New Dogs, Old Tricks

[Leopold]

The laughter in the house soon returned to bitter composure. The troupe, for the first time in many a year did what it did best: bring ancient diatribes to life with theatrical flare (note flare, not flair, as it inevitably ends up with someone burning the house down literally). As they gathered momentum, the chill in the room turned quick sharp into stuffy humidity more akin to a summer evening. Ruby loosened her garments. Wainwright unbuckled his belt. Lilith took a moment mid stride to adjust her fringe, sweat pouring from every orifice of the edifice of their art.

“What time is it?” Ruby asked wistfully.

“I feel like you want one of us to say gin o’clock, but it’s nearly nine all the same.” Wainwright rolled his eyes.

“But nine o’clock is gin o’clock, Duffy dearest.”

“…”

“Oh, sorry, Wainwright. I’m still getting used to that.”

“How many names have you had, Ruby?” The bard pouted, and his siblings knew that a pout often preceded a put down.

“Save your breath. I’m sorry. Its been a long day.”

It had. Very. And somehow, they had pulled through one of the hardest things the troupe had ever had to do: start over.

“Despite that we’ve made excellent progress.” Lilith rested her hands on her hips, seizing the opportunity to steal the spotlight whilst their supposed leading lord and lady hissed at each other cat like. “How’s everyone feeling about their parts?”

It wasn’t hard, the play. They had done it hundreds of times to hundreds of different crowds. From the most erudite gentry to the slum pit provincial stages across the world. But what made this harder than any other was that they had no clout to their performance. This would be their first, for all intent and purpose. Nobody would excitedly whisper their names when they first came on stage. Nobody would throw roses before they’d muttered nary a line.

“I’m fine,” Arden nodded. “If there’s a sword in my hand,” he gestured to the wooden sparring stick, “I’m in my element.”

“Good.” Lilith smirked. “Ruby?” She looked to her older sibling with genuine interest which disarmed the spell singer utterly.

“I’m in my element too, damsel in distress that gets to kick at least one set of testicles.”

“Not my testicles, not again.” Wainwright flinched.

“I can take your part if you’re up for the falsetto in the opening scene?” Arden smirked.

“Perhaps I do need the kick then…”

The troupe chuckled collectively. They exchanged ideas and poured over the tattered pages of the opening act to finalise who was playing whom and why. By now, the sun kissed afternoon had turned swiftly to nearing witching hour, and the city was overcast in midnight’s imminent arrival. Realising there was a chill in the room, Ruby pushed herself upright and sauntered to the fireplace, a grandiose tiled affair long abandoned but keen to be reignited.

“It’s funny how all our grand adventures start with gin and grand words and a cold hearth.” Her wistful nature brought the troupe’s attention to the iron wrought grate at the centre of the fireplace.

“You’re forgetting vaudeville misery.” Lilith smirked. “Right on cue.”

“Yes, yes, I bring the tone up and down like a ship in a storm.” Ruby sighed. “But someone has to.” She raised her hand and clicked her fingers. The snap sucked up all the cold air in the room and sent it into the logs and charcoal awaiting life.

The fire roared to life and was greeted with cheers and whoops. The flames spiralled like a nightmare’s mane until they settled not a dancing sea of orange and violet. Lilith and Wainwright pushed themselves upright with a little more enthusiasm than their sister and stood next to her, one to each side. Gently, softly, and slowly they embraced one another and warmed themselves by the fire.

“You do it well, Ruby. We are the embers in the flames of your heart.”

Ruby jabbed Wainwright in the ribs.

“Don’t ruin it,” she chuckled.

[Leopold]

Principles are funny things. They hold a mirror to society as much as they hold a match to a candle. They ignite emotions where none once existed. They incite rebellion where tyranny rules. For the troupe, they also ignited passions none of them could quell. As they stared warmly into the burgeoning heat of the flames, they remembered what passion had brought them: ruination. Heartache, still painful in their hearts had led them to a decision none had yet to truly, unwaveringly accept. They chose to give up their lives, much of their power, and all their standing in every circle they had ever danced in to claim back a small fragment of the only thing that truly mattered to them: each other.

Centuries ago, before the Thayne Tantalus was born and the excruciating saga of the Forgotten Ones reared its ugly head in the crowds of history; teeming with bigots and zealots and every other type of ots there was a playhouse. It had no name for the longest time, yet everyone in Scara Brae knew its beams and terracotta tiles as though they themselves lived there. Its occupants were infamous for all the right reasons. They were the Tantalum, long before they had a name. Ruby. Duffy. Lilith. Arden. Pete…the ever-increasing supporting cast and every hanger on and near-do-gooder too. As fame weighed down on them, they became other. They forgot the lazy summer days rehearsing, their long, long parties that seemed to last for months, and of course, endless arguments over pronunciation and dress colour. What began as a practiced idolatry through the range of human experience became a living, raging, nightmare.

Once again, they found the days long and their troubles short. They had only one thing on their mind, the very thing that gave them all their truest power: the stage. It didn’t matter if they had no playhouse. It didn’t matter if they had no sway, no swagger, and no fame. They could reach either side of them and rest their hands on a friendly shoulder without fail. As the fire flashed ochre, gold, and crimson, so too did their hearts. They burnt and beat so brightly and loudly it formed a rhythm undying. They were connected again and would remain so no matter how far apart war and peace prevailing divided them.

“We’d best stop.” Ruby said softly.

“Why?”

“I’m going to cry.”

“Going to? I already am,” Lilith wiped the tears from her cheeks with a hastily produced silken handkerchief.

“I didn’t know you could cry,” Wainwright chuckled.

“You will be in a minute,” Ruby replied dryly.

They dispersed, keeping well out of one another’s arm and boot reach and returned to their circle of pillows, plays, and pint measures. Wainwright did a double take.

“Where did those come from?”

“Oh, the tankards?” Ruby sat first. She clicked her fingers and the tin tankards filled with frothy ale. “I’ve picked up a trick or two. This house has a cellar you could drown an army in, so I thought we’d try it’s other delights.”

“Ruby Winchester does not drink beer.”

“She bloody well does now.”

Before the others could so much as reach for their drinks, Ruby drained hers and belched so loud the bats in the rafters woke.