“I’m her huntsman” I saw it happen, though it wasn’t really happening, it also was happening. Confused?
“Apparently, I got stuck in the ‘Love for a married man’ spot.” I said out loud, to Noone. “But philosophically, and even morally, the answers are all right there in front of me. What’s the hold up?”
Oh. It dawns on me then, that they are. So, to help them pass the time, I will tell you what being a huntsman means to me, or what it has meant, or what it could mean.
The walls of the castle are made of imagination and memory, created as a cross between movies seen and books read. The stones they appear to be are smooth and light in color, cold to the touch. An impossible breeze plays through the halls, though there are no windows. The silence is loud, overtaking sounds where they ought to be, muffling footsteps.
According to the story, I should feel in danger here – I am in danger here. I recognize this place for what it is, my role(s) that I can identify all around me. My room is pretty barren, with only two furnishes to fill the space: a very comfortable bed, and a writing desk with a chair. I glance at the walls. There is supposed to be a library here, behind the desk, but the bare and smooth walls overtook it. But, it is unmistakable – this is Dracula’s castle. Though I am pretty sure I know who is ‘playing’ Dracula I thought to myself, the huntsman is the focal point here.
Right on queue, the huntsman arrives at my window. His eyes are dark and worried. He knows more than he ought to, and fights away doubt daily. We look at each other for a while, somehow communicating what is needed. We exist. He is handsome, even when distressed, though he is downright beautiful when truly smiling. I rarely see him smile. Do not misunderstand. I am not unhappy with you. He seems to remind me. I am worried, for all of us. I can wait, too.
I watch him retreat into the woods, unnoticed by the evil that lives within these walls. Waiting was a choice. I remember how confused he seemed when I told him that he would be more effective outside. “The village is getting some of his rage. I will fight my fight in here, and I will wait.” I told him. The mind control that Dracula is known for is seeping into the villagers, bored with my mind and angry with my limitations.
“I must be confused,” I murmur to myself. “I feel like that guy loved me. Loves me? Impossible.” I sigh. I walk over to the writing desk, blank papers and a pen waiting for me. Beloved, I write. I fear that my mind is not my own. I am losing memories. I do not know who I am anymore. Evil lives here. I can’t remember how any of Harlow’s actual letters go, but this is paraphrased well enough.
The huntsman brings me stories, though not in any traditional sense. He does so in a much more literal sense, as stories attach themselves to him like a storm and attack me when he is close. Sometimes, he cannot even see them, too involved in the story he is currently living in. He watches, carefully, to make sure that they don’t completely overtake me, though the trust that has built between us means that I have no doubt he knows exactly how to measure the correct dosage. “I bring you dreams,” he whispers into my hair. “I keep him fed.” His voice is pained. “Love is real and true.” He reminds me.
We have never touched, not in the ways the stories have bade us to. In fact, sometimes communication is done entirely through the stories made by magic, and therefore not completely accurate. I cannot confirm that the huntsman wishes to be close enough to whisper into my hair, I can only say that the imagination has painted it as such. And though my weariness has built walls around me, the love stories waltz right through them at if they were never there. I cannot deny they are attractive, or that I would want a love story for myself. I will never make that choice for someone else though, robbing them of their right to choose whom their love story is with.
What else am I to you? He prods, kicking up the impossible breeze around my ankles.
“Doom.” I say moodily, flopping on the bed. My arm covers my eyes and for the briefest of moments I am flooded with golden warmth as if laying under the sun. “You are a reminder of my weakness, my inability to not want, my struggle with the concept of need. You are dangerous, and beautiful, and while you keep him fed you also keep me dreaming.”
I could have taken your heart. He reminds me. But I gave the heart of a deer instead. He is teasing me. “I have played a deer before. You took my heart for yourself. We still hear it beating.” I tell him, danger lacing through every word spoken. Anger and frustration is welling up inside me. My mind is not my own. I cannot retreat.
THEN I WILL ALLOW YOU TO KEEP DREAMING Dracula says. DREAM OF MOUNTAINS, AND MAGIC, AND MOST OF ALL: DREAM ABOUT LOVE.
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