He is nothing. All his life is nothing and everything he had been amounts to nothing- lost perhaps, in the streams of times never to be found again. A memory, a dream, a suppressed desire. Forgotten and alienated into silence and darkness, where only he feels the sorrow of such a reality. Such is the state of a man who is cursed to be forgotten, cursed to be a nobody, a fate which is worse than death. A life of total darkness, where not even memories soothe the soul. Such a man does not even care who comes to visit him in his solitude, or who simply stares from the outside.
 
Philippe did not move as the sounds of steps grew closer. He did not shift his head sideways as some curious prisoner might, perhaps interested in who it was. He lay motionless in the cold floor, his back bent and his head between his legs, like a lost creature devoid of any signs of humanity. The visitors walking outside could not possibly understand why anyone would be in such a state, or why anyone would be unmoved by the presence of people. One of the walkers specially found such behaviour insulting. He stood quiet as he reached the cell he had been looking for. His figure possessed dignity and command; his very features imposed awe and the way he walked inspired admiration. So unlike the man who lay inside the prison, whose lowly state produced only pity. Such was the fate of two kings.

"Your majesty," a man with a long robe said. This man had brought the young king into the cells. He now walked closer to the young ruler, unsure of what to say to him. He was the governor, the jailer that kept the prisoners in such a morbid state. The man had never been close to the king of France and was beyond delight to have such a visit, even if he was unaware as to why the visit was performed. "Anything else you require, sire?"
 
King Louis XIV of France was not listening to him. His eyes regarded the steel door that stood before him, the entrance to one of the numerous cells in the prison island. His eyes narrowed as if the voice of the fat governor insulted him and he rose one of his gloved hands to silence the man. The governor waited impatiently for the young king to speak, but he said nothing.
 
Behind them, a taller man sighed, impatient himself, but not coward enough to hide it. The soldier wanted to remove the governor and let the king work alone, but he waited for prudence's sake. He saw the king's hand fall slowly to his side, the sign he had been waiting for, and drew in his breath.
 
"Leave us," the king said, his voice stiff and echoing in the damp cells.
 
The governor uttered a sound of complaint, reaching to detain the young king, but the soldier standing behind them walked forward at that moment and seized his hand. A soft touch only, but it was enough to move the man to his senses, and the governor stepped away from the cells, guided by the royal captain. The tall man turned, ready to go.
 
"Monsieur D'Artagnan," the governor uttered softly, still reluctant to leave his majesty alone in the cell. "Shall we leave such a young monarch alone among such ruffians? Are you pleased by this actions?"
 
"The king will be fine," the soldier said, reaching for the exit door, and dragging the governor behind him, almost pushing their way out. "It is us who have to leave."
 
No words were said and no more complains. Only silence fell upon the cell room as both men exited, and their voices mingled in the wind of the island's atmosphere. The king's eyes did not even flicker as the men exited. He waited silently, his hands by his sides and his head erect and staring forward. When the sounds left the room, he listened to the echoes of a small water drip on the furthest corner of the room, listening to the monotonous sound of its fall on the ground.
 
He breathed slowly, his chest moving softly as he drew closer to the door made of iron, which stood like a monster before him. A soft, cold wind entered the room and moved his long hair, bringing him down to reality. Nothing moved, nothing spoke.
 
"You speak first."
 
The king startled as he heard the voice. He did not gasp, for he expected to hear the prisoner, but he had wanted to be the first to speak, to show command. The king drew closer to the door, feeling the cold iron closer to his body. The keys the governor had given him rattled in one of the pockets of his royal jacket. The prisoner, he thought, must be watching him some way.
 
He was not. Philippe lay as he had before the king had walked into the damp room, his head between his legs, his eyes closed. He thought he saw a soft silhouette of the young monarch on the wall, but he was mistaking. Not even paying attention to the real king, he pretended the shadow was the one who waited to speak, and pictured the look on its face. The real king wanted, out of curiosity, to see what the young prisoner looked like, to see the misery of such a man, but he knew he had to wait. A quiet voice inside of him dared him to identify the reason why he had chosen to visit such an ugly place.
 
"Have you nothing to say?" the voice said again, muffled by the dampness.
 
The king gasped, pursing his lips, angered that the prisoner had spoken again. A feeling of unease began to dwell inside of him and he did not like what it felt like. He wanted to raise his hand and bang the iron door, just to shake the prisoner and jolt him out of his senses- and he grinned as he envisioned the prisoner jumping out of grief. But, he stood quiet, his gloved hand running along the sides of his jacket, tracing the various ornaments which the fine dress possessed and staring at the dark door. The one inside shifted, he heard. A smile crossed his face as he envisioned the feeble movements one such as the prisoner must be making.
 
"I have come to torment you, just as you believe," he said. His voice was cold and uncaring, like he always addressed those around him, except the women. "Lift your head and stare at me, for this may be the only visit we shall have in an eternity."
 
There was silence inside the cell. The man inside had lowered his head, his eyes narrowing as the voice of his enemy flowed into his cell. It boomed in the walls and the iron door made the sound resound even more powerful, and it echoed in the creases of his brain, making his head pound. His hands moved without him willing them to do so, and he grasped the sides of his head, his small fingers feeling the cold bite of the mask he wore over his head. All at once, in a few movements, reality struck him and rendered him to stillness, his back arched as his head sprung up, listening to the sound of his heart beat.
 
Outside the door, the king smiled. He knew the prisoner had moved, no doubt mortified by his words, and envisioned a pitiful look on the poor soul's face. His hand reached into the pocket of his jacket and touched the keys he had been given. They rattled softly, their metallic sound crisp in the silence, and his gloved fingers ran over their smoothness. He smiled, contemplating opening the door and watching the reaction the prisoner would have.
 
"It must be boring to be here," he said. "No one to talk to, nothing to see or hear, save for the drips of whatever liquid falls from this dismal ceiling." He moved closer to the door, daring to touch it with his gloved hand. He smiled to himself, his eyes closing softly as he enjoyed the power he could feel over his enemy.
 
He cried out as Philippe suddenly banged the door, tossing his body at the heavy iron with such a force as to take it down, save it did not.
 
"Gratitude," cried the prisoner.
 
The king staggered backwards, his head ringing as the power of the jolt cursed through his body. He gritted his teeth and stared at the iron door, watching it heave as the man inside crashed his body against it, willing to scare the king senseless. Yet, the king's face soon regained composure, his eyes returning to normality from their previous widened state. Louis XIV smirked, and drew closer to the door, his hands raised menacingly towards its heavy frame. He grinned like a mad man as his hand became a fist and banged into the cold iron. The prisoner startled, not expecting such an action, and drew away from the door. The king smiled wickedly as he banged the door heavier than before, sending the horrible echoes of his pounding across the room- the door heaved horribly under the force of his hits, threatening to fall on the prisoner inside. He heard the small whimper of the one inside and he felt his body animated by a hellish force once more, and banged one last terrible hit on the metal.
 
"Ingrate," Louis XIV said, "Is this how you repay my humble visit?"
 
"I wish no visits from you," the prisoner said. He had retreated away from the door, cornering himself with the wall, and looking at the door with horror. "Mon Dieu," he breathed to himself. "Let him stay outside and not wish to enter this cell."
 
"You speak ill to your king," Louis said. "Yet, I expect nothing of you, monsieur. Nothing but savagery and despair. This is how I intended it and it is so."
 
"Leave me," the prisoner uttered. He refused to listen, but he could not cover his hears, because the heavy iron mask over his head did not permit him. He shut his eyes tight.
 
"Truth be told, I wanted to see you."
 
Philippe closed his eyes tighter, letting his head touch the wall behind him and willing the nightmare to be over once and for all, but the voice of the king did not disappear as he wished. It was not a dream, this visit from his royal brother, blessed by fate to lead a happy life with the riches of a kingdom which could've been his had fate been the way it was destined to be.
 
"Philippe," Louis XIV said, his voice even. The king lifted his head, his smirk crossing his face like lightning. He pronounced the name, one that filled him with a strange sensation as he said it, deliberately, savouring the sound slowly. Louis felt his breath suddenly leave him, listening to the way the name fell into the silence. He could hear the breathing of the prisoner now, and he forced the calmness to regain him again, but he felt himself slipping. What was he doing here? Why did the name seem to leave  a taste he disliked in his mouth?
 
Inside the cell, Philippe gasped and drew his legs up to his body. He grabbed the sides of his legs with his small arms and buried his masked head into them, but the iron bit into his cheeks as he pressed himself to his legs and he drew up again.
 
He gasped in terror as the iron door moved and he heard the sound of the keys in the lock. The king's gentle hands worked with the heavy things, opening the door deliberately slow. Philippe's features twisted into misery as he saw the door move feebly and open slowly, the horrible sound of the iron running over the floor. The lone dark figure of his brother appeared in the doorway, silent and still. From inside the horrid mask, his blue eyes stared at the wonderful figure of nobility and decorum, at the long, lavish garments of the king of France, at the soft hand that held the door open, and at the blue eyes that stared at him. At those identical eyes, and at a face that resembled his own in every way, save for the amused expression Louis XIV possessed.
 
"Look at you," Louis said, running a delicate hand over the door he held open. "What a mess you are."
 
The king let his hands fall on his side, feeling the silk of his robes move against him. He had wanted to see what his brother looked like; he had wanted to see the misery which he himself had brought to him, the very figure of loss he had become. He stared at the iron mask he had decreed be put over his brother's face when he had first met him in the room with his mother- an order written hastily on a piece of paper. He wanted to see, and when he finally saw- he was unsure about what to say or do. How to act before such a man, whom he thought had been a lie conceived by an usurper. Yet, here was his brother whose blue eyes stared at him from the hollowness of an iron mask.
 
"You've stared," Philippe said. "You have what you wanted, now you can leave."
 
The king stood still, listening to the voice of the young man, listening to it echo in the walls of the cell. He closed the heavy door behind him, gritting his teeth as the iron ran over the floor, and turned to stare at the figure of his brother sitting on the corner of the floor furthest away from him. He stared at the bony hands that gripped bony legs and at the rags that dressed his lithe body, wonder spilling from his eyes.
 
"No," Louis said. "I wish to speak with you, monsieur."
 
The king was smiling now, his small eyes staring at the hands that raced across the semi naked limbs of the prisoner. There was a strange light in those identical eyes, one Philippe did not find himself liking. He edged away as the young monarch came closer, Louis eyes like those of a hawk examining his prey. The gentleness of his walk and the quiet attitude betrayed the king, for Louis looked almost like a kind soul, which he was not. Louis XIV raised an eyebrow as Philippe edged away, dragging his body slowly, away from him.
 
"It is natural that you wish to draw away," Louis said, shrugging his shoulders. "Yet, trust me, monsieur, I will do you no harm. I have not come to punish you or to grant you your death."
 
Philippe's face took on a twisted smile, his eyes narrowing. He smirked, thankful that the mask concealed his features.
 
"How long?"
 
Louis rested his head against one of the walls in the cell, ignoring the obvious question from his brother. He pretended to examine the clothing the boy was wearing, and refused to acknowledge the words. Philippe cursed under his breath, his patience running slim with the king, but aware that he was in no position of advantage.
 
"It is a pity," Louis said, "to have met in such circumstances as we did, my dear brother, and that we could not be friends as other families. I always believed you were a lie and I hoped that you were so. Yet, how can anyone who has never lived in a palace have such decorum as you do? Lies, I thought, but my mother's eyes told me it was not so. My lies were the ones wrong. You are indeed my brother, blood of the same blood our father was." He lifted his blue eyes to the ceiling, as if he were speaking to it. " Why did Heaven choose us to meet this way?"
 
Philippe closed his eyes, holding back his anger, forcing his soul to regain composure, but he could feel his eyes become wet with tears. He bit his lip, holding back the pain, desperately. Why was God torturing him? Was it not enough to live with the knowledge of his true identity and have to suffer the horrid mask? He felt his breath start to come in gasps, and he feared his dignity would suffer. The king was not looking at him, but was immersed in his own words, perhaps unaware of his feelings.
 
"How would it have been had we lived as true brothers?"
 
Philippe's breath stopped and he stared at the face of his brother, who was now looking at him face to face. He felt the movements of the king like a fox and longed to draw away , but he could not. There was nowhere to run. The king smiled softly, and the same twisted look came to his eyes.
 
"How long?"
 
"I wanted to see you one last time," Louis said, drawing close to the body of the prisoner whose chest was heaving terribly fast now. "At night, after my mother fell into her covers, after I took my pleasure and wine, I sat down to think about you. The brief moment when we met, how many times haven't I played it in my mind. I know that our faces are the same and I stare in the mirror and think about you. What you are thinking? I wonder why my mother never told me of such a truth."
 
The king rose, lost in his musings. He was unaware of the way he sounded, and moved gently towards the side of the wall where the door met the concrete. He disregarded the man behind him, yet was fully aware of him. Everything in the room was him- Philippe- the man who wore an iron mask he had decreed, the man who wished to rule in his place. Oh, had Aramis been successful, he would be rotting in a jail instead of this man. Louis felt his hands gripping each other madly, and he did not comprehend the reason, or why his eyes widened as he spoke to himself, unable to understand his foolish murmuring. Philippe's mouth gasped, his breath choking him.
 
"How long must I wear this mask?" Philippe's voice was a solid drop of water in the dark, hollow and flat.
 
King Louis XIV startled out of his thoughts, but he did not turn around. The silence fell around him like a velvet blanket and he stood still like a rock, his long hair framing his back.
 
"Until you die in it," he said.
 
Louis gasped as he heard the prisoner scream. Philippe's body became a thunder of fury, his tears flowing freely now as he felt he could no longer hold his feelings inside. He flew at his brother, smashing Louis to the wall he leaned against. The king whimpered as his body smashed the solid wall. He tried to free himself, but the prisoner's body and violent shoves drowned him. He felt his body crushed, and found Philippe's' viscous eyes staring at him from the mask.
 
"Cruel destiny," the man screamed. The prisoner did not make any sense.  "Who are you to decree when and how I should die? Who are you to decree what should be of me?"
 
King Louis moaned softly, his hands crushed under the heavy body of the man. he felt his cheek's skin become bloody as the stone bit into it. Why had he come face to face with such a man? He had been foolish to enter such a dismal cell and challenge this deranged creature. He felt his sweat fall over his brow, but he found the courage to grip the hand of his brother strongly. His blue eyes narrowed in anger and he held his head high and proud, his valour coming to his side.
 
"I am king."
 
Louis screamed as Philippe's hands drew themselves over his neck, his strong fingers gripping his neck with the strength of the anguish of miserable years. Louis felt those hands rip the collar of his shirt with their savagery, and he struggled to free himself, but he could only suffer as his brother took his revenge. He reached backwards and desperately tried to find refuse in the wall, but he found himself tripping over his slippered legs. He heard his assalter's breath come on heaves, the strong heaves of a mad man, and he looked at the masked face of the prisoner. If the king screamed right now, Louis thought, D'Artagnan would rush into the cell and blow the prisoner into death.  Mercilessly and quickly. Should he scream now.
 
But then, he felt his neck being released, and he slumped by the wall, his face scratched by the stone, and his palms full of red blood. Philippe's body shook with shivers as he tossed the king away from him. Louis saw the man clutch his head as he turn to look at him with pleading eyes. Philippe's hands became fists before his face. Louis gritted his teeth and cursed as Philippe's body shook with pain. The prisoner stepped closer to him, his anger and bloody tears boring into the king's frightened mind.
 
"Kill me," Philippe yelled.  His voice became a broken whisper. "Kill me, what more is there for me? Who am I but a wretched soul whose mother's love cursed to live in a cell forever and whose brother doomed to live masked forever? Who am I... a king... an animal... Let death come quick!"
 
King Louis gasped as Philippe's body fell at his knees, his head rolling sideways helplessly, close to the royal boots. Louis's eyes widened and he heard his heart beat faster as if it would burst. He gasped, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He looked down at his brother's body who was slowly becoming still, having lost it's fury.
 
"I once believed," Philippe said, "in what the good men that took me from the Bastille believed. I believed in them. They said I was destined to be king, but, it is not true. I am not a king."
 
Louis narrowed his eyes, holding his breath. He reached out slowly and touched Philippe's shoulder. The prisoner did not move. He did not pull himself away from such a horrid touch. He lay perfectly still, like the dead, unable to feel anymore pain than that which ran through his veins.
 
The king's touch was not that of love, but of admiration. Against his will, the young monarch found himself drawn to the man before him and his eyes narrowed coldly. He dared not speak, but listened to the sound of his ragged breath as it joined that of Philippe, whose rhythm was broken by his soft sobs. Louis felt a harsh pain in his own throat, and he savoured the cruel fascination that ran through his skin, like an enticing wine.
 
"Do you believe," he whispered, "such things, monsieur? Do you believe what Aramis has told you?"
 
The prince in the mask did not move. His body was being taken over by the strange stillness which overtakes the insane and the dead. He could not feel his legs, only the place where the king's fingers touched his body. He did not have the strength to speak, and yet, he found his mouth parting in a coarse response, hardly a whisper, incapable of being understood by anyone but the one who listened.
 
"No."
 
Louis stared at the man who spoke, his eyes narrowing. He did not fully comprehend. Against his own reason, he longed to hear him speak again, not knowing why. He held his breath again, staring at the unmoving eyes of the prisoner. A cold feeling rushed through his skin and he felt himself shiver.
 
"Why should someone like me," Philippe continued, "such a wretched soul like mine, cursed from birth by hatred and lies; such an existence as mine, cursed to live in filth and dark, blessed by a few visits from the sun, fallen from God- miserable and wretched- be a king? Why, when there is a king like you...?"
 
Louis released his brother, letting Philippe's head fall against the floor, the iron mask making a hollow noise. The king watched as the masked man closed his eyes, tears falling like crystals over his face. Louis felt his own eyes become wet, but he did not utter a word, or a sound. He slowly gathered himself straight, lifting his head proudly, sensing his long locks brush against his back as he moved. He closed his eyes, swallowing the tears and the strange weakness that came into his mind, and moved away from the body of his brother.
 
The king walked towards the door, opening the hard iron hard door with his gloved hand. He looked back at the figure of his brother, thinning his lips. The prisoner in the iron mask looked up at him, as if wishing to take one last look at his torturer. The king felt that stare- which held as much hatred as his own - and turned away. He fished the keys oout of his royal jacket, held them in his hand, strong against his chest, and swung the door open.
 
Then, he turned around, and looked down at the eyes of his brother, his voice falling like a stone in the empty darkness.
 
"God will grant it, death will come swiftly, monsieur."
 
And he closed the door behind him, locking the huge metallic gate as quietly as when he opened it. He knew Philippe had not moved, nor stirred from his position on the stone floor. He knew the prisoner's eyes stared at the place where Louis had been a moment ago. The king swallowed hard, listening to the keys rattle as they fell into his pocket again. He touched the rims of his jackets softly, feeling them against his gloved skin, and turned around. The dream he conjured night after night, he thought, had become real. He had seen him, talked to him. He walked up the steps that led away from the cells, feeling a strange sensation in his legs, following the small light that led him outside the prison. The echoes of his steps grew faint in the ears of the prisoner until he could hear them no longer. He could almost see Philippe's body lying limply in the stone floor, listening to that echo. Listening. This he knew. Such things, he knew-
 
Just as he knew that the man imprisoned in the iron mask, his own brother, was indeed a king. Just as he knew this. Such things he knew.
 
 

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© March 13, 1998 Team Bonet. All of the characters featured here are based on those of Alexandre Dumas. Please do not copy.