I never should have looked up. Wondered about that woman wrapping a shawl around her pale shoulders, pressing her petite hand upon the window. Her eyes met mine, beckoned to me. Begged me to be her hero.

A prisoner of a cruel father or husband who kept her locked away so high above the beautiful city below. At least that’s what I thought. The young fool that I was.

How many nights did I walk by, tell myself not to look up? But young minds are rarely rational.

Something overtook me one night, after spending the evening in the pub with my classmates, seeing that weeping woman in her high castle.

In a mad fury, I stormed through the doors of the mansion, drunk on vodka and heroism. Pushed past men twice my size in my righteous crusade. Ran to the highest story, to the most remote room, to where I knew my queen wept, waiting for her king. Waiting for me.

An empty room. Quiet blanketed me as I gazed out the glass, wondering, in my drunken haze, where my queen was. 

“I’m here.”

Cold arms wrapped around my shoulders. Lips like ice pressed again my neck. Darkness and blood… mine and hers and that of innocents.

Now…

The dreams still show me the sunrise above the spires. Illuminated windows and warm rays falling on the red roofs. Sometimes I can feel the warmth in those dreams, though I’ve been a creature of moonlight and cold for so long.