so-called gift but was built on shame and guilt - that was lit up by their inventions. your mother was devoid of all the riches you'd seen them wear, but even seeing them up-close without threat was a privilege that you considered in your defence.

you blink, looking at the dying fire, not opening your mouth to speak. you're too afraid. you always have been, you think, ever since you were younger than this.
you hear her sigh placatingly, braiding your hair into a single plait.

"We will marry you off next year." she says. "There are no other choices." your language rolled off her tongue smoothly, something you knew she was ashamed of because of them. the non-gods. the Marleyans.

it felt like a slap to the cheek even when all she was doing was combing back your hair with feather light hands, speaking in a gentle voice that carried out the letter of a language you learnt from infancy because your grandfather refused to let it be forgotten.
"why can I not do as you are now?" you ask. at fifteen, your voice was shaky and unanswered.
"this does not make an adequate living."

there's a pause. you refuse to speak because you are far too stubborn to admit that she is right. but that cannot be an answer you accept. you blink again, turning around to face her, your knees on the ground and your hands grasping her oily ones.
It smells like jasmine and coconut.

"but I do not want to. it will not be out of love-" you start, cut short by your mother's sound. you're not sure if it's a laugh or a sob but she looks at you as a burden. you think you might be.
"love is not meant for us, sweetheart."

that night, it was decided. you would be married off to an officer - 'young' they described him, but you knew he wouldn't be with the way your father covered his mouth with a cough, his telltale sign of a lie. your life would no longer be yours, but you supposed it never was.

a week later, you were nowhere to be seen. it was raining, a torrential downfall as your mother (you imagined this. you're not sure if this really happened or if you wanted to cling on to the last bits of hope you had left that your family was still yours) would read your letter in broken English and your older brother would lock up the chest with the remainder of your clothes and paintings, your grandfather would pace around the house slowly, as best as his feet could allow him, and your father would go out in search for you, unknowing that you had crossed half an ocean already.