Part One

In a time not yet so well-enfolded in the darkness of the past, there was a beautiful young man who was a principle dancer in the Roya Ballet. He was acclaimed all over the world for his skill, his grace, and his heart-breaking beauty. Anyone who had ever watched him dance always said it was like he as flying, floating inches above the ground on wings of pure wind.
This young man was very proud of his appearance, and he made no excuses for his beauty. He kept his hair long, so that it fell to his waist in a curling, violet mass. Not only did his hair style serve to enhance his striking beauty, but, when he danced, it followed him and swirled around him like a cloud at sunset made into gossamer.
This handsome youth, whose name was Mille, lived with his lover in a small apartment near the Ballet. Everyone was jealous of the young man’s lover, who was just as handsome as the dancer, and held Mille’s heart in the palm of his hand.
Mille once said of his lover, in a letter to a composer friend, “There are two things that move me in life - music, and love. The first can only touch my feet, but the second sways my soul.” Suffice to say, the two men were hopelessly in love.
But nothing can be completely without faults. They would have heated quarrels, usually initiated by Mille, who was, by far, more fiery than Marron, his lover. These quarrels often culminated with the young dancer storming out of their apartments in an indignant huff, or, on occasion, one of the two ending up in tears. The tears and angry words didn’t matter one bit to either of them, though, and they stayed together through thick and thin.
However, it was on the eve of one of these such quarrels that the beginnings of the end began to creep into the dancer’s tenuous world.


“The fabric of the world is ephemeral, like gossamer, ready to dissolve at the slightest breath of wind.”
Mille laughed melodically, and rolled his glass between the palms of his two hands. “You’re a wise man, my friend,” he said to the strong, blond man to his left. He was in the misty, glimmering no man’s land between sobriety and drunkeness where flirtation and conversation seem like the same thing, and beauty bleeds itself into the shadows of chaos.
“I suppose you could say that I’ve had years of practice,” the tall stranger replied, staring straight at the dancer’s slightly flushed face.
“Oh? How so?”
“It’s of no real consequence... Suffice to say that I know what I know from first-hand experience.” He smiled slightly at the young man.
“It’s so true... Life always seems like something we are doomed to drag ourselves through until here is that little bit of light that saves us from drowning. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
The blonde man studied Mille closely. “I do.”
The violet-haired man laughed again. “It used to be that I wasn’t afraid to die... When I was young, there was no fright in my mind regarding my ultimate end...”
“The young are always fearless,” was the reply.
Mille shook his head slowly, contemplatively. “It was more than just the ignorance of my own mortality... It used to be that I had nothing left holding me to this world.”
The large man at his side let out a sympathetic sigh. “The cycle of despair and bliss... I know it well enough. And now,” he hazarded, “you have something tying you to this earthly plane.”
Mille looked into the drink he held between his two palms. “I do.” His shoulders shrugged slightly in what might have been a short, silent laugh. “Sometimes I don’t know whether to be glad or... sorry...”
“How so?”
“Well...” He paused to take a sip of his drink, swallowing and savoring the cool spice of the red liquor. “Now I can’t ever be free to die. Now I have things to be afraid of...”
“That can be remedied...” The blonde man reached out and tucked his finger under Mille’s chin, lifting his face up.
“Who are you?” Mille murmured, the blonde’s face only a few inches away from his own. Mille felt the night air against his skin, but couldn’t remember when they had gone outside. The bar, the patrons, the noise of human existance seemed a distant memory...
“If you want to call me something... Gateau will suffice.”
“Gateau...” he whispered as the other man’s lips descended on his. This kiss only lasted a few seconds, but something strange and hot seared itself into Mille’s brain so strongly that, even after they had parted, he could still feel the man’s lips on his mouth.
Gateau smiled gently and the shorter man. Once again, the blonde closed the space between them, whispering in Mille’s ear. “I’m not rich,” he murmured, his breath cool on Mille’s heated skin, “and I’m not as handsome as you may be, but I can offer you the world... The entire world, and all of time, can stand at your feet, waiting for your command... Think of what you most want...”
Then he pulled back, straightening to his full height, and smiled down at the thin dancer in a friendly way. “I’m a cobbler. My shop is on South Street, you can’t miss it. When you think of what it is you most want, come there. I’d like to know what it is you want.”
And, with that, like magic, the tall, blue-eyed man was gone, no final contact, no goodbye, just a breath of warm air against his neck.
“Oh, gods,” Mille murmured, rubbing his hand across his bare collarbone, trying to get his bearings.
He looked up, and realized he was standing under the giant cherry tree beneath which he had often spent his lunch breaks with Marron. He recognized the place to be in one of the city’s tiny parks, not even a half a block away from the Opera.
He brushed his fingertips over his still-heated lips, and looked warily around the empty park. A figure caught his eye, but it was much too slender to be the sturdy cobbler, Gateau. And it was running towards him, not walking away as Gateau would have been. And it was calling out his name... In Marron’s voice.
“Mille! Oh, thank goodness I found you.” Marron finally reached his lover, and wasted no time in enfolding Mille in a warm embrace. He spread tiny kisses across the creamy skin of Mille’s face. “I’m so sorry... I didn’t expect you to leave like that... You’re always back much sooner...”
“I’m sorry,” Mille said, sounding, even to his own ears, hollow.
But Marron didn’t notice. He was too busy pressing his ‘I love you’s into Mille’s soft hair and smoothing his hands across his lover’s back.
“Let’s go home,” the dancer said, pulling away from his lover’s embrace, and taking Marron’s hand.
“Yes,” Marron sighed thankfully, and they started to walk home.

In bed that night, with one of Marron’s thin arms wrapped around his naked waist, Mille couldn’t help but feel trapped.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love Marron, he told himself. It wasn’t even that Gateau was any threat to his relationship with the dark-haired man... It was Gateau’s offer...
Immortality... All of time at my feet, awaiting my command... Perfection...
Marron shifted in his sleep, pulling his warm body closer to Mille’s colder one. The slender dancer shivered, feeling colder than usual, even with Marron’s arms wrapped around him. He felt his lover’s breath against his neck, through his thick hair.
What am I doing?, he wondered silently, staring straight ahead. What am I doing?
Eventually, he fell asleep and dreamed of nothing but a river in his home town that he had often sat by, coloured red by a brilliant sunset.

The next morning, he woke earlier than usual to catch the sunrise staining the sky like watered-down blood.
He dressed, and, taking his bag of equipment, went to the Ballet.
He used the skeleton key he had to open one of the back doors and made sure to lock it behind himself. All the other doors were sure to be locked, because the owners of the ballet made the rounds themselves at night, after the janitor had gone. The doors were not, officially, unlocked until the managers arrived at nine o’clock.
Mille walked quickly in the direction of his dressing room, opening each door and locking it in his wake. After unlocking and locking numerous doors and ascending various flights of stairs, he found himself in his own, small, private quarters in the heart of the Ballet.
He changed quickly into a pair of tights, a long-sleeved leotard, and legwarmers. Mille tied his long hair into a full bun at the back of his head. Seating himself on the divan, Mille tied on the pair of well-worn, cream-pink toe shoes that he wore for practice. With his bag over his shoulder, he left the dressing room, and padded quietly through the halls, always careful to lock the doors behind himself as he went.
He arrived in the largest of the practice rooms just as the golden-red sunlight was beginning to filter into the space in earnest. Mirrors lined four of the walls, and the last wall, the one that faced out into the square, was completely composed of full-length windows. There was a piano in the back left corner, where they were supplied with music during regular practice.
Mille dropped his supply bag by the door, and sat down on the floor near one of the walls to begin stretching. Shortly, he stood up again and began to stretch further, using the barre. He pushed his muscles as far as they would go, feeling especially limber and free.
After having sufficiently warmed up, the young dancer moved gracefully away from the barre and into the middle of the room. He stretched languorously, arching his back and raising his arms into the air in a great, sweeping motion, rolling his neck from side to side shortly. Mille pulled back one of his legs and positioned himself in the beginning stance for the piece he was working on at the moment. His left leg was bent, in its half of first position, while the right leg was swept back, bringing him to a partial bow. His left arm was bent in front of him, as though he were cradling something to his chest, the other arm stretched out, reaching gracefully for the ground.
Hearing the music in his head, Mille slowly pulled himself up onto his toes, and spun backwards in the beginning of a slow, liquid dance. The only sounds as he moved across the studio were those of his rythmic breathing and the tap of the wooden-toed shoes on the polished hardwood flor. He swept smoothly across the room, meting out his steps carefully. As the music in his mind began to speed up, Mille’s movements also increased. As the short piece came to an end, Mille found himself in the familiar final twirl, and lifted himself onto one foot, on pointe. The other leg stretched out behind him and he took the last remnants of the spin and lowered himself towards the ground. When he finally came to a stop, he was balanced on his flat left foot, his right stretced out behind him, lifting into the air, his arms mimicking the positions of his legs.
He straightened, schooling his slightly harsh breath, and paused for a moment. Mille sensed another presense in the sun-lit room, and slowly turned to face the door, although he already knew who was watching him from the millions of reflections that graced the walls.

To Part Two
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