The Only Book on the Study Shelves - Chapter 1

The tall stone bulwark stood in front of him, the buttress for everything behind it. Inside that, was an altruistic but empty puppet, with blank benevolent eyes attenuated by its shackles. Avaricious nobles, with eyes gleaming for gold and prickly fingers, had trapped the puppet inside dark chambers, waiting for it to burgeon then whiter away in shadows, then regrow and die again, over and over again. Hanging it up as a decoration, a proud trophy, with its blank smiling eyes and hands permanently clasped together.

The boy turned around, the puppet staring at him quietly. It was kneeling down, its hands held together up to his mouth, its eyes closed, as if praying. It wore a soft silk veil, besmirched by the dirt and cold stone floor it sat on. The boy walked towards it, tilting its head upwards. Its eyes rolled open, staring at the sky. It was smiling softly, its face looking quiet callow from the serious praying position it was in. 

"Who is that?" A ghost walked in from behind the boy. His hair was white, his skin pale and sickly, wrapped in dirty ragged bandages. 

"Ah- your highness. It's a puppet," The boy replied. The puppet's glazed purple eyes looked up at the sky, before its head rolled back down, staring at the boy and the ghost. The ghost sighed, sitting down on the ground beside the boy.

"Does the puppet talk?"

"...It should," the boy replied. The puppet wasn't a real puppet, it's joints were painted in dark charcoal paint, it's dull eyes and soft red lips, all real, it's short black hair not made of straw. But, despite this, it didn't speak.

The next day, the puppet was wearing a blindfold. It sat on the staircase, with a white robe. Its lips were painted a bright pink, its hair wrapped in lace. It was holding its legs, a frown on its face. The sick smell of roses was in the air, its cheeks a bright red. Even when it was crying, it still looked like a picture of an angel.

The ghost approached it first, coming out from his cache under the bridge. His bandages were still soiled, a wound on his arm opening up again. As he walked, a trail of dirt and blood followed him. The puppet didn't notice it coming, but even if it did, it wouldn't have moved anyways. The ghost grabbed the puppet's bright red face, and the puppet uncurled from its position like a ragdoll. Its face was warm, and the puppet's hand moved slightly, as if instinctively trying to pull away. Under its sleeve, the ghost saw bruises and cuts, similar to his own. 

"Speak to me," the ghost said. The silk blindfold slipped off the puppet's eyes, under it an expression of wide pained eyes, tears smudging its makeup. The ghost slapped its face, and the puppet fell to the ground, shielding its face. The puppet's tears fell harder, the puppet's arms resting on its face, trying to block its tears. Its body shook uncontrollably.

The ghost bent down, prying its hands from its eyes. One hand grasped its chest, holding it down, the other grabbed its neck. His legs pressed its hands on the ground.

"...a puppet can feel pain, and can move by itself? Yet still balks to speak?" The puppet laid silently on the ground, unmoving, yet its hands still trembled. "Your body tells me you're a human boy. Why don't you act like one?" The puppet looked away.