Haley Thistle
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Living Armor Boyfriend: Erasmus (complete)
🕑 Added 2020-07-20 19:01:00 +0000 UTC
The corridors here are long and spacious, and many people pass through them at once. I watch them walk to and fro looking upwards towards the walls, admiring paintings, admiring me. I stand guard like I always have, making sure the people are safe. Yet I cannot help but feel as though my place here is not my own. I have been in many worlds, and for so many years I have traveled far and wide.
During the nights, I step away from the stand I have been placed upon. Beside my feet is a placard displaying dates, pictures, and a paragraph about the war I fought in. I have been in many museums over my life, many galleries, and several homes. This is one of the first places I have not been chained down or kept in a case.
The museum slowly begins to breathe as I walk through it. The dark halls with their dim lights brighten as some of the other souls awaken and stir. Something resides in these walls, something beyond my understanding. There is life here, like in nature, something exhaling through these artworks, giving them heartbeats and minds. It’s something that would have frightened me as a man, but I am one of them now. I am their protector.
My wing is filled with antique weaponry, paintings of heroic battles, and uniforms for ceremony and combat. My armor is just one of many, standing in a line with other suits, some complete and some not. Our commander is just a helmet. He is one of the eldest here, and from his high pedestal he gives us orders on how to guard our home at night.
“Erasmus,” he dictates with his bold, pompous tone, “I need you to take the French Wing this evening.”
“Why the change, sir?” I ask curiously. I am usually given the library, which is nice but boring.
“Change is good,” the helmet says.
I follow my brothers out of the armory. Once we reach the north hall we separate, and I go east, heading towards the French Wing. I have passed it many times, but I have never gone inside. It is filled with decadent paintings that feel as though they flow right out of the canvas. There are grand busts and statues, and clothing that floats through the halls.
As I come into the French Wing I hear a host of giggles and titters. “Look at the plate armor this evening!” one painting whispers to another, as they lean beyond their frames to face one another.
“What a big one!” a heavily mustachioed bust replies.
I sigh in embarrassment, feeling my leather straps tighten as I start my patrol. I come upon a grizzly bear coming down from his post. He has long-tailed doves flying around him, and the doves come to roost on the bear as I approach.
“A new one,” the bear replies. “I see General Helmet has switched things up yet again.”
“Are you the General of this wing?” I ask.
“Our general is at the end of the hallway.” The bear shakes his head while the doves coo and peck his fur. “She’d be most interested in speaking to you.”
“She?” I ask in surprise.
“Madame Bissonette.” The bear walks alongside me, taking me to a hallway that is more narrow than the others. The high ceiling arches above us, and chandeliers hang like a cascade of crystals raining from the beams. Along the walls there are other paintings, still-lifes, landscapes, all of them beautiful. But there is something slightly perturbing about each of them.
“These are hers,” the bear says. “Painted in life.”
I stop to look at a painting of a lake, where a man is being pulled under the waters by a black swan. The contorted look of fear on his face is repulsive, but arresting. “She is a painter?” I ask.
The bear tilts his head to one side. “A painter, a lover, a witch, and a martyr. There are many stories about Madame Bisonette. I only believe a few.”
The hallway ends in a domed alcove that has an easel hung on either wall. In the center is a life-sized painting of a woman all in black. Her skin is pearly in color, her lips are stained bright red, and her eyes that focus harshly on everything and nothing, judgmental and sorrowful. Beside her is a bonfire, with the flames leaping as high as her shoulder. Heaped on the fire are canvases and books, dolls and toys. The fire moves, crackling and popping as I gaze at it. It flickers in a breeze, and her clothes rustle with the motion.
Her eyes suddenly move, glaring down at us. She sighs, touching her temple. “I had a feeling Helmet would send a new one.” She takes off her hood, releasing a cascade of beautiful chestnut hair. “Although I am not going to miss the last one he sent.”
She steps out of the frame and I move forward, extending her my hand for balance. “Gentleman,” she remarks with a cool smirk at me. “They all are in the beginning.”
“Madame Bissonette.” I bow my head. “How may I be of service to you?”
The paint strokes of her face shift slightly, giving her a glimmering appearance. Her long hair falls off her shoulders in waves that almost feel wet, as if the color would come off on my fingers if I touched it.
“Just do what you usually do. I just ask that you do not romance my ladies. The last suit that was here had a penchant for flirtation and disaster. What was his name, Franck?” She asks the bear.
“Kazuhide, Madame.”
Madame Bissonette clasps her hands together. “Ah yes. Handsome plating, lovely Oni face.” She shakes her head. “Terrible womanizer.”
“I wasn’t aware,” I say quietly.
“I suppose you wouldn’t be.” We come to the end of her hallway and she stands still, gazing out over the rest of the wing. “I humor Helmet and his insistence on a patrol. But for the most part I can handle my wing, Monsieur… what was it?”
I stand at attention. “Erasmus.”
“Such a smart name for a knight,” she remarks. “In any case, I don’t expect much from you. As long as you do what Helmet asks and don’t cause problems for me and my wing, our working relationship will be fine.”
“You won’t have any problems from me, Madame.” I bow to her. “I look forward to working with you during these fine evenings.”
She lets slip a genteel smirk. “If you say so.” She nods her head, then goes back down the hall.
There is something about Madame Bissonette that leaves me breathless, even though I do not breathe. She is a wondrous work of art, frightening yet beautiful. I commence my patrol of the French wing with her weighing heavy on my mind. I find myself glancing towards her hall, hoping to see her appear.
The French wing is very unlike my usual post. The library is usually quiet and reserved, and the ghosts that linger there only seem to want to read books or stack the chairs. Here, there is merriment and conversation, and more life than I have ever seen even in the armory. The paintings all speak of revolution and classic beauty. There is an alcove of fashions from different eras, and the dresses and uniforms float freely where they please.
I enjoy games with Franck, who has taught the doves to open the antique chess set. It’s been so long since I played, I’m afraid I have to have the old bear show me the ropes again.
One evening, I see Madame Bissonette watching from her hallway, with her long, thin hands hold the doorframe as she peers out at the wing. She notices me turned towards her and vanishes back down her hall. I follow after, seeing her going towards one of the displays of clothes on either side of her painting. She does not acknowledge me as I approach her. I bow at the waist before her. “Is everything alright, Madam Bissonette?”
She doesn’t turn to look at me. “Everything is fine,” she says quietly. “You do not need to worry yourself so. It is quiet here, and it will always be quiet here. We are in a museum, after all - not a prison, not a home.”
“I merely wanted to check,” I reply as I rise. “I have not spoken with you since my first night here. I do not see you much, and I know this is your wing.”
“There is not much to speak about.” She looks me up and down while she folds her hands before her. “Is there something you wish to discuss?”
I do not breathe, and yet she makes me long for air. Being in her presence makes me feel as though my chest and helmet are filled with rose petals about to spill from me in a crimson cascade, scented just as beautifully as she appears.
She tilts her head to the side. “Monsieur Erasmus?”
I stiffen my posture. “Madame?”
“You went quiet. I am not sure... but you were staring, weren’t you?” She narrows her eyes upon me.
“I do not mean to.” I fear I have done some wrong. “It is not my intention at all. But I fear old habits must linger somewhere in this form.” I place my hand on my chest. “Forgive me, Madame. I am sorry if I have offended you.”
“You are but armor, and you say you have old habits?” Madame Bissonette comes close to me. She places her palm on my helmet, and once again I do not have the breath to describe my excitement.
When was the last time I was touched? I do not recall. I do not want to move out of fear her hand will leave me. “I was a man once. At least, I believe I was.”
“Who were you then?”
“The memories are hazy, but I remember war and blood. I remember running.” I place both my hands on my chest. “I remember realizing that the body inside me was no longer alive, and yet I kept moving.”
Her dark eyes widen, and for a moment their color is pale hazel. “How strange that realization must be. Do you know what caused such a thing?”
“I’ve never questioned it,” I say softly. “I just keep existing.”
Madame Bissonette lays her hands back down against her dress. “Have you always played the knight, wherever you have been?”
“Sometimes I have just been standing,” I answer. “Either chained or encased somewhere. But there were times I felt too weak to exist. I was merely open eyes observing. In very few places have I felt the strength to be myself.”
She glances down and nods. “I see.”
“What about you?” I ask with carefully leashed excitement.
Her jaw tenses, and her eyes become dark again. “What about me?”
“Who are you?” My voice is timid and almost boyish. I stare up towards the fire in her painting. “Franck said you were an artist.”
“I was,” she says sadly. Her eyes move towards the paintings on the wall. “But I am no longer. I exist, same as you.”
“Why no longer?”
Madame Bissonette waves her hand, motioning at the entirety of the wing. “Look at us - where we stand, what we are. We are relics, Monsieur Erasmus. We are things. There is breath of life here, but that only means that our life here is not ours.” She presses her own hands to her breast. “We are not mortal. We do not have blood. We are memories of a time we do not belong to.”
“Memories still have purpose.” I want to be reassuring.
Madame Bissonette smiles sadly. “A handsome man with a kind mind,” she says quietly. “What an angel you must have been, Monsieur Erasmus.”
I capture her hand in a moment of weakness. “Madame, why are you so sad?”
She looks at me, and for a moment her stony expression wavers. She grasps my hand, and with a heavy sigh she smiles. “Because I am.”
I come to her each night, hoping a visit and chat might make her gracious smile feel like less of an obligation. I want to know her better, to understand the world she came from. Each night I receive a piece of the puzzle - sometimes it’s connected, while other times it makes no sense at all.
Her artwork was stolen, claimed by her husband, who sold her paintings for his fortune and fame. She was left alone in her home, often sick, painting the things she longed to see. She kept a small trove of paintings hidden from her husband, one of which was the gruesome swan painting. She told me the man depicted there was him. “I often wished him dead,” she told me. “I never really cared how he died, just so long as he wasn’t there anymore.”
I place my hand on the small of her back. “What did happen?”
“I went mad. He remarried.” She turns to look at the bonfire in her painting.
“Madame.” My voice chokes in pain. This is not something I could protect her from, even though I want to. I want to save her and give her the dignified death she should have had.
“Dominique,” she says quietly. She looks up at me, her eyes pale hazel again. “You may call me Dominique if you wish.”
I am once again filled with ephemeral rose petals. “I do.”
Dominique places her hand in mine. “I appreciate your friendship. I am afraid I have not allowed much in.”
I hold her hand fast. “As long as the breath of life allows it, I am here for you, Dominique.”
As I say this, a red petal falls from my helmet. She picks it up curiously, looking it over before turning to me. “Did you have a snack earlier?”she asks.
“How strange.” I take the petal from her. “I’ve not seen roses in ages - and yet, this looks like a petal from one.”
“Maybe they have flowers in the entrance,” she offers. “Nothing to worry about.”
I find myself rushing to see her once night has arrived, unable to contain the desire to be in her presence. Ever since she gave me her name, I find her waiting for me at the entrance to her hall. Her eyes appear softer each day, brighter and much more full of life. She places her hands on me to greet me, and it feels as though I might burst.
“Erasmus.” I adore how she says my name. “Does General Helmet know what you do most evenings?” she asks with a coquettish smile.
“I don’t think he knows much of what happens beyond the armory,” I say with a laugh. “He is often content with that.”
“What if he knew you spent most of your time talking to me?”
“Well,” I sigh, “I think he would...” I suddenly feel strange. I have no appetite, nor have I eaten, and yet I feel strangely overstuffed. I clasp my hand around my lower abdomen and let a small chuckle escape.
Dominique comes closer to me, placing her palms upon my arm. “Is everything alright?” she asks gently.
“I don’t know,” I say uncertainly. “It must be raining out. I always feel strange when it rains.”
I start to correct my posture when my neck separates from my body, and red petals begin to spill out. Dominique gasps in alarm and moves back from me.I try to cover my neck where it has opened, but the more I move the faster the petals rush out, and soon the petals turn into full blossoms that clog and collect at my throat. They push my head back further, opening me up wide so that the blossoms spew from me as if I am being squeezed from the outside.
“Erasmus!” Dominique cries in fear. “Are you alright? Erasmus, can you hear me?”
I fall to my knees in the flood of blossoms. My head falls off, clattering emptily and disappearing amongst the sea of roses. I grasp my fingers around the empty hole, feeling more and more flowers erupt from within me. “Don’t be scared, Dominique!” I cry. “Don’t be afraid!” If I had a heart, I know it would be pounding in my chest. I don’t know how or why this is happening to me.
Dominique has made her way towards me and is sweeping her hands over the flowers. She shoves her hands deep inside me, pulling them and ripping them from me. As the flowers overflow, it becomes hard for the rest of the French wing to ignore. Eventually we are surrounded by other exhibits, come to see where the flood of roses is coming from.
“We need to get him out of here,” Franck says.
“No!” Dominique gasps. “Something is wrong! We have to help him.”
“He’s right,” I shudder. “I should get out of here. This is bad.”
Dominique grabs my hand tightly. “Don’t leave. Stay here. Let me try to help you. You shouldn’t be alone!”
“He needs to be alone,” Franck replies. “It’s because of you that this is happening.”
Dominique’s grip on my hand loosens. “Me?”
“He’s in love with you.” Franck helps me to stand upright as large clusters of roses heave from me. “And he doesn’t know how to express it, so this happens. If he gets away from you for a moment, it should stop.”
Dominique watches in confusion as Franck leads me away. The further I go, the more the stream of roses dwindles. Eventually, Franck stands me aside, and a handful of petals puffs out before the flow stops altogether.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper. “This is love?”
“I’ve seen it before,” he sighs. “We don’t have the usual means to express ourselves. We have the senses, but not the preparation. We are like memories, existing yet insubstantial. Your love for Madame Bissonette has manifested this way.”
“Does that mean I have to stay away from her?” I whisper. “I don’t know if I can.”
Franck taps a claw against my chest. “As long as you keep erupting roses, I am afraid you cannot be near her, Erasmus. It could spell trouble for the museum, and the breath of life in it.”
“But that’s not...” I’m going to say it isn’t fair, but when I compare my plight to that of the countless souls within this museum, it outweighs the agony of not being near Dominique. I stand erect before Franck. “I will tell General Helmet I must be moved.”
“I’ll go fetch your helmet.”
I stand in the dark, lonely hallway, begging for the breath to cry and sob bitterly.
General Helmet gives me back my assignment in the library. I am unused to the quiet now, and I terribly miss Dominique. I want to talk to her, to hold her. I want to tell her that I do love her. I’ve never said it. I only spewed roses from my neck.
One evening I leave the library, seeing no sense in being there. Nothing ever happens. I go out into the hallway, standing before the windows as moonlight pours over me. I would give anything to see her there, but because of my own faults I would only end up harming our lives.
I turn to see one of the long-tailed doves flying down the hallway. It lands on my helmet, then drops a letter on the rug. Picking it up, open it to find not only a letter of beautiful prose, but a charcoal drawing of myself.
“My dearest Erasmus, it has been far too long since I have last seen you. The armor that has replaced you only serves to remind me that you are not here. I wish to see you, to embrace you, to tell you the words that the roses took from us. If I cannot see you, I will draw you each night until I can. I will fill the halls with your visage until they are as numerous as the petals you spilled for me. All my love, Dominique Bissonette.”
The dove coos and tip-taps top of my helmet.
For now, I suppose it is enough. Maybe one day, I can see her again. At dawn I return to my post, tucking her note inside me. The dove doesn’t leave, no matter how I try to shoo it away.
When night falls again, I find myself in a very strange predicament. I’m no longer standing in the armory - instead, I am looking at a bonfire nearly as tall as I am. I step towards it, feeling the heat of it upon my fingertips.
“It will burn.”
I look up, seeing Dominique walking around the other side of the flames. She smiles at me, blushing brightly as her beaming, angelic face gazes on me. “I can’t believe it worked,” she whispers, touching her fingertips to her lips.
I step closer, almost hesitant. This cannot be a dream, and yet I feel as if I am floating on air. I rush towards her, and she rushes to meet me. Grabbing hold of my helmet ,she pulls it away. Roses spill out, but she touches my face, my lips, and breathlessly I accept her kiss.
There is so much breath of life in me, but it does not spill out as roses or tears. It comes out as kisses and laughter as I hold Dominique in my own arms. Whatever magic she wrought, whatever image she painted, she brought me to her side, and at long last I can tell her intimately what the roses took.
“I love you Dominique,” I gasp between kisses. “I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you.”
“Say it more, in case this magic does not last, my love.” She kisses me over and over. “Tonight may be all we have, so do not stop until the sun rises.”
