Work Text:
A ghost haunts this theatre, everyone knows that. No one claims, though, that they've seen him themselves, only rumours pass from actor to actor and spectator to spectator of how he looks like.
He’s dressed in a blood-red doublet, his ruff is so white it looks as if ground mother pearl was used instead of starch. His hose are black and disappear into thin air like smoke, so you can’t see his shoes.
His face… It could be called gray, so pale it is, visible through the cracks in blanc and rouge, but it’s better to be described as translucent. Set against it are coal-black lips, angular and sharp, that mirror his wig.
A logical conclusion would be that he died of plague when all the theatres were closed for that godforsaken autumn, but it is believed that he was killed by life – poetic, dramatic even, isn’t it? When you are not allowed to love whom you want, you are also not allowed to love who you are, and then you die.
The legend goes he already knew that he was dying at his last performance, so he poured his entire soul into the lines, the movements, and the songs, and by the curtain call, his body was empty, and the fabrics of the set, the wood of the walls, the tiles of the roof – all were soaked with his spirit.
By this day, you can feel his appraisal of your work. Your blood might turn cold as ice in the middle of your best line or note or pirouette. It’s his kiss, and you must accept it with no remorse, since it’s his only chance to give that love he was denied during his life.