The Mask That Reveals

20251204

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 1” event.

I was excited and anxious about taking part in the Midwinter Chorus. What mask would choose me? Would I be able to do it justice? While my peers blossomed I felt ever more awkward as my body changed. Grotesque, even. Like my skin was an ill-fitting garment. I was certain I’d botch any role.
Stepping into the mask cupboard meant facing a hundred vacant, sharp eyes. I didn’t even try to hide my nerves; everyone said they’d know regardless. They looked into you and through you and saw things you’d never comprehend.
I tentatively touched the maid. And felt nothing. The priestess, perhaps? But that mask ignored me too. Surely… surely not the princess? Though people kept telling me I was beautiful I felt certain I couldn’t do such a role justice.
Just in case, I reached out a trembling hand… and found nothing but aloof cold wood.
Then what role was I meant to…?
Something pulled my gaze up and along. To the king. A round smiling face with a long curly red beard. Its empty eyes met mine and I felt a frisson.
That… couldn’t be right. Why would the king want to be played by a girl?
I only took the mask down and pressed it to my face to be sure I was imagining its coaxing. And at once it stuck and became one with my skin. Whiskers tickled my lips. My startled gasp was deep and husky. When I reached up to touch my new - my temporary - face the skin felt like my own.
My feet whisked me to the mirror by the door, and a bewildered man gazed back at me. I slowly twirled my fingers in his beard and marvelled at how right it felt. My mouth split into a grin which made his cheeks dimple and eyes twinkle.
I looked… handsome. And that felt good.
“Are you having trouble, Jenny?”
My dancing heart froze and dropped into my stomach as the door opened and Carol - the director - peered in. She blinked, brows rising, as she registered which mask I was wearing.
But all she said was “Let’s get you into costume, then."
In a whiplash daze I stumbled after her, letting Lottie enter the cupboard to find her mask. Carol helped me get my dress and petticoats off and showed me how to do up the scarlet hose. (I blushed furiously as we fixed the codpiece.) Thankfully tunics were much the same regardless, though she did stuff my middle with a cushion. Leather boots, a plush velvet cloak, feather-trimmed hat and…
Grinning at me from the mirror was what I fancied to be a dapper, fatherly fellow. The sort of leader who, while he didn’t inspire fervour, was trusted and held in good regard.
I practically danced to the wings to await my first entrance. Thank goodness the mask knew our role, for my jittery mind couldn’t remember my mother’s lullabies!
But the mask unerringly guided me forwards and we posed under the lights, a honeyed tenor pouring from my lips to lead the Crowd’s Song. Each word reverberated in my chest and throat exactly as they should and never had, and if not for the mask keeping us in character I would’ve wept from joy and wonder.
When we finally reached the darkest moment of the performance, where everyone mourned the dying tree, my sobs were foremost. It was gratifying to hear sniffling from the audience in kind.
Then, the grand finale! My solo championing the brave gardener boy and giving him and the princess my blessing let me release my joy. Nobody would ever know what fuelled my booming laughter and cheers.
And then… it was over. Far, far too soon. Costumes were packed up. Masks returned to their racks. Everything went back to normal.
At least, they should have. But as I went to remove the mask, I felt it whisper “We’re not done.”
I froze. Heart fluttering. Then I slipped back out of the cupboard with my stolen face warm and smiling.
Having lingered getting my costume off, I was alone backstage. Nobody to stop me. It never would’ve occurred to them that someone might steal anything.
My fingers brushed over the king costume, but… no. That wasn’t me. I was a plain lass… person. At heart. Just the farrier’s… child.
So I raided the commoners’ racks. Leather trews, wooden clogs, linen undershirt with a rough woollen tunic. And a shawl worn in man’s fashion, folded lengthwise and tucked into the belt under my arms, not a triangle whose ends demurely knotted over my middle.
I hooked my thumbs into the belt and grinned at my reflection. Puffed up my chest. Tried a little saunter.
I was so enthralled that I didn’t notice footsteps approaching. Didn’t even register the curtain being brushed aside. It was Lottie’s voice which jolted me back to earth.
“Jenny, are you alright? You - oh!”
I whirled about to find her gawping. My cheeks burned and I looked away. Unable to explain.
The silence twanged. Ached.
Then Lottie lowered her hand from her mouth and stammered “You, um, you do make a very good boy… Rodrick?”
Being addressed by the king’s name felt… interesting. Pleasant. Not ‘right’, exactly, but… certainly not wrong.
“I, ah, y-you made a very good princess?”
“Thanks?” She was smiling now. “I, uh, came to see if you wanted to join the party.”
“Oh. Right.” I slowly reached up to grip my face. The mask. “I’ll be right there.”
“No.” It whispered. Resisting the pull.
“You don’t… have to take it off.” Lottie stepped closer to squeeze my shoulder. “I’m sure Carol won’t mind. And, um, it suits you! Well,” she tweaked my beard, making me blush again, “those are long whiskers for a young lad like you.”
“Heh. Y-yeah.” I matched her grin, though shakier.
And when she slipped her hand into mine and tugged, I followed her out across the stage towards the party. Like a young couple.

Prompt was “Masks choose their singers during the solstice songs. One chooses you—and keeps whispering after the music ends.”