A citadel of cylindrical towers rose from the sea and protruded from the cliffs that fringed it. Their construction of blue-tinged stone was flawless, some people believed one day they could have simply formed themselves from the cliffs without a trace.
The centre tower was the widest. It came out into a roofless balcony, fifty feet wide, surrounded by the pillars of outstanding masonry and an overarching force field that shimmered gold against the grey of the sky.
It was there that the seat/ruler took counsel as the infinite assault of the waves upon his castle went on below.
It was there that the seat/ruler took counsel as the infinite assault of the waves upon his castle went on below.
He paced restlessly, robes of black and red sweeping and billowing behind him as he strode over to a small arched window at the back of the smooth stone-walled room. Despite having no glass they were protected by the inbuilt force field that surrounded the citadel, and then a larger one that surrounded the island.
The sea breeze ruffled his hood and batted against his eyelids as he unblinkingly stared out into the dull, grey day. Endless ocean was all that filled his eyes, but still he grasped for breath, and it wasn't because of his traditional black mask. It was made from a fitted nylon material that thickened stiffly over his face, but thinned over his mouth and nostrils. Only his eyes were visible but even they were darkened by the shadow of his hood.
His council members watched him in uncomfortable concern, varying in sincerity. Their brightly coloured jackets of cream to aqua to purple made their leader's black ones stand out like a raven in a flock of peacocks. Some took their status to more extremes and wore matching trousers or leggings, while some of the less flamboyant wore simple but respectable ones of brown, grey, or a steely blue; the island's national colour.
They numbered six in total; his most trusted.
After pulling himself from the waves, he turned on his boot's low heel and paced to the windows on the other side of the room, the ones that looked out on the bustling capital city of Carthinon.
"Ten thousand?" He spoke, his voice sounding clearly despite the mask. His assured, well-spoken voice shook hesitantly at the number. He looked out at his people and braced himself on the windowsill. "What right do we have to take that number?"
He was no king, such a thing was considered to be antiquated even in stories. He was known only as The Mask, a title passed down from his ancestors and the first rulers of this island. What once was worn by his ancestor as a way of hiding his disfigured face had been continued by his heir in respect, and his heir's heir, and so on. It had become a tradition, to become The Mask was to give yourself to the island, your old identity no longer mattered. No one except for who they took as a partner may look upon their face. Identity was never a problem because of the amount of security measures that required his unique, living fingerprint.
For practicality and modern fashion's sake his robes cut short just above his waist and were fitted like a jacket with block red lapels, only flowing out into the length of his body at the back. His pants were black ribbed leather and the black boots that reached his calves were a fitting fabric similar to his mask. The silver zippers that went from the centre of the foot to the rims of the boots was bordered by bright red lines on either side.
A purple-robed council member ventured forward to speak. "Right does not come into it my lord. The shield is degrading and we have no way to replenish it, if we do not reduce its range now then we will all be dead within a day." He was Joyce Rentham, a portly man with a neatly-combed mop of thin and feathery brown hair. Permanently dyed to try and guise his age. He was one of the councillors who wore matching trousers.
The Mask turned around to give him what they presumed was a despairing look. "And why must the people suffer while we stay unharmed and safely enclosed in our city walls? Ten thousand of them will die if we do this, our people!" He almost seethed in disgust.
Rentham replied without a flinch. "The shields must be reduced sir, no matter what the direction. Wouldn't you prefer the people who can actually run this island survive rather than the people who provide the sheep and the fleas?"
Another councillor stepped forward before The Mask recovered from his exasperated sigh and fired back at the man. "We knew this would happen one day, the sacrifice is needed to keep the remaining humans alive. If we don't then this ten year struggle has been for nothing." He reasoned with him.
The Mask looked at him with sadness in his eyes. The councillor was Baren, one of the most down-to-earth and reasonable members of the council, unlike his younger brother who jumped on everything put in front of him. Neutral brown leggings and a yellow jacket stood out against his dark skin.
The Mask scoffed bitterly and looked out of the window again, this time at the fields just beyond the natural rock formation of the city walls that suggested at the populated areas beyond them. "And yet here we are, slaughtering our own for a limited survival with DNA so twisted by radiation that we are completely at the mercy of our blood. Do we even qualify as human any more?"
Nobody answered. He rubbed his gloved hands over his mask and sighed again. "And the others? Have we heard anything from them?"
"Nothing sir." Baren replied.
"Nothing." The Mask repeated under his breath. "Keep trying. As always." He told him, only resigned now.
Rentham took this defeated mutter as a sign and stepped towards him eagerly with a young intern wearing a simple navy blue outfit that echoed The Mask's, but without the cape. The Mask's eyes immediately latched onto the digital pad that held a hologram of a an official form that the boy carried at his side.
"So I take it you'll sign?" Rentham asked The Mask, sickeningly endearing.
The Mask didn't even grace him with a reply as he whipped his right glove off obstinately and moved to place his thumb on the blue touch-pad below the form to authenticate his identity, and the order. His thumb only hovered over it hesitantly for a moment. In that second all the faces of every citizen not fortunate enough to live nearer the capital flashed through his mind. He wished with every inch of his self that death by radiation was a swifter one, then his thumb pressed into it. The print appeared on the bottom of the digital form, then the form vanished in a flash.
"Thank y-" Rentham started to simper.
"Leave." The Mask cut across him in a commanding tone. They all turned around and filed out without a question. Within seconds he was alone.
He looked out of the window again, at that space beyond the city walls. He knew the reduction of the shield would happen in instants once the command was given and the island's forces had a chance to retreat. Only the forces.
He looked as much as he could bear, imagining all the children at play or school, their parents working the mines and the day-to-day needs and survivals of them all. He'd seen a toddler once, sitting in the dirt with a yellow dress almost as bright as her smile.
He turned away with a sharp breath and leant on a gilded wood and marble table next to a bookshelf. He swiped a goblet, almost invisible other than the metal band that went across the design, and all the books off it with a twisted cry. His shoulders hunched up, he hung his head. The rim of his mask began to soak.
The sea breeze ruffled his hood and batted against his eyelids as he unblinkingly stared out into the dull, grey day. Endless ocean was all that filled his eyes, but still he grasped for breath, and it wasn't because of his traditional black mask. It was made from a fitted nylon material that thickened stiffly over his face, but thinned over his mouth and nostrils. Only his eyes were visible but even they were darkened by the shadow of his hood.
His council members watched him in uncomfortable concern, varying in sincerity. Their brightly coloured jackets of cream to aqua to purple made their leader's black ones stand out like a raven in a flock of peacocks. Some took their status to more extremes and wore matching trousers or leggings, while some of the less flamboyant wore simple but respectable ones of brown, grey, or a steely blue; the island's national colour.
They numbered six in total; his most trusted.
After pulling himself from the waves, he turned on his boot's low heel and paced to the windows on the other side of the room, the ones that looked out on the bustling capital city of Carthinon.
"Ten thousand?" He spoke, his voice sounding clearly despite the mask. His assured, well-spoken voice shook hesitantly at the number. He looked out at his people and braced himself on the windowsill. "What right do we have to take that number?"
He was no king, such a thing was considered to be antiquated even in stories. He was known only as The Mask, a title passed down from his ancestors and the first rulers of this island. What once was worn by his ancestor as a way of hiding his disfigured face had been continued by his heir in respect, and his heir's heir, and so on. It had become a tradition, to become The Mask was to give yourself to the island, your old identity no longer mattered. No one except for who they took as a partner may look upon their face. Identity was never a problem because of the amount of security measures that required his unique, living fingerprint.
For practicality and modern fashion's sake his robes cut short just above his waist and were fitted like a jacket with block red lapels, only flowing out into the length of his body at the back. His pants were black ribbed leather and the black boots that reached his calves were a fitting fabric similar to his mask. The silver zippers that went from the centre of the foot to the rims of the boots was bordered by bright red lines on either side.
A purple-robed council member ventured forward to speak. "Right does not come into it my lord. The shield is degrading and we have no way to replenish it, if we do not reduce its range now then we will all be dead within a day." He was Joyce Rentham, a portly man with a neatly-combed mop of thin and feathery brown hair. Permanently dyed to try and guise his age. He was one of the councillors who wore matching trousers.
The Mask turned around to give him what they presumed was a despairing look. "And why must the people suffer while we stay unharmed and safely enclosed in our city walls? Ten thousand of them will die if we do this, our people!" He almost seethed in disgust.
Rentham replied without a flinch. "The shields must be reduced sir, no matter what the direction. Wouldn't you prefer the people who can actually run this island survive rather than the people who provide the sheep and the fleas?"
Another councillor stepped forward before The Mask recovered from his exasperated sigh and fired back at the man. "We knew this would happen one day, the sacrifice is needed to keep the remaining humans alive. If we don't then this ten year struggle has been for nothing." He reasoned with him.
The Mask looked at him with sadness in his eyes. The councillor was Baren, one of the most down-to-earth and reasonable members of the council, unlike his younger brother who jumped on everything put in front of him. Neutral brown leggings and a yellow jacket stood out against his dark skin.
The Mask scoffed bitterly and looked out of the window again, this time at the fields just beyond the natural rock formation of the city walls that suggested at the populated areas beyond them. "And yet here we are, slaughtering our own for a limited survival with DNA so twisted by radiation that we are completely at the mercy of our blood. Do we even qualify as human any more?"
Nobody answered. He rubbed his gloved hands over his mask and sighed again. "And the others? Have we heard anything from them?"
"Nothing sir." Baren replied.
"Nothing." The Mask repeated under his breath. "Keep trying. As always." He told him, only resigned now.
Rentham took this defeated mutter as a sign and stepped towards him eagerly with a young intern wearing a simple navy blue outfit that echoed The Mask's, but without the cape. The Mask's eyes immediately latched onto the digital pad that held a hologram of a an official form that the boy carried at his side.
"So I take it you'll sign?" Rentham asked The Mask, sickeningly endearing.
The Mask didn't even grace him with a reply as he whipped his right glove off obstinately and moved to place his thumb on the blue touch-pad below the form to authenticate his identity, and the order. His thumb only hovered over it hesitantly for a moment. In that second all the faces of every citizen not fortunate enough to live nearer the capital flashed through his mind. He wished with every inch of his self that death by radiation was a swifter one, then his thumb pressed into it. The print appeared on the bottom of the digital form, then the form vanished in a flash.
"Thank y-" Rentham started to simper.
"Leave." The Mask cut across him in a commanding tone. They all turned around and filed out without a question. Within seconds he was alone.
He looked out of the window again, at that space beyond the city walls. He knew the reduction of the shield would happen in instants once the command was given and the island's forces had a chance to retreat. Only the forces.
He looked as much as he could bear, imagining all the children at play or school, their parents working the mines and the day-to-day needs and survivals of them all. He'd seen a toddler once, sitting in the dirt with a yellow dress almost as bright as her smile.
He turned away with a sharp breath and leant on a gilded wood and marble table next to a bookshelf. He swiped a goblet, almost invisible other than the metal band that went across the design, and all the books off it with a twisted cry. His shoulders hunched up, he hung his head. The rim of his mask began to soak.
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