The murmuring of nobles filled the theatre. The stage was unfamiliar: marbled floors, stone pillars that seemed to reach the heavens, rounded ceilings adorned with paintings of Gods and Goddesses alike. Every guest that sat within the audience had donned their finest coats and gowns, merely highlighting the exclusivity of the event in which they attended.
And then there was Florian.
Normally, the boy would find such a performance to be natural — when he wielded his violin, of course. Though tonight his music would not speak for him; tonight it would be him that uttered the words for people to hear through the guise of a role. Well, not a role entirely.
'How am I meant to do this? I have only participated in the silly comedies that Elta prepares for the townsfolk, never something this... intense. What if some of these aristocrats realize who I am? Would Sven be that much a fool to pull such a risk?'
The lights began to dim, signaling that the show was about to begin. The whispers slowly died to silence, only combatted by the pounding of Florian's heart within his chest. His eyes met the marking on the stage floor where he was meant to kneel.
'Breathe,' he would remind himself, taking his place while a stagehand loosely secured his palms behind his back. 'Breathe, and show these people a taste of what they have done to you.' A familiar figure joined him at his side; Athadas, clad in black garb and chainmail, a faux axe resting in his hand. The curtains shifted in anticipation, and Florian would take his final breath as they whisked open. The lights now shone on him and him alone.
"Any last words? That is what you are meant to say, though perhaps I may have misheard... for here and now I am on display, with little patience for the absurd."
His voice projected across the theatre, captivating the attention of each individual sitting in the veil of darkness before him. An arrogant grin had stretched across his lips, though the energy it carried was more of spite than pride.
"Yes, all of you, gather ‘round! Fix your gazes upon the fool who sits with his hands bound," he paused, embellishing an expression that feigned disgust, "his actions oh so cruel." With the exaggerated grimace fading back to his coy smile, Florian would turn to face the audience once more, proudly pushing back his shoulders and exposing the skin of his chest. "Today will be told the story of my deeds; my works of carnage and deceit that paint the way the body bleeds as a fate none of you wish to meet."
"The girl they say, so beautiful and pure, one that many would see as unfit for a prince with such allure..." His lashes would flutter, continuing to make jest of the situation at hand. "A bias none would openly admit."
"To some my power is seen as a threat, facilitating misconduct for sinful acts; not one of you knew of my intent yet slew rumors and suspicions that could impact the manner in which the public reacts. A scene so gruesome, blood on my hands, her golden hair stained red, my fingers woven within the strands that sprouted from her open head."
Momentarily, the untroubled facade of his prior statements had begun to fade. The smile became pained; his gaze fixated emptily on a faraway place. Silence reigned, his chest visibly tightening — all until a scoff forced its way from his lips.
"Of course it was me! How could it be not? The witness had seen me kill, or so they may have thought... and it was time for my blood to spill. A prince sentenced to death with no chance of a trial, only the uncertain breath of a maid in denial damning him as Macbeth." The muscles in the violinist's jaw tightened, furthering the tense atmosphere he sought to foster. Slowly, through the vast sea of shadowed faces, his eyes would land on the royal woman who invited them here herself; Joan Guillaume.
"Oh father of mine, peering from the terrace, must you watch me with such malice? To listen to my crime must embarrass you and your splendid palace. Your only son will soon meet his demise, leaving no heir to claim the throne, and though you may claim wise the true criminal may never atone." Another moment of strained laughter as his gaze fell back to the audience. Beneath the outward cloak of confidence, Florian pushed the sentiment of a frightened boy — one who held dismay over his impending doom.
"But today I plan to die with dignity as the villain I am scripted to play!" The line, though crafted with words of certainty, shook as it echoed between the playhouse walls. "A butcher of such malignity, so that infamous I may stay."
"So gaze upon me, peasants! Take in the features of my face, for this will be the final time..." Slowly, with timidity in his movements, Florian would tilt his head to glance at the axe that was now raised over his kneeling figure. "That you may fully replace my legacy with this faulty crime."
Extra cast members would rush to Florian's side. Hands tugged and pulled at him as he fought to be free; though, in the end, he sat still — his head hung. As the axe made its fatal swing, the lights disappeared, and the curtains would come to a close once more.
And then there was Florian.
Normally, the boy would find such a performance to be natural — when he wielded his violin, of course. Though tonight his music would not speak for him; tonight it would be him that uttered the words for people to hear through the guise of a role. Well, not a role entirely.
'How am I meant to do this? I have only participated in the silly comedies that Elta prepares for the townsfolk, never something this... intense. What if some of these aristocrats realize who I am? Would Sven be that much a fool to pull such a risk?'
The lights began to dim, signaling that the show was about to begin. The whispers slowly died to silence, only combatted by the pounding of Florian's heart within his chest. His eyes met the marking on the stage floor where he was meant to kneel.
'Breathe,' he would remind himself, taking his place while a stagehand loosely secured his palms behind his back. 'Breathe, and show these people a taste of what they have done to you.' A familiar figure joined him at his side; Athadas, clad in black garb and chainmail, a faux axe resting in his hand. The curtains shifted in anticipation, and Florian would take his final breath as they whisked open. The lights now shone on him and him alone.
"Any last words? That is what you are meant to say, though perhaps I may have misheard... for here and now I am on display, with little patience for the absurd."
His voice projected across the theatre, captivating the attention of each individual sitting in the veil of darkness before him. An arrogant grin had stretched across his lips, though the energy it carried was more of spite than pride.
"Yes, all of you, gather ‘round! Fix your gazes upon the fool who sits with his hands bound," he paused, embellishing an expression that feigned disgust, "his actions oh so cruel." With the exaggerated grimace fading back to his coy smile, Florian would turn to face the audience once more, proudly pushing back his shoulders and exposing the skin of his chest. "Today will be told the story of my deeds; my works of carnage and deceit that paint the way the body bleeds as a fate none of you wish to meet."
"The girl they say, so beautiful and pure, one that many would see as unfit for a prince with such allure..." His lashes would flutter, continuing to make jest of the situation at hand. "A bias none would openly admit."
"To some my power is seen as a threat, facilitating misconduct for sinful acts; not one of you knew of my intent yet slew rumors and suspicions that could impact the manner in which the public reacts. A scene so gruesome, blood on my hands, her golden hair stained red, my fingers woven within the strands that sprouted from her open head."
Momentarily, the untroubled facade of his prior statements had begun to fade. The smile became pained; his gaze fixated emptily on a faraway place. Silence reigned, his chest visibly tightening — all until a scoff forced its way from his lips.
"Of course it was me! How could it be not? The witness had seen me kill, or so they may have thought... and it was time for my blood to spill. A prince sentenced to death with no chance of a trial, only the uncertain breath of a maid in denial damning him as Macbeth." The muscles in the violinist's jaw tightened, furthering the tense atmosphere he sought to foster. Slowly, through the vast sea of shadowed faces, his eyes would land on the royal woman who invited them here herself; Joan Guillaume.
"Oh father of mine, peering from the terrace, must you watch me with such malice? To listen to my crime must embarrass you and your splendid palace. Your only son will soon meet his demise, leaving no heir to claim the throne, and though you may claim wise the true criminal may never atone." Another moment of strained laughter as his gaze fell back to the audience. Beneath the outward cloak of confidence, Florian pushed the sentiment of a frightened boy — one who held dismay over his impending doom.
"But today I plan to die with dignity as the villain I am scripted to play!" The line, though crafted with words of certainty, shook as it echoed between the playhouse walls. "A butcher of such malignity, so that infamous I may stay."
"So gaze upon me, peasants! Take in the features of my face, for this will be the final time..." Slowly, with timidity in his movements, Florian would tilt his head to glance at the axe that was now raised over his kneeling figure. "That you may fully replace my legacy with this faulty crime."
Extra cast members would rush to Florian's side. Hands tugged and pulled at him as he fought to be free; though, in the end, he sat still — his head hung. As the axe made its fatal swing, the lights disappeared, and the curtains would come to a close once more.