The Round of Dark and Light - A Takarazuka Elisabeth Production Fanfic
A disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, which is evident from the contents. This is also technically Real Person Fiction, though it has no real shipping involved, so if you feel you might be upset by that then you read at your own risk. The real people here depicted are most likely not as they actually are, I've used my impressions of their personality from the videos and interviews I have been able to access. Who knows, really, what they are like in real life? Certainly not me.
This fic was influenced by a great many Elisabeth fics, but was kick-started into being by this one. Thank you also to my beta readers, who gave me such helpful feedback and encouragement.
The Round of Dark and Light
(No, no, no...)
Mizu stared at the photo wall in her apartment, only half-listening to what her agent was saying. It wasn’t that it was an OG Zuka show. She missed the Revue, there was no doubt about that, though it was nice to be able to choose your own work, to have time to eat, relax, be yourself a little. She missed the relative security though, and being an otokoyaku was something she’d always wanted when younger, it had somehow always been the thing that carried her in the down times. That and the love of the audience. At the mention of some of the other actresses her heart ached just a little. A reunion with old friends and colleagues, working together just like old times...
Elisabeth though. That was the problem.
Her agent broke off with a promise to call back once they knew more, whether it would clash with anything she had already committed to (please, please let it clash).
Mizu found herself still holding a dead phone, brain racing, a thrill of fear lingering in the aftermath of the shock. A familiar hint of longing began to surface and as quickly as she noticed it fought to suppress it. (I can’t. I just can’t. Not again.)
--
Back in the day, she’d loved Elisabeth. Cast recordings had shared space with her other music collections and hearing the murmurs among the management she had even hinted how much she’d like to be in the show properly, not just a scene in a special performance, to the manager that had a bit of a soft spot for her - the one that Kimu had teased her about; “When’s Ayoma-san going to make you an honest woman, huh?” (No way, uh-uh.)
Well, it had worked. She’d become a top star through her own talent and ability to charm strangers while on stage and the powers that be had decided it would be her first main theatre performance. Oh, she’d been so happy! Running down the Hana no Michi in the middle of the day after the meeting and laughing - forget proper behaviour, forget the fans exclaiming as they recognised the giggling stranger, forget being a role model for the TMS students and being cool or suave or sexy, forget ever acting your age. Just focused on the moment, feeling like she was flying as the adrenaline rushed. Happiness and excitement made her once again that schoolgirl falling in love with the Revue, the underclassman watching that first Elisabeth performance on a rare day off and marvelling, and the actress achieving a professional dream all at once.
She’d never understood why Tom always seemed crankier and on-edge each time they put the play on, and had never consciously noted how each cast seemed drained and drawn while rehearsing and performing, or how conversations touching on it with those that had had major roles became less joyful, more dull and stilted. They became close and careful, navigating and contributing to the discussions like easing their body through a tangle of barbed wire. The underclassmen gossiped, as underclassmen are wont to do; rumours of odd things happening, things going missing. The usual superstitious trappings. The show itself had no more accidents or technical incidents than any other it seemed, and so Mizu as a practical sort of woman had never given it all much thought, aside from the entertainment value of eavesdropping on the younger girls (a guilty pleasure, even top stars have their secret vices...).
The score was hard on her. Out of all the usual things the Revue demanded her vocals had always needed more work than anything else, caused her more frustration and tears and cross words with directors, co-stars and unfortunate girls who happened to do or say something at the wrong time. But, she supposed, if it hadn’t been the vocals it would’ve been something else that had made her stay late; a tricky piece of footwork, a set of lines she just couldn’t fix in her mind properly, a possession left accidently and only missed later.
That evening, after 3 hours alone with the vocal teacher and a piano repeating the same song until her voice started to grow hoarse, the threat of overstraining made her finally give in for the night. Sick of the show in that moment Mizu had vowed to take her script and throw it in the river. Her mood black, she’d stormed down the corridor and out, feet following the normal path home. Alternating between going over the mistakes in her head and bitterly regretting that they’d chosen to give her the role, she was suddenly aware that it had got very cold very quickly. Even years later she couldn’t recall exactly why that thought had interrupted her obsessive self-punishment. She had stopped walking and gods, it had been so quiet on that empty street. So quiet and so dark, the stars the only light, streetlights out, though only on this street. It was unsettling.
She had sworn she’d been alone, but no, because she could see just around the corner, the streetlamps were working there and someone was standing just in front of the closest one. The sight of another being and the return of the light should have made her feel reassured, but no. Putting one foot in front of the other seemed harder and harder the closer she got to the person waiting there, like moving against the current.
It wasn’t right. Person wasn’t right. Human-shaped certainly; tall and slender and dark coated. But not a person, an idea made horribly, horribly real when it shouldn’t be. The hair was long and pale, somehow crystalline in form, the skin waxy and unlined. It blinked slowly, deliberately, like a reptile and she noticed the eyes were the blank white of blindness. Not that it mattered, it was looking right at her as if it could see, with a rush of unaccountable fear she had the thought that it could see right through her perfect outside and deep into the knot of her insecurities and secret unpleasantnesses. There was a strong sense of being judged and found wanting. With a shudder of revulsion Mizu noticed it looked like it could be a fellow seito (male and female all at once, but polished picture perfect like it was trying too hard to be something it wasn’t).
“Be comforted, I am early.” It said, the voice a man and a woman’s tones speaking at once.
“What?...” She finally managed to struggle out, her tongue heavy, mouth dry and reluctant.
It didn’t answer her, simply continued to stand, to assess. The moments seemed to drag longer and longer before it blinked again.
“You’ll do, I suppose.” It said finally, and smiled broadly - a smile terrible because of its familiarity. It was her own.
--
As the rehearsals continued she began to feel brittle. A sugar shell around a cold, hard stone that required careful handling in case it broke. There were dreams of the fuzzy indistinct sort you can never fully recall on waking, of an aching newly-realised loneliness and a hunger that could never be properly sated. She had wings, eight wings and a hundred eyes. The feelings followed her to work. Isolated no matter how many people hovered around her, and so damn hungry no matter how much she wolfed down (glare daggers at the choreographer frowning as I ate yet another rice ball, as if I could even get fat or bloated with this hollow pit inside). Bless one of the cute little ones for having a crush on her, Mika somehow made the time to prepare her a lunch twice as big as the girl’s own, as well as trying to linger in various ways.
The pressing misery made Mizu mean - not outwardly of course, but inside the sweet everyday shell. It seeped out in unusual, petty ways. Subtly engineering arguments between friends, that sort of thing. The small cruelties made her smile as she observed the bickering, the tears, then she would swoop in and comfort the injured party. It helped a little, soothing the mysterious ache of rejection. When performing she let the shell crack.
Those mysterious silver-white hairs were easily masked by bleaching her hair blonde. No one asked any questions.
--
The show inevitably came together. Slowly though, too slowly. It wasn’t just Mizu that seemed distracted and somewhat off, feeling imperceptibly less real when sitting on the sidelines than when actually acting. With everyone so wrapped up in their own strangeness and frustrations more overt behaviour changes went unchecked.
Ayoma called Mizu into his office one day. It was small but orderly and she glanced around at the few personal touches, the photo of his young daughter (married once of course, separated now but not me, it was way before he started looking at me in that way I pretend not to notice).
“Mizu, I’m not sure that this is really working. You know I usually let you girls do whatever you feel suits the role, and I know you like playing the bad guy but...” He inhaled, and looked around for inspiration. “The audience is meant to love der Tod, he needs to be the ideal man just like every other leading role, remember? You should just play it more like the others, that’s what they’ll pay for, that’s what they expect.”
She narrowed her eyes and fixed him in her gaze. “Mister Director,” she said, the ‘mister’ delivered like a knife in the back, “We may well think about what they expect, but do you ever think about what they’ll get? What any of us get in the end?”
He was frowning, obviously displeased, but clearly also intrigued. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
Her hand idly trailed in the air, lazily shaping thoughts. “Death is...what? A god, an angel, a force of nature? Should it not inspire fear or awe? How should such a thing, so powerful, so alien, know how to behave? It’s spent eternity by itself, being feared, being wanted only as an end and never having its will challenged. Then suddenly there’s this tiny insignificant creature that makes it feel strange things, and won’t do what it wants. Don’t you think it’s confused and hurt, even angry at what makes it feel vulnerable?”
He sat back, steepling his fingers and contemplated her words. “I suppose so, but you’re a touch too aggressive when you play it, surely?”
“It’s not used to not getting what it wants. It’s used to taking, but taking feels wrong. It resents her, hates her even as it loves her more and more. And if it can’t have her, it’ll take what she loves, take it for itself to be closer to her, to have a taste of what it craves but can’t get. And it hates everyone for being human, since a human has made it weak. The most powerful wounded tiger you could imagine.”
She remembered thinking of it then, seeing it in the light. Feeling like an ant at its feet while it idly considered whether to crush her or not, no effort required. Remembered the dreams of heavy, awkward wings and the feel of flight, eyes seeing past-present-future in a glance, the power only held back by the knowledge of when and how was finally right. Thoughts in a language she had never known.
“Sisi could never love him while she lived. She had to die to see beyond her fear of the unknown, the vast occult monster. So I had to wait.” (I, did I just say I? Why?)
If Ayoma noticed the slip, he made no comment. He rocked in the chair, hands now held as pointed index fingers to his lips, musing on something that had caught his interest. “Wounded, you said.”
Scenting victory in a roundabout way, she smiled hyena-wide. “Like a thousand arrows in your flesh. Like a scar running from your heart down your body.”
“We can work with that.”
--
The performances went on as well as anyone could expect with half the cast feeling the effects of some unknown malady.
Every time Mizu touched her leading lady she felt a fire in her blood that shocked her with its intensity. Of course, she had always appreciated and cared for Tonami but this, it was wrong, she hadn’t felt this way about her before the show, before the dark - or anyone, ever ever ever. The passion of it was ridiculous, the jealousy when another cast member touched her, spoke to her, held her or even just held her attention. Jealousy unfounded, even if she had had those sorts of feelings for her partner.
One time, so crippled with feelings that surged around unbidden over something so stupid (a dresser brushing back the straggling hairs from the bare neck of the white dress; touch her again and I’ll destroy you) she had been rougher with Teru than she should have. Angry and frustrated, she had let her mouth slip onto Teru’s own. It was met, surprisingly, but the surprise was muted by the rush of power, the feel of her body being too small to contain herself. Her eyes were at once too few and too many, and that damned pressure on her back had intensified, but felt somehow right. Lost in the moment she willed it so. (You are mine, come with me into the dark...) It was only a moment, the length of a thought and back into the real world long enough to look out at the audience as the platform lowered, Teru feeling slack in her arms - too heavy, too still, not coming out of it but wait...still breathing, yes, breathing now. Three minutes later she came out of the faint and the frantic panic in the wings abated - but Teru refused to look Mizu in the eye outside of performing for days afterwards.
Which was more disturbing; that she had made something like that happen, or the fact that she had briefly enjoyed it?
--
There was a brief lull during the gap, but the shows in Tokyo passed in a confusing blur. She could recall parts; a fragment of ending speech, a moment alone in her apartment in the evening seething and plotting. After it was all done with she’d found the notes in her script and copious other writings - a sign of what she’d done afterwards for hours - but while the handwriting was undeniably hers there was nothing of her true self in those rambling, incoherent phrases. Not to mention the writing that she couldn’t even understand, characters that didn’t look like any language she’d seen written down.
What she did remember clearly were the events after the last performance. The small part of her brain that was still her own during that time had assumed that whatever was going on would surely end with the last curtain drop. She had hoped, and even prayed, ringing the bell in the entrance each morning (please oh please let me be myself again) for it to be so. Instead, it seemed worse. Fidgeting in the dressing room in a state of confused nervous energy, she was the first one out the door despite it all - shooting down the line so fast her fanclub barely had time to kneel or offer items or follow. Nervous about what? Well, after fretting for hours in her apartment, pacing up and down she knew what she had to do. Now, it had to be now, in the dark they would go together - it was the only way to have her.
She arrived at Tonami’s apartment and urged her out. It had been surprisingly easy to do considering Mizu had expected to have to lure her, but once they were out and on the street those long fingers clasped around the delicate wrist with a dreadful, possessive tightness and began dragging her leading lady in the opposite direction. She tried to block out Tonami’s protestations and cries of pain, but her heart (not my heart, its heart, cold never alive strong strange core of churning emotion) couldn’t bear it and forced her feet to stop.
“Where the hell are you taking me?” Tonami’s eyes had looked so large, suddenly afraid though she wasn’t even sure why. Displeasure coloured her voice that sounded regal, the warring image of an insulted empress and a frightened woman in a package that truly should be neither.
“The river.”
“Why?”
“So we can be together. I will claim you first, then free myself of the mortal shell and be eternal once more. You will be my queen for eternity."
Later, after all was over, Tonami had told her how she had looked at Mizu and seen someone else staring back at her, something implacable and empty and not at all the woman she knew so well. In any case Tonami recoiling from her made her heart feel like it would shatter into a thousand pieces, felt the oncoming crush of despair and lunged back to grab her, close the gap and never ever let her go again. A slap made her lose her grip but not stun her enough to prevent her from trying again. A combination of overbalancing, Tonami pushing her away and Mizu’s own natural clumsiness, and suddenly she was on the road, eye level above the tarmac but just right for the blinding glare of the headlights to take their full effect. There was the screech of desperately breaking cars before the darkness.
--
The darkness was not the end, but it was the beginning of the end at least. Slowly everything came back into focus; the streetlights, the road, the florist on the corner. She felt calmer now, more herself. That phantom pressure on her back and shoulders had eased as well. But then came the acknowledgement that there were no cars, no people. There was just her and the angel kneeling by her. Face impassive as ever, blank marble eyes and oh, those great pairs of wings were new - multi-jointed and curled around her to either protect or entrap, the feathers dark and oil-slick shimmery like a starling, great eyes set into the bone that blinked as slowly as the ones in its face.
“Hello again. You should be more careful.” The dual voice was threaded delicately with amusement. It’s mouth quirked up, again a stolen smile - this time not hers but that of another who had gone before her. “Words have power, emotions can be channelled. Humans rarely seem to have an understanding of what they play with.” It leaned closer, close enough to feel its breath on her face, if it had needed to breathe. Close enough for a kiss (would that be so bad, really, after all?). “Did you like your taste of the End of All Things?”
For a moment everything that came before was recalled as it studied her, somewhat kinder than the last time but still eternal and ancient and boundless and all too real.
Mizu realised it was waiting for an answer, though surely it already knew.
“No.”
Slowly it nodded, accepting her answer. She wondered if the others who had gone before her had known the burning from the inside out by something that should not be caged in a human brain or mortal body. Had they seen the angel in all its terrible glory?
“They are not all as...compatible as you,” It stated, “but there will be more and we will try again.”
“Lord Enma?” The question tangled in her mouth. (How do you question an immortal being? Dear Death, what’s your favourite thing about Humanity?) Briefly laughter threatened to bubble up out of sheer hysterical tension.
“That’s a name I have not been called in a while.” It sighed, and for a moment sat back, looking away from her and clearly thinking. Then back to her and once more the face was expressionless. “Do you still wish to go to the river? Your friend cannot accompany you now, but I will take you if you like.” It stroked her face and it filled her with longing. She wrapped her arms around it and felt it return the embrace eagerly.
The feeling was familiar; she was a child again, the deep darkness of the pond, so fascinating to throw stones and hear the plop as they fell, running over the stepping stones so her sister wouldn’t catch her - but always clumsy and then too young to keep retying shoelaces, how cold it was and how at last before they had lifted her out she had felt arms grasp her and try to pull her down, pull her close. It was always hungry for the affection of the dying. Ever since then water had been a thing that both repelled and fascinated her. She cried as the sensations rushed back, and it petted her, smoothing her hair and soothed her gently.
“Chika, sweetheart, do you want to go with me?” It repeated softly.
“Uh-uh.”
She sensed just a hint of disappointment as it released her from its arms. “Another time then.”
Those great wings shifted and she was back on the street. The car had stopped mere inches away, and people were looking concerned. She turned back to see Tonami’s face relax into relief as Mizu got to her feet.
--
It was something that no one ever spoke of, but lingered there amongst the players the world over.
About a week later Mizu’s agent did indeed call back, but it was only to confirm that yes, the proposed dates for the rehearsal and performances did indeed clash with existing commitments.
“Such a shame.” She trilled, inside feeling like a mouse that had crossed a trap without it springing. After ending the call she sat in silence to think on who would end up accepting and their possible reasons why. She wasn’t sure she would’ve been able to say no a second time, and her reasons for that perhaps frightened her most of all. Now, that time was surely a more distant worry.
Her eyes fell across the room. Something dark lay on the rug. Mizu reached for it and saw it was a feather; small, straight as an arrow and the colour of a dark rainbow of oil spilt on the road. She ran her finger along its soft edge and suddenly felt as if she was being watched by a hundred pairs of eyes.
This fic was influenced by a great many Elisabeth fics, but was kick-started into being by this one. Thank you also to my beta readers, who gave me such helpful feedback and encouragement.
The Round of Dark and Light
(No, no, no...)
Mizu stared at the photo wall in her apartment, only half-listening to what her agent was saying. It wasn’t that it was an OG Zuka show. She missed the Revue, there was no doubt about that, though it was nice to be able to choose your own work, to have time to eat, relax, be yourself a little. She missed the relative security though, and being an otokoyaku was something she’d always wanted when younger, it had somehow always been the thing that carried her in the down times. That and the love of the audience. At the mention of some of the other actresses her heart ached just a little. A reunion with old friends and colleagues, working together just like old times...
Elisabeth though. That was the problem.
Her agent broke off with a promise to call back once they knew more, whether it would clash with anything she had already committed to (please, please let it clash).
Mizu found herself still holding a dead phone, brain racing, a thrill of fear lingering in the aftermath of the shock. A familiar hint of longing began to surface and as quickly as she noticed it fought to suppress it. (I can’t. I just can’t. Not again.)
--
Back in the day, she’d loved Elisabeth. Cast recordings had shared space with her other music collections and hearing the murmurs among the management she had even hinted how much she’d like to be in the show properly, not just a scene in a special performance, to the manager that had a bit of a soft spot for her - the one that Kimu had teased her about; “When’s Ayoma-san going to make you an honest woman, huh?” (No way, uh-uh.)
Well, it had worked. She’d become a top star through her own talent and ability to charm strangers while on stage and the powers that be had decided it would be her first main theatre performance. Oh, she’d been so happy! Running down the Hana no Michi in the middle of the day after the meeting and laughing - forget proper behaviour, forget the fans exclaiming as they recognised the giggling stranger, forget being a role model for the TMS students and being cool or suave or sexy, forget ever acting your age. Just focused on the moment, feeling like she was flying as the adrenaline rushed. Happiness and excitement made her once again that schoolgirl falling in love with the Revue, the underclassman watching that first Elisabeth performance on a rare day off and marvelling, and the actress achieving a professional dream all at once.
She’d never understood why Tom always seemed crankier and on-edge each time they put the play on, and had never consciously noted how each cast seemed drained and drawn while rehearsing and performing, or how conversations touching on it with those that had had major roles became less joyful, more dull and stilted. They became close and careful, navigating and contributing to the discussions like easing their body through a tangle of barbed wire. The underclassmen gossiped, as underclassmen are wont to do; rumours of odd things happening, things going missing. The usual superstitious trappings. The show itself had no more accidents or technical incidents than any other it seemed, and so Mizu as a practical sort of woman had never given it all much thought, aside from the entertainment value of eavesdropping on the younger girls (a guilty pleasure, even top stars have their secret vices...).
The score was hard on her. Out of all the usual things the Revue demanded her vocals had always needed more work than anything else, caused her more frustration and tears and cross words with directors, co-stars and unfortunate girls who happened to do or say something at the wrong time. But, she supposed, if it hadn’t been the vocals it would’ve been something else that had made her stay late; a tricky piece of footwork, a set of lines she just couldn’t fix in her mind properly, a possession left accidently and only missed later.
That evening, after 3 hours alone with the vocal teacher and a piano repeating the same song until her voice started to grow hoarse, the threat of overstraining made her finally give in for the night. Sick of the show in that moment Mizu had vowed to take her script and throw it in the river. Her mood black, she’d stormed down the corridor and out, feet following the normal path home. Alternating between going over the mistakes in her head and bitterly regretting that they’d chosen to give her the role, she was suddenly aware that it had got very cold very quickly. Even years later she couldn’t recall exactly why that thought had interrupted her obsessive self-punishment. She had stopped walking and gods, it had been so quiet on that empty street. So quiet and so dark, the stars the only light, streetlights out, though only on this street. It was unsettling.
She had sworn she’d been alone, but no, because she could see just around the corner, the streetlamps were working there and someone was standing just in front of the closest one. The sight of another being and the return of the light should have made her feel reassured, but no. Putting one foot in front of the other seemed harder and harder the closer she got to the person waiting there, like moving against the current.
It wasn’t right. Person wasn’t right. Human-shaped certainly; tall and slender and dark coated. But not a person, an idea made horribly, horribly real when it shouldn’t be. The hair was long and pale, somehow crystalline in form, the skin waxy and unlined. It blinked slowly, deliberately, like a reptile and she noticed the eyes were the blank white of blindness. Not that it mattered, it was looking right at her as if it could see, with a rush of unaccountable fear she had the thought that it could see right through her perfect outside and deep into the knot of her insecurities and secret unpleasantnesses. There was a strong sense of being judged and found wanting. With a shudder of revulsion Mizu noticed it looked like it could be a fellow seito (male and female all at once, but polished picture perfect like it was trying too hard to be something it wasn’t).
“Be comforted, I am early.” It said, the voice a man and a woman’s tones speaking at once.
“What?...” She finally managed to struggle out, her tongue heavy, mouth dry and reluctant.
It didn’t answer her, simply continued to stand, to assess. The moments seemed to drag longer and longer before it blinked again.
“You’ll do, I suppose.” It said finally, and smiled broadly - a smile terrible because of its familiarity. It was her own.
--
As the rehearsals continued she began to feel brittle. A sugar shell around a cold, hard stone that required careful handling in case it broke. There were dreams of the fuzzy indistinct sort you can never fully recall on waking, of an aching newly-realised loneliness and a hunger that could never be properly sated. She had wings, eight wings and a hundred eyes. The feelings followed her to work. Isolated no matter how many people hovered around her, and so damn hungry no matter how much she wolfed down (glare daggers at the choreographer frowning as I ate yet another rice ball, as if I could even get fat or bloated with this hollow pit inside). Bless one of the cute little ones for having a crush on her, Mika somehow made the time to prepare her a lunch twice as big as the girl’s own, as well as trying to linger in various ways.
The pressing misery made Mizu mean - not outwardly of course, but inside the sweet everyday shell. It seeped out in unusual, petty ways. Subtly engineering arguments between friends, that sort of thing. The small cruelties made her smile as she observed the bickering, the tears, then she would swoop in and comfort the injured party. It helped a little, soothing the mysterious ache of rejection. When performing she let the shell crack.
Those mysterious silver-white hairs were easily masked by bleaching her hair blonde. No one asked any questions.
--
The show inevitably came together. Slowly though, too slowly. It wasn’t just Mizu that seemed distracted and somewhat off, feeling imperceptibly less real when sitting on the sidelines than when actually acting. With everyone so wrapped up in their own strangeness and frustrations more overt behaviour changes went unchecked.
Ayoma called Mizu into his office one day. It was small but orderly and she glanced around at the few personal touches, the photo of his young daughter (married once of course, separated now but not me, it was way before he started looking at me in that way I pretend not to notice).
“Mizu, I’m not sure that this is really working. You know I usually let you girls do whatever you feel suits the role, and I know you like playing the bad guy but...” He inhaled, and looked around for inspiration. “The audience is meant to love der Tod, he needs to be the ideal man just like every other leading role, remember? You should just play it more like the others, that’s what they’ll pay for, that’s what they expect.”
She narrowed her eyes and fixed him in her gaze. “Mister Director,” she said, the ‘mister’ delivered like a knife in the back, “We may well think about what they expect, but do you ever think about what they’ll get? What any of us get in the end?”
He was frowning, obviously displeased, but clearly also intrigued. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
Her hand idly trailed in the air, lazily shaping thoughts. “Death is...what? A god, an angel, a force of nature? Should it not inspire fear or awe? How should such a thing, so powerful, so alien, know how to behave? It’s spent eternity by itself, being feared, being wanted only as an end and never having its will challenged. Then suddenly there’s this tiny insignificant creature that makes it feel strange things, and won’t do what it wants. Don’t you think it’s confused and hurt, even angry at what makes it feel vulnerable?”
He sat back, steepling his fingers and contemplated her words. “I suppose so, but you’re a touch too aggressive when you play it, surely?”
“It’s not used to not getting what it wants. It’s used to taking, but taking feels wrong. It resents her, hates her even as it loves her more and more. And if it can’t have her, it’ll take what she loves, take it for itself to be closer to her, to have a taste of what it craves but can’t get. And it hates everyone for being human, since a human has made it weak. The most powerful wounded tiger you could imagine.”
She remembered thinking of it then, seeing it in the light. Feeling like an ant at its feet while it idly considered whether to crush her or not, no effort required. Remembered the dreams of heavy, awkward wings and the feel of flight, eyes seeing past-present-future in a glance, the power only held back by the knowledge of when and how was finally right. Thoughts in a language she had never known.
“Sisi could never love him while she lived. She had to die to see beyond her fear of the unknown, the vast occult monster. So I had to wait.” (I, did I just say I? Why?)
If Ayoma noticed the slip, he made no comment. He rocked in the chair, hands now held as pointed index fingers to his lips, musing on something that had caught his interest. “Wounded, you said.”
Scenting victory in a roundabout way, she smiled hyena-wide. “Like a thousand arrows in your flesh. Like a scar running from your heart down your body.”
“We can work with that.”
--
The performances went on as well as anyone could expect with half the cast feeling the effects of some unknown malady.
Every time Mizu touched her leading lady she felt a fire in her blood that shocked her with its intensity. Of course, she had always appreciated and cared for Tonami but this, it was wrong, she hadn’t felt this way about her before the show, before the dark - or anyone, ever ever ever. The passion of it was ridiculous, the jealousy when another cast member touched her, spoke to her, held her or even just held her attention. Jealousy unfounded, even if she had had those sorts of feelings for her partner.
One time, so crippled with feelings that surged around unbidden over something so stupid (a dresser brushing back the straggling hairs from the bare neck of the white dress; touch her again and I’ll destroy you) she had been rougher with Teru than she should have. Angry and frustrated, she had let her mouth slip onto Teru’s own. It was met, surprisingly, but the surprise was muted by the rush of power, the feel of her body being too small to contain herself. Her eyes were at once too few and too many, and that damned pressure on her back had intensified, but felt somehow right. Lost in the moment she willed it so. (You are mine, come with me into the dark...) It was only a moment, the length of a thought and back into the real world long enough to look out at the audience as the platform lowered, Teru feeling slack in her arms - too heavy, too still, not coming out of it but wait...still breathing, yes, breathing now. Three minutes later she came out of the faint and the frantic panic in the wings abated - but Teru refused to look Mizu in the eye outside of performing for days afterwards.
Which was more disturbing; that she had made something like that happen, or the fact that she had briefly enjoyed it?
--
There was a brief lull during the gap, but the shows in Tokyo passed in a confusing blur. She could recall parts; a fragment of ending speech, a moment alone in her apartment in the evening seething and plotting. After it was all done with she’d found the notes in her script and copious other writings - a sign of what she’d done afterwards for hours - but while the handwriting was undeniably hers there was nothing of her true self in those rambling, incoherent phrases. Not to mention the writing that she couldn’t even understand, characters that didn’t look like any language she’d seen written down.
What she did remember clearly were the events after the last performance. The small part of her brain that was still her own during that time had assumed that whatever was going on would surely end with the last curtain drop. She had hoped, and even prayed, ringing the bell in the entrance each morning (please oh please let me be myself again) for it to be so. Instead, it seemed worse. Fidgeting in the dressing room in a state of confused nervous energy, she was the first one out the door despite it all - shooting down the line so fast her fanclub barely had time to kneel or offer items or follow. Nervous about what? Well, after fretting for hours in her apartment, pacing up and down she knew what she had to do. Now, it had to be now, in the dark they would go together - it was the only way to have her.
She arrived at Tonami’s apartment and urged her out. It had been surprisingly easy to do considering Mizu had expected to have to lure her, but once they were out and on the street those long fingers clasped around the delicate wrist with a dreadful, possessive tightness and began dragging her leading lady in the opposite direction. She tried to block out Tonami’s protestations and cries of pain, but her heart (not my heart, its heart, cold never alive strong strange core of churning emotion) couldn’t bear it and forced her feet to stop.
“Where the hell are you taking me?” Tonami’s eyes had looked so large, suddenly afraid though she wasn’t even sure why. Displeasure coloured her voice that sounded regal, the warring image of an insulted empress and a frightened woman in a package that truly should be neither.
“The river.”
“Why?”
“So we can be together. I will claim you first, then free myself of the mortal shell and be eternal once more. You will be my queen for eternity."
Later, after all was over, Tonami had told her how she had looked at Mizu and seen someone else staring back at her, something implacable and empty and not at all the woman she knew so well. In any case Tonami recoiling from her made her heart feel like it would shatter into a thousand pieces, felt the oncoming crush of despair and lunged back to grab her, close the gap and never ever let her go again. A slap made her lose her grip but not stun her enough to prevent her from trying again. A combination of overbalancing, Tonami pushing her away and Mizu’s own natural clumsiness, and suddenly she was on the road, eye level above the tarmac but just right for the blinding glare of the headlights to take their full effect. There was the screech of desperately breaking cars before the darkness.
--
The darkness was not the end, but it was the beginning of the end at least. Slowly everything came back into focus; the streetlights, the road, the florist on the corner. She felt calmer now, more herself. That phantom pressure on her back and shoulders had eased as well. But then came the acknowledgement that there were no cars, no people. There was just her and the angel kneeling by her. Face impassive as ever, blank marble eyes and oh, those great pairs of wings were new - multi-jointed and curled around her to either protect or entrap, the feathers dark and oil-slick shimmery like a starling, great eyes set into the bone that blinked as slowly as the ones in its face.
“Hello again. You should be more careful.” The dual voice was threaded delicately with amusement. It’s mouth quirked up, again a stolen smile - this time not hers but that of another who had gone before her. “Words have power, emotions can be channelled. Humans rarely seem to have an understanding of what they play with.” It leaned closer, close enough to feel its breath on her face, if it had needed to breathe. Close enough for a kiss (would that be so bad, really, after all?). “Did you like your taste of the End of All Things?”
For a moment everything that came before was recalled as it studied her, somewhat kinder than the last time but still eternal and ancient and boundless and all too real.
Mizu realised it was waiting for an answer, though surely it already knew.
“No.”
Slowly it nodded, accepting her answer. She wondered if the others who had gone before her had known the burning from the inside out by something that should not be caged in a human brain or mortal body. Had they seen the angel in all its terrible glory?
“They are not all as...compatible as you,” It stated, “but there will be more and we will try again.”
“Lord Enma?” The question tangled in her mouth. (How do you question an immortal being? Dear Death, what’s your favourite thing about Humanity?) Briefly laughter threatened to bubble up out of sheer hysterical tension.
“That’s a name I have not been called in a while.” It sighed, and for a moment sat back, looking away from her and clearly thinking. Then back to her and once more the face was expressionless. “Do you still wish to go to the river? Your friend cannot accompany you now, but I will take you if you like.” It stroked her face and it filled her with longing. She wrapped her arms around it and felt it return the embrace eagerly.
The feeling was familiar; she was a child again, the deep darkness of the pond, so fascinating to throw stones and hear the plop as they fell, running over the stepping stones so her sister wouldn’t catch her - but always clumsy and then too young to keep retying shoelaces, how cold it was and how at last before they had lifted her out she had felt arms grasp her and try to pull her down, pull her close. It was always hungry for the affection of the dying. Ever since then water had been a thing that both repelled and fascinated her. She cried as the sensations rushed back, and it petted her, smoothing her hair and soothed her gently.
“Chika, sweetheart, do you want to go with me?” It repeated softly.
“Uh-uh.”
She sensed just a hint of disappointment as it released her from its arms. “Another time then.”
Those great wings shifted and she was back on the street. The car had stopped mere inches away, and people were looking concerned. She turned back to see Tonami’s face relax into relief as Mizu got to her feet.
--
It was something that no one ever spoke of, but lingered there amongst the players the world over.
About a week later Mizu’s agent did indeed call back, but it was only to confirm that yes, the proposed dates for the rehearsal and performances did indeed clash with existing commitments.
“Such a shame.” She trilled, inside feeling like a mouse that had crossed a trap without it springing. After ending the call she sat in silence to think on who would end up accepting and their possible reasons why. She wasn’t sure she would’ve been able to say no a second time, and her reasons for that perhaps frightened her most of all. Now, that time was surely a more distant worry.
Her eyes fell across the room. Something dark lay on the rug. Mizu reached for it and saw it was a feather; small, straight as an arrow and the colour of a dark rainbow of oil spilt on the road. She ran her finger along its soft edge and suddenly felt as if she was being watched by a hundred pairs of eyes.