There once was a pair of children.

A girl and a boy.

Gabi and Klaus.

She who draws her strength from God, and he who is the prize of the people.

A girl with beautiful raven hair and deep shimmering onyx eyes. Delicate and pale, she moved with grace and elegance, she was a doll. She wore lace dresses and sweet clothes, she moved like a pixie with the glow of a faerie.

A boy with flops of platinum blonde hair and stormy gray eyes. Strong and tall, he moved with a mystery unmatched by any, he was a master. He wore cloaks and suits of the finest materials, he moved with the preciseness of a predator and the agility of an animal.

The boy and girl grew up together, they danced and played and sang. They made sweet music.

He presses a white rose into her hands, careful not to dirty it with his mud-caked hands. “A white rose, for your charm, youthfulness, and innocence. You're heavenly.” She presses a chaste kiss to his cheek.

Thieves came and burned their village down.

Bandits robbed them both.

The law trampled their hope.

There once was a pair of teenagers.

“Gabi” Klaus’ sultry voice coos into her shell-like ear, sending shivers down her spine much to his delight, his finger traces a path down the side of her delicate neck. “My sweet doll, my lovely doll…”

“Master Klaus” she breathes, half joking and half serious. He owned her heart, her body, her soul.

“Puppet” he buries his face into her hair, inhaling her scent of roses. He places a rose into her hair, “a Coral rose for my desire for you”. His lips fluttered over her skin like butterflies. Her knees threatened to fall.

“I am yours” nothing truer has ever been uttered by those pale petal lips.

He strung piano wires to her limbs and dressed her in the finest clothes they could steal.

They made a stage of the town square. He stood on top of the fountain and she lay limp at his feet.

He wore a black top hat and concealing clothes.

She wore white lace, flour turning her pale skin white like porcelain, ash lined her eyes to deepen her onyx eyes, and droplets of wine to add color to her silken white lips.

The show began.

His fingers flickered, his body swayed, his arms swung about.

Her body jerked upwards and danced, twirling like a ballerina jumping and spinning, entire time her eyes seemingly dead yet shining.

Spectators called it a haunting beauty.

Shallow and dead, yet deep and alive.

A fascinating paradox.

She danced, the strings guiding him.

They made money, enough to survive, but never enough to live.

There once was a pair of adults.

A fine woman of girlish proportions dressed in the finest clothes of lace and silks.

A handsome man dressed in heavy blacks, constantly concealed except to the sweet doll.

“Puppet” he whispers and his hands trail up and down her smiling form. She draws him to her and plants delicate kisses on his face.

“Master” she sighs, her words caught in the wind and blown from her lips.

“Dollface” he teases, smiling into her lips. He presses a rose into her hands, the thorns painstakingly plucked out one by one. “A yellow and orange rose for my passion” She giggles and kisses him on the lips.

He has many puppets now, and they live.

A small cottage on the outskirts of town, filled with their tools of the trade.

They dance and sing and play when they aren’t working.

But then again their work is really just another form of play for them.

They dance waltzes, he learns ventriloquism and has the puppets sing for them as they spin and twirl.

As the dance ends he slips a pink and white rose into her hair. A promise to always love her.

There once was a young couple.

A wedding surrounded by dolls, the bride in her white lace dress, the groom still concealed in black. He presses a white bridal rose into her hands, happy love. They kiss surrounded by the immortal dolls.

They live and thrive, alone but together.

There once was a couple.

The doll has died.

The puppet master is lost; he holds her lifeless form in his arms. He kisses her face and presses a rose into her palm.

Yellow, remember me, he sends the message to her.

For days no one sees the puppet master again, his spot on the fountain empty, but untaken out of respect for the mourning man.

He returns with her.

“Dollface” he presses his face into silk tresses, and runs a finger over closed eyelids. They open to reveal black eyes.

He steps on top of the fountain again, and the watchers stare appalled at his new doll.

Gabi resurrected.

She wears roses of pink, yellow, red, white, and orange.

The promises are covering her, intertwined with her black tresses, bound to her wrists and ankles, spilling over her lace dresses.

Pink, I love you still and always will.

Yellow, welcome back, remember me.

Red, love, desire, courage.

White, eternal happiness.

Orange, passionate thoughts.

Trickles of other flowers peak out from under the overwhelming torrent of roses.

Buttercups for childhood joy.

Red carnations, my heart aches for you.

Pink carnations, I will never forget you.

White carnations, pure and innocent love.

Daisies, innocence and loyal love.

Forget-me-nots, memories.

Sunflowers, devotion.

Azaleas, fragile and ephemeral passion.

She dances, her eyes are no longer haunting.

Shallow and dead.

Her limbs are no longer as graceful.

Dead and leaden.

Her face is not covered in flour, her lips not dabbed with wine, and her eyes not outlined by ash.

Her face is deadly white, her lips a startling crimson, and her eyes flat and cold.

A puppet made from the memory of Gabi.

Klaus dances with her, his face never shows, his puppets are gone, it’s just him and Gabi.

He presses his face into her hair, breathing in and pretends to smell the roses.

“Dollface” he kisses a blossom, fake clothe blossoms they all are. But the promises were real. “Sweet, sweet puppet”

He fancies that he hears a sweet cherubic voice answering “Master Klaus”

Their waltz begins once again and he begins to dance. He and his puppet, alone.

At night he cradles the puppet to his chest, and slides a palm over her eyes and closes them.

“Dollface” his tone is no longer teasing, but lonely, longing.

“Dollface” he says again and tucks his face into the crook of her neck, waiting for the giggle that will never come, expecting the rush of heat from blood that isn’t there, awaiting the pulse that has long ceased to sound.

He sighs and waits, he knows it is futile, but he waits anyway.

“Puppet”

He hums their waltz, their song.

It comes out sounding like a funeral dirge.

He hums it anyway, his tears making small prisms of light on the clothe flowers. The life-sized doll remains limp, eyes closed from the night before.

He does not move, he continues to wait.

He waits…and waits…and waits.

No one performs on that fountain; no one ever shows up to their little cottage, no one ever wonders what happened to him.

He doesn’t wait anymore.

She’s with him now.

He holds her and they dance, he calling her his precious puppet in his laughing baritone, and she with her lilting voice singing his praises.

The man concealed in black velvet lies next to a puppet in clothe flowers and silken skirts.

The man that was once seen like a predator and an animal lies curled around a doll that was modeled after a fairy and a pixie.

The man who was once the prize of the people lies wrapped around a lifeless toy that was styled after a woman named for her belief in god.

The woman whose god was the man.

The doll-Gabi and the concealed man Klaus.

Dollface and Master.

Puppet and Puppeteer.

Woman and Man.

Alive together.

Dead together.

United in death.

Immortal through promises.

Gabi and Klaus.

The puppeteer who died with his puppet.