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Desiderium - Chapter 1: The Dying Swan

𝑻𝒊𝒕𝒍𝒆: 𝑫𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒖𝒎

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What is abandoned should not be explored. To leave the ghosts of the past be – is what the dreamer would implore. To not tread on what is unstable – is what the realist would argue. Yet the subconscious thrill for knowledge and danger always drives one forward. Simultaneously wondering and wandering.

One's desires – however simple as they start out – shift and pull one in directions least expected, half within and half somewhere beyond realistic understanding.

For dreams and wishes are fluid and fluxional. Shimmering halfway between being innocent and insidious. Whatever direction is taken, tread with care and sound mind, lest oneself be steered wrong everytime.

…

A booming thud reverberated off the walls of the foyer as the twin doors swung closed, the outside world sealed off. From trembling hands, raindrops fell onto the cheek of a human visage moulded into the brass knocker. Guided by its smooth contours, they slid further down the coiling mane that framed its oxidized face, then dripped from the base of the handle onto the floor. You drew in a shuddering breath. Now that you had found proper shelter from the elements, your features softened until they were akin to the placid gaze of the brass woman underneath your palm. You turned around from the doors and pushed a few strands of wet hair out of your face, gazing skywards. Rain clattered on the leaded glass panels of the domed ceiling, its intensity obscured all vision outside.

The deluge would in all likelihood not abate anytime soon. Your jaw set. What was supposed to be a stroll in an effort to ease your mind soon was cut short as inclement weather struck; yet another drop added to your growing pool of problems. Be that as it may, the tenseness in your shoulders soon released. As vexing as it was to have to wait for the showers to go away, you could at least get dried off in the meantime.

Your neck remained curved towards the ceiling while you descended from the landing to the main floor at a measured pace. Eyes traveled from the barrel-vaulted borders of the skylight, down to the cornucopia of floral and vegetal stucco reliefs adorning the columns, and their entablatures; your feet made no resounding impact with the twilight-coloured stone tiles. Too awed to make the slightest of sounds, and dare break the deafening silence – save for your thoughts that would not stay quiet, even for an instant – as you moved about the circular anteroom.

Just what kind of place was this? Why was such a complex here of all places, rather than in a city? Once again you studied the architecture, searching amongst the myriad of ornaments for either a name or if the motifs alluded to anything – but no clues were given.

However, between the pillars a vestiaire could be spotted. It was then that the feeling of your sagging wet coat clinging to your shoulders registered. Not wanting to get your clothes underneath further saturated and risk catching a cold, you wended your way over to the vestiaire. There was a counter, and a partition door beside it that reached your knees. With ease you stepped over it and walked into the coat closet. Coats hung on either side, covered in dust and with holes eaten into them by moths and silverfishes. An odour compounded of stale perfume and even staler cigarette smoke that still languished in them filtered through your sinuses. You grimaced. You'd rather not hang your own coat among them and get it contaminated. That would not do. Instead, you squeezed out the excess moisture before spreading the coat out on the countertop for it to air-dry. Not the most ideal option, but much better than the alternative.

With a turn of the head, it came to your notice that posters and a few newspaper clippings were hanging on the walls. You peered at the newspaper clippings in the hopes to glean any useful tidbits, but foxing and mildew had made the prints unreadable. Your focus turned towards the posters that appeared to be of theatre productions. All showcased severe degrees of degradation, with the sole exception of one, which not only was in the most pristine condition but the largest of them all as well.

Stepping forwards, you drew your finger across the deckle edge. Soft, yellowed fibres brushed against your fingertip before you traced over tinted arabesques which appeared to resemble wisps of smoke drifting up. Or maybe they symbolised a fantasy arising and coming to life. At the top, the lines intertwined to form a cartouche. The red ink was fading, but the ghosts of the letters were still legible. ‘The Decadent Dreamer.’ Right below it, the centre depicted the figure of a ballerino, in elegant dancewear, en pointe.

Three rows of lace ruffles graced the high collar of his white blouse down at the front. The lines of his slim waist were accentuated by a black and iris-blue corset which was decorated with silver appliqués, sequins, and crystals. Attached beneath its sides were ornamental chains made of light-teal crystal beads. By contrast, his legs were clad in simple silver-blue tights. Svelte limbs were curved like a swan's neck with the complexion of his hands and face just as pale as a swan's plumage.

Your eyes zeroed in on the three square markings dotting his cheek. Were those supposed to be tears? They weren't painted blue, rather they were green in colour. Perchance the pigments were blue once but discoloured to a shade of green upon aging. Or maybe it was a creative choice meant to deviate from established conventions; an early example of abstract-expressionism. Whatever was the case, your curiosity was piqued as to what his character's story was. The ballerino cast a wistful, melancholy look towards the sky, as though still deep in the throes of a daydream. And while this image was but a freeze-frame of a star long passed away, he possessed a beauty befitting to his stage name—innocent, and delicate like glass work. His virtuosity must have wowed audiences and attracted much acclaim back in the day.

The poster did spark the imagination. Of how the opera house must have been a grand place in its prime—brilliant with beauty, with shows of grace and grandeur that inspired many of its patrons, be they reviewers, artists, or poets. Palatial hallways – bustling with people in their finest evening wear – now only echoing the footsteps of one drenched visitor.

As you withdrew your hand, a heavy sigh left your lips while you regarded the accumulated dust on your fingertip. Alas, that was a world long past. And one not of your own, even if you wondered what it would have been like to live in it. To be in a time that was simpler, but beautifuller than your own which was rigid and repetitious, like the mechanical workings of a watch that controlled your daily grind. A world that would not fall apart as easily if everything was not as set in order as they should be. Where the short-term had not such a strong say as it did now.

The Belle Époque, truly a fitting name.

And even though the opera house was now a shell of its former self, there was a latent excitement within you ready to be set alight by exploring the whole place that was all to yourself. Time was at a standstill, and you could go wherever you wanted. See whichever rooms were time-capsules. Admire any pieces of art which hadn't been completely lost yet. Look down on the stage from a box only the most illustrious elite were able to sit in. This isolated world was your oyster—and its pearls, however baroque, were all yours to garner in your memory. These thoughts made your chest warm. You rushed to the avant-foyer where a monumental stairway, bounded by balustrades, was awaiting you. At the base of one of the balustrades, a creature was carved. You frowned, and were compelled to approach it. Its long, slender body and tail were intertwined with the floral work of the wrought iron railing. Splayed, hooved toes held up a coat of arms.

With your forefinger, you drew a line down the bridge of its nose; its face resembled that of a ram, but more tapered. The coronet that sat on its head as well, as the proud and graceful arch of its long neck, gave the beast a regal look. Whatever creature it was, however, eluded you. It didn’t look like any of the mythical hybrid beasts you had read about in the art history books. You went up the stairway, past the chimeric creature – the fingers on your hand glided across the leading edge of one of its large wings, then smoothed over the surface of the brass handrail, until you came to a stop on the landing where the stairway split into the east wing and the west wing.

Your attention was drawn to the west wing where refractions of light danced on the wall overhead. Beckoned, you turned left. Upon reaching the summit, your eyes were met with a glittering assembly. A row of chandeliers was strung down a vast rectangular hallway – in spite of their lustre having been dulled by a film of dust, the faceted crystals still winked. However, the hall's most striking feature were its walls, which were lined with looking-glasses, each arcade of mirrors tall enough to reflect you in your entirety. Splintering you into many, if not infinite, selves while you walked past them.

Each mercury plate was enclosed by slender stalks of delphiniums that seemed to have been sent up from the gleaming parquet itself. Out of the arching stems emerged dryads whose streaming hair blended in with the leafage flowing into the mirror plate. They were in the company of putti, wearing crowns of forget-me-not bound amidst short, tousled ringlets. The putto closest to you held out in his pudgy hand the branch of a lily-of-the-valley, offering it to you much like a little flower seller would disarm their potential customer with soft eyes and a smile that showed dimples in each plump cheek. You reached for it and rubbed your thumb along the curled lobes of one of the flowerheads. Gladly, you would have accepted the welcome gift, had it not been fixed in the sculpture.

You took several paces away from the mirror and stopped beneath one of the ginormous cage chandeliers. This must have been the room where the opera house would host gala balls, either to mark its jubilee or to raise funds. How marvelous those occasions must have been. You gave a dejected sigh. To attend a costumed ball had been a long-treasured dream of yours. But the reflection that stared back at you reminded you that your dream could never be fulfilled as money would have to be spent. Money that needed to be saved for the bare necessities rather than be squandered on frivolities. It was a painful truth to come to terms with, but your focus had to be put where it needed to be to keep yourself afloat. Maybe in another time, another life, it could have been possible. Yet as you stared at the weeping candles whose tears had been long gathered in the bobeches, your eyes closed of their own accord—and imagined a blinding whirl of lustre that burst through the immense room, setting it ablaze with life.

Blown away dust particles turned into incandescent sparks that took on corporeal shapes and the vacant hallway became thronged with partygoers who danced in rounds around you. Whirling couples shifted all the colours of the rainbow with a kaleidoscopic felicity while you stood there in a stiff daze as they rushed by. Masks on every face metamorphosing like passing dreams. Jewels, diamond buttons, and metal thread caught the light of the candles and cast it into millions of scintillations. All attendees winked like clustres of stars in the night sky, a reminder of how much higher they were in the social stratum to don such chic arrays, while you stood there in the middle. Dim, rather than brilliant. Dull, rather than vibrant. You turned your gaze away from the crowd and directed it to your own image instead. Your reflection seemed to be magnified in the looking-glass. Never before did you feel so out of place as of now; you wanted to slink away before any attention was turned on you. In a flash a pair of dancers passed you by, and your reflection wasn't as it was before. At once your old clothes had transformed into an evening gown more splendid and magnificent than any you had yet had. You held your breath, astonished by what you saw. Your hand moved gingerly up towards the roses pinned in a cascade at the left of the low-pointed corsage; the lavender petals rustled as gloved fingers brushed over them. Your eyes flashed through your domino mask. Instantly you had become indistinguishable from the other debutantes; your heart swelled alongside the music. Without a moment's hesitation you joined the fray. The skirt of your dress – gathered in waves of satin into a small bustled train, where large roses were sown to the top and bottom band – swished behind you while you twirled around and switched partners, giving yourself completely to the gaiety. When the music signalled a change in partners once more, you spun out of your partner’s arms and into the path of another masquerader whose mask concealed their whole identity rather than only half of it. You paused as you let them approach you. The face was of porcelain, with exquisite painted features, intricate like red delftware. Through mask-slits, ringed teal eyes locked in yours. There was a certain magnetic pull in those eyes that held you captive. The mysterious figure bent in a debonair bow and extended a gloved hand to you, inviting you to dance with them. Not to come off as timid, you curtsied, and accepted the offer. They took your right hand in their left and put your left hand onto their right shoulder, their hand settling under your arm around mid-back. Together, you began to revolve to the harmonious symphony of strings and woodwinds as it moved into a waltz.

Marked by precise movement of feet, they glided your body across the dance floor in perfect rhythm. Their lower limbs unfolded with calculated grace and no hint of trembling diffidence, whereas you feared you would balter at any given moment. To your unutterable relief, your enigmatic partner established a strong lead, allowing no chance of a misstep. Their hand on your back guided your body to match their every move; never once did it stray. In the midst of an artful spin, they relinquished their hold of you to then execute a pirouette while you were fluttering away from them, before extending their hand forth to pull you back in again. Their movements were fluid, regal, and weighted with gravitas: it was like nothing you had known before. Heart strings thrummed in tandem with harp strings. As those teal eyes burned at yours, so went their spell through you.

Everyone had long moved off to the sides, but in your mind, they were no longer present. They – as well as the opulence that surrounded you – did not matter anymore. Only the dance did.

The world around you became a blur of grace and desire. Both the skirts of their dark, star-laden cape and your pastel, flower-adorned gown wrapped and fell away from one another in rhythmic repetition; the earth and sky blending into one. They dipped you down and held you suspended over their arm. The way in which they held you defied all gravitational pull, instilling a sense of floating weightlessness. Fitful flashes of candlelight became that of starlight while walls dissolved and ceased to be what was enclosed. Dancing no longer within the opera house but now far above the clouds—the close proximity between you and your partner sent your heart soaring to heights it'd never reached before. You felt a connection that went beyond the boundaries of time. At its zenith, the two bodies revolved around each other, locked in each other's attraction. Your partner went behind you and circled their arms around your waist, sensually caressing the sides of your underarms until they raised them high. Your breath waned and you arched your neck back. The twin crimson tulle ribbons – that framed the left side of their mask – ghosted along the curve of your neck, across your collarbone. Still they held you, poised for flight, like a bird.

In that final moment, when the dance drew to a close, you found yourself breathless but exhilarated. The question hung on your lips, yet they did not move—instead, your hand reached out. With delicacy, the dark strands of their bob were combed out of their face. Their fingers clasped your wrist in a soft grip, making you falter. They took both your hands in theirs and pulled you forward, slowly, deftly. Guiding your every step, the way a psychopomp would, while you passed through the hallway of mirrors, now emptied. Once your feet crossed the threshold, the curtain of your eyelashes opened. The daydream had come to an end. Fading into a thing of the past—like everything around you.

Both your head and heart were heavy and a lump rose in your throat. Just a dream. A simple yet smart dream. Delivering a vision so finely delineated that it had you wondering if an unknown force had woven a canvas out of your innermost desires only for it to unravel at the end. Leaving naught but the pictorial flakes that would crumble the more your memory was to try piecing them all together again. Instead, you were left solivagant with the inmarcesible beauty of the masonry sweeping across the corridor walls in billowing surges. With an intake of breath, you moved your hand along the smooth walls, feeling every dip and curve in the stone as the bas-reliefs would rise and fall and undulate. You let them carry you forward, let the inexpressible sorrow in your heart pulse away; your stream of consciousness followed along the flow of the petrified stream.

Only when the grooves deepened, you came to realise the rolls of water had changed to rolls in fabric. Opening your eyes, you saw you had wandered off much farther than you intended, and now stood at the head of a staircase leading down into a lower story of the opera house. The walls, railings, and steps of the staircase had been carved to make it look as though lush sheets of champagne silk were draped across its winding path. While no less beautiful than everything else you had come across, its placement was off. Too far out of sight. Whyever such an elaborate design for a flight of steps not reserved for the public? Supporting yourself with one hand on the wall, you descended the stairs, curious as to where they would bring you. Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, a unique fragrance hung in the air that carried a much more palpable atmosphere than the upperground did. Dense, lifeless—suggesting its long history of neglect and disuse. Floorboards groaned, after decades of being undisturbed, under the straining weight of your feet while you surveyed your new surroundings. You had reached the understage landing.

Like a dream having shifted, you seemingly had entered a whole new world—bearing the likeness of a desecrated corpse rather than an embalmed body. Props stared out the ajar door of the storage room, with only the whites of their peeling eyes scantily visible through the oppressing darkness. You shuddered and continued forward. The way in which you had to evade discarded equipment, debris, and crates that were scattered about on your path had you almost believe you were evading the ghosts of former workers, actors, dancers, and singers as they would pass through the actor alley. Some dawdling, others dashing.

But it was only the silence that was haunting.

Then, standing out amongst the rags and rubble, was a pair of doors as dark as ebony – showing no gashes in its panels – but an oriental garden instead. Wishing to see what was behind the intact barrier, you placed a firm grip on the twin handles and tried to pull the chinoiserie doors open, only to be met with resistance. However, as you exerted more and more force, the doors at last gave in.

Your expression immediately fell.

Dead silkmoths carpeted the floor red. You reeled at the sheer number of them. The atelier had contained the pest explosion, but its environmental parameters had subsequently allowed the edacious swarm to proliferate until it no longer could. Regardless of how careful you tread, each step would emit a subtle, sickening squelch as fragile exoskeletons were forced beneath the soles of your shoes. Keeping your head up, you looked to the shelves. Lifetimes ago, they would have been stocked up with spools of thread and rolls of fabric; the wheels and bobbins of the sewing machine would spin in conjunction to the needle beating into the finest, most vibrant of garments, while several mannequins would have already displayed some of the most intricate and beautiful workmanship of their day. Any trace of creative artistry once held within the space had now been stripped away. Only shells were left.

Making your way over to the treadle machine, you pulled the top left drawer open. Stray buttons clinked against the walls of the drawer box. Brushing them aside, you took out a folded up note and unfolded it:

‘Dear Mukago,

Still no word on where the Dramaturge could be. Hairo is scouring for clues as best as he can while Ubume has taken on extra duties to keep appearances up. Some unfinished scripts have been found, and we can rehearse a couple of shows in the meantime too, so that's at least some good. But Ubume and Hairo told me that, until then, we need to work twice as hard. They also drilled into me nobody is to spill any of this. Easy for them to say.

I really don't like this. None of it sits right with me … But the show must go on, I guess. Just don't strain yourself too much, okay? I'll try checking up on you during one of my breaks. If they let me, at least.

Take care,

Kamanue’

The feeling of isolation abated and in its place dreadful anticipation built up. You made a slow turn of the head towards the coromandel paravent that divided the atelier's working space. Something was behind it. Reaching with a hand growing colder, you pushed the lacquered screen panels aside. Skulked in the farthest corner stood a dress-form mannequin, its chest plates split wide apart. With each passing heartbeat, shapes became more pronounced. Pupa casings brimmed the cavity, lining its inner walls in thick masses, like imitations of lung tissues. Following the mannequin's hunched spine, the hive extended outward to the bottom base—filling its iron endoskeleton up like flesh. From the mound of wings, a hairpin stuck out, clutched between metallic articulated fingers. Broken off enamel filaments held desperately by broken off arms.

Succumbing to the fear that spiked your blood pressure, you bolted out of there; the direction did not matter, as long as it was back above ground. Grappling the handrail, you rushed up a ramped passage.

Springing out of the confines into the sweeping view of the amphitheatre. Gossamer enveloped the repetitions of columns and sconces like hoar. Fettering the wings of angels perched atop the proscenium arch. In brumal sleep they were until that fateful day they could blow their horns to hail the acclaimed as they would take centre stage once again. When the opera house would be refocillated by the power of songs and stories that navigated through dreams, desires, and the fragility of life itself. Down the curved steps you went to the front of the stage that was as dark as the depths of a placid mere. Past the silvered willows bent low beside the way. You stopped and stared - the sheer size of the auditorium was overwhelming from where you stood. This was the heart of the world in the heyday of its existence. Where only the most gifted were allowed to stand, and the most privileged to sit. Where the weight of the world rested on every artist's shoulders in delivering the ultimate expression of sophistication and extravagance. Until the last pirouette was spun and the last aria had soared in the gloaming hour. Refrains and reprises of yesteryears now only timeless in memories.

Staring at the painted ceiling, you wondered just how heavy the weight was each performer had to endure. Was it as heavy as the bronze and crystal chandelier that hung unlit? How was it that they didn’t break under all that pressure, or was it only the fortitudinous that reached stardom? Answers were lost on you for it was hard for you to imagine what it was like in their place. What you viewed as success was incomparable, daresay insignificant. To get by was not the same as attaining immortality. But what was immortality compared to happiness? What truly made a soul everlastingly bright in the gloom of oblivion?

Your musings were interrupted when your toecap unexpectedly bumped up against something hard, stopping your ambling. You jolted back when you realized your foot came in touch with a body slumped on the floor, legs split, and folded forward with its arms draped over its head. Brows pulled together as you keenly studied the hands resting on its outthrust knee. They were … Articulated and of porcelain … Hands of a marionette? Kneeling, you pushed its dark hair out of its face. The skin was smooth and cold, very much like a doll. Square markings were painted on each shiny cheek in a downward line. Angling the body by its shoulders, you saw it was a ballerino puppet. Why would anyone leave just one single puppet on the stage? You turned the body fully over. Recumbent he lay with his arms splayed; the tears in the virago sleeves – as well as the frayed lace flounces that embellished the back panels flaring in loose box-pleated tails – had them be as bedraggled as the plumes of game fowl in still-lives. Your hand then dragged across the white-golden brocade, embroidered beads bumped against your palm. Rust beneath the caps had bled into the pale fabric. His chest incarnadined—a swan felled. Bringing your hand to his face in a slow fluid motion, your finger traced the fracture line that went over his right eye and bifurcated inches above the corner of his mouth.

Ringed teal eyes shot open.

You recoiled at once. Horripilations ran over your whole body when elongated horizontal pupils focused on you. Suddenly, he pushed himself up on bent elbows and knees, his spine rounding. Planting his knees on the ground, the marionette further contorted until the soles of his feet pressed against his nape before whirling his hips and legs. You felt yourself go rigid. Joints were snapping like when manipulating a mannequin's limbs. Twisting in angles no human could bend without breaking a bone. Each stricken pose was horrifyingly hypnotizing. Try as you might, you couldn’t pry your eyes away; as if the straining of them would make the unseen hands that were making the puppet move become visible. As he rose, the sound that ran in your ears was a jarring mix of wet crunching and dry clicking.

At the last pop you at last snapped out of it and made a break for it. Jumping off the apron, over the orchestra pit, and onto the vomitorium's ledge, you careened over the edge until you lost your footing and rolled along the floor, the impact bursting pain into your right shoulder.

“No, wait!”

You scrambled to your feet and dashed away to the exit – Rap! rap! rap! Each footfall amplified to fill the cavernous space of the auditorium and flung back through the darkness. Hollow and discordant. As you whipped your head around, your stomach churned: the marionette bounded down the parterre whilst balancing off the toprails of the seats onto his tiptoes, closing the distance fast. In your haste, you tripped over your own feet and dropped to your knees; your hands smacked hard against the auditorium doors to break your fall. Not a second to waste, you slammed the doors open and took vigorously to flight.

“Come back!”

Heeding basal instincts of survival, you threw every door behind you shut to continually block his path while you made a mad dash through galleries, running past atlantes and caryatids. Surrounded you were by immovable spectators – insensible of lending any help while they watched the scene unfold. Bursting into the central landing of the monumental stairway, you panted as your mind was racing what to do next. In a moment of clarity, you snuck in the space between a tall lamp and statue installed by the doorway, and made yourself small. The soft creak of hinges sounded, followed by the dull shuffling of feet. Slow, prowling. You covered your mouth and nose, muffling any sounds you could make. Steeling yourself, you furtively peeked through the bases and watched how the marionette slid down the bannister over to the vestibule. This was bad. You cast your gaze to the east and west wing. Exploring either for another way out was dangerous, but with him down there your options were limited. And as of right now unpredictability was to your advantage – an advantage you could not waste. You came out of your hiding spot. That puppet didn’t know you were to an extent familiarised with the east wing. You pressed down on each tread with great discretion, your heart pounding in your throat while you strained your hearing for any sounds of movement. Detecting nothing alarming, you slunk into the hallway of mirrors. You bit the inside of your lip as you backtracked the route in your memory. There had to be a service entrance or a fire exit.

You checked behind you. Colour drained from your face when you saw the marionette in the doorway, his eyes dancing with all the glee of a forbidden revel.

“There you are.”

The life-sized marionette released a quiet, tittering giggle while his fingers brushed over the bare skin of your neck. Crawling upward like spider-legs, making the hairs on your nape stand on ends.

Glass eyes bored unblinkingly into yours. The way in which they glistened in the dim light made them look deceptively wet; human, even. But human pupils were not horizontal oblongs. Your brain commanded your body to shove him away, yet the muscles in your arms only jerked in tiny spasms. You stood frozen. Your heart violently palpitated with a painful, constricting sensation. With his hands now wrapped around your neck, he angled your head up, and you were forced to keep staring at a face that never ceased to smile.

An electric buzz began vibrating in your head, along with your ears growing hot. You'd die at the hands of this thing. Unable to alert anyone. And no way of your body ever being recovered. Winding up as a cold-case, stashed among other long-forgotten files. Tremors were running over your whole body. Air wasn't flowing either in or out. Your senses were dimming, yet contradictorily, you simultaneously became hyper-aware. You took it all back. You didn't want another life; you wanted to go back to your own life. That was – ultimately – your choice. But that choice was – unfortunately – taken away from you. The buzzing intensified and overtook your entire body. You felt yourself collapsing into the arms of the marionette who, in that brief window of time, caught you right as you blackened out.

Your body going limp elicited a gasp of surprise from the marionette as he cradled you. He didn't expect your form … To be pressing against his arms. The Decadent Dreamer had thought they would phase through you as you went up in smoke, narrowly escaping his grasp like the nymph Daphne evading the god Apollo. Endomed within a prison built of the phantasmagoric vacillancies and vagaries of his mind—he had been chasing echoes, for countless flitting dreams. Had the thread at last come floating down in the palms of his hands that was to lead him out of his own labyrinth? If so, then why did you faint? Straightening himself erect, he found his answer in his reflection.

Cracks … Not in the glass, but in his face … His beauty marred … And for all to see.

Those eyes of the ones holding up the mirror, staring straight at him. Never averting their stone-hard gazes at his squalid appearance.

No longer was he the fairest of them all. Now he was imperfect, reduced to a derelict! An ear-piercing cry came out of him and resounded from all the adjoining salons. The marionette ripped his head away from the reflection in the mirror, and a violent tremor shook him that almost brought him to his knees. He stayed still for a short time, hunched over like a wounded animal more than a human being.

Releasing a shuddering breath, he raised his head to peer into the face of the person he was still holding in his arms.

No, he had not fallen from grace … He was not a fallen star … There was still a chance to rectify this … To salvage his image.

But first, the perfect scene needed to be set, before he was able to withdraw to his room to fix himself up. What you had seen was not real but merely a trick of the light – of the mind, if you will. The marionette inwardly smiled at that. Yes, that’s right. Slowly he hefted your unconscious body up to his chest, balancing the pressure of your hanging body in both arms. With long strides, he made his way through the enfilade while his glass eyes moved from side to side; the Decadent Dreamer affected a frown at the unsettling state everything was in. It appeared it wasn't just him who had fallen into a deep torpor. Which was … Concerning. Just for how long had he been out? And what had become of everyone? No matter, the answers on those could wait, for now. At his unspoken command, the doors opened themselves for him. Each room presented to him did not pass his strict scrutiny up until one was to his satisfaction. A boudoir uncrumpled by time's unmerciful hand. From the crown canopy, ruched curtains cascaded downwards in graceful rolls, enclosing the bed and shielding it from dust and drafts. Inlaid in the timber of the footboard was a sphinx moth whose wings reached the edges. A much more perfect set-piece rather than an ordinary daybed.

Placing your unconscious body on the bed, the Decadent Dreamer took a step back and looked upon your form. A patron, in the flesh … Indeed not a figment of his imagination. How long has it been since patrons had last come to the opera house? Trains of images passed through his mind - events and people moving at a blur - each detail unshaping until all definition was lost to him. The only picture that came clear upon the mind was of him dancing in an empty auditorium until he collapsed into darkness. Half-wakeful moments where the numbing dread of being forgotten paralyzed his entire being, until a soft touch made him snap out of it … Your touch. You had brought him out of sleep's oblivion. Tenderly. Like the first beams of light emerging.

And now it was you, laying still, except on silken sheets. Sleep was there in all its innocence and in all its helplessness; every wilder emotion was hushed, and his stare became solidly fixed on your face. It was the perfect placidity of countenance – the perfect absence of all expression. Never changing. Utterly undisturbed. Within moments the sight held him spellbound. Was this what the Titanian goddess Selene felt when she gazed upon Endymion's face for the very first time? Was the beauty he was seeing before him the very same she saw through her own eyes?

He dared to take a step forward, to touch your cheek, and to trace downward along the column of your throat with the backs of his china fingers. Had he not been able to physically touch you, he would have assumed he was having yet another cruelly tantalizing vision. But it was, blessed be, very much real.

And in the pearlescent shades of the bedsheets, he began to see how the eclectic mix of colours resembled a blooming moor bathed in blue-white light from the moon; how the flowers embroidered on the curtains of the canopy bed kept you hidden from prying eyes, all except his. Yes, just like the Grecian shepherd, you were sleeping on a covert bed of flowers, peaceful and still beneath the watchful gaze of a higher being—the proletarian client having caught the attention of the étoile.

Even if his immediate response should be to uproot these budding feelings.

To fall in love was an admission one wasn't as committed to their art – and, by extension, not dedicated enough towards the Dramaturge. To be part of the corps meant one had to physically embody their craft. Perfect … A pure paragon. That was the bare minimum, anything less was a disgrace. Nothing else was to distract them; no one else was to top them. Their art was their life. Their sole purpose was to ensure the Dramaturge's genius was continuously lauded by critics without stint. As such, passion towards anything that wasn't the arts was nothing more than a blight that had to be extirpated, lest its hyphae spread out and bring them to ruin.

And in the past the Decadent Dreamer had diligently done so: spurning patrons who vied for his attention, who tried to woo the ballet dancer with expensive prullaria, exotic bouquets, or vacuous poems, even playing with some of their hearts for good measure. They only wanted him for his beauty. To make him into their own miniature dancer held within a fabergé egg music box that would only open up to them. The look on their faces when it dawned on them that he would never be theirs was most delightful every single time.

But you hadn't been possessed by the same sordid covetousness as them, for you had never seen any of his performances. You had no ulterior motive to wake him up.

Was this perhaps the kind of love that would invigorate him? If you awakened, would you be as taken with him as he was with you? Enmu would wait on that answer with bated and eager breath.

#LONG AWAITED DEBUT MFFFSSSSS #LETS FUCKING GOOOOOOOOO

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