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The eyes of the audience were fixated upon them, stitching together the story elements they provided through their performance. It was both refreshing and nerve-wracking for Sigmund Freya to be the center of attention yet again, but it was better than nothing. The London stage was already usurped and dominated by a company of child actors, so what else could they do? They had to travel.
Being the leader of the troupe of touring actors, the lives of his Players depended on him. He had to be the strongest for his team, despite the internal battles within him. With this thought in mind, he went on with their revised portrayal of The Murder of Gonzago, as requested by the Prince, a friend of his.
"Remember what he said," Sigmund thought, remembering what the Prince instructed them about the nature of proper acting. "Do not to overact. Don't use large gestures. Be honest and mirror nature. Be entirely realistic in your portrayal."
But how could someone like Freya do that? How could someone with a façade of sanity built upon lies be "true" to himself? His performance simply depicted the same plot as the pantomime earlier in the show. In a sense, this "actual" play was merely a shadow of a shadow, colored with sounds and dialogues.
Their arrival at the Elsinore Castle was a pivotal instrument in the grand scheme of things, and he knew that. But of course, he told no one about his precognizant mind; he did not need any more reasons to make people perceive him more and more insane.
"Keep your heads up. The show must go on," he stealthily whispered to his troupe as he went to position. Sigmund then "slept" on a spot in the play's depicted garden, opening up an opportunity for the next part.
As the Player for the King, his role was rather simple: get killed by Lucianus, the Player King's nephew, through the method of murder described and specifically requested by the Prince, along with the few revisions he made. How badly did he desire to proclaim the appeal of death for him, but alas—saying that out loud would be nothing short of insane.
"Lucianus" then entered the stage, fulfilling the action that paralleled a real murder performed by someone in the audience—he poured poison into the ears of the sleeping Player King, which then killed the latter.
A sound of distress in the audience. Then an uproar. Then an order to shut the lights and stop the play. Everyone's gazes followed its source; a guilty murderer, rushing to leave the place alongside his Court. An unworthy king, as described by Sigmund in his mind.
Shadows suddenly started crawling at the corners of Sigmund's vision. The idea of losing a part of his audience in the middle of his performance frightened him. It was unbearable. Before he even knew it, he was back at their stage in London, performing in front of a laughing audience.
"Are they laughing with me? Or are they laughing at me?" he asked vocally, yet not a single sound escaped from his mouth.
He perfectly remembered the memory. It was the day where it all started: his body all sweaty and his makeup all flaky from constant movement across the furnace of a stage, he acted all alive and well in front of his audience. And then all of a sudden, visions came crashing down his mind. Visions of false heroisms, mindless murders, blades piercing through curtains and bodies, and the endless cycle of revenge.
Then came a peculiar rush of emotion; a mixture of sorrow, pain, and nothingness. For a moment, he felt everything and nothing at the same time. Emptiness and being full. Being asleep while being awake. Being dead while being alive.
And yet, despite the internal storm whirling inside Freya, he smiled. "The show must go on, everybody," he mouthed at his co-players.
When he finally "came back", the audience already dispersed back to their own lives. He just stood there, blankly staring into nothingness before looking back at his troupe. They were...smiling. Alongside his friend, the Prince, clapping enthusiastically with an infectious grin on his face.
Sigmund smiled.
"Looks like the mouse did bite the trap, hmm?" the head Player said.
The Prince, shocked at first, nodded knowingly. Although he wondered how Sigmund knew the true nature of the plan of revision, he could not care less of the matter. He acquired his evidence of the King's guilt, and that was all he really needed.
"The first time I saw your troupe perform in the city, I knew you were something. Thank you, Freya. You and your team," the Prince said, offering a handshake.
When Sigmund shook the Prince's hand, precognizant visions rushed into him again. He saw a web of interconnections, all coming down to a single cause—the death of the King's chief counselor, Polonius. The first domino. The Player saw how the Prince would mistakenly kill him, causing a series of interdependent occurrences which would all end up in the death of many, inclusive of the Prince himself.
But his contact with the Prince caused something else. A warm, electric force pulling him into the man. An inexplicable attraction. This confirms it, he thought to himself.
Who in his right mind would desire death's approach? Who in his right mind would get attracted to another man? Who in his right mind would overthink about the nature of existence and what we are living for? Who in his right mind could "see" visions of the future?
No one, that's for sure.
When their hands finally pulled away from each other's grasp, Freya's hand immediately looked for the warmth of the other's touch. Oh, how he craved his touch. It was inexplicable and absolutely wrong. Insane, even. He knew this all too well, forcing him to suppress his feelings of attraction.
The Prince finally excused himself and walked back to his room, which then broke the actor's heart for many reasons. Freya knew he would never get a chance to be in the Prince's heart. Freya knew that he would die due to his pursuit of revenge. Freya knew. Another heartache, another failed romance. An insane man like him would never attain his long-desired lover. At least, not on this world.
His inner war zones were depressingly disastrous, and yet he kept his smile.
He could warn the Prince about the future anytime. Of course, he could. Yet he decided not to, for he did not want to interfere with the grand script of the Divine. If the original plan was the death of many, then so be it. Let the plot do its thing. The show must go on, after all.
