Chocolate brown eyes observed her, unyielding and intense. It belonged to a rather handsome face, with high cheekbones, and a proud, aristrocratic nose that had never been broken. His dark, brown-black hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, pulling taut any lines that would have mottled his attractive features. He was clad in a rich scarlet blouse with a charcoal vest and slacks, embroidered in gold - tailoring Delilah had only seen in rennisiance picturebooks. For a minute she thought she was dreaming, suspended in a fantasty of mideval princes, until she realized that the person looking into her face was not a man at all - but a woman.
          Delilah fell backwards, suddenly aware she was sitting up. The woman turned, the curve of her breasts apparent against the faded pink wallpaper of the room. "Go call Vranphile," she said, addressing an individual Delilah could not see. "She's awake."
          "Where am I?" Delilah asked, falling against a pile of satin pillows, plump and plentiful. She gratifyingly sank into them, allowing the clarity of the room to hit her for the first time. Undeniably primitive, yet it held a certain finesse Delilah had only come across in antique but prestigious hotels that boasted of service for over two hundred years.
          "Citadel Vranphile," came a silken voice from the doorway. "Welcome, Delilah. We've been expecting you."
          The woman left the spot beside the bed as another figure took her place. Delilah was vaguely aware of the woman leaving the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. There was the unmistakable sound of a lock shifting into place. For some reason, this didn't trouble Delilah in the slightest - rather to the contrary, she felt at peace with this onyx-haired, cultured individual that smiled at her as if he had known her for years.
          "Citadel Vranphile," the words tumbled awkwardly off of the tip of her tongue as she mimicked his words.
          "Ver-ran-fill," he helped. She tried it again, a little less uneasily, and he smiled beatifically, as though she had just accomplished the most extraordinary thing in the world. "Close enough. How are you feeling?"
          "Confused," Delilah admitted. And surprisingly clear-headed, she didn't add. She lifted one hand to rub the sleep away from her eyes, surprised to find she was wearing a sleeveless white night-gown, elegant in its simplicity. She stretched her arms, remembering how wonderful it was to be able to freely move her limbs without a straight-jacket restraining her. It had been all she had known, these past few months.
          "That is to be expected," he said, nodding. Then he pressed one hand against his chest, against the perfectly ruffled collar about his neck. "Where are my manners?" he asked, more the room then to Delilah. "My name is Vranphile," he said, gently gathering her hands in his own. They were large and pleasantly cool to the touch. "I don't suppose you remember me, do you?"
          "Remember you?" Delilah echoed.
          "Or remember us all, rather," Vranphile eleborated, gesturing to a grand score of people Delilah couldn't see. "The children of your revolution."
          "Revolution?" Delilah blinked a few times, trying to allow the gentleman's words to fully sink in. Then she laughed. "Oh, I get it!"
          This is ridiculously absurd. Am I dying? Did I cut myself? Did they pump me full of morphine before I went?
          Vranphile smiled and laughed along with her. His eyes lit up and for the first time, Delilah realized they were the hue of blood, strangely morbid but colorful. She liked it, Delilah decided. "Do you, now?"
          "I do," Delilah agreed, reaching out to touch him. He felt too real, she thought, eyebrows knitted together. What's going on?
          A shadow seemed to cross Vranphile's hopeful face, his pleasant smile momentarily disbanded. His lips became a tight line, making him appear suddenly less approachable. Delilah faltered a moment but then he smiled again, although this one was considerably thin in comparision to the previous one. "You don't get it, do you?" He sighed and shook his head. Then he shrugged, running his hands through his elegant bangs and tussling them around a bit as he moved to stand. "You think you're lost in the dreaming still, don't you?" He walked away from her, spreading his arms as he went. "Torn between worlds, plagued by insanity--"
          Delilah stiffened. Suddenly, she wasn't quite so fond of him anymore. "You like the sound of your own voice, don't you?"
          Vranphile paused, his back facing her. When he turned he was still wearing that brittle smile, and Delilah wondered if he might slap her. There was something dangerous about those flickering, fiery eyes. Instead he smoothed out the wrinkles of her bedspread, settling easily down beside her. Wordlessly he took ahold of herhand again, pressing it against where his heart was. "Delilah," he said quietly. "Let me tell you a story..."
          And so it began.