by Dominik Jaworski (Exalted | Fiction)
Aiba was nervous. Understandably so, as the moment that would decide his entire future, that would decide whether his dreams of being an actor and achieving grades of fame that he couldn't even imagine, would come true. In only few minutes he would step onto the stage of the Black Jade Eyes Theater, one of the most renowned theater houses of Nexus. And then only two factors would decide his fate: his own ability in his chosen profession and the appreciation of Crimson Masque, the intendant, playwright and main actor of the theater.
Since the inauspicious death of the previous manager of the Black Jade, Immalion, the theater had, seen some bad years of dwindling numbers of spectators and loss of important financial support. This happened due to two reasons: First, the sudden lack of the man that had drawn the attention of a great (or at least of the female) part of Nexus' upper class towards the house with his abilities just as much as with his outstanding appearance. Second, the social stigma that the coincidences of Immalion's death (officially a violent theft, yet in the backrooms of taverns and in galas hosted by influential individuals, gossip about an envious husband of a too-loving fan was to be heard) had marked the theater with.
Only recently, after Crimson had taken over, the theater had managed to reestablish its position as one of the most prestigious houses of Nexus.
Although most considered it a bold move of an eccentric stranger, his seemingly endless monetary resources combined with his talent that let critics call him, wholly positively, a second Immalion, soon brought the Black Jade Eyes success, which proved Crimson Masque more than right. The only problem that the house suffered from, that had sprang up since that time, was the constant lack of main actors. Almost all of them disappeared from the River Harlot's Legs soon after claiming great success upon the stage of the Black Jade, having refined their abilities to such a degree that important acting groups in the whole Threshold and even from the Blessed Island had recruited them away. Recently even a joke had come up, that the population of Nexus was so ugly because all the beautiful people had been sold to the rest of Creation through the theater. Some of Aiba's friends claimed, jokingly, that, because of his beauty, he surely would be the next to perform before the Scarlet Empress.
The door of the stage sprang open and a furious young man stormed out. He surely was no older than fifteen, the marks of growing up clearly visible upon his face.
"What an idiot," the apparently dismissed applicant cursed in a loud and tumbling voice, "as if the audience would notice how old I am underneath the mask!"
Aiba ignored the crying and repeated the verses that all of the aspiring actors had to prepare for the audition. It was a part of the last act of "The End and the Beginning of Happiness". The play had been written two hundred years ago in Great Forks and had been prohibited most of the time of its existence. Too controversial had been the discussed themes, too questionable the author's views. When Masque had dared to approach the text, he had called it a mere 'love story beyond death', turning most arguments against it to dust. After the first night of the show both, audience and critics had been overwhelmed by the play, not in a small part due to the new intendant's brilliant portrayal of the character of Death.
"Are you the next?" A voice that bore rhythm and sound so graceful as if belonging to one of the Fair Ones, next to Aiba repeated. The aspirant looked up and saw the perfect smile and glittering deep-green eyes of Crimson Masque directed at him. The intendant was wearing the costume of Death, black and grey, adorned with bone-white bats and skulls. Hanging upon a massive chain was the mask belonging to the role, a grayish pale and thin face that looked, even though no one who had noticed dared to voice this openly, a little like Immalion. A high black hat without a brim emphasized Crimson's height. Aiba had heard rumors, yet now, that he faced the man for the first time, he realized how impossibly beautiful he really was. Feeling that his heartbeat accelerated, he barely managed to stutter a 'yes'.
"Great," the enthusiasm in the intendant's voice managed to pull in Aiba immediately, "give me a few minutes to prepare myself and then you can come onto the stage," Death smiled, "trust me, I'm as nervous as you are."
* * *
Qeben was on the way to his last resting place. He knew it, although he was still alive. Three pine trees marked the road that was the last one that he would ever walk. Three possibilities to turn back, to revoke his decision.
He stopped at the first, contemplating his life.
"I am, yet, young, this I know.
So little of this world I've seen.
People to meet, places to go.
I will never know their mean'.
Yet, without my dear love, Armako,
- From this cursed world I just want to leave."
He continued his journey until he arrived at the second tree, forced to
stop for a second time and repeat for himself the reasons of his doing.
"It was summer, over a year ago,
I met my love, we were young and so free.
We were so happy, me and Armako,
Yet other's envy would not let us be.
For what they did, I hate them so.
- I'm ready for death now, as I witnessed life."
The third tree, the last before his meeting with death, left him one, final, chance to turn back.
"Behind the shrouded veil of night,
there she waits for her young Qebain,
shining with all her glorious light.
The last taste of forbidden wine,
the final cut a man do might...
- I'll never turn away, from my final choice."
Then Quebain stepped onto the place where he would die. Slowly he unsheathed his sword. In a deadening slow his eyes wandered quietly over the blade. And then, so suddenly that all time seemed to stop, Quebain started dancing the Dance of Death. At first very slowly, so that he
didn't seem to move at all, his movements became faster and faster until, in a moment too fast to recognize with human eyes, the blade pierced his skin, inviting Death, who had been lurking in the shadows all the time, watching, to Quebain who had fallen to the floor.
"So you die, and come to me?" asked Death.
"Not to you, to Armako!" answered the man.
Death stepped closer, its facial features becoming all-too real for the man at his feet. Quebain drew back, standing up on shaking legs, plain fear shining from his eyes. "Is she there? With you?"
"Yes."
Death and the man dance around each other, the man fearful and unsure, Death slowly, gracefully, only wanting to claim what belonged to it anyway.
"I want proof."
"This I can't give you."
"Then I'll stay here."
"It's too late for this. But you can have my word. Armako is here. She waits. Trust me and you will be together again soon."
The man hesitated. He backed away a little, and then he stepped forward again. He stretched his arm out and took the hand of death.
"Yes. I will trust you. I will go with you and be with Armako forever....!"
* * *
"Very good!"
Crimson's voice sounded undisturbed through the mask of Death. For a moment, probably because of the adrenaline rush he had received through his nervousness, Aiba thought that the mask's lips were moving. Or maybe Crimson was such a master of his art, that he managed to maintain this difficult illusion even at such close range.
When Aiba removed the protagonist's mask it revealed an expression of triumph and relief upon the young man's face. His eyes were full of admiration for the intendant as he spoke, "how did you do this? I could've sworn that you were not wearing a mask at all."
Crimson Masque reached out his hand to touch the aspirant's chin, his fingers stroking gently the line of the young man's neck. He grinned.
Really. The features of the mask shifted to show the perfect teeth of Death, fangs akin to those of a wolf, "well, child, that is because I don't wear a mask. Not on stage," with a gentle pull of his hand he moved Aiba's body near to himself, studying the aspirant's beautiful face closely. The young man wanted to back away, but he couldn't. Crimson's overwhelming charisma, that he had felt earlier, still held him enchanted.
The longer Aiba looked at the mask, or face, of the man, the more he remembered the old drawings of Immalion that he had seen at times. It's contours, the form of the eyes; it was too similar to be a coincidence.
Yet he didn't say a word. He just stared back at the man, too overwhelmed by the idea that he had gained the attention of such an excellent actor, Immalion or Crimson, it didn't matter.
"But you, too, were remarkable," the intendant continued. The deep green eyes, that seemed to be glowing now, burrowed deeply into Aiba's soul, reading, tasting it layer after layer, "someone gifted with your beauty and your talent should be part of the Scarlet Ensemble of the Empress or
the Sanddancers of Chiaroscuro, instead of trying to make a living off the sinkhole that is this city." While he had been speaking, Crimson's fingers had moved over the young man's face, devotional, slow. Yet what was to be seen in the green eyes was hatred and envy. Crimson Masque seemed to taste every inch of his opposite's beauty before....
Aiba wanted it. He knew not why, just like Quebain didn't know why he had trusted Death, but he knew, that he wanted to give this man everything he asked for. Everything that Aiba desired was to belong to Crimson Masque for just one moment. Submissively he bowed his head to the side, revealing his neck.
"I will choose a nicer place for you, where you can perform your art before an audience that knows how to admire it. Don't worry; I will take care of it. You just have to trust me..."
* * *
The aspirant's corpse would surely make a good slave. It was quite strong and completely unharmed. True, its face was misshaped and ugly, but the dead did not care about such things. Also would there be no ghost that would attempt to control this body as a former possession. He had taken care of that. Prophet of Crimson and Steel swiped away the circular mark of blood that had appeared on his forehead with the sleeve of his victim's costume. Then he used it, to remove the rest of the actor's blood that had stained the corners of his mouth, clearing the face of his Mask, Crimson. With a grin, charming on the surface, ravenous underneath, he opened the door to the waiting room, hoping that the next attendant's appearance would not force such drastic measures. "Next please," the Prophet of Crimson and Steel asked the herd of cattle
that had gathered at his door.
