Living Armor Boyfrend: Erasmus (special preview)

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.