Living Armor Boyfriend: Erasmus (rough draft)

The corridors here are long and spacious, they fit many people in at a time. I watch them walk to and fro looking upwards towards the walls, admiring paintings, admiring me. I stand in guard like I always did, making sure the people are safe. Yet, at the same time, I cannot help but feel as though my place here is not my own. I have been in many worlds, and for so many years I have traveled far and wide. 

During the nights, I stand down from my post and I step away from the stand I have been placed upon. Beside my feet there is a sign showing dates, pictures, and a paragraph of the war I fought in. I have been in many museums over my life, many galleries, several homes. This is one of the first places I have not been chained down or kept in a case. 

The museum slowly begins to breathe as I walk through it. The dark halls with their dim lights brighten as some of the other souls here awaken and stir. Something resides in these walls, something beyond my understanding. There is life here, like in nature, there is something exhaling through these artworks, giving them heartbeats and minds. It’s strange, something that would have frightened me as a man, but I am one of them now, I am their protector. 

My wing is filled with weaponry of the past, paintings of heroic battles, and uniforms of revelry and combat. My armor is just one of the many, standing in a lineup with other armors. Some complete, some not. Our commander is just a helmet, he is one of the eldest here, and from his high pedestal he gives us armor orders on how to guard our home at night.

“Erasmus,” he dictates with his bold, pompous tone, “tonight I need you to take the French Wing this evening.”

“Why the change, sir?” I ask curiously. I am usually given the library, which is nice but boring. 

“Change is good,” the helmet says. 

I follow my brothers out of the armory and once we reach the north hall we split and separate. I go east, heading towards the French Wing. I have passed by it many times, but I have never gone inside. It is filled with decadent paintings they feel as though they flow right out of the canvas. There are grand busts and statues, as well as clothing that floats through the halls. 

As I come into the French Wing I hear a host of giggles and titters. 

“Look at the plate armor this evening!” One painting whispers to another, leaning beyond their frame to face one another.

“What a big one!” A heavily mustachioed bust retorts.

I sigh in embarrassment, feeling my leather straps tighten as I start my patrol. I come upon a grizzly bear coming down from his post. He has doves flying around him who have extra long feathers attached to their rear. The doves rest upon the bear as I approach.

“A new one,” the bear replies. “I see General Helmet has switched things up yet again.”

“Are you the General of this wing?” I ask.

The bear shakes his head. “Our general is at the end of the hallway.” The bear shakes his head while the doves coo and peck into his fur. “She’d be most interested in speaking to you.”

“She?” I ask in surprise.

“Madame Bissonette.” The bear walks alongside me, taking me to a hallway that is more narrow than the others. The high ceiling arches above us and chandeliers hang like raining gemstones from the beams. Along the walls there are other paintings, still lifes, landscapes, all of them beautiful but there is something slightly perturbing about each of them. 

“These are hers,” the bear says. “Painted in life.”

I stop to look at one that features a lake where a man is being pulled under the waters by a black swan. The contorted look of fear on his face is repulsive but understandable. “She is a painter?” I ask.

The bear tilts his head to one side. “A painter, a lover, a witch, a martyr. There are many stories about Madame Bisonette. I only believe a few.”

The hallway ends in a domed alcove that is dressed to either side with an easel hung on the wall. In the dead center there is a massive life sized painting of a woman all in black. Her skin is pearl in color, with lips that are stained bright red and eyes that focus harshly at everything and nothing. She looks judgemental yet sad at the same time. Beside her there is a bonfire standing as tall as her shoulder. Inside there are canvases and books, dolls and toys. The fire moves, crackling and popping as I gaze upon it. It flickers in a breeze, and her clothes rustle with the motion. Her eyes suddenly move, glaring down upon us. 

She sighs, touching her temple. “I had a feeling Helmet would send a new one.” She takes off her hood, revealing a cascade of beautiful chestnut hair. “Although, I am not going to miss the last one he sent.” She steps off the frame and I move forward, extending her my hand for balance.

“Gentleman,” she remarks. There is a cool smirk upon her face as she looks at me. “They all are in the beginning.”

“Madame Bissonette,” I bow my head. “How may I be of service to you?”

The paint strokes of her face shift slightly, giving her a glimmering appearance. Her long hair falls off her shoulders in waves that almost feel wet, as if I touched her the paint would come off on my fingers. 

“Just do what you usually do. I just ask that you do not romance my ladies. The last armor that was here had a penchant for flirtation and disaster. What was his name Franck?” She says to the bear.

“Kazuhide, Madame.”

Madame Bissonette clasps her hands together. “Ah yes. Handsome armor, lovely Oni face.” She shakes her head. “Terrible womanizer.”

“I wasn’t aware,” I say quietly. 

“I suppose you wouldn’t be.” We come to the end of her hallway and she stands still, gazing out at the rest of the wing. “I humor Helmet and his insistence on a patrol, but for the most part I can handle my wing, monsieur...what was it?”

I stand at attention. “Erasmus.”

“Such a smart name for a knight,” she remarks. “In any case, I don’t expect much from you as long as you do what Helmet asks and don’t cause problems for me and my wing, our working relationship will be fine.”

“You won’t have any problems from me, Madame.” I bow before her. “I look forward to working with you during these fine evenings.”

She gets a genteel smirk upon her face. “If you say so.” She nods her head then goes back down her hall.

There is something about Madame Bissonette that leaves me breathless even though I do not breathe. She is a wondrous work of art, frightening yet beautiful. I begin my guard of the French wing with her heavy on my mind. I find myself glancing towards her hall, hoping to see her appear. 

The French wing is very much unlike my usual post. The library is usually quiet and reserved, the ghosts that linger there only seem to want to read books or stack the chairs. Here, there is merriment and conversation, there is more life than what I have seen even in the armory. The paintings all spark of revolution and classic beauty. There is an alcove of fashions from different eras, and the dresses and uniforms float freely where they please. 

I enjoy games with Franck who is able to have the doves open the antique chess set. It’s been so long since I played, I’m afraid I had to have the old bear show me the ropes again.

Then, one evening, I see Madame Bissonette watching from her hallway. Her long, thin hands hold to the corner as she peers out at the wing. She notices that I am turned towards her and she vanishes back down her hall.

I follow after, seeing her going towards the display of clothes on either side of her painting. She does not acknowledge me as I approach her. I bow at my waist before her.

“Is everything alright, Madam Bissonette?”

She doesn’t turn to look at me. “Everything is fine,” she says quietly. “You do not need to worry yourself so. It is quiet here, it will always be quiet here. We are in a museum after all, not a prison, not a home.”

“I merely wanted to check,” I reply as I rise. “I have not spoken with you since my first night here. I do not see you much, and I know this is your wing.”

“There is not much to speak about.” She looks me up and down while she folds her hands before her. “Is there something you wish to discuss?”

I do not breathe and yet she makes me long for air. Being in her presence makes me feel as though my chest and helmet are filled with rose petals and soon they will spill out from me in a crimson cascade, scented just as beautifully as she appears.

She tilts her head to the side. “Monsieur Erasmus?”

I stiffen my posture. “Madame?”

“You went quiet, and I am not sure, but you were staring, weren’t you?” She narrows her eyes upon me.

“I do not mean to.” I fear I have done some wrong here. “It is not my intention at all. But I fear old habits must linger somewhere in this form.” I rest my hand over my chest. “Forgive me, Madame. I am sorry if I have offended you.”

“You are but armor and you say you have old habits?” Madame Bissonette comes close to me. She places her palm upon my helmet and once again I do not have the breath to describe my excitement. When was the last time I was touched? I do not recall. 

I do not want to move out of fear her hand will leave me. “I was a man once, at least, I believe I was.”

“Who were you then?”

“The memories are hazy, but I remember war and blood. I remember running.” I then place both my hands onto my chest. “I remember realizing that the body inside me was no longer alive and yet I kept moving.”

Her dark eyes widen and for a moment their color appears pale and hazel. “How strange that realization must be. Do you know what caused such a thing?”

“I’ve never questioned it,” I say softly. “I just keep existing.”

Madame Bissonette lays her hands back down against her dress. “Have you always played the knight wherever you have been.”

“Sometimes I have just been standing,” I answer. “Either chained or encased somewhere. But even there there were times I felt too weak to exist. I was merely open eyes observing. In very few places have I felt the strength to be myself.”

She glances down and nods. “I see.”

“What about you?” I ask with baited excitement. 

Her jaw tenses while her eyes become dark again. “What about me?”

“Who are you?” My voice is timid and almost boy-like. I stare up towards the fire in her painting. “Franck said you were an artist.”

“I was,” she says sadly. Her eyes move towards the paintings on the wall. “But I am no longer. I exist, same as you.”

“Why no longer?”

Madame Bissonette waves her hand out, extending it around and motioning towards the entirety of the wing. “Look at us, where we stand, what we are. We are relics, Monsieur Erasmus, we are things. There is breath of life here, but that only means that our life here is not ours.” She lays her hands upon her chest. “We are not mortal, we do not have blood. We are memories of a past in a time we do not belong to.”

“Memories still have purpose,” I want to remain reassuring.

Madame Bissonette smiles sadly. “A handsome man with a kind mind,” she says quietly. “What an angel you must have been, Monsieur Erasmus.”

I capture her hand in a moment of weakness. “Madame, why are you so sad?”

She looks at me and for a moment her stony expression wavers. She holds on to my hand and with a heavy sigh she smiles. “Because I am.”

I came to her each night, hoping a visit and chat might make her smile feel like less of a burden to hold. I wanted to know her better, to understand the world she came from. Each night I received a piece of the puzzle, sometimes it’s connected, other times it made no sense at all.

Her artwork had been stolen, claimed by her husband who sold them for his fortune and fame. She was left in her home alone, often sick, painting the things she longed to see. Secret to her husband was a small treasure of paintings, one of which was the gruesome swan painting. She told me the man was her husband.

“I often wished him dead,” she told me. “I never really cared how he died, just so long as he wasn’t there anymore.”

I place my hand at the small of her back. “What did happen?”

“I went mad, he remarried.” She turns to look at the bonfire in her painting. 

“Madame.” My voice chokes in pain. This is not something I could protect her from, even though I wanted to. I wanted to save her and give her the death she wanted.

“Dominique,” she says quietly. She then looks up at me, her eyes pale hazel again. “You may call me Dominique if you wish.”

I am enraptured and filled with rose petals. “I do.”

Dominique places her hand in mine. “I appreciate your friendship. I am afraid I have not allowed much in.”

I hold her hand fast. “As long as the breath of life allows it, I am here for you, Dominique.” As I say this, a rose petal does fall from my helmet. 

She picks it up curiously, looking it over before turning to me. “Did you have a snack earlier?” She asks.

“How strange.” I take the petal from her. “I’ve not seen roses in ages, and yet, this looks like the petal from one.”

“Maybe they have flowers in the entrance,” she offers the solution. “Nothing to worry about.”

I find myself rushing to see her once night has arrived. I cannot contain myself in my want to be in her presence. Ever since she gave me her name, I have found her waiting before her hall on me. Her eyes appear softer each day, brighter and much more full of life. She places her hands upon me to greet me and it feels as though I might burst.

“Erasmus,” I do adore how she says my name, “Does General Helmet know what you do most evenings?” She asks with a coquettish smile. 

“I don’t think he knows much of what happens beyond the armory,” I say with a laugh. “He is often content with that.”

“What if he knew you spent most of your time talking to me?”

“Well”, I sigh, “I think he would-” I suddenly feel strange. I have no appetite, nor have I eaten, and yet I feel strangely overstuffed. I clasp my hand around my lower abdomen and let a small chuckle escape.

Dominique comes closer to me, placing her palms upon my arm. “Is everything alright?” She asks gently. 

“I don’t know,” I say unsurely. “It must be raining out. I always feel strange when it rains.” I got to correct my posture again when my neck separates from my body and red petals begin to spill out. Dominique gasps in alarm and moves back from me.

I try to cover my neck where it has opened, but the more I move the faster the petals rush out, soon the petals turn into full blossoms that clog and collect at my throat. They push my head back further, opening me up wide so that the blossoms expunge out from me as if I am being squeezed from the outside.

“Erasmus!” Dominique cries in fear. “Are you alright? Erasmus can you hear me?”

I fall to my knees in the flood of petals blossoms. My head falls off, clattering emptily and disappearing amongst the sea of roses. I grasp my fingers around the empty hole feeling more and more flowers erupt from within me.

“Don’t be scared Dominique!” I cry. “Don’t be afraid!” If I had a heart I knew it would be pounding in my chest rapidly. I don’t know how or why this is happening to me. As the flowers overflow it has become hard for the rest of the French wing to ignore.

Dominique has made her way towards me and she pushes her hands over the flowers, she shoves her hands deep inside, pulling them and ripping them from me. Eventually we are not alone and other exhibits have come to see where the flood of roses is coming from.

“We need to get him out of here,” Franck says.

“No!” Dominique gasps. “Something is wrong! We have to help him.”

“He’s right,” I shudder. “I should get out of here, this is bad.”

Dominique grabs my hand tight. “Don’t leave. Stay here, let me try to help you. You shouldn’t be alone!”

“He needs to be alone,” Franck replies. “It is because of you this is happening.”

Dominique’s grip on my hand loosens. “Me?”

“He’s in love with you,” Franck helps me to stand upright large clusters of roses heaves from me. “And he doesn’t know how to express it, so this happens. If he gets away from you for a moment, it should stop.”

Dominique watches in confusion as Franck takes me away. The further I go the less the stream of roses becomes. Eventually, Franck stands me aside and only a handful of petals puffs out before it stops.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper. “This is love?”

“I’ve seen it before,” he sighs. “We don’t have the usual means to express ourselves. We have the senses but not the preparation. We are like memories, existing yet not at the same time. Your love from Madame Bissonette has manifested this way.”

“Does that mean I have to stay away from her?” I whisper. “I don’t know if I can.”

Franck taps a claw against my chest. “As long as you keep erupting roses, I am afraid you cannot be near her, Erasmus. It could spell trouble for the museum and the breath of life in it.”

“But that’s not-” I was going to say it wasn’t fair, but when I compared my plight to the countless souls within this museum, it outweighed my agony of not being near Dominique. I stand erect before Franck. “I will tell General Helmet I must be moved.”

“I’ll go fetch your helmet.”

I stand there in the dark lonely hallway begging for breath so that I could cry and sob bitterly. 

General Helmet gives me back my assignment in the library. I am unused to the quiet and I terribly miss Dominique. I want to talk to her, to hold her. I want to tell her that I do love her. I’ve never said it, I only spewed roses from my neck. 

One evening, I leave the library, finding no sense in me being there since nothing ever happened. I go out into the hallway, standing before the windows as moonlight pours in over me. I would give anything to see her there, but because of my own faults I would only end up harming our lives.

I then turn to see one of the long tailed doves flying down the hallway. It lands on my helmet then drops a letter upon the ground. Picking it up inside I see not just beautiful prose, but a charcoal drawing of myself.

“My dearest Erasmus, it has been far too long since I have last seen you. The new armor that has replaced you only serves to remind me that you are not here. I wish to see you, to embrace you, to tell you the words that the roses took from us. If I cannot see you, I will draw you each night until I can. I will fill the halls with your visage until they are as numerous as the petals you spilled for me. All my love, Dominique Bissonette.”

The dove coos and tip-taps on top of my helmet.

For now, I suppose it is enough. Maybe one day, I can see her again. Come dawn I return to my post, tucking her note inside my armor. The dove doesn’t leave me no matter how I try to shoo it away. 

Eventually, when night falls again, I find myself in a very strange predicament. I’m no longer standing in the armory, instead, I am looking at a bonfire nearly as tall as I am. I step towards it, feeling the heat of it upon my fingertips. 

“It will burn.”

I look up, seeing Dominique walking from around the other side. She smiles at me, blushing bright as her beaming, angelic face gazes upon me. “I can’t believe it worked,” she whispers, touching her fingertips to her lips.

I step closer, almost hesitant. This cannot be a dream, and yet I feel as if I am floating on air. I rush towards her and she rushes to me. Grabbing hold of my helmet she pulls it away. Roses spill out, but she touches my face, my lips, and breathlessly I accept her kiss.

There is so much breath of life in me, but it does not spill out as roses or tears. It comes out as kisses and laughter as I hold Dominique in my own arms. Whatever magic she wrought, whatever image she painted, she brought me to her side and at long last I could tell her intimately what the roses took.

“I love you Dominique,” I gasp between kisses. “I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you.”

“Say it more in case this magic does not last, my love.” She kisses me over and over. “Tonight may be all we have, so do not stop until the sun rises.”