There was a time in her life, before she had become Coriel, that Aramis had felt something like she felt on stage. It was when she had soaked her uniform in the blood of her king's enemies, when she had laid their blades at his feet, when she had bowed her head and declared them dead.
It was when he had praised her for her deeds that she felt that same joy, that bemusement over being welcomed, thanked. It was the honor of her actions that she craved.
And throughout her life as Coriel, she had grown to resent the way that she had lived. She did not hate her king, she did not hate her comrades, she did not even hate that she was commanded to do such things.
But she hated that she had done them.
And that was because honor was destruction, it was a corrosive pleasure.
So what if this matter of performance was suffering? Because only suffering could be eased by more suffering, it was human nature to destroy oneself in an attempt to appease themselves.
Coriel smiled brightly as she bowed towards the cheering crowd, shock still etched into Graham's expression.
In the metal prosthesis underneath her sleeve, dull blue lights shimmered. They were eagerly tired, whatever had remained of Aramis trying her hardest to view this scene herself. Whether she had become Coriel, or a spirit in her king's world, resting in that beautiful crimson oasis, she too wanted to see this sight, these reactions to her actions, this praise directed towards her.
Because they weren't just laughing at her, they were laughing because of her.
But then she wondered what she would do from here?
That euphoria that had erupted from her performance suddenly grew shallow, and as she looked out at the audience, she suddenly became unclear of her purpose on stage.
Should she let Graham continue his act? Coriel looked sheepishly over towards Thomas, but he had already gone.
Before she could voice her concerns to Graham, she noticed that the laughter of the audience had ceased entirely. There was a silence, a stupor that they all held as they gazed behind Coriel.
Footsteps slowly clacked against the wooden stage, and in the shadows that the lamplight had ignored, a silhouette emerged. And when the lamplight was finally moved to envelope her, Coriel saw the beauty of that shadow.
Her raven-black hair which was usually tied up now fell down her shoulders like sheets of silk, and her glimmering eyes had been obscured by a black covering that was embedded with simple golden trim. She wore a flowing reddish-black dancer's dress, one that reminded Coriel of her home. The silken cloth fell over her arms, chest, and waist, the gentle flowing curves of her abdomen and her shoulders bitten by the chilled air.
As Coriel stared at the Dancer, she thought that the entire audience thought the same as her.
They all wondered whether she was truly real, whether she was an angel that the long-dead Gods had allowed to remain.
As the audience's attention had finally been drawn away from Coriel, who had slowly sunk into the shadows at the side of the stage, the Bard began another tune. This melody was not like the performative one before it, snappy and alluring. This one was drawn-out, slow, and flowing. It was like a river, and the Dancer enshrouded in its depths gilded the water in golden splendor.
Her sinuous arcs were marked onto the stage, cutting her rhythm into its memory. At the same time, it wasn't just her body that was moving in a rhythmic manner. While her upper body was mimicking the flow of a river, her footsteps were sharp, contrasting those waves, like she was mapping out the stars of a constellation in the reflection of the water.
And as she saw the Dancer's arms wave like the wind, the flowing silk of her dress caught up in its breeze, she understood the heart of Meline's performance.
She wasn't dancing, she was painting, she was creating an image of the most beautiful world she could imagine.
"Is this your first time seeing her dance?"
Coriel looked over to her side, tearing her gaze away from the trance.
It was Caramine. Her red-hair had been tied up behind her head, and she wore a simple black dress.
She simply stared at Caramine for a few moments, unable to conjure anything to say. Then, she managed to choke out a few words.
"A-ah, yes… it is…"
She placed her hands in her lap as she looked away. For some reason, she couldn't bear looking at Caramine. It made her heart beat a little faster, her cheeks hotter, her words duller.
And she was scared, because this was how Elien had made her feel.
Soon, before she had even noticed, Meline's dance was over. The melody came to a close, and the audience began to applaud and cheer. It was even louder than it had been for Coriel, not that she minded. That much was a given.
How could one hold back anything for such a sight?
While it was said that no one should interrupt Meline's dance, it was the Dancer herself that grasped Caramine and Coriel by their hands, leading them up onto the stage. She joined them together, Coriel's hand wrapped around her counterpart's waist, cheeks flush with vermilion.
What was this plot she had been enacting? First she had Caramine do Coriel's Clown makeup, and now she was going to make them dance?
Meline nodded towards Balasque, who began to play a soulful tune on his lute. And then, the audience was directed to clap along. They began to cheer as the Dancer prodded them until they moved.
And Coriel, who was of no mind to refuse, sheepishly looked away as they began to sway to the rhythm of the Bard's song.
Caramine reached a sleeve up to Coriel's face, wiping away the makeup that she had worked so hard to paint.
"W-what? Why…?" Coriel asked.
They took a step back, Caramine leaning into Coriel's grasp.
"Because you look beautiful past the makeup…"
She couldn't bear to respond. The words she wanted to say in response choked up in her throat. She was a coward.
Something similar had been said to her in the past. But it wasn't as a compliment, it was said as a matter of fact, as a suggestion that she use such a trait as a weapon. It was one of her comrades, a fellow soldier of the south, a man she had never thought of in a romantic way.
But after that, she had looked at him differently. When they trained together, she noticed the way sweat would bead on his sun-bitten skin, how he would change his hair on given days, and the joy in his smile.
He noticed how differently she had felt when he was killed, how for once, she grieved something she had cherished.
And certainly, she had noticed how differently she had felt when she realised all the chances she had missed because she was solitary.
That was why when she had been reincarnated in the Blackbaast, she had determined herself to live differently. She sought Elien, when he had paid her no mind previous to her advances. She sought to help her parents, to fix what she viewed as the mistakes of her previous life.
In every instance, she chased the things that made others happy, which she saw as fulfillment, even if it hurt her at times, or inconvenienced her in any way.
And that was why now, she was afraid to stay silent, even if her words were barbed, caught up painfully in her throat.
As Coriel swung around the red-haired girl, she felt her heart swell up in anticipation. She could not bear this repetition of thought, it had to exit her lips.
"You're very pretty right now, too…" she spoke softer than she should have, she was afraid that Caramine would really hear her.
And she did. When she spun back and faced Coriel, her expression had brightened. Her eyes glimmered, and her cheeks flushed red.
"I want to kiss you again…"
"Then… after this…"
Caramine sheepishly nodded her head, and the two of them focused eagerly on their performance.
Coriel smiled, she laughed, she danced.
She feared she would grow too used to this happiness, that she would chase it, these smiles that blanketed her in warmth.
When one caught themselves in the web of bliss, they did not struggle when the spider sunk its fangs into their flesh. Because pain became pleasure, corrosion became living, suffering filled that hollowness.
And before she knew it, Coriel would watch that life go by, she would cherish her memories, and she would regret nothing at all, because a shallow bite did not compare to the severing of her arm.
But it was far too unhealthy for a wound to crave the blade that made it.