۶ৎ Liz | Bearing Eyes ۶ৎ

"Le nom sans varier nous suit jusqu’au trépas,

Et combien qu’aujourd’hui celui ne sois-je pas

Qui vivais hier passé, toujours même on me nomme." — Jean-Baptiste Chassignet (1571–1635)

In the infinite loop of time, all will become trivial. Again, and again, and again. Over and over shall we be doomed to repeat our past mistakes. Such is the nature of a human being. Once, there was a young girl who had strived to change the fate of an eternal art once and for all. Alas, it was all for naught, as everything had come to burn all at once, and cast to the ashes were the beliefs of the young and misguided, and once more does a spirit rise to step into the river tainted with the blood they themselves had shed into the water—only now different. Now, simply, they are empty. Empty in physical being, and holding no emotional ties. Long ago were those bridges burned. Long ago had the Green Flame consumed all—the virtuous and wicked alike. So was that burden for this soul to carry, and so carry they did, for what good would it do to wallow in the shame of a past that longer bound her latent passion?

Now, here we arrive. A place of tainted beauty. A theater is a place for passion. It holds the requiem to countless dreams and passions of an art long diluted through time as a mere movement of the body, while it is, in fact, the conveyed desires of the soul. To truly understand the heart is through each step taken upon a stage. Every single step, each spin, all delicately choreographed and just as good, if not more satisfactory than translating words onto a page. There was nothing more sincere than the lithe throes of a million fouettés. Nothing more genuine than a single pose held for eternity to call to the heavens. Liberate the concerns of the physical strain, as this vessel shall not shackle the soul that yearns to express it's greatest desire.

The solemn building rested silently. No tremors, no creaks, no wisp of gossiping wind that graced the ear, nor a peep of a mouse scurrying along the wooden floors that had been polished to perfection. The air smelled thickly of a burning candle reminisce of cedar wood and lavender, a sensational blend of dignified aromas that sought to still the mind and cull the physical, mortal vessel. Song and dance solely resided in the space of those who truly appreciated an everlasting spectacle. Even then, there was lingering aura of sorrow; a looming sense of doom that exuded itself from the sole figure standing atop the wooden stage beneath the light.

"Un, deux, trois." The ghastly figure whispered to themselves, the count echoing through the empty room, quickly accompanied by the soft tap of footsteps nearly silent in their generation. She moves so gracefully, so casually, as if embodying the art itself. "Un, deux, trois." She mutters again. She had failed. Not good enough. Too sloppy. "Un, deux, trois." Too slow. Not passionate enough. There is more to perfect. "Un, deux, trios!" The enigmatic dancer leaps forward in a single, precise movement, floating across the stage in a flash of black and green with refined grace—her form unfurls similarly to a swan spreading its wings, and she lands toe first, elegantly and nimble. Any onlooker would be in awe. Utterly captivated. But for a perfectionist, it means nothing if not perfected down to the last, minute detail. "Are my movements accurate enough? No. Unsatisfactory. Detesting. Overwhelmingly verdant. Again I shall repeat. Fouetté. Twenty more times. Un, deux, trois."

A dance, as the ignorant would refer to it as. To reduce something so epochal to something as insignificant as a mere desperate physical movement would be slander. It would do a great disservice to and art perfected throughout the years that transcends all mortal beings. There was no excuse for sullying the acclamation of the soul. How could one so passionately integrated in the art of dance be lackluster in such a degrading manner. "I repent through rebirth. My form shall empty as I cull the consternation of the audience. Gaze upon my sins as I reap what I have sowed." Again she repeats the moves she so desires to perfect. Once more does she repeat a spin lacking in it's momentum, or a step that had been a tad bit too shallow. Everything spiraled down into a singular hyper fixation that served it's singular purpose: Repentance.

"Un, deux, trois." — "Watch as I scatter myself, crumbling to dust as I succumb to the burning wrath that I had brought upon myself. I shall atone for my cascading inferno with the forever running river that rinses my past anew. I shall bear my name again as I yield my flesh and cleanse this sinful, mortal vessel. I, and I only, serve as sole prima ballerina of this play, and so, even if my heart holds no more longing, I will still play the role of the swan."

"Un, deux, trois." — "Feel in tandem the crushing scrutiny of the bearing eyes of the sickly and cowardly shadows, who seek to steal my light. I forsake the self that desired the naivety of the stolen innocence, for now I pity and no longer gaze back at a harrowing past. Hand in hand with me, as I condemn the envious to an eternity of jealously and covetousness, whilst I dance this final dance to destruction."

"Un, deux, trois." — "Too pure was such a passion for this world. Retribution is to be had. Justified was my improvised justice, but it is not my place to cast out the wicked, for the lustful in their desecration of the innocent minds will be damned, and are to be judged by not I, and they shall serve their penance in full."

The woman continues to dance. She had danced until the final candle that was resting upon one of the many tables in the room had been extinguished—danced until her feet were bruised and inflamed—danced until the final vestiges of the Salle she was no longer had begun to pass. All had begun to return to silence as the Green Flame wisps around her feet with each fading movement, until the crescendo lights up the dim, solemn stage in a emerald colored engulfing blaze—until all was still, and could see no more. "I leave behind in the river of time to be washed away all I resent, as I wallow is my deserved karma. This... is what I must do." She pauses to rest—a miniscule interlude in the grand scheme of things. Her chest heaves below her dress as she catches her breath, her eyes fluttering closed like butterflies laying to rest upon a newly bloomed spring flower. Silently, she regains her poise, recollecting the pieces of herself she had laid bare in the performance prior.

"You are... strange." Suddenly, she speaks up in a low, demure voice. Perhaps, speaking to the void, or maybe the stranger lurking in the shadows below the stage. Perhaps, it was herself. "If you'd like to watch, I openly invite you to have a seat. I harbor no shame in my ill-mannered form. I have to perfect my work. There is much to be done if I wish to complete this ode to those unable to witness me now, to dance hand in hand with. So, gaze upon me all you'd like." With a small grunt the woman stands tall, giving a small bow into the endless darkness. There was no expression on her face. This was no act to impress an audience. There was no intent to demand applause from any sort of crowd.

"Answer me this. How does it appear, my form in your eyes? Am I as graceful as a swan and its partner gliding across the surface of a shimmering, crystal lake in the midst of their ritual—or, perhaps, you detest me. Is it too verdant for your liking? Your criticism is much appreciated—after all, what kind of a dancer would I be if not a humble one?" She lets out a soft chuckle. It was mildly humorous, but it lacked any real sincerity. It was more so used as a filler to the deafening silence. "Although, I must say you intrigue me, if only a little. No one tends to stay so long. Not unless they had been... Persuaded to, beforehand." Her gaze drifts down to the hem of her skirt as she eludes to her catastrophic past. It was filthy. Her skirt. Even the most irrelevant smudge was unsightly. She quickly dusts her self off before stilling her empty gaze to the beaming light above that shines down on her, causing her pale skin to glow in eerie manner, giving the appearance of a ghost. It was hauntingly ethereal the way she so effortlessly managed to steal your gaze, like a Greek statue come to life. "What will it be, then? Do I deserve destruction, truly? Close your eyes and tell me, what do you see? Immaculate moonlight, a tranquil lake, perhaps?"

(Make your own scenario.)