[Durelin]

“I’m picturing…a raging sea, tormented by a storm that only Ilúvatar himself could spare anyone from. It is a very vivid picture that I have been shaping in my mind since my childhood, so please don’t ruin it.”

Valde was painting a word picture for all to imagine, having obviously and officially commandeered the class. And as easy as it may have been, he was extremely pleased with himself, feeling a natural pride spring up in him stronger than ever, finding himself in what felt to be his rightful place: holding a script – containing great words of tragedy, nonetheless – and telling people what to do. Six people now sat in the desks before him, though the majority of them seemed to find no reason to really listen to him. Perhaps they all knew that doom was indeed impending in its nature, and had seen the signs as if they had been literal meteors falling out of the sky. Perhaps they were. Valde was too busy directing, as well as maintaining his role as Lead Tragic Actor, to notice anything of that sort.

But he was not planning to cast himself as King Fëar, as most expected, for in his title of Lead Tragic Actor, there was nothing about old men, no matter how tragic they were. His dashing looks, and naturally brooding appearance could not be disguised by powder, whigs, or any kind of masking materials that would destroy any of his expectations that people would remember his face. He had considered adjusting the play so that King Fëar was not at all old, but the connotations brought even Valde’s mind to shame, if he was to avoid altering the story completely. And that just was not possible at this point. He knew they did not have much time; whether or not the impending doom was obvious to him, he realized that time was indeed scarce, though he knew not why. Everyone had most of their lines memorized, which were quite a large number, considering the five-act play was originally divided among four players.

“Actually,” piped up the troll professor, his voice cracking slightly as he raised a quivering hand, “I was picturing more of a “Singing in the Rain” feel…only, with a touch of deeply tragic madness.”

Valde turned a sharp gaze to the professor, who immediately lowered his hand. It was amazing that the man’s eyebrows could tame the wildest troll professor, even one with a fashion sense even more trollish than the majority of trolls. Perhaps it was due to the unfortunately non-trademarkéd v-shape, which sent messages of violence and viciousness and vindictiveness, and, possibly the most intimidating of all, vanity.

“I just thought you might want to know…” the professor stuttered out.

“I’m sure you also had a very clear image of what the billboards would look like, too. But we’re not going with a commercially gratifying musical. We’re waging war against the capitalist shadow that has fallen upon this land.”

Valde’s eyes scanned the room, and came to lie on the mousey girl. Only she watched him intently, and he could only stare back for a moment, unblinkingly, his lip twitching, trying to hold back a sneer. He was not sure if her enraptured attention was good or not. Quickly, he decided that he simply did not care, and moved on.

“Now, father, your lines?”

And so the class proceeded, until Valde had performed the ritualistic pulling out of the hair attempt many times over, until the shaggy black mass looked violently disheveled, his purposely ill-kempt sideburns and eyebrows only adding to the wildness of his look. It seemed he had decided to go with a look more akin to that of a frustrated composer, who, feeling under appreciated and meaningless, doubting his existence and finding his mortality shockingly real, sold his soul to the Dark Lord. This was why, possibly, he so missed the olden days in which Mordor had a much more corporeal demon to deal with, no matter how often he existed without a body.

It was a slow and steady proceeding, and they worked their way practically a line at a time, Valde constantly readjusting and questioning, snapping at those who failed to carry out his instructions properly, and often snarling angrily when he realized that even he did not like what he had only a moment before stated was his refined vision. He was discovering that perhaps his envisioning had been rather narrow-minded, limiting all the roles to being played by none other than he himself.

The final eruption came when he determined that his mother playing the Fool was indeed rather fake, no matter how much he wanted to think that it was a realistic role for her. “Grace and a cod-piece!” he bellowed, “that’s a wise man and a fool!” He apparently was getting sick of her forgetting her lines, he himself forgetting that she had only started memorizing them since her arrival.

His mother sighed. “Please, dear, may I simply read them for now?”

“No! You are the Fool! How hard can it be?”

The woman slapped a hand to her face, and her husband followed suit. “We have failed him, haven’t we, my dear?” Valde’s father asked, his voice filled with a sadness that would echo through any void, or through eternity itself, never to be silenced. Valde eyed them angrily, though the inquisitiveness was clear in his gaze.

“What is this nonsense? Let’s get a move on…”

“No, son, we must tell you something,” his father began grimly, his voice firm.

“What now? Do hurry it up…” Valde tried to maintain the sharp annoyance in his voice, but he was faltering. The seriousness in his father’s voice, and the pain and severity in both his parents’ eyes told him something was not right. He now had to admit, perhaps for the first time, that he had inherited his natural tragic tendencies from someone, and it had surely been these two. The emotions that warred within them were clear in their expressions, the simply way that held themselves, and allowed their eyes to convey more than any mere words would, was artistry. Valde was almost troubled enough to have to fight back a tear, but held any blatant sorrow at bay with a furrow of his brow.

“Son…this might be very hard for you…” his mother talked slowly, deep concern in her voice. She approached him, holding out a hand to take hold of his and squeeze it tight, looking up into his eyes. Tears had begun forming in small pools, cupped in her eyelids. Blinking, she turned away, seemingly ashamed. Valde looked on, as his father took several steps forward as well.

“My boy…I’m afraid…” he choked, but pushed himself on, forcing the words out slowly and steadily, his voice wavering only slightly as he tried to keep his head held high, gripping his hands tightly in two fists which he held at his side to steady him. “It is Act V, Scene III, and you have failed to produce catharsis.”

A poisonous ooze of fear ran up his stomach and into his throat, and Valde’s hands shot up to clutch it as if he were choking on the taste of what could only be failure. Supreme and utter failure, for the Lead Tragic Actor, playwright, and amateur director. He, Valde Delego, had failed? His production of King Fëar, before it could even endure one run through of the entire script, had failed? Nay, not just that production: the production, the play, the walking shadow. He, the poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, had finally come to Act V, Scene III, that final scene, that fateful scene, by which all tragedies fates’ are sealed. He felt cut short, but then, it was too late. He had his chance, he had his hour, and he had failed. He would be heard no more, left to be naught more than a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Turning away from his parents, and shrugging off even his mother’s loving touch, Valde began to trudge slowly toward stage right, to make his final exit. But suddenly, applause broke out, and, whirling on his heel, his long coat swirling behind him, he returned his gaze across the classroom that had for a brief time become his stage, and, strangely, found hundreds – no, thousands – of faces staring back at him. The others in the room began to gather down stage from him, in front of the desks, facing out to the audience. Clasping hands, they took a bow. Valde stood frozen in shock, even as they beckoned to him to join them.

“But…” he stammered, “If it is over, why are they cheering?”

His father laughed at him over the noise of the crowd. “Because they have been entertained! You could surely say they are full of sound and fury,” he remarked, gesturing out to the audience, “but signifying nothing? I am no so sure…”

Valde’s lips curled into a small smile, and he made his way up to join his fellow players. They took another bow, before they broke away, leaving Valde standing alone to take a few bows by himself. Finally, on the very last flourishing bow, his face cracked into a full smile, even showing teeth, until the flash of a motionless capturing kamura caused him momentarily blindness, and he stumbled off backstage. There, awaiting him, he found no one. No one with flowers, no one even to remove his makeup or help him with his costume. But then, looking down, he realized that there had been no transformation in this performance. He had remained himself throughout the entirety of it. Perhaps Shakespeardil was right… he considered momentarily, but soon his mind was busied with other things.

He hurriedly searched around backstage, but could find no one, not even his parents. Exiting through a back door, he found himself back in the hallway of the Univeristy of Mordor, and reality suddenly came crashing down. Act V, Scene III was over. The applause of the crowd had made him forget what that meant. Time was up. The Anakron… Had he passed his test? Had he passed any of his test? Had he even been tested? Or had he been forgotten? After all, he had failed to produce catharsis.

He had also failed to secure a pair of eyebrows legally. He had failed to make his way through Lûndûn in the proper amount of time. He had lost his role in Spamlet. He had failed to make it to the Mount Doom Casino and Resort on his own, even with the help of Mr. T. He was almost certain he had failed his ‘psych eval’ due to the simple fact that he had altogether blown it off. And his class… His life was but a tale of failure, and woe was his constant state because of that. If only his parents, if only the Grand Anakronist, if only Mordor, and if only the world knew that, then perhaps his failures would not cause him to…fail. Where was there for him to go, when he was a failure even once assigned to Mordor?

“Where?” he shouted to no one but the wind. He would find Anakron, and demand an answer from him. He cared not what it was; he already expected to find himself cast aside, forgotten, as the failure, the loser of the game. It was fun while it lasted. And so he raged on.

“Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, shall I pay mind!
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;
Thou gods who hath treated me as they play thing!
Cast me aside, used; I care not!
Assigneth me – no, by my right,
By the gnarled marrow of my forefathers,
I assigneth mineself…to Mordor!”

~*Exeunt, with much credit owed to Shakespeardil*~