So I shall speak to you simply and plainly and honestly and humbly, not as the princess you see floating high above you, not as some imperiled damsel who needs rescuing, but simply as one person to another.

This has to stop.

It is true that I did not choose my bridegroom. He was chosen for me. But I am a princess, and I have a duty to my family and my people. It may seem backwards or even barbaric to you, but a marriage is not a kidnapping. We all have our jobs to do. Yours sometimes sends you crawling through a sewer pipe. Mine sends me to the marriage bed. Is my lot truly so tragic in comparison to yours or anyone else’s that you must persist in trying to “rescue” me from it?

You are not just a commoner, you are a stranger in our lands. I could not marry you even if I had my choice of suitors, and I do not. Would I have chosen the man you’ve chosen for your enemy if I’d had a choice? Possibly not. It is very likely I wouldn’t have even considered him, or known him, if our families hadn’t pledged us to each other.

And maybe that would have been the real tragedy. Do I love him? That is no business of yours, but it would be too soon to answer the question. We have not yet had time to love each other. Love could blossom yet, if only we had a moment’s peace. Your peculiar fixation has led us to flee from one of his family’s properties to another, seven times now, in order that a little distance might impart in you a little wisdom.

Do you appreciate how much mercy you’ve been shown? How much restraint my betrothed has exercised in dealing with you? There have been so many times you might have been killed… so many times you probably should have been killed… and yet each time, you simply start again.

I fear this show of mercy has only encouraged your delusions, which aren’t even flattering. I know your peculiar fixation on saving a woman did not start with me. I have heard about your last construction job. I know why you were let go. A circus animal may seem to be quite clever, but it is not capable of plotting to steal your lover away from you, if indeed the woman in question had ever been yours.

I say again: this has to stop. There comes a time when pity for a poor confused man must give way to practicality. We have shown you great mercy, but you show little when dealing with our people… our people, mine and his, and I mean that. Many of the people you’ve stepped on to get to him have been my own kin, ethnically… and all his subjects are now my subjects, too.

Our kingdoms are one. We are one. You cannot declare war against him without making war with me.

And that is what it has come to, when you try to tear our kingdoms apart brick by brick, when you stomp all over creation hopped up on something that’s left you feeling two stories tall and full of fire… it’s war, and now word reaches me that you’ve dragged your own brother into it.

Well, no matter how many men you gather to aid in your hopeless cause, no matter how many coins you collect or how many of my family’s servants you win over, your time is running out..

Choose to continue now if you must, but you shall have no quarter and soon your game will be over.

“Do you remember when you were a child and you would spin around in place as fast as you could and when you stopped the world kept spinning?”

She did this every time, with every person the site told her would make a good match for her. It was both her introduction to them and her own additional screening step.

More than a few people never answered her, either ignoring the message completely or replying to it with a lot of personal details she had already gleaned from her profile or questions about what she was into. She ignored these. The questions and details were uninteresting, and the person behind them probably more or less so.

One of her matches replied to her with a detailed explanation of how this effect was caused via something called “persistence of memory”… she had no idea if this was true, and suspected that her correspondent didn’t, either. It had the ring of something that one says because it sounds good, because one cannot bear to appear ignorant.

She deleted that reply and ignored all further messages from the person.

Another person replied with “My mother always told me to stop because I was making her dizzy to watch. Honestly now I’m getting dizzy just thinking about it.” She felt a little sorry for that one and did not delete the message immediately.

The possible suitor after that asked her, “What do you mean when you say the world keeps spinning?”

A request for clarification always seemed like a fair question, so she answered, “The world keeps rushing past you while you’re spinning around, and when you stop the world seems to still be moving in your view.”

The reply came: “Do you mean your head or eyes keep spinning from momentum? That doesn’t seem likely.”

She responded: “No. It’s purely a sensory effect. You are still, the world is still, but the world seems to be moving.”

“Like a scrollbar in your head? Impossible. Your eyes must have been moving and you didn’t realize.”

She didn’t care for the tone she perceived in that text, but knowing how treacherous such things may be, she persisted.

“No,” she wrote. “It’s a physical sensation. The same objects, the same stretch of the world, the same everything is in your sight as before… but you swear that they’re moving sideways.”

“So you become delusional when you spin? Thanks for the warning.”

That was the end of her attempt to explain herself to that person, and it also damped her enthusiasm for making such explanations to anyone else in the future. She had almost decided to give up and try a different opening gambit for future matches when she got a reply from one last person she’d sent the question to.

“Yes,” it said. “Wasn’t that awesome?”

The voice jarred him from the reverie he’d fallen into while reading his journal. He looked up to see a woman with purple hair in long braids that fell back behind her like a cape. Also bearing more than a slight resemblance to a cape was the black trenchcoat, especially the way its edges were scalloped in a bat-wing pattern. Beneath it she wore a leather bustier and a black leather miniskirt small and tight enough to nearly qualify as a belt.

“Gabriella?”

“That’s me,” she said. “I… uh… they told you I was a vampire, right?”

“Sorry, I’m staring, aren’t I?” he said. “Yes, it was mentioned.”

“It’s okay, I get that a lot,” she said.

“I just don’t know if I should feel underdressed or overdressed,” he said. His own outfit, consisting of a long leather tunic, fur-fringed boots, and cape, hardly stood out among the cafe’s clientele of knights and warriors.

“Feel lucky you have choices,” she said. “This is literally the least revealing outfit that I own.”

“Ah,” he said. “Yeah, I have a hard time finding outfits that go in a modern setting. Some of my descendant characters wear suits, even if they’re a bit old-fashioned, but I’m pretty much stuck in leather and fur. Though I guess that’s not really the same thing, is it?”

“No, and you get points for realizing that,” she said, sliding into the bench opposite him. “But hey, at least we’re both wearing leather.”

“Heh, yeah,” he said. “So, Millarca tells me you’re in fighting games?”

“Mostly,” Gabriella said. “We did a couple of puzzle games. You know, the color-matching ones?”

“Ah, like Tetris,” he said knowingly.

“Not really,” she said. “Everybody says that, but see, Tetris is about filling in spaces. It’s more about spatial recognition than patterns and matching, and I’m boring you, aren’t I? When I left my apartment I swore I wasn’t going to get here and just talk about work stuff.”

“Not at all,” he said. “I haven’t done much genre-hopping. I mean, I started in platforms and they gave me some RPG elements in my first sequel, and it’s been pretty much a straight action/roleplaying mix ever since.”

“But you went from 2D to 3D, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I got kind of lucky there. They put my kid in the first 3D game instead of me. I thought it was pretty decent, it sold well enough, but a lot of people were disappointed in the execution. By the time they brought me back, not only did they have all the glitches worked out but the scenery looked gorgeous. I tell you, after having grown up in 8-bit… wow, I’m dating myself, aren’t I?”

“Don’t worry, I like older men,” she said. “I guess it’s a vampire thing.”

“Heh,” he said. “Yeah, about that. Does it bother you that I…?”

“Kill vampires? No, we’re like nature’s antagonists,” she said. “I mean, even vampire protagonists aren’t exactly what you’d call ‘heroic’. I tell you, I’m lucky to be in fighting game. They’re a lot more equal-opportunity. Being able to play as the villain used to be a special feature. Now it’s expected. As a woman, there’s a lot about my profession I’d like to change. As a morally ambiguous vampire infused with a demon parasite? I can’t imagine a better place for me.”

“I suppose you have to make certain compromises to make it as a female character,” Peter said.

“You don’t know the half of it. Like, the puzzlers,” she said. “They only gave that job to the women, and it was totally an eye-candy thing. Just stand off to the side of the action and clap or wink. But you know, it’s nothing worse than I do between bouts in the main games, and I don’t have anybody punching me in the face. It was a nice break.”

“Well, that’s something,” he said. “I’ve had my share of scrapes, but the thing about being a main character is that by definition I end up inflicting more hits than I take. I suppose in a fighting game the pain gets more evenly distributed?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Though I don’t think of it as a bad thing. I mean, it’s more egalitarian. There are no minions. There are no faceless hordes. Everyone gets a turn being the ‘hero’. Even the bosses are mostly on the same playing field as everyone else.”

“That’s interesting,” Peter said. “So, how do you know Millarca?”

“I met her at a goth club,” she said. “Yeah, big surprise, huh? It’s one of the few places I don’t have to agonize over what to wear. We didn’t date, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No,” Peter said. “I think she prefers subtext, anyway.”

“American localizations usually do,” Gabriella said. “How about you?”

“Do I like subtext?”

“Have you ever dated Milla?”

“I never date people I work with,” Peter said. “There’s too much room for it to get weird in a sequel. And with all the reboots going on these days, things could get retconned in a hurry.”

“I don’t know if I could survive with a rule like that,” she said. “If it wasn’t for crossovers, I wouldn’t have much work these days.”

“Heh, maybe we’ll end up in the same game some day?”

“Wouldn’t that put me off-limits?” she asked.

“Would that matter to you?”

“It might,” she said. “It’s too soon to say if I’d be heartbroken, but it might.”

“Well, what happens in spin-offs stays in spin-offs,” he said.

“It’s a caterpillar,” she told him. “They implanted it in my leg when I was little so that one day I could turn into a beautiful butterfly.”

“I’d like to be there when that happens,” he said.

“I couldn’t imagine it happening any other way.”

There was only such a little space between the time the sleepers fell asleep and the time they began to dream in earnest, and it was only that space that belonged to the lovers. Once the dream began, the time for their pleasure was over. It was time to go to work.

After a night of fitful sleep, he set out, mounting his charger at dawn and riding down out of the hills at a good, solid clip. He reached the castle before noon. As he approached, he spotted a figure gowned in green, walking along the outer wall. Any last vestiges of a doubt he might have harbored in his heart fled when he heard the song, the beautiful clear voice wafting down from the ramparts.

He drew his horse to a halt a short distance from the base of the high wall. The singing, too, stopped.

“My lady!” he called. “Please, my lady… I beg a moment of your time!”

“Yes?” the same beautiful voice replied, a little uncertainly.

“My lady, my name is Sir Roderick of Dunhall,” the knight said. “For thrice three years, I have been haunted by a dream, a most singular dream about a most singular lady. For all that time, her face, her voice… her beauty… has danced in my sleep and afflicted my waking hours with what was at first a most pleasant distraction. As the years went on, though, I found myself increasingly preoccupied with thoughts of my dream-damsel. I sought out a soothsayer who told me that I would find her, living in a castle of white stone on the shore of a great sea. I set off at once, sharing my tale to any who would listen. I described the castle and the face of my inamorata to any who traveled far and wide, hoping that someone would know them… and at long last, after many wrong turns and false trails, I believe I have found her. If you will only show yourself to me, so that I can confirm that you are the lady of my dreams, then we can be wed this very day and I shall be the happiest man upon this earth.”

There was no reply at first. Sir Roderick held his breath. Then, he saw movement…a glimpse of golden curls as the lady peeked down at him from the high parapet. It was just a glimpse, but it left him dizzy. Her hair was the exact shade of his dream lady’s.

“My lady?” he said.

“I think you have the wrong castle,” she said.

“I am certain that I do not!” he said. “Please, lady, allow me to look on you, so that I may know that you are the one I am destined to wed.”

“I’d rather not,” she said.

“But… if you are the one who has come to me in my dreams…”

“I do not control my own dreams, Sir Roderick,” she said, “and I am certainly not responsible for any of yours.”

“My lady, I have come so far.”

“I didn’t make you do that,” the lady said.

“But I have ridden for…”

“Is your steed magic?” she asked. “Does the mere act of riding him often change people’s minds? Or shall I marry you as an act of sympathy for his saddle sores?”

“Please, if you’ll only just show me your face…”

“What will that accomplish?” she asked.

“It will prove that what I am saying is true,” he said.

“That you’ve been dreaming of me? I believe you,” she said.

“Then… will you accept my love?”

“Don’t be ridiculous… I do not know you, nor do I long to.”

“But I have dreamed of you… this is my destiny.”

“But what?” she asked. “Am I not allowed any say in this? Do your dreams and your destiny mean that I am not allowed to have my own dreams, my own destiny? If I did appear to you in your dreams, did you ever ask me what I felt? Or why I was there? Did you ask the soothsayer if I had my own beloved, or how I would feel about being asked to marry a man I’ve never met?”

“Do you have a beloved?” Sir Roderick asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I am not interested in you.”

“My lady, if you mean to test my devotion, know that I am prepared… though I have been sorely tested already.”

“Silly knight, your devotion doesn’t interest me,” she said. “How can I make that any plainer?”

“I’m ready to fight for your honor. I will duel any man, slay any dragon, bring you any tribute… only tell me what you wish for, and I shall make it so.”

“I wish to be left alone,” the lady said. “I wish to be free of men who regard me as a trophy to be won, who think that I should be overjoyed to be a mere figurant in their dreams. I wish to have my own wishes respected, when I make them clear and particularly when they touch most strongly on myself and my own disposition.”

“I see,” Sir Roderick said. “And, so… if I were respect your wishes for now, do you think that in time you may grow to return my love?”

“In what respect will you respect me, if you only do so in exchange for what you want?”

“My lady, I do not like to mention this because I do not like to brag, but I am the heir to the throne of High Dunhall,” Sir Roderick said. “I will one day be its king, and if you marry me, you will be my queen. Does that not make a difference to you?”

“Does anything I say make a difference to you?”

“My lady, I think that perhaps you are not thinking things through.”

“I am going to count to five and then I am going to call for archers,” the lady said. “One…”

“Indeed, my lady, that’s quite enough!” Sir Roderick said, wheeling his horse around. “You’ve made yourself clear! I shall away with me, and bother you no more. There is no need to lower yourself to such base threats.”

“Apparently there was,” she called. “You would not shift yourself for any words I could conjure alone.”

“Have you nothing else to say, knowing that I have dreamt of you every night for nigh unto a decade, knowing how far I have come and knowing that I am heir to a great kingdom?”

“Yes,” she said. “Two…”

“I’m going, I’m going!”

The whole long scene replayed itself in his head for the rest of the day, and for much of the week beyond that… the awful crushing inevitability of it all losing none of its grip on him to the power of either time or distance. It would continue to well up within him from time to time, throughout that week and the next month and all the long years after that. Even much later, when he was happily married and comfortably established in his career and in all other regards far removed from the boy he’d been in high school, it still came back to him at odd moments, threatening to overwhelm him with disappointment or frustration or embarrassment.

There are those who say that we always regret most the things that we do not do, the risks that we do not take. These are people who have never been haunted by the ghost of a chance.

I looked around at the apartment that had never felt like home, at the things I had never wanted in the place of things I’d never thought I could have… I looked at the all things I had never truly owned and that no longer owned me. I looked back on the years that had not so much passed as piled up on top of each other, an unruly, untidy mess of time that I had told myself I would definitely get around to cleaning up, you know… one of these days.

“Because I was never really here,” I said.

If it was hard for her to hear it, it was just as hard to say it.

“Janet?” I said.

“There’s something on your mind, isn’t there, Brian?” she replied. She put her hand on the side of my face, her fingers idly playing with a few strands of my hair. “It’s been weighing on you for some time. Why don’t you just say it?”

“Alright, Janet,” I said. I took a deep breath. “I’m under a lot of strain right now, with work and your family and mine and all, and there’s just a lot of pressure for me to look good, to impress, and… I worry sometimes that I might be losing it.”

Her hand stopped moving. She smiled and took a few steps back. Her hand remained where it was on my cheek, detaching neatly from the wrist. The stump bled shiny black beetles that immediately buried themselves deep in the shag carpeting. With her other hand, she reached up and ripped the skin away from her face, revealing a gaping black hole of nothingness behind it… nothingness that contained a horribly fanged maw and two flickering flames for eyes.

“But, Brian,” she said in a voice old and dead, “how can you lose what you never had in the first place?”

“Er, I was actually talking about my hair,” I said.

“What? Oh,” she said, smoothing her face back in place. She ruffled my thinning hair with her one hand while rejoining her wrist-stump to the other. “You look fine, dear. You look respectable. Dignified. My father was bald as an egg when he was your age, you know. Speaking of… we should finish getting ready. They’ll be here soon.”

I nodded, and we didn’t say another word about it. It was just one of those things. Privately, though, I found the whole thing very worrying… especially as my therapist had responded much the same way a few days before.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

“Well,” I said. “It was nice while it lasted.”

“I could keep loving you a little longer, you know,” he said. “I don’t have to stop.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “A deal is a deal.”