The Mask of Guidance

She wore the ornate mask. It was heavy, its weight pulling her head forward. Crafted from gold and enamel, it was said to be a gift from the gods, a symbol of wisdom and clarity bestowed upon the people. To her, it was a burden. A prison.

In her lap rested the Rod of Guidance, a thin golden staff etched with swirling lines meant to mirror divine thought. Beside it lay the Book of Law, its worn pages filled with the rituals and edicts she was expected to interpret. They were beautiful things, revered by all who came to kneel before her. She hated them. They were symbols of a world she no longer believed in—a world that worshipped her, yet kept her apart.

She looked up without lifting her head, watching the procession move along the narrow strip of yellow carpet that cut through the dark mauve tiles of the temple floor. One by one, the supplicants approached the kneeling block, bowed until their foreheads touched the cold stone, and awaited her blessing. Their reverence was absolute, their movements practiced and hollow.

A small gasp pulled her attention. Her eyes snapped to a woman near the back of the line, her delicate hand covering her mouth in shock. The woman had broken the silence. Heads turned toward her, and the air thickened with judgment.

The mask grew hotter against her skin. She stood, letting the Book of Law tumble from her lap, its spine cracking as it slid down the steps and came to rest against the kneeling block. The young man in front of it recoiled, his wide eyes darting between the fallen book and her towering form.

She raised the Rod of Guidance, then flicked it aside. It clattered onto the table beside her, toppling a delicate golden vase. The sound rang out like a bell, shattering the stillness.

Her hands hesitated at the mask. The teachings had been clear: without it, she was no one. Without it, the blessings would cease, the people would suffer. Her heart pounded as fear and anger warred within her. She tore the mask free and cast it down at her feet.

Silence screamed in its wake. Where awe had once lingered, she saw only horror. Their faces, once filled with quiet faith, now twisted in fear. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words refused to come. Her voice, raw from disuse, emerged as broken sounds.

The crowd moved like ripples in water—some retreating, others frozen in place. One woman collapsed, clutching her chest.

Frustration welled within her. She descended the platform, each step filled with purpose. Reaching the kneeling block, she seized the fallen book and flung it against the wall. The ornate vase followed, shattering into shards. She ripped the golden curtains from their place, imagining the flesh of those who cowered before her. Her rage was a storm, her tears its rain.

But as she reached for the table, intent on hurling it as well, a small hand touched hers.

She froze and turned sharply, her fury meeting the calm, unyielding gaze of an old man. His face was lined with age, his body thin and frail, yet his hand on hers was steady. He did not flinch as her glare bore into him. Instead, he leaned closer, his voice low and even.

“Enough,” he said, the word cutting through her chaos like a blade.

His other hand rose, brushing her cheek with trembling fingers. She stiffened but did not pull away. No one had ever touched her before. The mask had always been between her and them.

“You are not what they think,” he said. “But you are what they need.”

The words settled over her like a heavy cloak. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor before him. For the first time, she and another shared the same level, the same space.

He did not speak again. Instead, he retrieved the mask from where it had fallen and pressed it gently into her hands. She stared at it, its surface gleaming in the dim light, before lifting it to her face.

When she returned to the platform, she sat once more and straightened her back. The old man moved efficiently, retrieving the Rod of Guidance and placing it back in her lap, its weight familiar. He picked up the Book of Law, smoothing its pages before laying it carefully beside her.

As he stepped back, he turned to the crowd, his voice sharp. “All things are as they should be.”

The people stirred, hesitated, then returned to their places in the line. The murmurs ceased. The room settled into its old rhythm, the shuffle of feet against the carpet the only sound.

She bowed her head. The tears came again, but this time she did not fight them. The mask was in place, but beneath it, she was still herself—a creature of anger, longing, and sacrifice. She understood now: it was not her place to be one of them. They needed her to be above them, even if it meant bearing the weight of the mask and the lies it told.

The Rod of Guidance rested heavy in her lap, but her fingers curled around it with renewed purpose. She was their guide. Their anchor. And even if they could never see her, never know her as she truly was, she would serve them.

For that, she could endure.