Athwart King Gunther’s castle || hall came knights and squires
Donned in shining red gold || embossed with Fafnir’s fires.
Then came bishops and maidens || fair, whose virtue none
Protests. Then paraded || High King Siegmund’s fatal son.
His princely armor, forged of || dwarvish rhinegold, shone
Like Morning-Star before his || first fallen groan.
And with kingly valor || did his voice command:
Men, dwarves, and giants || of the bravest fighting band!
Along his side followed || the winsome loving queen.
In fidelity and beauty, || no greater has man seen.
With skin of silk and tress of || resplendent daffodils,
What oracle could predict || her pious end in bloody rills?
Last fared stately Brunhild: || the queen of valkyrie birth.
In excellence nor power, || the virago had no dearth.
Of splendor and her spirit, || no song truly told:
Her strut: the gait of kings; and|| her hair: of rarest marigold;
Her armor: Caesar’s steel chains; || her helmet: a plumed swan.
She walked adorned in treasures || from many battles won,
And armed with swords and chargers, || to rage against the odds
Betwixt our world come warring, || or the reign of despot gods.
The knights, squires, bishops and maidens became enthralled by the valkyrie’s presence. Their instincts were caught in a perpetual state, transitioning between fight and flight, and their minds couldn’t tell whether to praise the coming queen or tremble at her presence. For these weren’t brave men-at-arms, pious prelates or even comely maidens, but mere college students in costume, yet who was standing right before them? The warrior wasn’t man nor woman, not even Katharina, but Brunhild reborn. There was a tremble of silence that permeated through Moneta’s Theater until an impudent voice dared to speak out:
“What do you think of the outfit, Katharina? I daresay, I’ve never seen an actress more suited for a role in my life. Most actors can merely mimic a vague impression of a role, at best. Even then, they tend to corrupt their outfits into grotesque caricatures that barely resemble their original form. But you, my dear, appear to be a descendent, if not the modern day incarnation of Brunhild herself.”
“Do you really think so, Thomas?” questioned Katharina, blushing at the thought. “I greatly appreciate such flattery, but I shall not receive it on principle. Basing value on fate and lineage leaves servants subservient, and masters unchecked. For my sake, I refuse to believe in such a reality. Moreover, don’t you think this costume is a bit…excessive? It’s only rehearsal after all, and I don’t think this is the most fitting of attire for how often we’ll be engaged in this activity.”
“Perhaps you may be right, but don’t you feel more in character when you wear the armor? A bit closer to Brunhild than Katharina, no?”
“I suppose…”
“I personally love our outfits!” interjected Alice, the leading actress and prima donna of Rover College. “Wearing this gown makes me feel like a fairy tale princess or a noble lady from a Madame Le Brun painting!”
“Right, thank you for your input, Alice,” sneered Thomas. “Raphael, what do you think of the outfits?”
“I sadly don’t have a definitive opinion on the matter,” responded Raphael. “I understand the importance of wearing these costumes to get a feel for the characters; and I’m still genuinely surprised you were able to get funding to buy real chainmail and other armor pieces for the lead roles, so I think we should wear the costumes when we can, but it does get tiring lugging it all around. How about we just wear the helmets or crowns for now to stay in character, and we slowly equip more armor to solidify our roles as the production goes on?”
“Yes, that should work,” Thomas responded. There is too much modern in you lot at the moment, Thomas thought to himself. To become Brunhild, to become Siegfried in the flesh, I’ll need to beat it into you overtime like a master on an anvil. That is the will of an artist. Not only are they willing to reflect and subjugate reality, but beat its imperfections and falsities until your final form becomes indistinguishable from truth. Yes, that is what you taught me, Kriemhild.
“Now that’s settled, are we willing to begin?”
Over the course of the first practice section, Thomas continued to berate and chastise Alice, striking her over every imperfection and every added line she conjured. Eventually, Alice caved from the pressure. She began sobbing and ran out of the theater hall.
“What the hell is your problem!” shouted a voice from the auditorium. Alice’s boyfriend jumped onto the stage and grabbed Thomas by the collar.
“I’m not fond of actors,” responded Thomas cooly. “Neither musicians nor any who would label themselves under the title of performer. Such titles are only for those whose existence can be categorized as nothing greater than superfluous. They cannot create, since their art is only a matter of imitation, nor destroy. They can only corrupt. They interject their own faults and fancies where it doesn’t belong. That will not do for my production. Alice is too beautiful, her features too sharp; yes, her appearance is deathly artificial. That’ll not do for Kriemhild. She lacks the delicacy of character and the softness of features that necessitates a proper portrayal of Kriemhild. She only got the role because the theater department forced me into giving her the part. If she comes back, she’ll keep the role, guaranteed, but I will not coddle her.”
Thomas pushed Alice’s boyfriend away and glared at the production cast. “Listen here!” he commanded. “If you wish to go, go, and I will not blame you, nor will I chase you. If you wish to stay, stay, and you will parley with the Fates themselves! Now, I need five minutes to straighten myself up. If you’re gone when I come back, you’re dead to me; if you stay and remain loyal, I’ll reward you handsomely.”
After hearing Thomas’ ultimatum and him leaving the stage, the theater technicians and minor actors hustled into whispers:
“Has he always been like this?”
“No, not exactly. Well, maybe?”
“He’s always been slightly off. Brilliant! But off. However, I don’t remember him being this bad.”
“The artistic types always are. Especially the ones compelled by genius, as those snobby critics typically say.”
“Yes, yes, he deserves a good slap or two, but his father is a big-wig producer back in Hollywood. If we do well, he might put in a good word for us. Imagine!”
“Imagine!”
“We’ll play along for now, but let’s bail if the train goes south.”
“Agreed,” they all responded.
When the first rehearsal ended, the production cast sat in a circle to discuss the future of The Song of the Nibelungs.
“So, who do you think should play Lady Kriemhild?” questioned one of the stage hands.
“I don’t know…” Thomas said slyly. “We’ll have to scout a student from the college that is capable of becoming Kriemhild. Don’t get me wrong, my criteria really isn’t too demanding, and I’m sure someone is capable of playing her, it’s just that Alice was a bad fit, I think.”
When Amelia entered the theater to check on Raphael, Thomas glanced at her and gave a roguish smile.