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ACT —-| dreams
in reality, you are on a stage, gilded with dazzling lights. in reality, you are at its centre, letting your bleeding body be the lead to curtain call.
your lips lick away at the sweet taste of nectar, poured into your mouth at the feastful backstage - with the lingering knowledge it was just poison yet to bite. crimson and gold and the metallic taste of blood mix with your breath. hollow laughs spill from your lips. dulled ichor drips from the corners, coughed up from inside you.
(you are already dead. so this must be desecration, no?)
there are shouts and repeated chants you have heard before. blasphemer, heretic, traitor! flailing arms and pointed fingers that pray to gods who turn blind eyes. they cry in the hopes to execute you, to bind, and watch your body writhe at the pyre.
- let the golden blood soak your skin until you are nothing more than slaughter offered to the useless gods they so adore. let reason be your ruin - may cerces condemn your body, your mind, and dig into that void of a chest until the universe is no longer what you obsess to understand - because the stars? they don’t offer you what you seek just because you’ve paid homage to them with a thin, ragged body and a blood-stained alchemy knife. -
(ah. you should know this by now. you’re just painfully stubborn.)
you laugh because it is the only thing you know. an echo of deflection to humiliate their efforts and have yours judged instead, balanced on the flimsy scale talanton has dropped into mortal hands. the scales barely need to tip one way for a single chant to roar aflame, one that could make the perfect metronome for the remaining duration of the play - execute him! execute him! let him die!
you’d be unwise to look among the audience for this supposed executioner they preach for, because something in your cold, cold blood is starting to run warm at the idea of them: their strings, their blind eyes, their golden countenance.
she could revel in this limelight better than you, you think.
-----
(I)
(In one, laughably desperate part of his soul, Anaxagoras dreams he snaps the thread of all timelines and makes amends with her.
Through the speckles of dusty gunpowder clouding the stage, he watches as the fog sullies itself into a warm, watercolour hue. Hues that paint over figures, moulding every spectator to his spectacle into a mass of nameless faces- leaving only her.
On this stage, he’s face-to-face with her - the Goldweaver. Their backdrop is a canvas of stars, gods, and a basin in the centre that hymns melodies of the Titans he would much rather ignore.
Hymns he does ignore, until he is oddly thankful for their presence. Hymns that now drown out the cadence of touching hands, pressed foreheads, coreflames burning bright. So bright- that the intensity makes Anaxa think he is taking a piece of her, shattered and quiet, into himself. In a way only the gods before them have done.
So he truly sees her, at last. It's a joke that it's taken them so long, knowing the other was unravelling right before them. It was through every refusal to communicate, every insult sneakily thrown at each other, both the swift-footed cat thief and the insistent healer who played messenger between them, and now they wound up here.
He thinks all this, until flame licked tears well at the corner of his eye. Dripping, down and down, rolling over the dewy- now warm substance of his skin.
Somehow, Aglaea notices them. She brushes them away with the pad of her thumb. Not tenderly, never, but its subtle, gentle warmth is enough to colour his world of misty blue into the gold she is weaving through touch alone.
(…so quaint, his body in reality thinks. must be that titans doing.)
“Do not cry, scholar.” She tells him, ignoring the gold-tinted, wet tear dripping down her own cheek. He will ignore it then, as well. “We’ve found… harmony. At the end of our destined paths.”
Every slight movement of her head swallows her into the shades of orange, yellow, placid pink, colouring Anaxa’s vision and flocking its vivid bursts into his ribcage so it feels hard to breathe. Hard to look at her. He blinks, regardless, and smiles.
“…So we have.” Is all he can reply with, a broken chuckle escaping his lips, “…Hah… and what does that mean for us now…?”
Aglaea stays silent and then releases the golden thread he hadn’t even known she was tangling around him, spiralling, looping, curling back to the tips of her fingers as she exhales. Ever so watchful. He should’ve expected no less- security in vulnerability.
There’s the practised curl of her lip, the composure that is only built over a millennium of performance and quiet sidelining. Just how much does he have to learn from her, he wonders?
“…It means that we can finally co-exist together… peacefully, I must hope.”
The answer is less poignant than he expected, but regardless, there are raw, raw laughs that escape them both, seeping into the quiet background melody of the false stars shining behind them.
~
(this dream occurs when anaxa is not yet a corpse; in the scenario he had made wiser decisions in the realm of life and has not waited until death loomed at his doorstep to spur action. of course her musings are less verbose- there was no pretence to suggest an end was already near.)
-----
your fingers curl into the rugged silk of your clothes, because your chest still feels tight. fabric is twisted, and choked amusement coils, stuck in your windpipe. no matter. it’s already the last moment, the final takeoff, illustrated in blood and hysteria. you do dream of moments such as these, where the adrenaline restarts your frail body and hurries you to finish this mess of a show the only way you know how.
(or what should feel like adrenaline- for someone whose heart is coiled up in vines by the scared tree at the grove somewhere, visited by nothing more than yellow butterflies at every entry hour. is there another word for the thrill of sweat dripping down your cheeks, or the twitch of your lips when a new, wordy insult is yelled at your face?)
you tilt your head, swallowed by the limelight reeking of a thousand suns that mock your fate (golden lighting is so grating on your skin-), place a hand at your chest to conceal the stars no one here knows of- and take a final bow.
(but there is no curtain fall, no end- not yet. it truly hurts some deep, inconceivable part of you to know your act was about to end alone, a one man show. but where was your supporting actor, your foil, your begrudging evaluator?)
-----
(II)
(In another, decomposed atrium of his heart, he finds she is less lenient, and has pointed her thread-wound sword at his throat. Really? At least spare him some mercy in death.
His gun has been detained, and he truly misses the exhilaration (or pain- troubling that he can’t distinguish the two) that would’ve come from limping his waxed, feeble body around, clinking metal against metal, dagger against throat - the threat that would be spoken against skin.
“Blasphemer.” She calls, poised- not a speckle of blood adorning the robes she gleans before him. Contrast it to Anaxa- on his knees, electricity broiling at his gut, golden blood smeared at his lip and void of stars in his chest spilling secrets only Aquila should know about. “So, you abide by your title once again.”
“Hah, but alas… I cannot desecrate what is not sacred to me, my lady.” He grits his teeth, dry corners of his lips curled up into a scowl, into contempt for this specific, hazy vision of her.
The title for her rolls off his tongue that way, too, ragged and breathless- and she narrows the slits she calls eyes that she can’t see out of. In spite of it, she lets the sharp end of her blade kiss the high of his throat, a mockery of Mnestia’s supposed penchant for romance.
The next fragments are hazy- but he remembers golden thread binding him, prophecy claiming him, the static of lightning weaving into his veins.
Even a corpse warms up when sweat coats his skin, and the pyre burns bright before him. His last thoughts are simple- hoping his students do well, that his blasphemies written in scripture stay intact- and his contributions forever notorious. Cerces had already left his body- and he thinks the thrumming of his blood would be quieter if their smooth, albeit irritating voice replaced it instead.
As for the woman in the audience watching over him? He vaguely wonders if in multiple, forgotten dreams, this is how they end up. He only expects his mind to go to the crudest and most pragmatic of paths, after all.
And then it’s fire, replacing the dull sting of lightning.
His executioner is silent and ruthless, letting his waxy adipocere drip into her palms, raising them like an offering to the cruel gods.
~
(in this dream, he was dead. in this dream, he died again. and so, he muses the crude question, would Death have to ferry the real him and this version of him together into the Netherrealm, as two separate entities? Only the blasphemed Titans and Romance know that - gods, one of him was enough.)
-----
the play goes on, but when your one, lonely eye peels open, the sounds of frenzy subside into stillness. crowds have departed, blink, and you have missed it. it may hurt some conceived, self-centered part of you to know no one valued your performance. cruel, when you have been practising this moment every waking day of your life.
but there is a figure, you notice. the seat she sits in, you almost think, looks like it was made for her.
she is calm, almost stiffly upright, the antithesis of the audience's penchant for lamenting contempt at your face. she looks as though she's composed of radiant gold itself, sweet and undeniably too saccharine for your liking, much like the nectar still spilling down your chin. folded hands at her lap, legs crossed, you know you’ve seen such a scene, many, many a time before. sometimes it repulses you, sometimes it vaguely annoys you, sometimes you figure its better to not spare her a glance at all.
you would rather die than admit you sometimes dream, dream of her.
-----
(III)
(In his heart of hearts- he imagines a scene entirely sentimental, one only Mnestia could dare to weave.
It’s curtain call, and the stage is lit with lights that feel warm on his skin. No longer harsh, artificial and grating- but placid, luminous, congratulatory.
The bow he takes is met with a thousand praises, an audience enraptured by his skill, his innate ability to take emotion and twist it into artistry. Claps that rival the Titan’s prayers, shouts for encores that he only offers a self-satisfied grin to and calmly reassures that next time, yes, next time, he shall humour them. Humour them until his bones are weary, until he can bow no more, until the golden handkerchief tucked into his suit's pocket is slipping out from his lively, performing body.
But for now, he embraces his sister, his students, and in the sea of celebration, he huffs. In the midst of grand lustre, rustled rose petals, and the flick of curtains- he now has only one obligation.
He finds her at the after show, perched over the theatre's balcony, wine glass caught between her fingers. There's a stillness to her form, one that vaguely makes him think she is something out of a vintage painting. Fur coat draped over elbows, backless gown letting her shoulder blades flex freely, hair curled and pinned into a chignon, clipped with a silver laurel. A single dangling earring glints in the light, crimson and free.
The mere sight of her makes him smile, and he swallows back the embarrassment of ever having to admit that as he slides in beside her.
“Exemplary.” She murmurs, a single word, a hint of softness in her clipped tone. “From start to finish… wonderful. The crowd was in the palm of your hands.”
“High praise, my lady.” He mutters back with a grin, lazily pressing folded elbows against a rail. He subconsciously plays with the red crystal hanging off his own ear. “Commendation from the famed Aglaea is not to be taken lightly.”
She chuckles, mouth hidden behind a gloved hand, and he finds he wants to laugh, too.
“But of course-” She chimes, humming a soft tune, swirling the wine in her glass. “...It's amusing. Even the dignified Anaxagoras would bow to a lowly actress such as myself.”
“Now, now, I never denied your brilliance, did I?”
“No, you did not. You never have.”
And there it is again, that undeniable warmth, that exhilarating life, singing in his skin.
Not at the praise of the audience, at the accomplishment of another successful play, heralded by journalists and audience alike. Not at the thrill of the curtain call, the cheers of wine glasses clinking and congratulations being exchanged.
But at her approval, at her smile, at her hand offering him a dance for the closing act. A chance for him to not be Anaxagoras the performer, but instead, hers. For however long the night needs him to be- he’s at her beck and call.
So it's a dance they stumble into as easily as they do their acting roles- sharply, quietly, with smirks on their faces. Lined with wine-induced laughter and that beautiful, beautiful horizon, sinking beneath the steps of their tango.
The horizon cools into the deepest blue, where she can feel his skin, where she smudges lipstick against his neck. She’ll pull him, against all odds. Deeper into the abyss she had created- golden and beautiful and a place just for the two of them. No lights, no cameras, no high performance.
And so- endlessly grateful- he’ll kiss her knuckles in the hazy aftermath and whisper that he’s hers.
~
(...he prefers not to ruminate on this dream. it’s ridiculous.)
-----
(if that is not the worst of it, you know she is the only one who will stay for your final act, much to your utter disdain. miserable, to be so meticulously scrutinised, or unnerving, to be so wonderfully known? and still-)
the smile she gives you is so small, the eyes she focuses so utterly blind. yet it stings, this estrangement from your own body, because the sunlight pours over her, far better than it could ever suit you. utterly, utterly infatuated with her name on its lips - and it truly now does pain you. she is beauty incarnate. she is your antithesis, your dream, your reason. she scorches harder than the sun itself.
and all you can do is smile back at her.
before the curtain falls, at last.
-----
(a golden butterfly lands on his fingers, his weak, blood-soaked hand raised to anything but the gods. he sees it, chuckles, and lets the flutter of its wings be the last beauty he shall ever see.)
-----
(There is no dream, this time. Only the whispers of Reason, the flashing lights of the stage that flicker, and a single figure, falling from the flights of confetti, into the golden embrace of death, with laughter on his tongue.
The act has ended, and now, he can rest his weary limbs and ponder evermore. A true scholar, until the very end.
So here lies Anaxagoras, fallen and disgraced. At least he put on a good show.)
ACT —-| reality
She stays until he falls.
She watches until he breathes out his last laugh. Until the lights die, and all that is left is a single, broken echo of Reason and its heir, theatrical to the end.
She does not weep, biting the inside wall of her cheek. But the golden blood in her runs cold- and she knows. The millennia of performance she has provided are bested by him, so easily, so expertly. Even when the golden thread had tugged at his mind- and plucked the Reason out of him.
It's impressive.
So she stands and applauds to the stage, empty and still. To a stage, bested by the curtain call. And then there's a whisper, the hint of a smile, a voice that murmurs.
“...You were truly outstanding, Great Performer.”
“...May Cerces safeguard your thoughts.”