2. theatre of blood. One long, tedious play ends, and another begins, but he likes facing it with someone else. - AU, StevenCynthia.
Continued because I was asked to.
First Act
The First Act was about a boy. Orphaned, grubby, barely living on the kindness of the others, he was like the other wards of the state.
His story was one of hunger, fear, dirt, and cramped spaces. Always, he'd be cold, never really warm.
It wasn't a very good story. The first act drew to a close quickly, but not quickly enough for the boy's taste.
Second Act
The second part was when he was older, and wandering the streets searching for work before meeting the gentleman. Something within was special, enough for him to be singled out and picked.
(Name?)
(Steven, sir. Steven Stone.)
(You'll do.)
The Second Act wasn't such a great part either, but it was transition, leading him into the dramatic action of his life. Opportunity, in its purest form.
But pure dark or light? He'd never know the answer.
Third Act
This one, this had a lot of scenes. Working under the man of the night who was the monster from stories made to scare children, who killed to survive.
Turning into the monster. Killing to survive himself, and then throwing up, before shivering and drinking again. No control for such a long time, and that was a dark scene indeed.
Killing his sire. Killing the man that had given him everything, and then weeping because he had loved the man, despite what he had done.
Leaving. Travelling. Clearing his mind, only to let it cloud over again at the slightest mention of his past. For years, he hid from everything and nothing, looking for the answer.
Fourth Act
Peace? Or contentment?
The once silver-haired orphan, the once jobless man, the once restless vampire found that within him. Everything in life, including life itself, was repetition, a pattern that repeated itself, resounding over the years with its long, repetitive song.
He knew most about himself. Knew that he wished to keep some part of morality within himself, and keep that part of humanity, prudish as it may have been. Others of his kind, he met, and they taught him that this method was, thankfully, not an uncommon one, and one often pursued.
He still disliked the ones that killed, when control was theirs and they could let lives be.
But bad fruit would always be there, history sang. No matter what he did, it would.
Fifth Act
Those thoughts in mind, he came into an argument with another one of night, one who liked to leave a trail of devastation and dead bodies behind him. He disliked him immensely, hating him almost, but kept his hands by his side and his tongue sheathed.
But when the man began to stalk a little girl, young and innocent and pure in her white dress, he lost it, and ended up taking a life of a corpse.
(What an interesting girl.)
Scenes changed, and the girl grew up next to him, maturing from an innocent white princess to a queen of shadows and night and true death, with him, her silver little birdie, whispering in her ears like a faithful advisor, the spy reporting to his queen.
(Strike them, lady, make them fear the vengeance of justice.)
And then, then, then the queen had fallen, taking out two and bleeding away, and he was lost, he admit. What of your duty, your majesty, of your loyal servant that knows not what to do even with his age?
She sighed, her life about to leave her physical shell, and he made a decision.
(I didn't save you from being a meal to let you die in my arms.)
The Act, and indeed, his play of solitude now was ending, coming to a close as he stood, watching the freshly dug earth be torn by the reborn queen rising once more. "The queen is dead," he whispered. "Long live the queen."
(You were just too interesting to be let eaten, my dear.)
