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Character Scenario — Lilac Company [Episode 2]
🕑 Added 2025-01-08 18:00:02 +0000 UTC
Kit has seen many things in her life time, but even she has to admit this one is new.
Moments ago, she flew off the stage in a glorious exit that had her levitating above the company and disappearing into the heavens in a flash of smoke and light. Now she stands in the darkened wings with her hands on her hips, sweat clinging uncomfortably to the inside of her silks and brocades, her scalp aching from the headpiece pinned firmly to her curls, her skin raw and tingling beneath the layers of makeup. They have yet to reach act two and already a headache is pulsing in her temples, her left knee aches something fierce from a poorly performed lift, and her shoulders are protesting from the weight of her costume. Discomfort is a small sacrifice for the art—although she does not fail to note that the discomforts grow with every passing year.
Retirement would suit her. But she is not ready to give it up yet. For the art, for one. And incidents like this, for the other.
ONE FACE DECEIVES, ANOTHER PORTENDS
TWIN DUTIES FROM WHICH THERE IS NO END
TO YOU WHO WOULD BURY THE PAST AND LET FATE DESCEND
PRESS THE DAGGER TO YOUR THROAT, DEEPEN THE SCAR
FOR I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE
Kit makes a face. “Euch,” she mutters, careful to keep her voice low. Even staring down a threat written on the wall in dripping red letters doing their best impression of splattered blood, she is not about to break an actor’s protocol. Especially not here, not in this lyranaeum. Performances at Mahanin Palace are far high stakes than their customary venue in Ithyria, and Sandro Anaxas is in the audience tonight. Nothing can spoil it for their patron.
Or any other nobles who they may need to charm. For all they know, this performance may very well dictate the company’s future. They will be in the market for a new patron if the rumours about Lord Anaxas are true.
Music thrums in her ears, a chorus of voices swelling in a grand crescendo, and her heat thuds in her chest, keeping time, counting the bars. Six minutes. She has six minutes from the moment she exits stage left to the time she re-enters stage right. There’s a costume change to be done, props to gather. The sword is important. Though she supposes if worst comes to worst, she can conjure illusions of such things.
Her eyes dart up and down the darkened corridor. No stage hands about… They’ll be on the other side, preparing Demetrius for his entrance. A blessing, perhaps, that she insisted she could do the transition on her own. This… graffiti, for lack of a better word, was not here when the show started. Chances are it hasn’t been noticed. Even if a stage hand passed by, only elven members are likely to detect it in the dim light.
Press the dagger to your throat, deepen the scar
For I know what you are
“Fucking hells.” She sucks in a breath, one finger resting against her lip. Of all the times for another one of these damned things to show up… “So much effort for something that doesn’t even sound half decent, the little pricks…”
“Kit? What are you doing back here?”
Long-forgotten panic rises like bile in her throat. The panic of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, of lines forgotten and choreography spoiled. The sting of humiliation that comes with being the one person out of place. “I know where I’m supposed to be, don’t tell Vesepia,” she hisses, stepping in front of the graffiti. “Shouldn’t I ask the same of you, Sab? What are you doing wandering backstage?”
Sabriel’s brows draw together in confusion. “I’m not performing this show, you know that. Hand’s still healing. Do you need help?”
“Do you have a cloth?”
“…excuse me?”
“A cloth, Sabriel! Some strip of fabric! I don’t care if you don’t, rip it off your serithan if you must, I need one now.”
He blinks. True to form, he pulls his sash free and hands it to her, no questions asked. Tsking under her breath, Kit wheels around, balls it up and begins furiously scrubbing the wall. The paint bleeds across her hands, but she pays it no heed as Demetrius’ high notes pierce the air, ringing out clear and bright.
She is down to four minutes. How many bars is that?
“Oh.” Sabriel sucks in a breath. “Did… did you write this?”
“You think I have time to paint threatening poetry on the wall between scenes?” Kit pants, sweat shining on her brow from the exertion. She may not be able to get it clean, but she will certainly be able to smudge it to within an inch of its life. As long as it is unreadable, she is satisfied. The audience may have questions about why their leading lady’s hands are stained red, it’s an Arathian classic. There’s enough violence to justify it. If anyone is looking too closely, they can wave it away as an artistic choice. “I’m talented, but not that talented.”
“Who was this for? You?”
“No, it’s for Melchior.” Who else could it be for? “Don’t you dare tell a soul about this. If the company knows, then he knows—and trust me when I say he doesn’t need to know.”
“Kit…” A pause. He has questions, no doubt. She can all but hear him thinking. “If this… whatever this is… is for Mel, I’m sure he can manage it. Why do this?”
“Because someone has to manage our manager. Now that Lyrian is gone, that task has fallen to me.”
The music swells. Three minutes. Shit. She needs to go.
Sabriel lays a hand on her shoulder and gently pries her away from the wall. “If you’re managing our manager, then perhaps someone needs to manage you,” he says, tugging the sash from her hands. “That’s what a company does when it comes down to it, no? Help each other. So, run. Get back out there, Tamara ard Vestillion. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Kit smiles faintly. Leaning in, she kisses him gratefully on the cheek, holding it for a breath. A moment. The space of a bar, seconds slipping away as easily as the passing notes. Then she kicks off her slippers and takes off at a sprint, bare feet pounding against stone as she darts down the corridor and out of sight.
Kythera Solaria, leading lady of the Lilac Company, has not missed an entrance in forty years.
She is not about to start now.
