A/N: I got the inspiration for this one shot a while ago, but wasn't sure whether to actually write it or not. (Oh hey look she finally decided to.)

This is completely inspired by the song Masquerade by Merry Ellen Kirk, a beautiful piece of work I must say, please listen to it if you have the time. (Or you can listen to it while reading the story, that's also a good option. ;D) This is set in the 18th Century, by the way. Lyrics of the song will be included in this as well. Enjoy. :)

P.S. If I update it, it's to fix any errors. ;)

"We understand how dangerous masks can be. We all become what we pretend to be." ~ Patrick Rothfuss

~ The Masks that Hide Us ~

Dare they blatantly compliment her on the elegance of her apparel, the sophistication of her manner, how exquisite she would seem to the communal of the guests, seemingly every aspect of her that could be seen with the simplicity of the human eye.

"My, your dress, how beautiful."

"The most courteous and fine manner I've ever seen,"

"And the diamonds, so expensive. Aesthetic even."

But Clara knew the truth all too well. She felt like a doll, in all honesty.

Disguised from the imperfection of her flaws by such a plausible disguise that nobody noticed; hiding in fear behind the mask that boasted the panache that she was without of. An impersonation of someone so disparate that if mentioned any form of comparison, it would be for sheer humor.

Clara wasn't like that.

She wasn't like that at all.

She wasn't at all confident, she wasn't flawless, and that was the one aspect of herself that she would generously accept any day. Behind the mask was someone so weak, fragile, and so very vulnerable. People would take it as a surprise if they had known, but it was true. Mask disguising her persona, she could be sassy and sophisticated to her heart's content. But doing it without, simply wasn't possible. It just wasn't her. It didn't belong to her, it belonged to her impersonation, and she had no intention of changing herself anytime soon, or anytime at all.

She didn't deserve those compliments. Every single one of them didn't mean anything to her anyway.

Just people saying what can simply be seen already. Clara liked to think of it as.

Seated at the far corner of the elaborately adorned ball room, she took a careful sip of her champagne glass, observing the atmosphere that enveloped her, the eyes of her golden mask her window to the world she was forced to live; the somewhat lavishing life.

Maybe I'm not the only one like this. She considered to herself. Maybe someone out there was thinking the same thing, she wasn't sure, nobody was sure, nor will they ever be. We all don't know each other too well. She smiled to herself in complacency, for she liked to believe that.

Yet she still didn't know.

Maybe someone out there is clever enough to look behind the mask.

"Excuse me," a rough yet lucid tone of voice spoke into her ear.

Clara turned around to reveal a man, certainly tall to her perspective, (Considering that her height wasn't as impressing for her age.) the mask on his face excluding the aspect of recognition in their meeting.

His hair was brown, generously a little too long, as if it mattered anyway. His chin was rather peculiar and eccentric, causing Clara to take interest into him even more so.

...and his eyes were green, speckling gold, unusual maybe, but so very alluring.

"Yes?" Clara asked in a calm and sophisticated tone of voice.

He simply held out his hand as an invitation for her, Clara staring at it with consideration. She could go with this man if she wanted to, well at least that's what she convinced herself, her other self at the most.

Never the less, she lightly placed her fingers on the center of his palm, a slight sense of enchantment and reassurance; Clara convinced herself not to react about it so over excessively.

He bowed his head slightly as if to say thank you, and led her away from the comfort of her table, out to the center of the room. Clara was taking a chance here, and that's what she thought was appropriate for the girl that she was supposed to be.

Their fingers laced with one another, Clara carefully placing her hand on his shoulder, his hand placed on her waist, the music only a background for the one aspect that Clara's attention was focused on.

"What is your name?" she asked in a soft yet clear tone of voice, her eyes staring into his, her interest as to what it may be.

He continued to stare at her, almost as if considering to tell her or not. He leaned into her, as if to whisper it to her, and that's what he did.

"The name that stands for the healer."

Clara stared ahead of her, her eyes showing sophistication, her mind traversing through confusion. She could usually decipher people so easily, until it came to him. This one was different.

...what's in your name? I know you well, but tell me anyway...

"You're not like this." he spoke with simplicity.

Clara intensified her attention on the man before her. She was falling in confusion from the words escaping his mouth, having the slightest idea of his motives. "Sorry?" she asked quietly.

"Under the mask." he replied, almost out of concern for her. Clara fell silent, for she understood what he was trying to say.

He knows. Clara thought, astonished. How does he know...? Clara remained calm of her appearance, trying to convince him that she was well unaware of what he was referring to.

"I don't understand." she spoke in a sharp tone of voice, making her understanding of his concern clear that she didn't know anything of the matter.

Yet he persisted.

"Under that mask there is somebody that is a little too frightened to step out of the shadows." he whispered slyly, his green eyes staring into hers. A demented breath escaped Clara, for the man was surely clever.

"...how can you tell?" she asked, attempting to sound as confident as her mind would let her, only revealing her miniscule, weakened voice.

He leaned towards her ear once again, a moment of respite occurring as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then having the words be spoken to her. "Maybe it's because I prefer to acknowledge people similar to one such as I."

...we are the same, and different, well. But always I knew.

He could see beyond the mask that hid her face, not literally, but metaphorically. She wasn't alone. She wasn't the only one with an assured life of prosperity, she thought that was ludicrous and simply boring. Life would be too easy. She thought to herself.

And easy wasn't always better.

How some people could wish that they had a life such as that, but Clara wished that they hadn't. It simply wasn't worth the thought. She admired the people who often thought otherwise, and dreamed of incredible things, things that became true.

...dreamers lie asleep at night...and dream of things in truth.

Clara used to believe in the antics of propertied living, only to find out that the people living in it didn't really have a life of their own. As if it was done for them, which could be convenient, but wasn't always the most enjoyable.

I wish I may. I wish I might, but these don't all come true.

Clara was lost in what to believe in at this point, for she had stopped fantasizing about a life that wasn't worth it. But the persona of her genuine character was still so shy, anxious as to what people might believe. It would daze people if they ever found out how she was really like.

It just that Clara couldn't focus on that right now.

...and when we dance...knowing we could stay right here...forever.

Clara's attention was on him, her eyes staring at the green in his, behind his mask, the face that Clara wanted to reveal so badly. The dance was seemingly never-ending, for she wished that it would be true. They were similar, yet so different in ways they couldn't put into words. She wanted it to go on forever, and if not, frozen, like a painting, capturing everything, the beautiful imperfection.

...lost in this trance; nothing else could ever really matter.

They didn't even know each other.

Yet it seemed as though they had known each other for the longest time.

Nothing else had seemed as important, just them together, quiet, the music not even mattering anymore, just them. Nobody else in that room on that night, no worries, no anxieties, no thoughts, no ambitions.

...just them.

This masquerade. I know too well. They're not here anyway.

The only barricades were their masks, hiding their identity. She didn't even know his name, yet she felt so close to him, closer than anyone else in her life had.

We'll be the traitors. To the room.

It couldn't go on forever.

When it ended, Clara stayed still for a moment, taking in one last thought, the last second that she would ever see this man, this clever boy, and she turned around and ran.

She broke apart.

The impersonation of this girl she was supposed to be fell, although of the mask still worn, she could feel her awareness starting to bleed through her act. She started to feel anxious and terribly shy, and she just didn't know what to do, so she ran out of the room, out into the cold bitter night. She felt horrible and alone, thoughts rushing through her mind. Why do I even have a life? She questioned herself, for she thought she was going mad.

She couldn't let anyone see her like this.

Not even him.

She sat down on the stone steps in slight panic, questioning herself. What was that... She asked herself. That wasn't me. She assured to herself, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, remembering the time when he did the same. I don't want to know who he was.

He made her believe that it was okay to lose the act, because there was always going to be another one to stand alongside her. No matter how insane she thought she was, she was loved by someone out there. No matter how shy or insecure, somebody was willing to care. He was there to tell her that...

And she wasn't sure if he was that somebody.

She didn't even know his name.

She didn't know what he looked like without the mask.

She didn't know anything about him...

But they were the same of one kind.

Clara looked up to the bright glimmering moon above her head. Thank you. She said in her mind, the thought kept for him, and only him.

There were roughly an estimate of a hundred to two hundred guests in the ball room; she believed that it wasn't possible that she would be able to see him again, which made her feel a little despondent, but he still meant something to her.

Even if they didn't know each other.

She sat out there for the rest of the night, thinking quietly to herself at how one could be so close and yet so far away from reach. She thought about his name, and the clue he gave to her.

"The name that stands for the healer."

Clara smiled to herself. He healed me.

Then it came to her.

She didn't believe it at first, but after to pondering, it made sense. She knew his name, and even though it wasn't clearly authentic, it was all Clara needed to know. She laughed up at the stars in triumph, for even though they'll never meet again, even though she didn't know what he looked like, even though she knew little of him, she would remember him.

...she would remember The Doctor.