The Truth Untold

What if, once upon a time, humankind was so wretched, so twisted in body and in soul, that they mistook beauty for horror, and called the fairest among them monsters? Jealousy, fear, and the terror of one’s own reflection... These have ever driven mortals to unspeakable cruelty. The more fragile the difference, the sharper the knife. And thus they sinned, again and again, without consequence; for the masses always tremble alike, and in trembling, justify the blade. Thousands of years ago, in one of the countless Nameless Cities rotting across the earth, a boy was born. His hair was the color of wheat in sunfire; his eyes, the green of new leaves after rain. His limbs were straight, his form symmetrical, his skin — bronzed caramel, gleaming like the surface of a still lake beneath a midsummer dawn. Children like him were not meant to live. Those who emerged unlike the hunched, coarse-skinned, lump-shouldered infants the world knew as “normal” were swiftly discarded and erased, deemed aberrations of nature. For such beings, perfect in form, posed a threat to the comfort of equality. Even so, any who gazed upon them, if only for a heartbeat, were forever haunted, captivated by beauty, yet poisoned by their own self-loathing. But on that day, the weary mother, broken from hours of labor, could not bring herself to betray her child. “I will call you V, my precious one,” she whispered, “And hide you from the eyes of men. No one will dare to end your life.” So they vanished: an ordinary woman with a luminous soul, and her son, too beautiful for the world to forgive. V grew tall and noble, his grace quiet, his gaze full of dawn. And on the most sorrowful of days, when fever stole his mother’s breath. he resolved to return to the world of men, of which he had only heard in contradictory tales. He could not believe the worst she had told him. He should have.

***

And I am monstrous through the years, Guilty of being born. My soul is carved in doubts and fears, Condemned to weep, forlorn.

My sentence etched in paradox, In grief that never wanes— I wander through the shattered rocks, And mourn among the remains.

Year 3,462 Before the Great Distribution of Magic

“What kind of freak’s come crawling into our city?” spat a passerby, his mouth twisting with disgust. A squat, bloated man sneered and spat at V, who stood silently, breathing in the rancid air of civilization for the first time. “Filthy creature! Look at him! Someone fetch the Councilor!” screeched an old woman, her voice rasping like rusted iron. The crowd gathered, their hatred blooming like mold. “Chain him!” “Punish him!” “Lock him away!” The chant swelled. Fear and fascination braided into hysteria. The boy, once radiant with hope, began to tremble. “Curse him!” “Bind him!” “He must not walk among us!” He was seized, shackled, and thrown into a dungeon to await trial. Diamond tears fell from his light-green eyes onto the stone floor. Wherever they landed, sky-blue blossoms burst through the cracks, the petals the color of the heavens he had once looked at with his mother. “Why are they doing this to me?!” cried V and his voice shattered the still air. “Because you are different…” came a woman’s worn-out whisper, though no one stood by the rusted bars. “Who’s there?” he breathed, half in fear, half in hope. “The next cell over. Don’t raise your voice, or they’ll come to beat us up. They judge you because you are unlike them.” “When I entered the city, I thought they were beautiful,” he said softly. “Could I truly be so hideous, that they would kill me for it?” “What makes you think you are the ugly one?” the woman laughed bitterly, and this laughter was a sound of broken glass. “They said so… My mother looked more like them than me. But she always told me that what’s outside doesn’t matter.” “Your mother was wise,” said the woman. “She knew their souls were as deformed as their faces, and so she took you away. You should never have returned.” “How do you know that?” “No matter. I’m here because I used my magic to help others. Only the High Magus is allowed to cast spells within the city walls. I saw what should not be seen. I told futures.” “I would rather not know mine,” murmured V. “Please don’t be offended.” “You cannot offend me, child,” she sighed. “And yet I’ll tell you this much: you will live long. Too long. You will wear masks, many masks, and none will ever resemble your true face. One day, the time will come to take them off... but you must choose the moment well, or ruin will follow.” “I don’t understand…” “You will. In time. Don’t miss it.” “What’s your name? Will I ever see you again?” “At dawn, they will hang me, beautiful boy. Remember me sometimes, but not too often. My name was Helena Red.”

***

Loneliness haunts the blooming ground, A thorn-crowned gaze that can’t be found. Condemned by time’s unending hand, I dwell within a castle’s sand.

Beneath the stars of ghostly white, I fade into the voiceless night— A soul that trembles, bound by scars, Still watched by pale, eternal stars.

“This youth is hereby sentenced to the torment of immortality!” The bent, age-worn judge’s voice thundered across the city square, his tone dripping with sanctimony. “He shall wear masks for the rest of his days, so that his monstrous face may not terrify the righteous! He is forbidden to leave the forsaken garden at the edge of the city! The High Magus is to raise a magical barrier and imprison him there at once!” The crowd roared with joy as the sentence was read. Rough clay was forced against V’s skin; a crude mask sealed his beauty away. Stones rained down as guards led him through the streets. “Don’t break the mask! No one must see that face!” shrieked the mob. Each drop of crimson that fell from his wounds took root in the soil, blooming into wild, multicolored flowers. They were the only things of beauty ever born in that rotten city. V said nothing. He simply counted the steps until silence returned. He knew now that his mother had not lied. He was different, yes. But they had never even tried to see his soul. “I’m sorry I was born this way… perhaps it’s better they never look at me. I’m not worthy to walk among them,” he whispered, dying a little more with every thought. “A monster. That’s all I’ll ever be.” His place of exile stretched like a skeleton’s hand upon the earth — an ancient chapel of sandstone, half-swallowed by vines and shadow. Its empty windows stared blindly like the sockets of a skull. “So this is my new home…” murmured V. And from that day, his prison began to change. The boy, now immortal, tended the withered soil, naming each sprouting leaf as though it were a friend. Slowly, the chapel ceased to look like a witch’s den. He scrubbed its walls with well water, singing along as he worked, and the vines grew lush and thick, covering the ruins in living green. Most of all, blue flowers bloomed, azure as the sky he could never see. His tears watered them, and each petal carried the weight of forgiveness. And he sang. A deep, resonant voice, warm as dusk, and sharp as sorrow. No mortal had ever heard such a sound before. It carried beyond the garden walls, curling through the air like a prayer no god would answer. Soon the city began to whisper. “Can a monster sing like that?” thought a girl who passed by each morning on her way to the market. She had never seen his face. “I wish I could live in that garden,” sighed a child, before his father struck his hand away from the iron fence and sent him back to pull dying carrots. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known…” whispered an old woman in her final breath, gazing from her window at the flowering “cursed” garden. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months, and years folded quietly upon themselves. One rainy dawn, V stepped out into the cool breath of heaven. He walked the path through his blooming cage, letting raindrops kiss his hands. And there, lying upon the main path, was a painted mask — delicate, adorned with care, that had been pushed through the bars by someone unseen. A note lay beside it. “Thank you for your songs. They heal my soul. I made this mask for you. Please, wear it, and break the old one without any regret.” The inside of the mask was lined with soft velvet. Two more blue flowers opened as he picked it up. Holding it close, he returned to the chapel and stood before the shard of mirror he had found on his first day of imprisonment. “Why was I cursed with such a terrible face?” he whispered. But the truth was this: no scar, no burn, no remnant of the clay mask could mar his beauty. Even wounded, his reflection glowed — fragile, radiant, unbearable. He simply could not see it. He believed the verdict of those who condemned him. When everyone around you calls you a monster, you begin to believe it. V lifted the new mask and tied its ribbons at the back of his head. Its touch was soft, almost loving... like a kiss. Unlike the first one, which had always struck him like a blow. He smiled an unseen smile. “I still love this world,” he said aloud. And in his pure, unbroken heart, hatred never found a home.