Chapter Text
The lights are blinding as you step out from the wings, and the roar in your ears is so loud that you can’t make out the applause, the heady rush filling every inch of your aging body. It’s done; you made it; it’s at last time to take your final bow. You have played your role, and you have played it well. It will be nice to be appreciated for it.
Tentatively, you step into the circle of light in the centre of the stage. It feels so warm under the glow, like you are being held softly, or perhaps submerged into a hot bath.
Smiling, you look out at the light and take your bow. Once, and then, oh, why not bow once more. You deserve this, for making it through, for such a stellar performance in the role you had been given.
Glancing to the sides of the stage you see no chorus lined up. That’s odd—aren’t they normally the first to come out? Maybe there hadn’t been enough budget to spare for a large ensemble, but how would that even work? Surely every rendition needs a villager, a diplomat, a reporter?
The roar in your ears fades a little, as you retreat to the side, alone, and wait for the next person to follow you out. Maybe Leonid, maybe the Arbiter, another side character, another unimportant role.
But you keep waiting, and nobody comes—instead, the lights dim, and you remember, suddenly, that you aren’t a real character. You remember that this isn’t your story.
Now, you can see that the theatre is empty—row upon row of red velvet seats, upright and unoccupied. All unoccupied, that is, except for one at the front, right in the middle, where a lone person continues to clap, the sound echoing loudly throughout the entire auditorium.
You walk over towards him, leaving your position at the side vacant—it’s not like you have any other audience to disappoint, and it’s clear that no-one else is following you out—and crouch down at the edge of the stage.
He looks up at you, through heart-shaped glasses, still clapping slowly.
‘Boris Ivanovich!’ His voice is excitable and American , and you are pretty sure that his earrings are shaped like small chess pieces. ‘It’s good to see you.’
You aren’t sure why you are here, or why he is here either for that matter. Hadn’t you just realised that you aren’t even a real character? That there’s something off about this curtain call?
‘Who are you?’ He knows who you are, he calls you by name. You don’t think that you know who he is.
He just smiles. ‘I’m a fan, of course. I came to congratulate you.’
‘Where are we?’
He keeps smiling. ‘In the theatre of course!’
That much was obvious, but you still aren’t sure what’s real and what’s a figment of your imagination. Are you a person? Are you a character?
You ask him this, and he just shrugs. ‘You’re Boris Ivanovich. You’re my favourite character!’
So you are a character, but for some reason you get the sense that you don’t really have much to you.
‘Did they cut me? Where is everyone else? Anatoly, Svetlana, Leonid? I haven’t seen them in…’ You think,but the answer doesn’t come to you, time seems thick and heavy. ‘A very long time.’
Your knees hurt from crouching. You are getting too old for this now, and so you settle on the edge of the stage, letting your legs dangle down into the orchestra pit.
He looks away, sad, ‘You’re just a mention, a line, I’m afraid. But the people still love you.’
A line. You are not even a side character.
‘But I worked so hard, I practiced for years, I was nearly world champion you know.’ An old man’s begging, you hate to be like this. It’s just, are you really only a line? All this work.
The audience member’s frown matches your own. ‘You know Boris, as a writer it disappointed me how little they used you. A good writer could have crafted a fuller existence. Something where you mattered a little more.’
A writer? Someone who could write entire lives into being? His style certainly wouldn’t seem out of place on some enigmatic writer-god.
‘Can you write me something else?’ You aren’t sure if it sounds insane, but you wonder if he can make something work for you. Make all those years of your life worth something. A different story, a do-ever.
‘Sure, can do.’ He pulls out something shiny from his pocket, that glows bright white, and starts tapping away at it.
‘You’ll give me a second chance? You’ll write me into something new?’ A life that you can finally live, rather than a single line mention.
‘Sure,’ he keeps tapping away, and smiles up at you. ‘It’s a bit fiddly, but I’ll do my best. Why don’t you take another bow while I get it all down.’
Okay then, if he really is a writer-god, then you suppose you’d better do what he says. You scramble back up to your feet, and return to centre stage.
The lights don’t turn back on, but you take your bow, deep and slow. The writer-god claps once more, that same slow and resonant sound. His smile is the last thing you see as the curtain falls.