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.