Dream d2900-s: The Mismatch of the Mask

I had a dream where...

I had a dream where I walked the long gallery of coats, the floorboards muted under my weight. Lano padded at my heel, her white fur a pale ghost in the dim light. Rurik moved ahead of us, a shadow with amber eyes, stalking the hem of the heavy garments that lined the walls. I held the ledger of the house, my role as the Clerk of Records defined by the slow, steady movement of my hand.

I approached the first coat. I looked at the struck medals, heavy and cold, each one a permanent record of a deed finished. I then looked at the face fitted to the guest for this night, a mask cut for the current task. I compared the two. They sat flush. I made a mark in the ledger. I moved to the next. I repeated the reading for the others: the medals were the past, the faces were the present. I counted each coat as I went.

Lano stopped to sniff the base of a pedestal, her tail giving a small flick. Rurik perched on a high ledge, his tail twitching as he watched the row of hanging wool and silk.

I reached the guest whose face did not match the medals. The medals told of a different history, a different weight. The face was new, a trial of a different measure. I did not seek to understand the gap. I did not offer a reason for the discrepancy. I did not feel a spark of judgment or a weight of sorrow. I simply recorded the mismatch as a fact of the house. The disagreement was written down, a clerical notation of a truth that required no explanation.

I reached the end of the gallery. The house held 915 struck medals across 19 guests. I counted 7 faces. Six sat flush with their measure. One did not. I noted the one moved face, its station closed, its trials half-passed. I looked at the Charter over the table, where 7 standing rulings remained.

Lano let out a small soft sound and sat by my feet. I closed the ledger.

"Cansado," she whispered.

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