Work Text:
Artemy and Daniil sit side by side, equals to the end.
And it is the end.
Daniil leans back in his chair, as if on a throne. The gaping hole in his chest bleeds, dripping the sticky liquid down the chair leg to meet the large pool on the floor. He grins triumphantly, foolishly. Behind him, with the light of the burning village shining like a halo on his damned form, the Polyhedron stands - a terrible silhouette against the poisoned sky. He thinks he has won. He thinks it does not matter that he is dying, for the Polyhedron will grant him eternity in its gut.
Artemy hunches forward, shoulders framing the burden in his palm. He holds a fat, bloody heart - cradled with the care of a friendship he had tried so carefully to save. His face is painted in deep impasto, grief entrenched in every furrow. He knows they have both lost. He knows it does not matter, for he has read his lines and know the day is almost done.
They are out of do-overs. The Powers That Be have been given no more slack, it is the end of the line for this production.
The theatre, doomed to repeat twelve days over and over and over again, falls in flames. And with it, the Haruspex and the Bachelor’s strings are severed with the clean snick of an Executor's hand on the blade. They slump against their chairs. The heart rolls to the floor with a meaty splat and settles by the foot of a Tragedian watching silently and invisibly. It picks up the organ and weighs it in a wooden hand.
The next play will be ready before long and, well, they need to get a new plague from somewhere.