we are dead men, slain by the hands of this girl ( 燕
Dec 4, 2023 1:18:06 GMT -5
Post by calla on Dec 4, 2023 1:18:06 GMT -5
"The music calls; the dancer comes, a swallow gliding in, a dainty little damsel, light as air; her beauty captivates the guest yet saddens him within, for he must soon depart and leave her there. She smiles; no gold could buy that smile, no other smileth so, no need to deck her form with jewels rare, but when the dance is over and coy glances come and go, then who shall be the chosen of the fair?"
The six beat sound of the luo follows Dong Zhuo downstage. He passionately embraces Diaochan and then lifts his halberd, exiting for another afternoon of lifting eyes from their sockets; an evening of removing fingers and burning captured enemies alive.
Yan watches Yitang sway behind the mask, face white and glowing beneath the old lamplights, the beard of it lolls dark down his front like a blood stain. It sits stark against the red. Cruel warlord - tyrannical. Diaochan's adoptive father has placed her in the tyrant's household for the single purpose of assassination. Dong Zhuo's son, Lu Bu, spies from the eastern window.
His affair with his father's concubine has, thus far, gone unnoticed.
Diaochan lifts her sleeves in despair, aware of being watched.
How cruel of Wang Yun to put his daughter in this situation.
How cruel of Lu Bu to remain outside.
She sways in her exhaustion; the charade takes it toll. Every movement is laborious - her lord is a terrible foe. For Dong Zhuo to die, Lu Bu must be implicit. For Lu Bu to be implicit, he must be devoted to Diaochan, wholeheartedly. He must be enamoured enough to listen to her whispers and blind enough to betray his father. He must be sufficiently pliant and appropriately stupid.
Aloys, evidently, was the first choice.
Lu Bu waits in the wings, in the white and blue floral of a battle robe, in the lingzi with it's feathers and simplified sheng mask.
The masks aren't particularly uncommon for Baishe. Today is an afternoon of scene performances, a bundle of small songs tucked in between the seasons of bigger showings. The crowds are more sparse and less formal here. Daming uses them as breathing time, but these displays are practically rehearsals. Borderline warm-ups. Actors play multiple roles and wear the masks to easily switch between them backstage.
Yan, as Diaochan alone, still paints. A minimal rehearsal makes for a minimal show.
It's like any other opening night, the way he turns his head to catch the string notes. His steps are measured, his voice is clear. He wears Diaochan as though thousands of people are watching.
"Thy handmaid has promised not to recoil from death itself." He laments in sole soliloquy, "You may use my poor self in any way and I must do my best."
Poor, pitiful Diaochan. Her heart bleeds for the family she must tear apart. Her head swims at the thought of such evil and necessary acts.
She glares at the front row when they snicker.
Because that's the other thing.
It's a late afternoon, stuck halfway through intermittent snowfall and slush,. It's also the aftermath of some Peacekeeper exam nobody cares about. The cadets are littered throughout the audience, sprawled across the seats with their feet up and their insignia jackets tossed aside in careless heaps. The lack of attention isn't something groundbreaking. It isn't even something new. It's the fact that most of them are sitting rapturously drunk.
Cao's military discount has seemed to evolve over the early hours of the matinee. Three scenes of seduction - free for any officer writing the exams. An open bar, evidently, was included in this.
Someone stretched across the aisle's taken their boots off.
Yan hopes that Feng poisons them all.
Yet when Aloys steps out on stage the cadets all roar and stamp their feet. The entire theatre seems to shake for a moment. Aloys must feel it too, given Lu Bu's stumbling entrance. Yan grips a sleeve so hard that he feels a seam tear.
But Diaochan makes a show of startling. She covers herself in a false show of modesty, stepping from Lu Bu in an arc.
Scandalous, for the General to confront her in her boudoir all alone. She sighs at his lack of action. Their affair has been escalating, yet he makes no moves against Dong Zhuo. It's time for her solo aria - her last attempt to sway him.
"In the deep seclusion of the harem, I heard the stories of your prowess; you were the one man who excelled all others.
Lu Bu approaches and takes Diaochan's hand, grip oddly fierce.
Aloys was never the most creative brush in the set. Yan side-eyes the improvisation, but goes along with it, gesturing through the extension.
"If you fear the old thief so much I shall never see another sunrise. Every day is a year long. O pity me! Rescue me!"
Lu Bu steps closer, Yan lifts the sleeve higher. He inhales for the next line and jolts at the sudden hand at his waist. Someone in the audience is whistling. Yan jerks away, the paint hiding the actual surprise. He glares at Aloys through the mask.
Of course he doesn't take something like a scene play seriously. He hardly even takes the full shows seriously. He prances through life without a care for career or craft. He's stupid. He's an idiot. His voice is terrible and Yan hates him.
They move at the same time and bump into each other. The paiban stutters, unclear on who to follow.
It's not quite clear what makes Yan look up. But he does, and there in the wings stands stupid, idiotic Aloys, his face red and blotchy from laughter. Yan stares at him for the span of a single breath, and then that hand is on his waist again, trying to turn him back. He goes, if only because of the stillness. Aloys. Yan resists the urge to look over his shoulder again.
The mask of Lu Bu shines in front of him, close enough that he can make out the details of the paint when he really looks. The embroidery of the kao looks lacklustre this near. The blue seems washed out.
Not Aloys. Aloys is in the wings, ugly and idiotic.
It takes a long moment of Yan's awkward blustering for it to make sense.
He goes still again. The annoyance comes and goes and then comes back. His hands land on Lu Bu's chest, sliding up slowly to his shoulders. The posture shifts. His gaze goes lidded when his head tilts back. Aloys and his little games.
He can play.
"Little he cares for your reputation or my life." He sings to Marcus.
Because he's not an idiot. He knows Aloys' tricks by now.
And then they're closer - too close for any proper scene. Lu Bu's hands find the small of Diaochan's back and his arms rest against her sides, heavy in the costume. The erhu goes sour in shock.
"The desire of my life was fulfilled when he plighted me to you. But Oh!" She reaches for one of the pheasant feathers, drawing it down and through the slot of her fingers. "To think of the wickedness of that lord, sullying my poor self as he did. I suffered so much."
Lu Bu leans with devotion. The delicate ceramic of the mask holds a chill, warmed by the breath.
"I would like to eat him alive." Diaochan purrs.
The general moves suddenly, Diaochan gasps, her face to the audience, her back against Lu Bu's lion-belted chest. He holds her right hand and grasps the wrist of her left.
She falters only slightly.
"Little did I think that you of all men would rest content under the dominion of another-"
Yan stops.
Marcus is sitting in the front row of the audience.
Fifth seat from the left, with his feet kicked up and his collar loose. The light shines off of him for only a moment, reflecting the sheen of his eyes.
The grip on Yan's wrist changes. And that seems to revive him. Not Marcus. Not Aloys. He's turning fast, wrenching himself away in a movement that displays so little grace that he can hear Aloys' snort from all the way across the stage. The crowd is laughing too, all somehow in on the same joke.
Lu Bu takes a step forward as Yan takes a step back. He looks out at Marcus again, some kind of reconciliation forming between the two, dissipating, and that arm snakes around his waist, pulling him back in the rest of the way. Yan's hand finds his shoulder again, outstretched to keep their upper bodies separated.
"What-" He's hissing, furious all of a sudden, reaching for the mask and shoving it up fast enough that it hits the actor's chin as it rises.
Not an actor. Not Aloys. Not Marcus.
Yan has no idea who it is. But the cadets must know because they're jeering now. Not-Lu Bu grins down at Yan with green eyes and sharp teeth and a hazy sort of demeanour, and then he's leaning down and kissing Yan square on the mouth.
The cadets go insane.
Yan pushes him off immediately, he claws into his face and then moves back and away and watches the line of boys feed off and into the energy. Not-Lu Bu has red and white smeared across his mouth and up his cheek, he's pumping his fist in the air and howling as a couple of his buddies start up a round of mock-applause.
Yan's going to rip those teeth out. He's going to gouge his eyes. He's going to shove Aloys through a meat grinder.
Movement in the crowd again - there's a murmur from the left side. There's some kind of disruption forming. Marcus is getting to his feet as the cadets around him shout encouragement. Yan watches through a wary sort of frustration as he puts his palms flat on the lift of the stage and pushes himself up.
They have to be kidding now. Yan's eyes narrow.
The sound of the crowd gets louder as Marcus approaches. Someone is standing and hollering. Someone has also, to Yan's immense and obvious displeasure, has started up a chant of FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!
Marcus is smiling still, but it doesn't reach past the corners of his mouth. The lights make him back lit. He covers the span of the stage in three strides and then picks Yan up by the waist, who immediately protests. Loudly.
He kicks when Marcus slings him over his shoulder. The costume is his first thought. His dignity is the second. He thumps Marcus in the back with his fist, hard, starts twisting in his arms like a spitting cat. The whistling gets loud enough to cause internal ear-bleed.
Marcus starts to move offstage - left. Of course, the wrong way.
"Show's over!"
* lines & title from Romance of the Three Kingdoms trans. C. H. Brewitt-Taylor
