The Show Must Go On

[Duffy]

“Dying is a strange feeling. I mean really dying, for real. Temporary deaths leave you deadened, sullen, and desperately in need of gin - the real thing is ten times worse. Knowing that you’re going to die, that you choose to go through with it leaves you gobsmacked. The world carried on in my absence (though I guess I never expected anything less), and though grief courses through the veins of those you call family and friends they move on. They become post-me.”

“You sound horribly sure of yourself,” the shade replied.

The antechamber to the Playhouse fell silent. A ten by ten room of dusty floorboards and potential hemmed in the duo. Duffy stood, or rather, what Duffy had become, with his arms folded across his chest and his right foot tap tapping. The shade, a spectral form of a man once with a story to tell lingered by the entrance. The sun shone through him resplendent, illuminating the vespers of his organs.

“You asked me what I was feeling.” The bard raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve only been here for three years. I’m surprised you’ve figured it all out so quickly.”

The Shade, who went by whatever name the patrons of the Playhouse deemed necessary to make sense of themselves floated forwards. Duffy grew tense, not entirely trusting his mentor. Though no real harm could come to him, the creature put him odd at ease.

“Not being able to sleep, eat, or hide from any of you bastards makes you step up.”

“The responsibilities of a Thayne transcend-”

“Mortal convictions, yes, I know.” Duffy rolled his eyes. “You’ve said that nine times since sunrise.”

“I will say it nine more if you walk out onto that stage and miss so much as a syllable.” The Shade’s words compressed time. They lingered, burning severity and impulse into the Thayne’s ears.

“You wound me, ser.” He bowed, a mockery worthy of the risks of a lecture. “I’ve been doing this before you died.”

Of that much he was sure. Though new to the Playhouse, his life was as much a legend as the gods that walked the halls and meandered through the costume warehouses. He had, or so it seemed, made quite the name for himself as the members of the Tantalum Troupe. They were so mesmerised by the war between Thayne and Forgotten One none dared call him by the name-that-once-was.

“No matter what you see. Who you see. You must not admit who you are.” The Shade pointed to the door opposite, an iron clad portal into the unknown, and drifted towards the bard.

Expecting this, Duffy tried to relax. As the Shade travelled into him, and then through, the ethereal form gifted to the Thayne in the Playhouse whirred. It spiralled in on itself. It crashed down, like a tidal wave into a forest, and then the door opened. He lingered, at peace, before the swell of magic that connected the Tap to the world in broken conduits dragged him backwards in a hurricane. Tantalus fell out into the world, mewing and spewing and none the wiser for his troubles.

[Duffy]

Radasanth suffered for its lack of theatres. Since Duffy passed, troupes the world over seized the opportunity to prosper - to cling to his progeny and find a name for themselves. Though he watched from beyond, Duffy could not recall the name of the troupe lead by the body he now occupied. The leading man centre stage opened his eyes, and the bard saw through them the world he had left behind.

Spring was kind to the city. The streets heaved. The markets turned a tidy profit. War kept its clutches off the walls and the memory of civil conflict faded from the populous. The problems beyond those mighty walls remained outside. The crowd, modest but surprising to Duffy who had long failed to capture an audience here looked up expectant. A hundred faces, sluts, sailors, paupers, and princes at one.

“Let me tell you a story about a prince and his canary.”

Hushed whispers died away as the title of this particular afternoon ensemble sparked excitement. The plot unravelled before them, but despite knowing its twist and turns, they planted their feet firmly on the path.

“Long ago, in a kingdom not unlike this one, a Prince called Marcus spied his true love one summer’s eve.”

Wait. What? Duffy said inside. The leading man continued his opening deliverance without hesitation. His brow beaded with sweat, from the conflict within as opposed to the cool breeze and pressure without. Marcus isn’t a prince…

He listened. He watched. He felt increasingly sick at the thought. Change was good, but not this play. The leading man advanced to the edge of the stage, arms wide and blinking rapidly. Someone in the audience caught a glimpse of someone else, a ghost in the shell - she bit her lip. Her heart raced. It caught on, and soon the audience were forgetting the lines and focussing on the swell of shimmering heat that grew around John Moore - of Drew Lane, Concordia.

“He found his Canary in the city stree-” John stumbled. Somewhere in the heavens a shade frowned. “Streets. Besotted, he returned to the castle to confide in his father, the king.”

Nope. So much nope. Duffy knocked on the viewing pane, in effect, John’s inner eyeball, and then punched it. [/i]Fuck the rules.[/i]

It had not occurred to him until that point that this ‘debut’ was as much a chance to test his role in the world as an opportunity to return to it. The more he knocked, then punched, and then kicked with hobnail boots the more he saw the faces of his family. Ruby’s wicked smile. Lillith’s demure clarity. Arden’s zeal. Leopold’s alcoholism.

“He...he could not tell his father the truth about Cornelia.”

A buxom housewife in the crowd opened her mouth to speak, but could only muster an impolite gasp. Ninety nine heads turned to see her point, then turned to the stage to see a vortex of blue light and a sumptuous burst of drumbeats and trumpets engulf the leading man. He gave up his lacklustre butchery of Althanas’ oldest common play and fell to his knees like he’d just read the worst review of his life.

“It’s a demon!” she cried.

The crowd jostled.

“It’s part of the play you idiot!” a man heckled from the rear.

“It’s not how I remember it,” someone else weighed in.

The to and fro continued for five minutes, all the while the vortex grew in intensity and carnival. John’s shadow stretched. It heaved. Then, as though called by the confusion and the desire to correct these ‘lessers’ on the true nature of dramaturgy, it began to rise from the stage and take form. The screams, gasps, and fleeing started soon thereafter.

[Duffy]

“Now, let me tell you the right god damned tale.”

Duffy, suddenly aware that he was both very hungry and very in need of a drink, took a polite bow. When the crowd, what remained of it, recognised the demon as Duffy Bracken of Scara Brae they became transfixed. A half-cut off-duty guard put down a plank and several plucy tattooed ruffians cast aside broken bottles and bloodied teeth.

“Ain’t you dead?”

“I was enjoying a peaceful reprieve knowing, or so I thought, that the people of Corone could enjoy a piece of history on a street corners and in taverns any time they pleased.” After the Tantalum had garnered Queen Valeena’s royal assent, troupes from all corners were given impetus to vie for the same. The age of the bard, or so he intended, was finally here.

“But you were definitely dead. Funeral and everything.” The buxom housewife, eyes sparkling and starstruck, remember the affair all too well. She had sold half her estate to fund the trip and secure a ticket to the royal box overlooking the White Tree and crypt that now marked the former resting place of Duffy Bracken.

“Do you want to see the play or not?”

“Answer the bloody question!” Another non-descript member of the audience, finding his feet on the gall of others threw a half-eaten meat pie at the stage to prove a point.

“I died.” He sighed. “Alright? I bloody got a dagger in the neck. I did the heroic thing and was supposed to be lording it up with the other Thayne being all high and fucking mighty.” He narrowed his gaze.

In the Playhouse, his emotions tempered by the afterlife were distant memories. Now, rushing out all out once as though he had woken up from a coma threatened to overwhelm him. Fortunately for Duffy, the anger, intrigue, fear, and excitement made him forget to vomit his spleen up over the stage.

“So...are you still dead?” The housewife fainted as the sailor questioned him further. Nobody was alert enough to catch her, and a thud filled the ensuing silence.

“No.” Duffy touched his nose, cheek, and buttocks to make sure. He didn’t feel dead anymore. He’d had enough experience in that regard to at least be half-certain.

“Good.” The man folded his arms across his chest.

“Any other questions?” Duffy shrugged. He looked ot the wings, at the gobsmacked supporting cast and his street urchin Cornelia. He winked before turning back to the crowd. One hundred was now rapidly approaching two. The side-streets leading to the square were black with the scuttling of curious ants. The urge to throw up turned to butterflies and memories of youth.

“Yeah.” The ruffians, suddenly bereft of their bravado, all pointed upwards to the sky.

“What now?”

The moment he turned to look up he regretted it. The spring afternoon faded into a cyclopean storm’s eye that loomed over Radasanth proper. A maelstrom gathered into a single, infinitely black hole from which prangs of lightning darted, and a sound that was unmistakably god-like to Duffy, and terrifying to anyone who had never touched the fabric of magic - the Tap.

“I guess I should have seen that coming…”

[Duffy]

It suddenly dawned on Duffy Bracken that directly disobeying a god might not have been the best decision. From the vortex on high a figure descended, winged and probably terrifying, to anyone that hadn’t seen and done what he had seen and done. He pouted.

“I strongly suggest you all fuck off! Really quick!”

Remembering himself, his voice carried through the streets of Radasanth with a shrill, but cinnamon scented resonance. He rolled his shoulders to limber up. How long had it been since had sung? Did he even remember how?

The crowd did not need telling twice. Quite suddenly, the square, and all streets leading away from it emptied. Discarded food and dreams lingered in the wake of hurried footsteps and dramatic arm flailing. The prongs of lightning became sky rendering bolts. The breeze turned into a bestial roar that whipped up flyers and ruffled feathers on birds huddled on chimney pots. The lull of spring fled Radasanth.

He reached into the air to his right, fingers arced, eyes narrowed as the Shade landed on the towers of the Citadel to the east. The ground shook. He ran his tongue over his piercings and tried to conjure the Blade Lysander. He clenched his fist, expecting the cold, long missed feeling of spider-silk bound hilt.

“Oh.”

Nothing appeared. He tried again and clenched his buttocks.

“Oh shit.”

The memories suppressed by his fleeting divinity returned full force. He pictured himself before Sei Orlouge, offering his power in exchange for the freedom of his family from Oblivion’s Curse. He gave the Hero of Radasanth his connection to Tantalus. He gave him his connection to the Aria.

“Plan B.” He clicked his knuckles and took to an operatic stance.

Long before Oblivion wove his tragedy, killing Tantalus and binding his powers into five mortal thespians in Scara Brae of yore, Duffy was a spellsinger. His voice, a weapon the High Elves learned to master over the aeons, had lured the Forgotten One to his island home and sealed his fate. Free of those trappings, the bard very quickly had to remember how to use it.

“Don’t stop...believin’...”

His voice was feeble. He redoubled his efforts as the Shade took flight and descended furiously towards the square.

“Hold on to that feeling!”

A tremelo of power ran up his spine. The air crackled.

“Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world. Just a city boy, living in south Scara Brae, it goes on and on and on.”

The wind died, and the sound of violins played sumptuously filled the stage. Fingers splayed, back arced, and red hair whipping to life as spell song washed away the lethargy of immortality, Duffy Bracken reached out through ether to anyone, any bloody one he had forged friendships, and rivalries with over the centuries. He stepped sideways into another song as lyrics returned to him in a maelstrom of drunken nights spent on rooftops catterwallin’.

“What would you think if I sang out of tune? Would you stand up and walk out on me? Lend me your ears and I’ll sing you a song, and I’ll try not to sing out of key.” A baritone rumble filled the air. City guards lingered where streets turned into battlegrounds.

The Shade, now flesh and metal crashed down onto the stage and pulled a hammer from his back that glowed with the weight of worlds. Flames licked the interstellar metal. Duffy had seen statues depicting Hromagh in many forms. With lion’s heads and bears claws, with tails and without. From beneath his cowl, his eyes did burn like hot coals.

“Oh I get by with a little help from my friends.”

“Despite telling you over and over, you chose this?” The hammer rotated in a gesture and declaration of war. “Now you will die, and die alone.” The voice of Hromagh broke stone and shattered glass for half a mile.

“Mmmm I get high with a little help from my friends.” Duffy took a deep breath between lines, the swell of power intoxicating after so long. No curse held him back. No burden of responsibility pinned him in place. Hromagh’s threat was not without weight. When he gave his power to Sei, when Oblivion was finally laid low, so too was the bard’s immortality.

“Mmm gonna try with a little help from my friends.” He clapped. A roll of thunder feebly tried to upend his momentum, but from the ether two daggers flickered to life and fell into Duffy’s outstretched hands.

“You have no friends. You will die alone.”

Hromagh stomped, raised his hammer high, and charged.

Duffy spat.

“Just you fucking wait and see how alone I am!”

The song formed a spell as old as time itself. As Duffy skittered forwards, a distraction likely to lead to broken limbs, it darted across cities and times. It would pull anyone who heard Duffy’s plea through the folds of magic and onto the stage right along with him. It would pluck at heartstrings and repay old debts. It would draw together the best, and worst man had to offer - the Thayne would rue the die they told anyone that mortals did not matter.