Monday arrives too quickly.
Blake hasn't written a single word for Spectacular Spectacular.
Her back aches from sitting in her chair for forty-eight hours straight. Her head
swimming with exhaustion and anxiousness. She stares at the keys to her
typewriter as if they'll start moving on their own. Ilia hasn't even been in to
bother her. She's been out on the town, while Blake's been holed up in their
room.
She can't stop thinking about Yang. And Ruby.
About the fear on the courtesan's face. About the walls she forcibly kept in
place. It stings, even now. Because she discovered a secret she wasn't
supposed to know.
Because Ruby is sick, and it scares Yang to death.
It's a soft spot for her. An open wound. It's dangerous to know what makes a
woman weak - but it is devastating for someone like Yang.
She can't afford to be exposed like this, and while Blake desperately wants to
know Yang, she doesn't want to be a threat to her.
Unfortunately, those things seem to go hand in hand.
She shifts, wincing at the squeal of the wood beneath her. She tilts her head
back to stare up at the ceiling, her thoughts somehow both screaming and
whispering between her ears. Filled with everything and nothing.
For a while, she sits there and stares.
Drowning in thoughts, memories, fantasies. Dreams, even.
Satine, Yang, Ruby, the Moulin Rouge. The dream she had before meeting Yang
on the elephant starts to itch at the back of her mind.
Clouds and stars, bringing herself into the heavens just for the possibility of a
dance. Kaleidoscopic, her thoughts roll into others. Rain clouds and Parisian
rooftops give way to the conversation she had with Yang on the elephant - the
gentle rejection, and this permanent coughing in her chest that echoes with
what she wants and cannot have. It lingers like a note in a song.
It lingers, and Blake finally feels a story start to beat. Drum rolling in time with
her pulse.
She closes her eyes, and sees Yang.
The poetry of her movement, the starlight reflected in her lavender eyes. She
sees the utter fortress of a personality Yang's built for herself. She hears a
calling beyond those fortress walls, like a hand begging to be grasped. A ring
glinting on a finger; a body with a space carved into its side. Blake can't tell
where her own feelings begin, and Yang's detonate.
"Do you believe in love? You must, looking at me like that."
She shivers. Remembering the calculation in Yang's eyes; the way her sucrose
voice rolled smooth over the words on her tongue.
Oh yes, Blake believes in love.
She sits up in her chair. Her hands reach out to the typewriter before her,
blindly feeling over the keys until her eyes can focus. Accuracy honed by years
of muscle memory helps her type the name. Spectacular Spectacular. She takes
a deep breath. Shoves all the thoughts of Ruby, Sienna, and her parents out of
her mind. She leaves only Yang.
And quietly, she lets the song rise.
She paints in language and tempo; iambic pentameter and rhyme for colour.
Poetry has always been the canvas of her dreams. The blank sheet and thick
paint plotted across a palette.
She lets herself go. Lets her soul guide her fingers across the keys.
It comes to her in waves of images. The show she's meant to write, and the
answers she has to write a story to find. The words translate off the tips of her
fingers in a symphony of clacks and dings. She writes and writes, until the sun
strikes at her eyes from the top of the window. She squints into the beam with
a momentary grunt, just as the door swings open behind her.
Ilia drags herself over the threshold, walking like the floor is swaying under her
feet. She's in a loose cotton shirt and pants that are too long. Blake stifles a
laugh at the vibrant green still flecking her cheeks.
"Oh, you're alive."
"Barely ," Ilia gripes, stumbling over to her cot.
Blake shrugs, turning back to finish the sentence she'd been in the middle of.
"Well met, regardless. I can't afford a funeral for you."
"That makes two of us," Ilia groans, flopping into her bed. She turns a single
caramel eye to Blake at her desk, confusion rasping off her tongue. "Aren't you
supposed to be at rehearsal?"
Blake freezes, taking a sharp glance at the sun in horror. "Oh shit -"
"Bind yourself first!"
Ilia heaves herself back to her feet. A soft, nauseous hrk swallowed down
valiantly as Blake jumps to change her clothes. Ilia snags the bindings off the
floor and with her help, Blake is ready in record time.
She presses a hasty, thankful kiss to Ilia's cheek as she snatches the ream of
paper she wrote, still warm from the typewriter's reel. She doesn't see the
stunned look Ilia gives her, she's already halfway down the stairwell.
Her heart pounds hard under her skin, the force of it nearly pushing her forward
on each pulse. Faster and faster. Eager to get to the Moulin Rouge. Eager to see
Yang. She holds onto her father's hat as she runs, keeping it secure about her
ears.
Booking it past the elephant and scattering the pigeons in her haste, she bursts
into the main entrance with far more force than needed.
Fifteen pairs of eyes turn to her at once. None of them are wreathed in lilac.
She stuffs the disappointment back into her sleeve, glancing around.
The Moulin Rouge looks decidedly different during the day. Those shadows
lounging under the stage and framing the ballroom floor don't seem as smoky
as they do at night. The rich wood floor revealing scuffs from thousands of
shoes scraping across it in the revelry of dance. Red booths tucked into the
corners can finally show their wrinkles and age, the leather worn and far more
faded. Less inviting.
Magic still lingers in the spaces between, though. Streaks of sunlight crawl in
from under the ceiling tapestries, flashing across strings of crystal and
spattering the edges of rainbows across the room. The colours float around
them like a miasma. Washing everything into brighter localities, but blurring
their edges.
The world is a dream in the Moulin Rouge, no matter the time of day.
On the stage, fifteen women and men move together. Dancers all in tights,
frozen mid-stretch to stare at the intruder in their midst.
"I- um." Blake clears her throat, standing at attention with the papers clutched
to her chest. "Hello. I'm the..the writer. For Spectacular Spectacular."
"You?"
A flash of orange is the only warning she has before a thick body enters her
personal space. Voluptuous and warm, wrapped in what looks like sheer
loungewear that hangs off her full hips like a dress, faded pink tights clinging to
every flex of muscle in her legs. Wicked electric blue eyes peer up at her, a
playful look twinkling at the corners. Blake swallows a blush, trying not to seem
too stiff.
"So you're the one Satine's been on about?" The woman croons, boldly walking
her fingers up Blake's arm. "A little handsome for her tastes."
Blake's not entirely sure what to do with that. Was that supposed to be a
compliment or a slight? She can't really tell. She can't exactly take a step back,
but she leans a little ways away. There's a pinch of discomfort in her spine, a
twinge of wrongness that she can't quite give a name to.
"Nora! Put your teeth away babe, he's not a snack for you," a voice echoes
across the empty floor.
Nora pulls her lips into a deep pout, but Blake's already forgotten she's there.
The discomfort in her spine melts away like silt in a creek. She follows the
current of comfort to a familiar waterfall of gold, amethyst winking at her from
across the room. Her hat twitches forward with the involuntary rising of her
ears.
She clears her throat, tries to speak from her chest. Tries to get that rasp in
place before her voice gives away the fact that she isn't a man. "I apologise for
showing up so late."
"I certainly hope you don't make a habit out of it," Yang replies, her tone flat
and bored.
The naïve child in her flinches at the tone, but Blake can't blame her for keeping
those walls up in good conscience. Yang deserves her armor. She deserves to do
what it takes to feel safe.
Nora sashays away from Blake with a knowing grin that both of them ignore.
Though it's hard to forget the other fourteen pairs of eyes locked on their
conversation. None of them are subtle in their eavesdropping.
But Blake doesn't care about any of it. She'll keep knocking at Yang's fortress
walls until she's told not to. Until the voice in her goes silent. Until it stops
tapping -
We could be so good. You and me. We've been good before, I think.
So Blake lifts her chin and gives the barest hint of a smile. She says playfully, "I
only take up habits that are worth getting in trouble for."
Yang stiffens, her gaze burning a path where it skips over Blake's face. Making a
quick round over her body, as if trying to suss out where she's been keeping this
boldness. When they make eye contact, Blake can't help the thrill that rips down
her spine.
She murmurs, only for Blake's ears to grasp, "You're already trouble."
"You have no idea," Blake replies softly, hoping they aren't just talking about
trouble, "trouble is exciting as it is concerning. That's the beauty of it, I think."
They lock each other in a stare. Yang with suspicion, Blake with hope.
Eventually it gets too quiet, and Blake lifts the small reem of paper in her
hands, crinkled from her mad dash over. "I- um. I have the beginning of a story
for you, by the way. For the show."
Yang blinks, taken aback by the subject change. She sinks onto her back foot,
wearing a pair of soft looking silk shoes with low heels. Blake didn't even realise
she wasn't wearing heels. Yang is still taller than her without them.
Her voice rings out, "Then let's hear it."
Nerves tingle at her fingertips, but Blake nods and glances at the rest of the
troupe on the stage. They're all back to stretching except for a colourful pair
basking in one of the few solid rays of sunlight that happened to make it to the
floor.
Nora lounges between the parted thighs of a woman seated at the edge of the
stage, her long, deep scarlet hair pulled up into an effortlessly gorgeous
ponytail. They're giggling to each other as Nora sends smarmy glances towards
Yang, and it hits Blake then that maybe her fantasies about another woman
aren't altogether strange.
At least, not for this side of Paris.
She forgets the whole point of the bohemian lifestyle sometimes. She'll have to
be better about that.
Blake glances at her papers, rereads a bit at the top to remind herself of the
tone. If she's going to sell herself as the writer and poet she needs to be, she'll
need to convince more than just Yang.
Maybe worshipping Yang alone in text was a bad idea.
Oh well, too late now. She's already here.
Blake takes a deep breath, and starts towards the stage. She hears Yang
following behind her; can feel that gaze burning into her backside. Or maybe
she's just imagining it. She's not bold enough to check, stuck hoping that the
weird light in here will be enough to hide the red blush making its way into her
cheeks.
Several dancers move out of the way as she climbs onto the platform. She
catches a glimpse of a pair of male dancers inching out of her space.
The floor is unequivocally hers.
She clears her throat, and rasps, "Hello everyone. My name is Blake-"
The crack of a door against the wall interrupts her, and Blake's nerves skyrocket
to the point where she almost rips her pages.
Two men walk into the ballroom, both horrifically familiar.
White hair, murky blue eyes. The Duke of Atlas Commons scans the room with a
sneer. His stark white suit washes out the colours dappling the air. He's the only
sharp-edged thing there. The portly conductor from the night before trots along
beside him hastily, red-faced and sweaty already.
Yang is quick to shift her stance, adopting Satine's sultry smile as she sways to
intercept Jacques Schnee with a grand wave. Her cover is impeccable, Blake
doesn't know how she does it so flawlessly.
"Ah, my dear Duke! How wonderful for you to join us," Yang says with painfully
false cheer, "Our writer was just about to explain Spectacular Spectacular. I'm
sure you'll want to listen in."
Blake bristles as Duke Schnee shoots a glare in her direction, barely keeping her
own sharp-toothed sneer under control. She tries to channel a bit of Yang's
confidence into her voice, tipping her hat forward and lying through her teeth.
"A pleasure, Your Grace."
"I don't believe I've ever seen you here before," Duke Schnee says with
palpable disdain.
Blake lets it roll off of her with a stiff smile, though the disdain in his face makes
her grasp at the pages. She wrings the edges like she wants to mirror it with his
pale neck, and responds calmly, "Really? I've seen you. Many times, in fact."
The barest hint of her canines glint in a dangerous smile. "It's fantastic, having
such a prominent figure mingling with the regular folk."
The Duke's face turns bright red. Zidler stumbles in front of him, redirecting his
oncoming anger with a well-timed bluster. Yang shoots Blake a glare that cuts
itself in half with panic.
The look roots Blake's soles to the stage. Yang's voice fuzzes out into a murmur
as she distracts the enraged man with a clever touch to his wrist. Her body
presses into his side. Her eyes on him. Only him.
It's not jealousy that digs a pit in Blake's stomach. It's not rage - though there's
a riotous familiarity buzzing in her hands. It isn't anything, really.
She is empty. Echoing. Her emotions faint and distant.
She turns back to her papers, glancing over the story briefly. She pretends not
to see the pair of women at the edge of the stage pitying her. She pretends
there's no one else in this ballroom. Not even Yang.
She breathes in a moment of much needed solitude.
The Duke pulls her from it abruptly. He waves off Zidler and Yang, barking at
Blake, "Show me your value or I'll have you fired this instant! There are a
thousand writers in Paris, what makes you worth my time and money?"
Blake turns to level him with a glare, unimpressed. He doesn't seem to like her
staring, but she doesn't give a shit about his feelings. She learned how to loom
from her father, and even from this distance, he seems to feel it. Her voice is a
dark murmur that echoes in the space.
"The story of Spectacular Spectacular is one of love." Blake paces forward.
Gravitating to the edge of the stage.
"Love?" He says with palpable disdain.
"Yes, love." Her nails do rip into the reem. "It's the story of a queen, a warlord,
and a musician. The warlord and musician have been searching for the queen
for years, but each with their own motivations."
The Duke scoffs and sneers, "What do motivations have to do with it?"
Blake glances at Yang, who still isn't looking at her. Her heartbeat pulses a beat
behind her teeth and she responds, "The heart is the seat of motivation, or so
the saying goes."
Traveling to the heavy curtains held by tassels at the edge of the stage, her
steps are silent over the hollow platform. Blake feels Yang's eyes on her and for
the first time, she worries that her own attraction to her is a chain, just like it
was with Adam. That maybe she fell in love with a flicker of a song, and the
unearthly pull of those lilac eyes is really just...infatuation. Transient, like
everything she's come to love.
An altering thought.
Even though she knows in her soul it's wrong.
She clears her throat, willing moisture onto her cotton-mouth tongue. She
listens to her own words as if they're coming from the mouth of another. "You
can't have a story of love without motivation."
She absently hands her stack of papers off to a stranger - one of the male
dancers, who gives her an utterly confused look but takes it anyway. A flash of
white catches her eye at the end of the stage. The dressing room door, a girl
slipping out of sight. Must be another dancer.
"It begins in the palace of a warlord." Blake hums, looking back at her audience.
"One day, the rumor of a queen whose very smile brings nations to their knees,
reaches his ears. A litany of nations choosing her side over his. Choosing her,
because her knowledge is otherworldly. Her beauty even more so."
Yang's attention burns. She can feel the way the interest sparks in the room,
and Blake stifles the urge to smile at it.
"The moment he learns of these tales, he desires to own her. To conquer, and
keep her beauty and knowledge for himself. He wants her with the same greed
that gave him a golden palace floor, the crown upon his brow," her eyes flick to
the Duke, "and the starving people at his door."
She doesn't miss a beat, swallowing her old resentment. "He sends his soldiers
to find her. The order rings out along the hall. He is consumed by his desire, and
the court musician watches it all with rapt attention."
"Months go by, siege after siege committed - and finally, the warlord's men
return, accompanied by the queen. She had gone with them willingly. Her pride
intact, the moment she steps into the warlord's palace, the entire place goes
silent."
She pauses, reveling in the mirrored silence of the Moulin Rouge.
Continuing, "Because from the very first glance, she is indeed as beautiful as
the stories portrayed."
Blake looks over her shoulder at Yang, and adds softly , "Even more so."
Yang's hand drops from the Duke's coat. She finds her own space beside the
man, a pretty flush glowing off her skin. Something unclenches in Blake's chest.
It makes it easier to breathe.
Blake licks her lips and turns her back to the courtesan, gesturing to the stage
around her with a hand as if presenting it. "He offers her a loaded choice. Take
her place within the palace, placated with all manners of gifts that give a
distracting shine - or he will take her agency from her. He will lay waste to her
kingdom, destroy her cities until there is nothing but ash to feed the soil. A
choice, between gaining everything he can give her, or losing everything she's
worked for."
Blake turns back around, making her way to the other set of stairs. Restless.
The dancers all move out of her way without a single word of prompting. "But
with her head held high, the queen refuses him, and enrages him in the same
measure."
She glances at the Duke, and it's not a stretch to see red in his hair, instead of
white. Those icy blue eyes are almost the same shade as Adam's. Nearly the
same danger humming like a warning beneath his sneer.
"Rage makes him impulsive," Her voice comes out in a croak, "she can't be
allowed to refuse him. He'll keep her, whether she wants to be his or not."
"...But before that moment of eruption, the warlord's musician steps forward."
Finally, Blake alights down the steps, moving slow through the images in her
mind.
Because when Blake tells stories, she doesn't tell them. She lives in them.
She's living in it now.
In a languid stretch of her mind's eye, the ballroom of the Moulin Rouge
changes entirely. The tapestries and crystal waterfalls fold in on themselves,
turning to stained glass windows and curtains of solid jewels. Church-like,
gothic arches line the dome. Sweeping up into an open mouth of murals.
Paintings of the stars and man's depiction of the gods crawl across the ceiling in
an eternal struggle. Notre-Dame in effigy. The palace she sees in her
imagination turns the floors gold beneath her boots.
The stage falls away into a gilded high-backed throne, too large and gaping for
just one person to sit upon. The Duke's white suit flutters into a floor-length
cape. A crown falls upon his haughty brow. Zidler at his side, washed in jester's
colours and topped with a hat. The dancers on the stage turn to citizens of the
court and Yang…
Well. Yang doesn't change at all.
The story plays through Blake's mind while she tells it to the captive crowd.
For when the musician steps forward, the warlord's rage grows into shadows
along the marbled walls. He stifles all the light in the room - even the long
windows have their colours stripped out of the glass.
Afraid of neither warlord nor the shadows that drip off the walls, the musician
approaches the queen and says, "I believe I have something that belongs to
you."
The entire echoing room falls quiet. Fractals of shadow flicker, and light of the
sun grows sharper in its rays. The queen inclines her head in curiosity, blinking
with Yang's eyes.
A song starts to filter through the room. Echoing, ringing against the shadows
and chasing them back into those pools of darkness at the corners of the room.
The throne room is left to glow with prisms of light. Speckling their feet in a
myriad of colourful stars. Where the clouds shift beyond the blue lens of the
gods. Where the gold seems to move underneath their feet with their passing.
Blake feels the truth of the melody ring in her very bones; feels the song
threaten to burst from her own throat.
But it's not her voice that joins in with the musician. It's the queen's.
Blake imagines her singing in Yang's voice. How can she not? It's her song, after
all. Blake made it solely to worship the whole of Yang's voice, and everything
she can command with it. Including the foretold stardust rioting in Blake's veins,
screaming I'm yours I'm yours, in everything but name .
This song they sing - the musician and queen together - grows softer and softer
in the sudden realisation of harmony. Sung all the way to a whisper, where the
queen then asks in awe, "Why do I know that tune?"
"Because it's yours," the musician replies, their skin still spattered with
stained-glass refractions. Like the light is hesitant to leave them. "As is the ring
you're missing."
"Ring?"
And the musician sighs with lifetimes of sadness. They take a glint of something
out of their pocket - a ring of solid gold. As they hold it in their hand, there is
something strange about it. Because in this palace, the floors are polished gold.
They should look similar to the ring in colour and glow - but they are not. The
rings seems brighter , pulsing with a heat the queen can feel even from a few
metres' distance. It feels familiar.
It feels destined, in a way.
The ring is handed to her, the musician's fingers shaking as they touch for the
briefest of moments.
"You've forgotten already."
Almost desperate to ask, the queen demands, "Forgotten what?"
"Look at yourself, my lady," the musician gestures to the reflective floor.
When she looks, she's greeted by the vision of herself haloed in sun rays. Where
the very essence of fire and heat coalesces around her in rippling waves of
orange and white. The pockets of her eyes are swallowed in burning pale violet
light - like she'd consumed the tail of a comet long ago and it soon became part
of her eyes.
She stares and stares at the person she's always been, while the musician
explains with a resonating, dulcet murmur.
"You are a queen in this life, but you have always been borne of the sun. You
once sang amongst the stars so beautifully that they wept across the sky in
gratitude. And when your songs disappeared, they wept only in sadness."
The musician gives a fragile smile. "Though, out of all stars in the universe, I
am certain I wept the most."
The musician steps closer. Reaching, begging without words. "I've searched for
you. I've wanted for your light longer than this world has been alive. I meant to
find you before Death claimed your memories again - and I mean to give you a
choice too, if you like. Come back to the sky with me. Return to your former
glory. Even if you don't accept my love, I should like to see you sing in
happiness again.
Blake blinks, and the queen falls away. Yang stays just as beautiful, just as
starstruck as the queen - but Blake steps out of third person, and takes the
musician's place.
And there's a moment where it's just them, in the center of it all.
Where Yang is borne of the sun, and Blake has searched time and space, just
for a chance to belong to her in some way. To risk it all. Wagering against the
chance that Yang won't choose her, this time around.
At least she doesn't have to worry about her own choice.
It's always been Yang.
"But if I may appeal to you with what you and I both know. What you used to
sing, way back when. Do you remember? You would sing…" Blake swallows the
desert in her throat, "The greatest thing you'll ever learn...is just to love, and
be loved in return."
Yang's eyes widen.
She steps forward, reality and imagining blending into a dream of some kind. A
liminal thing, where Blake isn't certain she's actually alive in this space.
But she hears her clear as day.
She hears her ask, "Say that again?" as if the first time wasn't enough.
Blake does as she asks, repeating quietly, "The greatest thing you'll ever learn,
is just to love," and she is the musician in this space. She is a child of the stars,
beseeching the image of the sun. She lays her heart at Yang's feet,
surrendering. "...and be loved...in return."
And oh , the way Yang looks at her.
As if seeing her for the first time.
As if waking up.
Blake's soul just about leaves her body, when the warlord says, "This story is
ridiculous!"
The tale shatters around her like a brick through glass. She's suddenly back in
the ballroom of the Moulin Rouge, the small gap between her and Yang
snapping to an impossible distance once more. She hasn't moved from the
bottom of the stage steps. Nora and the other dancer sit closest to her, blinking
as if awakened from a spell. The whole room blinks the same. Even Zidler
seems half awake.
The Duke doesn't seem to see, or care. He gestures to Blake, spitting, "This is
bohemian nonsense! I demand-"
Blake suddenly rounds on him, anger blazing off her tongue like the crack of a
flame.
"This story isn't for you! "
Her rage echoes and it makes her flinch. A collective gasp falls through the
room, rending it silent.
The remains of it rings in her ears, that echo of her shout. The resulting
stunned silence. It brings her back down to a simmer. A roiling simmer, but a
simmer nonetheless.
She adds through gritted teeth, "Your circles may scoff at stories of love and
magic, but they've managed to survive through everything from famine to war.
These stories are important to the people, and it's important to appeal to them.
This show would be nothing without them and their patronage."
The Duke rolls his eyes, turning his nose up at her as if she was a rotten
vegetable he didn't want to consume. It's in that childish instance that has cold
fear dripping down the back of Blake's throat.
Because this man helps run the world. His votes put soldiers on ships, and guns
in the hands of children. A man ordering Death to ride through the streets,
uncaring of who His cold hand grips. Tyrants like Duke Schnee are on the rise,
Blake knows.
Across the world, war is starting to sink bloody claws into the soil like
pestilence. Where unhappy people are fodder for men playing board games.
Violence breeding violence. Rook takes bishop. The munitions factories coughing
in anticipation.
And here, the Duke stands before Blake, sniffing at her like a child with his toy
taken away. One of the most powerful men in France. Childish in his long age.
Oh, they're all doomed.
A muscle in her jaw twitches, molars clenched together furiously. She thinks of
Adam, and his hairpin trigger. She feels like her own temper is getting quicker,
and it scares her.
A palm presses flat into her shoulder blade, and the heat of it seems to burn the
rage away. Blake unwinds subtly. It gets easier to breathe.
And Yang, with honey on her tongue, says, "Spectacular Spectacular was always
meant to be a love story, Your Grace."
Blake watches the allure of her work in real time. She watches the Duke shift
under the eyes of everyone in the ballroom.
Even Zidler chimes in eagerly, jumping on the bandwagon for Satine, "It'll be a
sensation! I tell you my dear Duke, we will make history!"
The dancer with brilliant red hair pipes up cheerfully from the stage, "It needs
more conflict though, yes?"
"Um," Blake looks between Zidler and the dancer, bewildered that they're
helping her. "Yes. Before the queen can give her answer, the lovers are
interrupted by the warlord. He's appalled by the musician's boldness. He orders
their execution, revealing his true Evil nature. For if he can't have the queen's
love, no one can."
"Ooo we could do a dance number to change the stage to the dungeons!" Nora
pipes up, grinning wide with excitement. She vaults up onto the stage, striking
a dramatic pose just to point at the red-haired dancer. "Pyrrha can be the
guard!"
The woman flushes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Nora…"
"Don't look at me like that babe, you'd be magnificent."
Blake fights back a smile, the rock in her chest slipping away, unimpeded. She
adds, "The warlord means to imprison them before the hanging, but the guards
refuse. They've never seen a love this old. It feels wrong to touch it."
Zilder's arms fly wide as he booms, "And the warlord gives a great, enraged cry!
"His face changes," Blake says, a smile spreading over her face, "From warlord
to something worse. A creature -"
"Evil incarnate!" Nora exclaims, a spark alighting in her icy blue eyes.
"Yes! The shadows grow long," Blake says, taking the words from the back of
her throat in a rumble, "the warlord revealing himself in black effigy."
"And the queen steps forward," Yang's voice sends a shiver through Blake's
core. She doesn't dare look at her. "She knows who she is, now. She takes the
power of the sun in her hand."
The heat of her hand drifts down and presses into the base of Blake's spine.
Like she didn't even think about moving it somewhere safer. Blake has to bite
back the urge to soak in more of her touch. She needs to speak before she
loses herself in it.
She croaks, "The queen puts on the ring, and the monster of a warlord recoils
from her light. Burned by it. By her. The inability to reach her turns his vision
red. He instead turns to the musician, and lunges to end them. Claws
outstretched, mouth lined in teeth under a bone mask."
"But the guard steps forward just in time!" Nora crows, "Bashing him away with
her shield!"
The other dancers give a raucous cheer, and Blake's heart is pounding in her
ears. She reluctantly steps away from Yang's hand, turning to face the whole
room. "The court comes together as one, then. Tired of the tyranny, tired of
being stepped on by the warlord and his violence, they rise as one voice. One
militia, to fight him in the name of the sun. In the name of the queen, and the
musician who freed her with a song."
Blake's eyes lock on Yang, and the Duke that was left behind to stand alone in
the center of the ballroom. He's furious, but he can't say a word. Not with the
whole room chiming in their approval. Blake takes special pleasure in that. She
feels powerful, for once. Like she could touch the sky with her bare hands. Like
she might actually reach Yang in her paramount space.
Blake breathes, "Death comes for the warlord, then. Arriving in a robe wreathed
in red. They say 'my powers are not for you to claim,' and, whisking the warlord
away, the room lies empty once more. But the queen's decision still lies in
limbo. Stay with the warlord's court and make it into a proper kingdom, or join
the musician in the sky. Sharing the universe as they did eons ago. Singing in
joy."
"The queen should stay and take over!" Nora says boldly, gesturing to the stage.
"There's no one else who can rule in her place."
"Not true," Blake says absently, distracted by the emotions flicking across Yang's
face, "The guard who saved her can rule. They've proven their loyalty, and they
know what it's like to turn against authority. The guard can plan out a better
future for her people, one they've wanted but never seen before."
"But wouldn't the power corrupt them?" Pyrrha asks.
Blake shakes her head, tearing away from the look on Yang's face. "Not
necessarily. Power isn't always bad, but it's never good either. It needs a
balance, and someone who's lived in both the world of courts and the world of
commoners might have the insight to walk that line perfectly. And since it's just
a story, we can make it happen easily enough."
Pyrrha nods thoughtfully, a smile blooming across her face. Nora plops back
down beside her on the stage, her feet swinging excitedly. "I love it! Whatcha
think, Zidler?"
The man jumps at being addressed, a jovial smile evolving out of his mustache.
"I think this will be the greatest story ever told! What say you, Your Grace?"
The entire room turns to look at Duke Schnee, who begrudgingly glares at
Zidler and the rest of the room.
He growls out, "I suppose it will suffice."
The entire room explodes into cheers, but all Blake hears is a ringing in her
ears. She's still wound tighter than a spring, because beside her, Yang is staring.
Gears turning behind comet tail eyes. Contemplating. Perhaps thinking
something that will either break or ruin Blake. She's not sure how to stop it, so
she doesn't.
Finally, Yang says quietly, "I'd like to speak to you about some potential lines to
consider, Mis..ter..."
"Belladonna," Blake supplies hastily. "Mister Belladonna is um. Fine. I'll...follow
you, then."
Yang just gives a stiff nod, turning on her heel to lead them into the hallway
that the dancer wreathed in white had disappeared into. It is indeed the path to
the dressing rooms, she realises as they march past several vanities lined along
the wall. Blake swears she sees another glimpse of white from behind a vanity -
but it's a costume. Nothing more.
Not a single word passes between them as they walk. Yang doesn't look at her
once, and it has Blake's stomach writhing in the torture of it.
Finally, at the end of the line, lies a single red door. The placard reads "Satine".
Yang still doesn't speak, and Blake can't handle it anymore.
She tries a soft, "Is Ruby doing okay?"
But it's the wrong thing to say.
Yang whirls around, her eyes blazing with restrained anger. Frustration, even.
"What are you playing at?" She asks between gritted teeth.
Taking a step back, Blake frowns. "Playing? Playing at what?"
"This!" Yang's hand nearly slaps into Blake's chest with how sharply she
gestures between them. "Your story, the whole thing on the elephant!"
Utterly confused now, she replies, "What do you mean?"
And Yang paces to one side, muscles rolling in her shoulders out of agitation.
"Why bother chasing me when you know that's not how this works? You're
upending my plans and I can't tell if it's on purpose or just a fanciful delusion
you've fallen into."
"Up-upending? I don't-"
"You and your mysteries can keep to yourself, I have other things I need to
focus on!"
"Like Ruby?" Blake asks, nerves spiking and flinging her hat akimbo, freeing one
of her ears. She doesn't bother fixing it just yet.
" Maybe . That's none of your business, to be honest."
It's curious, the way Yang paces. The way she glances at Blake and looks away,
sharp and pointed. Purposeful. The placard of Satine lies between them like a
canyon. Blake notices the letters are red, like the paint on the door. Like the mill
on the roof. Like Ruby's shawl.
Like it hasn't gotten its point across, yet. How everyone who touches the name
ends up bloody, one way or another.
Yang hisses, "If I gave you any impression of something more than intrigue
between us, I apologise."
And Blake's single visible ear droops. She fits her hat back over it quickly,
shame coiling like a snake between her ribs.
"...Right," She murmurs to herself, properly hollowed. "Just intrigue, then."
Yang stops pacing and turns to look at her with a stiff jaw. Her eyes are
unreadable. The lanterns of the room fill them with a cruel crimson sheen.
Blake straightens under her gaze, shedding the disappointment for it to rip her
apart later. There's no need to embarrass herself further by letting Yang see it.
How much it hurt to hear her say it.
A necessary evil, perhaps. She has been out of control recently.
Yang doesn't move an inch. She doesn't make to speak again. Blake grows
uncomfortable under her stare, and it bothers her how the silence isn't all
discomfort. Where it somehow holds the potential to be peaceful, even now.
She clears her throat, "If that's all, I'd like to discuss some ideas with the
dancers before I leave."
Yang nods so sharply Blake thinks she hears a pop in her neck.
She turns around, and leaves.
Just leaves.
The roads are full of them at this time of year. Burning colours gathered in the
gutters, sharp cold whipping against Blake's cheek as she finally emerges from
the Rouge in the evening. Exhausted, drained. The sun is setting between the
Iron Lady's legs and Blake is irrationally bitter at it.
The dancers were excited for her ideas. The prospect of participating in an
actual production, a break from the usual pomp and circumstance, was a
welcome intrigue. But Satine hadn't shown up again. Even Zidler looked put-off
by it. Blake simply wants to crawl into bed and lick her wounds.
She winds her way up the fire escape, avoiding the tenants inside who know her
name. Who always greet her like a friend. She's bitter about everything right
now, it's best to spare them of her attitude.
Ilia's in her bed still, snoring away. Her skin changes colours while she sleeps,
sometimes. It's a deep purple tonight, the freckles on her face just a shade
darker. She twitches at Blake's arrival through the window, humming a little in
her dreams.
Blake walks over with a heavy sigh, and gently shakes her awake.
She jolts up with a snort, her skin fluctuating into a rainbow of colour before
settling back into its normal olive tone. She rubs at her eye.
"Blake?"
The name scrapes off her tongue with sleepy laziness, the whole of Ilia's throat
a rocky cavern. "What timesz'it?"
"Nearly seven." Blake attempts a smile. "There's an event tonight. I figured
you'd want to be awake for it."
Ilia gives a gravelly chuckle, sliding out of bed. "When isn't there an event in
Paris?"
She's wearing a large sleep shirt that caves in between her breasts, bare legs
long as she pads over to the suitcase she's been living out of.
Blake wonders what would have happened, then. If she'd fallen for Ilia instead.
If she'd be in the same aching pain she feels creeping up over her head. Kept at
bay only by the presence of another person in the room.
Would they be happy together? Would they even know what to do with
something as nebulous as love?
She can't explain it for the life of her, but the very thought of it feels wrong.
Like Blake purposefully took away a puzzle piece that perfectly completed the
picture, and tried to put something entirely different in its place.
It makes her a little sick actually, so she stops thinking about it entirely.
Oblivious to the poisonous thoughts in Blake's head, Ilia tugs on trousers and an
overcoat with a shiver. She gestures to the open window, "Do you want me to
close that? You'll catch your death with it open."
"No," Blake clears her throat, "No I...I like the smell of autumn. I'll close it a
little later."
Ilia studies her for a moment, and asks the dreadful question of, "How did
rehearsal go?"
Blake swallows her feelings with difficulty. It's for the best it's for the best it's
for the best - she doesn't have to know the mess I've made of this.
"Fine. The dancers are all excited about it, which I think is a good thing."
"And Satine?"
Her heart stops.
And resumes with a painful lurch.
She manages to choke out, "She's amenable to it."
Ilia nods slowly. She hesitates, and makes her way over to Blake, whose body
winds itself tighter with every step she takes. Ilia's palm is still sleep warmed as
she presses it into Blake's upper arm. Supportive. Careful, always careful. Blake
is so tired of being handled like glass.
"You seem nervous. Is it about the show?"
"Yeah," She answers, "First day jitters and all."
Ilia softens with a smile. She squeezes Blake's upper arm. "Well it's over now.
You can rest in peace for the night, I probably won't be back till tomorrow
afternoon."
Blake doesn't really look at her, watching the sky shift into streaks of deep
purple and blue. "Busy night planned?"
Ilia pulls away, her movements agitated. "Maybe. Sienna wants to start having
meetings at night for the volunteers. She's teaching us about gaps in court law."
Blake doesn't linger long on that strange look on Ilia's face. She shrugs out of
her coat, tossing her hat aside as she brushes past her friend. "Sounds
riveting."
"Well if they won't teach it to us, we have to find it somewhere. Not all of us
were born in higher circles."
Blake snaps a sharp, offended glare over her shoulder, but Ilia's back is already
turned to her. "Goodnight Blake."
"Good-" Blake winces as paint chips fleck off the door from the resulting slam,
"-night. I fucking guess."
She runs a stressed hand through her hair, huffing. She doesn't understand
what Ilia's problem is. Her plans are going smoothly, she's in Sienna's good
graces thanks to Blake. Her touch had been so warm and concerned, but there
was another thing there, too. Something scarily familiar. A goal, or purpose.
Ilia has plans with the Rouge. She's often split between being concerned for
Blake, and focused on the task at hand. Blake doesn't see the same molten
warmth in Ilia's eyes as she does in Yang's. Why didn't she see the plans in
Yang's eyes, then? Why didn't she see this whole thing coming? Why didn't she
stop herself from falling sooner? Could she have stopped herself at all?
She's been riding a confidence of some kind, and she doesn't know where it
came from. Certainly not from herself. She has no reason to be confident in
love.
So why was she so sure Yang would fall for her too? That her efforts with the
Rouge would make her feel the same?
Her hands rip at the clothes on her body, pulling the bindings free with a vitriol
of a mad man. Is it just the allure of Satine? She leaves her buttoned shirt
open, the boiling frustration under her skin recoiling at the kiss of cool air.
Is it just a power Yang has honed over the years? A power to convince powerful
men that they love a woman so completely they'd empty their vaults for just
one more taste? What does that make Blake, then?
"A complete and utter fool," she bites out to the empty room. She should have
known.
Fairytales were meant to stay in books.