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The Circus of Dreams has many tents. Too many to count, and far too many to see in one night.
Some of the more frequent Circus goers even claim they could spend every night of their lives wandering the Circus and never find all of them. And, maybe, they could be right. Because, you see, even the residents don’t know how many tents there are.
Of course, they know the original tents. The ones that were planned and built before the Circus opened.
Like the Hanged Man’s tent.
In this tent, suspended high above you, there are people. Acrobats, trapeze artists, aerialists. Twisting and twirling about, illuminated by lamps and spotlights. There are no nets. Every jump, every spin, tinged with a little danger.
In the center of the tent, there is a man in a tuxedo an top hat. Hanging upside down, suspended by his ankle tied with a silver rope. He hangs there, arms behind his back, moving ever so slowly. Slowly, he extends his arms, rope completely taunt, never shifting. He raises his arms above his head, and begins to spin. Faster, and faster, he spins until he is only a blur at the end of a sliver rope.
Then he stops, and he falls.
His audience screams, diving out of the way. Horrified, eyes screwed shut, unable to look. Waiting for a sickening crunch that never happened.
When they open their eyes, The Hanged Man is at eye level to them, smiling and completely unperturbed. Some nights he’ll even raise his top hat to the nearest guests, silently laughing as his spotlight flickers out and he disappears.
Or the Fire Breather’s tent.
The inside of the tent is illuminated solely by fire. Radiant, white flames, flickering and dancing with their wielders.
The Fire Breather stands, elevated on a stripped platform. The others give him a wide birth, ducking occasionally as he spits white flame in all direction. If you look closely, his flames change shapes, dragons and snakes made of fire flying through the air before burning out.
There are other performers on lower platforms. Jugglers juggling torches, dancers spinning through fiery hoops. But all eyes move back to the Fire Breather eventually, captivating his crowd.
Sometimes, Circus goers find themselves stopping in front of an unassuming tent. As if drawn there.
These people are usually seeking guidance. Guidance the Fortune Teller is all too happy to provide.
Entering this tent is like having the weight of the world pulled off your shoulders. You feel light, weightless. And maybe you are. Gravity seems to not be an issue here.
The Fortune Teller meets you with a smile and she hovers in her chair, shuffling her cards on the table that floats several inches from the floor. She motions for you to join her, a spare seat floating across from her.
She’ll listen to your woes, hear your stories, then she’ll pick your cards. Three cards, suspended in midair, telling your past present and future.
The Contortionist likes to travel between tents. She has her own, but she operates on instinct, performing where the people will see her.
The audience she catches always stay till the end. Watching with wide eyes as she twists her body into unimaginable shapes. As is she has no bones at all. Most others in her line of work have limitations, but not her. She compresses her body into tiny boxes, or twists herself into knots, all while smiling that knowing and enigmatic smile.
These acts, you can find every night. These tents have been there from the start. However, every so often, a new tent will appear, seemingly out of no where. There’s no construction period, no builders or artists, they just appear. Surprising even the people who run the neighboring tents. Most tents have people to run them, the original batch do at least. But the new ones don’t seem to need them. Running all on their own.
“It’s got to be that fucking philanthropist, Sir.” The Fire Breather says one morning when the residents gather around the newest tent.
He could be right. There are only so many options, and Sir Nighteye having people sneak into the Circus while the staff is busy to put up a new tent does sound like something the man would do.
After the initial exploration, the Circus residents filter away from the new spectacle, off to sleep for the day or fine tune their act. It’s only Shouto that remains. He had held back while everyone else went in first. He didn’t want to ruin the experience of a tent his destined one created by going in with other people around.
Because that’s who makes these new and fantastic tents, after all. Not Sir. Not any of the staff. Shouto is certain for that now, though he did spend a painstakingly long year investigating each of his fellow staff members. But no, whoever Shouto’s destined one is, they do not work in the Circus.
Shouto takes a moment to collect himself. He’s heard the others discuss what’s inside, but if he’s learned anything from the previous tents his destined one has made, it’s going to be five times more impressive in person.
The tent is called The Ice Garden. Shouto lifts the flap, stepping inside. He was right, it is much more than he could ever anticipate.
It’s magical. Pure white in every direction, Shouto can’t tell just how big the tent is, the walls blending in with the rest of the tent.
The air is crisp, his breath a visible fog as he breaths in deep, savouring it. He walks in slow circles around bushes of roses and slow, bubbling fountains. Everything, save for a few lengths of white silk ribbon strung like garlands, is made of ice.
Curiously, Shouto picks a rose from the bush. The stem breaks easily, and he holds the delicate flower up for only a moment before it crumbles in his fingers, turning to soft snow. When he looks back at the bush, another rose has already taken it’s place on the stem he plucked it from.
Shouto is awed. He can’t imagine how much magical power it must have taken to create such a beauty. And something so perfectly matched to Shouto himself. He almost wonders if his destined one already knows who he is. But that can’t be.
Either way, The Ice Garden quickly becomes Shouto’s favourite. He remains in the tent far longer than he’d originally planned, skipping out on much needed sleep just to gaze upon his destined one’s newest creation.