[DRESSING ROOM] - Getting prettied up for the camera is quite the arduous task. It takes a proper team to make these actors look flawless, and with everyone so busy, how about lending a hand?
SOME HABITS are never truly broken, especially those engrained in him mind over 50 years prior, no one really locked twice at him back then, allowing him to slip between occupation to occupation without lingering too long in one place. A fact that lent credence to his skill with a hairbrush and straightener, born from time spent amongst the golden age of Cinema, when every studio was willing to hire those willing to work the long hours required.
Perhaps it was only natural he'd taken one glance at the flier desperate for people to help out with hairstyling before volunteering without a hint of hesitation. The universe, wondrous as it was, remained ever finite, so seeing the women in the chair shocked him less than it should have, merely lending the slightest stumble to his step that was graciously out of view of what he considered to be an unnecessarily large mirror.
Still, he takes it in stride as he ever does, collected footsteps as the cane rhythmically clacks against the tiled floor with every step closer to the Memokeeper sitting ever patiently upon the cushioned stool. "Miss Swan," how awkwardly formal for him, myriad thoughts echoing around his mind amidst a sea of questions he has for the woman he can only assume to be on the level of an Emanator with the stories Caelus had told him about their brief interactions in the dreamscape. He wants to desperately ask if she knew hints of his past with the almost skilful way she'd gently guided a meeting between him and the woman calling herself Acheron, and yet the words fail to reach his lips, as if vehemently refusing to allow him to invoke a history he was afraid to speak of.
A sigh, refusing to allow himself to be trapped in memory as the leather gloves are tucked into his pocket in preparation for the hairstyling he'd been employed to do on the festival organiser's behalf. It's a slow touch to start, a beckoning to muscle memory as the brush gently parts the sea of lilac locks that cascaded further and further down. "I should thank you... I'm not sure if you even knew but..." a sigh, weary and aged like the herrscher had stopped caring for attempting to hide his age. "... Acheron, she was, she is, someone dear to me. It was nice to see the rain clear, even for a moment."
A smile, looking up to face the woman in the mirror like someone who'd had a heavy weight lifted from his shoulders. "So thank you, Black Swan, for whatever part you may have played in that reunion."
A Memetic Entity, such as Black Swan, required no hairdresser.
There was never a need for the tedious act of brushing her hair, of filling her nostrils with the scent of hairspray as it lingered in the air. There was never a need for the deliberation of which dress might suit her best, of adjusting its height and size, that it may fit her in perfection. If she so wanted, a mere snap of her fingers was all she needed to change into appearance of her choosing, swift and effortless. Such was the privilege of having surrendered her physical form into one moulded by ideas and thoughts. Of having become a being—a vessel—of concept and belief.
And yet… time and again, Black Swan found herself indulging in these idle routines. She would observe and take note of what made one human, that perhaps she may emulate it.
An idea does not need to breathe, yet her chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm. A concept needed no food, but she would delight herself every now and then with sweets and pastries. Black Swan was no longer human, no longer mortal, no longer tethered with the fear of living or dying, but in such gestures she could experience the nuances of mortality that she was no longer bound to, of the humanity that she was so strangely drawn toward.
So as Welt’s hands moved carefully through her hair, parting lilac strands with steady, practised care, she let herself savour the moment—eyes fluttering close as she listened to his honest confession.
There was never such a thing as coincidence when it came to the Memokeeper, only the inevitable. His meeting with Acheron was always meant to be, though perhaps it had been destined to happen much later in his life. Still, it was their fate all the same. A mere tug at the threads of their destiny was all that she did, and made what was meant to happen later, sooner. Perhaps she had done it out of pity to the weary man before her, or perhaps it was all done to better suit what she needed to fulfil her own selfish desires.
Time had been cruel to Welt Yang.
In his gaze, she could see both pain and wisdom. Through his memories, she had borne witness to his trials—the silent anguish, the bitter heartbreaks that twisted like thorns around his soul, the fleeting moments of hope that would spark brightly before flickering out, snuffed by fate’s cold hand. She knew of the sorrow that had settled over him like a shadow and of the strength he’d clung to, even when it had seemed so fragile it might shatter.
Hah… Such loss, yet such resilience. What a beautifully tragic trait to have—to press forward despite everything, all for those dear to him.
“You were always meant to meet, one way or another.” She returned his smile with one of her own. “And how glad I am, to hear that your reunion with her had gone well.”
How does it feel, she wondered, to see so many familiar faces, yet find that none shared the same warmth as before?
She let the thought hang in the air for a moment, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. And then, without warning, as though testing the silence between them, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
“How has your journey been, Welt? Has it been worthwhile?”
