And a trippy intermission, because this is the kind of thing that is trippy anyway. I like matching moods.
I just got the Atelier artbook: it is gorgeous. I'm hoping the Ar Tonelico one is even half as good. Tons of art, comparison of alchemy systems: Squee. I'm also hoping it's good because I'm out of prewritten chapters, due to health and stress and such, and I could use the squee-energy to help me get this done. There should be eleven more chapters to go, plus an epilogue. Still, worst case scenerio, I'll be updating this every other week, alternating it with my Atelier series fic.
Imagine a theater.
It is dark, and every seat as far as the eye can see, and farther, stretching into the infinite distance of time, is empty.
No one wants to see.
And this is very ironic, given the subject matter of the play.
Even now, there are those determined to catch every performance, let nothing pass unnoticed, and it is because of this that they do not truly look, and thus cannot see. They are not there for her, or for this. It is not possible to understand without caring, and they don't. Years, centuries, and more from now, people will curse themselves for not attending, but it is because they did not attend that they will be forced to recognize that they missed something very important.
A single spotlight shines down on a girl, who is even younger than she looks. She stands there, at the very front of the middle of the stage, and her eyes are empty. How could they not be, when they reflect the empty theater?
She is naked, save for long, black hair that isn't allowed to conceal anything. It's this very fact that makes the sight utterly unerotic. There is nothing to conceal because there is nothing to see, simply a doll designed by someone with the bad taste to make it anatomically correct, and everyone that should have been here has already moved along.
An emotionless doll, eyes empty, no self to violate by such exposure.
Except to be empty, to be alone, is to be a void.
A void is hunger, and hunger long-denied is pain. They do not see it because normally a void pulls at the world, and this one is sealed away, the body a hollow eggshell. One they thought would hatch nothing.
Two more spotlights suddenly snap on, and one of them shines down on a girl exactly like the first, except that when this one is cut, she bleeds. Her eyes are still empty, but her skin is marked with cuts and blood that almost seem like cloth and seems, the only clothing she can have. The only protection showing others that she is hurt. This proof that she is not hollow almost screams that she is concealing secrets, and from her left arm hangs a shield. It conceals nothing, she has not raised it to protect herself. For, after all, she has learned that the only way to stop the pain is to show them that they have succeeded in hurting her.
That must be done with her body, for her eyes must remain empty.
The other illuminates a larger space, covered in papers and the things befitting a young girl like the one that lies there, on her stomach, feet on the air, as she carefully draws something on several overlapping sheets of paper.
It takes a minute to realize that she doesn't have any clothing either, and this is because she doesn't need it. The floor holds her, her hair wraps around her, and what envelops her most of all is the light in her eyes, the clear awareness there that she is a person, and people have lives, and an inner life.
It is laid bare in the drawings that surround her, of knights and princesses, friends and rescues, but that isn't because she isn't allowed to hide it. It is because she wants to show others.
She's aware that the theater is empty, but what she's working on will change that.
She's drawing a sword. A sword of crystal, a sword of light, a sword made of all the things she's found in her stories to believe in. A sword of truth, of justice, of love, of making things right. She's going to make it so beautiful that it will never have to be stained with blood. All who see it will look upon it and know that it is right. A sword to cure blindness, and they will look upon the light and see her.
It has to be that perfect, because she's going to do battle with a dragon, the two dragons that keep her captive in this place, and she can't bear to hurt them.
She loves them.
She has to make them see. And then they'll fix everything, she knows it.
Looking back at the first one, the one in the center, some of that emptiness becomes expectation. She has nothing now, but she is keeping her heart clear, waiting for it to be filled. Waiting for victory.
There does not seem to be hope in her, she is a box with an open lid and there cannot be hope inside, they would see it, but the fact the box remains unfilled is proof enough.
There would be dust, if not worse, by now. If she did not keep it tended. If the blood was not wiped away before it could seep into the cracks.
Quiet humming becomes singing, and fills the theater. It's a song she heard about, although they beat her and told her to compose more powerful hymns, like that one. So she's doing that.
Except she'd not making a hymn that will make her a new place. She's making a hymn to change this one. A sword that will cut through iron chains and never hurt anyone. She knows what it's like to be hurt, she knows it well. She could not do that to them.
Finally it's perfect, springing to life off the page, shining so brightly, and the girl at the front cedes her place. They do not change places, however.
When it is over, the front of the stage is empty, The sword clatters to the ground, falls away into the darkness.
The one who was there stays where she is, behind and to the left of the one with the shield. The central spotlight illuminates nothing.
For a long time, there is no silence, no movement. No one is there to be angry that the star is missing.
The cuts on the shield-bearer's body start to heal, in fact. They are not reopened. The blood begins to dry, hardening on her skin.
It drips down into her eyes and her arm moves, finally, to wipe it away. Tears are not permitted, even tears of blood.
When her arm lowers, one can see that the blood has seeped down into her eyes.
That emptiness is now filled with living crimson heat.
She watches, now, or it is clear that she is watching. That there is a reason she did not raise the shield to cover her eyes despite how much it cost her.
Her shield arm reaches out to the side now, to cover not herself but the broken doll. The doll moves of its own will, makes a choice, to hide behind this offered shelter. She embraces the red-eyed one from behind and melts into her.
The two remaining lights focus on her, and she raises her head, clothed now in dignity and holy wrath, and steps forward.
Another stage, and this one has a set.
And an audience.
A young blonde woman dabs at her eyes, and a brunet man lowers his head, wishing there was something he could do.
A young girl with sandy hair has fallen to her knees in the middle of the stage. There is no spotlight. None is needed, the set itself is burning. The play she knew, the one with lines and a supporting cast, is over.
Their bodies lie around her.
"Why?" she asks. "Why?" she asks again, shaking, bracing herself with her hands as she wobbles, hair matted with blood from a blow to her head by a mailed fist. She can't understand. It doesn't make sense, and it has to. The world needs to make sense again.
Two girls stand beside her, one with a sword, one with a shield.
"Because this is how it is," says one, stepping forward to her left, and watches the area wryly, studying this brutality, raising the shield to protect her. This is the way the world really is, not the idyllic village life. Put like that, things make sense. She can learn how to deal with it. She can learn from the people who did this what works, and never be so weak ever again. This is a good thing: now she knows what strength truly is she'll become strong, and then she'll make them all sorry.
"It shouldn't be," says the other, but quietly, because it's her fault they were struck. Because they tried to fight. She wants to kill them, but she knows that's wrong. Killing is wrong, her family's bodies prove that. Even she doesn't believe in the sword she's carrying.
The girl shakes her head, closes her eyes and covers her ears. Both of them are wrong, all of this is wrong.
None of her can see a way forward.
But she still gets up, eventually. She still staggers on, and they watch, and wait. For her to decide, for her to call on them.
"Why?" the boy asks, and there is no stage. He doesn't want anyone to see. "I don't, I don't understand." It's been explained, sort of, but he still doesn't. He just can't. His hands grasp both the sword and the shield, but they are slipping from his hands.
They're useless, after all.
And yet they are caught.
One knows why. "They want to protect you. How we not understand that?" one wonders. Even if they would never agree with it. "But I don't want this." How dare they do it for him? "I wanted to protect them." This was wrong.
The other snarls. "How could he… I don't want to understand. I'll never understand how anyone could do something like that!" He refused to. "I'll never be like him!"
