Chapter 1: The return of the Thin White Duke
Summary:
The story of The Thin White Duke begins, where he comes from and who he is a mystery, he meets a mysterious ballerina.
Chapter Text
Always the flock retreating to their Sheppard, reflections of their desires.
February 8th, 1976, Forum in Inglewood. The audience flocked to the stage, praising their one true rock n’ roll messiah. The song increased in volume. The Thin White Duke strode closer to the front, hitting a crescendo. He gripped the Shure's microphone, bringing himself down to the audience; tresses of platinum-amber hair fell above his pale brow. His mismatched eyes surveyed the audience. “Hell, they’d still scream if I sang out the damn phone book; they’d lose their mind over the most sheer nonsensical bullshit,” The duke thought. His movements picked up momentum, striding across the stage, looking directly over the front row. His features remained distant and unshattered. “Can they hear the difference between the song's perfection or its mimic cry? I wonder if they can speculate its actual meaning or—believe their illusion.” Fangirls in the front row bellowed out their excitement. They reached over the barricade, trying to touch his pale skin. The duke pulled up before they could get the chance. Oh, how they begged; they wanted a piece of his time. He wouldn’t give the time of day. He’d throw reality back in their face, break their illusion, shatter any dream revolving him and them. The world was at his command; he could bend them. He was their King, Messiah, God, Devil, and Emperor. He was their leader.
The Duke would transform music on a global scale. The world will bend the knee as he sits tall in a room overlooking the ocean. With the final coda of “Station to Station,” the music started to fade. Ending it with the last verse: “It's too late. The European canon is here.”
The audience applauded, screamed and cried. Their messiah had finished his empty manifesto. He gazed down, a reminder of his superiority; they could never match his perfection. He’ll lead them astray, make them rot as he is—an angel disguised as the devil.
Station to station faded.
In a posh, detached, and aristocratic voice, he said, “Thank you, thank you. You’ve been a lovely audience tonight.”
He huffed, tired from the theatrical display.
“Farewell. May we never meet again.”
They howled, pleading for his return. He swiftly left the stage, not looking twice. The lights faded, and darkness overtook the whole theatre. The set was empty; the only thing standing was the drum set and amps. The Thin White Duke returned backstage, combing his platinum-amber tinged hair out of his eyes. He took a Gitanes cigarette from his pocket and ignited it with a lighter. He exhaled from his red lips. Like a cloud, it swirled around him, like snakes rising higher and higher—a dragon’s breath. In the mirror, he observed himself, the lingering essence of a forgotten aristocrat in a European noir film. Holding the drag in his hand precisely, he cracked open the drawer. Plastic Bags of white powder were ready at his disposal. He took out a slight pinch, lining it up carefully with a metal blade. Each line, immaculate like him, was an offering to the God of Indulgence to which he’d long since become enslaved. He took a note and rolled it into a cylinder. He pressed it to his nostril, inhaling the line deeply.
For a brief consumption, his mismatched eyes flickered—the high set in. His heartbeat quickened, his eyes sharpened, all emotions had ceased. He was numb; the world around him lifted, replaced by shattering decay. He sat there, a breath of smoke surrounding him in a cloud. In the corner of his eyes, creatures twisted and coiled from the shadows of the walls. They laughed, mocking him. Their eyes burned with an otherworldly hunger.
“Fuckin ell’, first demon’s risin’ from the depths of my pool, and now to the chambers of my stage. Curious little beasts, aren’t they?”.
He sat there, accepting what was to come.
“I drew lines—on the floor, on the walls. Pentagrams, yes. Protection, or perhaps a map. But they came anyway.” He monologued.
The Duke could no longer make sense of his world. The reality he knew was warped into a self-hell. “Go on then, take me soul; just make it quick, yeah?”
Closing his eyes, the darkness engulfed him in one bite.
He felt a bump, a sharp shake and then a poke.
The duke awoke in a cold sweat, his eyes darting around the room. He was alive, but how?
His gaze landed on a young woman, wearing a black shirt with jeans and boots. “Um, Sir, are—are you alright?”
The duke shot a cold glare; he did not like being disturbed, let alone touched. He took out a drag, replacing the previous. He lets out a puff of smoke, enhancing his sharp features. “My dear, if you're expectin’ company, a date, or a shag, I’m afraid I’ll only break your heart. So, I’ll spare you the heartache, walk away while you can, or return when your illusions are shattered.”
The young, average creature—in his eyes—flashed a tint of red across her cheeks. “I-I didn’t imply, I, I only wanted to check on you after you blacked out. Oh?—”
The duke nonchalantly rose from his seat, dismissing her concern and walked out. He didn’t need her pity. “Do yourself a favour, darling, but try unpredictability; it's not that you lack it—it's that you're far too predictable.”
Not making eye contact, he strode out the door, slipping on his black coat hanging from the chair. He walked down the halls within the shadows. He half expected the demons to show up again, oozing with hunger and profanity. He gripped the handle toward the exit. He anticipated the solace, the sound of his piano—the taste of peppers and whole milk.
“There he is—the motherfuckin’ pale prince imself, The Thin White Duke’.”
A familiar voice emitted behind him.
“Mick. Always showing up like a thunderclap in a cathedral.” The duke slightly turned, acknowledging his presence but never meeting his gaze.
“Yeah well, just seein’ how you’re hangin’, can’t have you hauntin’ this place all night.” He grinned, his denim jacket barely clinging to his frame.
“Yeah, well—I prefer silence; it’s better than the people who roam the earth.”
“Well, that’s poetic and all, but I’ve got two pints, four women, and a jukebox begging for "Suffragette City." You coming to the pub or are you going to stay here brooding like a Victorian ghost?” Mick placed a hand on the duke’s shoulder.
“mmm tempting. But I prefer my drinks cold, my lights low, and me company silent.”
“Mate, we’ll get a corner booth. Low lights, plenty of smoke, you can even stare blankly into the middle distance if it makes you feel mysterious. C’mon, one drink. For the sake of depravity.”
“Depravity, you say?”
“The good kind.”
“Very well. But I won’t laugh, I won’t dance, and I won’t pretend to care about darts.”
“No one’s asking you to. Just don’t make the Guinness nervous”.
The pair caught a cab to avoid prying fans. For the most part, the duke was silent, while Jagger went on about his new ideas in music, where he’s been and how he’s been. The cab driver didn’t ask any questions, keeping to himself. The duke stared at the countless buildings and objects that passed by in a blur. No excitement, no elevation of joy, not even the thrill he once had for simple pleasures. He existed and—that was all. The cab rolled up to a side street. Outside, a dimly lit pub with a neon sign flashing out the front. Few patrons were bustling about, hurrying for a drink. This place wasn’t as popular. From the looks of it, business seemed slow, not precisely the lively place the duke was used to. “This place looks dead,” the duke muttered.
“Dead? Nah mate, what are you talkin’ about it’s lively as ever” Mick grinned, pushing the cab door open. “C’mon, you Victorian ghost.”
The duke followed suit. He didn’t acknowledge the prying patrons. He’ll give this place one thing, at least, people aren’t screaming passing by. Other bars, such as the Rainbow Bar and Grill, have patrons surrounding that area like ants with sugar. Screaming fans—while he adores it—don’t always align well with his sophisticated way. Entering the pub, they sat at a small round table away. Cigar smoke filled the air, and the scent of alcohol was pungent. Chatter was quiet—only the occasional laughter. From the jukebox, the faint song of ‘Golden Years’ played in the background.
“How did you find this place, eh?” The duke said deadpanned.
“Oh, you know, through a drunken stroll”, Mick slouched lazily across the longue, lighting a cigarette dangling from his lip. The duke sat elegantly poised with little movement. He pulled out a drag in unison, lighting the bud. Amid the smoke, his slender frame and pale features made him resemble a ghost rising from the dead.
“You look like a haunted pencil, mate.” Mick commented.
“And you look like a lizard trying to sell me a pyramid scheme.” The duke said in retaliation.
Mick signalled for one of the waitresses. The waitresses eyed them, giggling like a bunch of school girls; they knew very well who they were. The duke’s mismatched eyes flickered back to Mick. The waitress in her thirties with jet black hair and red lipstick, wandered over with a pen and pad at the ready.
“What can I get you, gentlemen?” She meekly smile.
“Whiskey on the rocks,” the duke stated.
“Rum an’ coke for me, darlin’,” Mick said with a hint of flirtation.
“Perfect. Coming right up.” She hurried away, trying to hide her excitement.
Mick leaned in closely. “You alright, Dave? You’ve got that ‘I’ve been communing with the abyss again’ look.”
“The abyss is a hell of a lot politer company compared to this city. Everythin’s fake except the paranoia.” The duke shrugged.
“Ah, paranoia! My favorite stimulant.” He grins.
The duke took a drag from his cig, not ashamed to admit. “I haven’t eaten in three days, Mick. Just... milk, peppers, and cocaine.”
“Jesus, that’s not a diet, that’s a suicide note.” Mick was taken aback
“It’s a purification. You wouldn’t understand—your bloodstream’s still full of blues and women.”
“And what’s yours full of? German expressionism and regret?”
“Among other things.” The Duke’s lips curled into a slight smirk.
The duke felt nostalgic, reminiscing about the times they collaborated: parties, women, banter, drugs and sex.
“Remember when we thought London was mad?” Mick leaned back.
“London was a nursery. LA is a fever dream on a broken record.” The duke said back.
“You know, we could run away. You, me, a piano, maybe an island…”
“And do what, Mick? Form a band? Start a cult?” The duke was skeptical.
“Whichever gets us out of this place first.”
The duke’s smirk falter, he sarcastically remarked. “Tell me—do you ever worry the mask is permanent?”
“Oh, darling... I am the mask.”
The jukebox switched to ‘Fame’. The duke didn’t react; he couldn’t remember the last time he heard it, let alone made it. Everything was a blur after ‘Young Americans’ was produced.
“They’re playing your song.” Mick gazed over to the juke box.
“I know. I wrote it to shut people up.” The duke didn’t flinch. Taking a breath from his cig.
“Did it work?” Mick grinned.
“Not even close.”
The waitress came back with their drinks. She set them down on the table. The duke dismissed her. However, Mick was eyeing her. “Tell you what darlin’, just for you, I’ll give an autograph.”
The waitress eagerly handed over her pen and notepad. Mick gave away his signature, handing it back. The waitress thanked him and excitedly squealed, hurrying back.
“Cute that one”, he commented.
“Just one in the same. They’re moths, Mick. Drawn to flame. But the flame doesn’t care if they burn.”
“Always with the deadpan poetry. You know, I’ve caught a few pretty birds staring at you through the establishment. You’re not terrible with the ladies, mate, you used to be all over them. Not bad for a man with eyeliner and arthritis.”
“Adoration is just hunger in a prettier dress.” The duke said.
“Oh, come on. A little worship never hurt anyone.” Mick nudged the duke.
“They don’t love you, Mick. They love the smoke, the glitter, the fame, their illusion of you, their fantasy.” He gave him a reality check.
“And what do they love about you, then?” Mick chuckled.
“Nothing. That’s the appeal.” The duke held up his glass dead pan.
“That’s rich. What are you drinking?”.
“It's whiskey. Or it's gasoline. I can't remember.” The duke swirled his glass.
The entry door swung open; the sound of hollow laughter changed the atmosphere of the desolate space. Glancing toward the entrance, Mick and the duke were greeted by four beautiful women. Mick’s eyes lit up; he grinned as the cigarette dangled from his lips. Conversely, the duke turned his head slowly “Friends of yours, Mick?”
Mick ignored the duke’s comment. He stood up, welcoming them with open arms.
“Ahhh! Ello’ darlin’s! Trouble times four. Come on in, angels, I kept the devil company just for you,” he shouted with a cheeky grin.
“Mick! Sweetheart! How are you?” With a Polish accent, the first model ran up to hug him. Her features were full, plump lips and doe-like eyes—her hair, brown as wood.
“Stefania, don’t hog him; he’s not all yours.” Another model winked. She was taller; her hair was brighter in comparison.
“Don’t worry me, pretty birds, you’re all welcome here”. Mick slung his arms around their shoulders.
Mick brought them over, much to the duke’s dismay. The four women—all striking—then the last; long, smooth limbs, high cheek bones, beautiful eyes and, drunk from the champagne. Eyed the duke, two clinging onto Mick. The four Polish models: Stefania, Zofia, Tina and Eliza. The duke’s high features remained poised; he gave little reaction. Clearly, they were after Mick; the duke was the appetiser.
“Mick! Darling! You didn’t say he’d be this handsome.” Stefania stepped closer, close enough for the duke to smell the intense booze on her breath.
“Or this... terrifying.” Zofia remarked.
“Is he wearing eyeliner or just suffering?” Tina commented.
Mick exaggeratedly introduced the duke as if he were a rare entertainment piece from a zoo “Ladies—meet the Thin White Duke. He only appears when the night is morally compromised.”
Eliza confidently sat down, mesmerised by his appearance. He wasn’t making eye contact, but that didn’t deter her. She dangled a Virginia Slims cigarette from her mouth, igniting the flame, her lips curled into a smile.
“Hello, darling. How are you? You don’t talk much, do you? I don’t mind. You seem like an honest man.” She leans in close.
“Oh? how original. Is this the part where I’m supposed to smile and fall madly in love with your temptation?” the duke sarcastically replied.
Eliza lightly laughed, her slim fingers painted in a wine red, twirling a lock of her brunette hair. She leaned into the red longue, her right leg crossing. Her arm pressed against the table, steadying her head; her gaze was like poison, tempting to win the duke over with her looks. The duke slid across the longue, looking down. “You know, I’ve met men like you before, vice and virtues don’t matter.” Eliza tapped her cigarette, allowing bits of ash to fall. “You're not really like other men, you're more like a ghost dressed in Yves Saint Laurent, reciting poetry to the mirror. You don’t love women or men like that. You watch them burn.” Her words were a searing thread burning the cracks into the Thin White Duke’s icy wall.
“Is that how you see me? To be reduced to couture and combustion. At least you were paying attention, but I doubt a woman of your age truly knows what the definition of art is.” The duke turned to her, glaring. “So do yourself a favour, darling, spare yourself the illusion. You don’t know me. Your definition of art is watching a man unravel and calling it insight”.
Eliza lifted her head; her delicate fingers traced a circle around the duke’s pale hand. She whispered, “Which is art in itself.”
Her hand trailed along the outer blue of his vein, to the white of his knuckle. His hands were frail, slim, pale as ash, and his voice was low, slow and sacrilegious. He was carved out of smoke and bone, nothing but angles. His skin stretched over bones like silk on a wire. You could count the cost of his life in collarbones and ribs. His eyes were incredibly piercing. They didn’t match, one fixed like a blade of blue ice, and the other was wide, unblinking, watching somewhere deeper. Together, they looked like twin moons, one watching and the other remembering—like God got bored halfway through and left him half possessed.
“Are you done yet? Is this the part where I’m supposed to melt? Do forgive me—I forgot how.” The duke crossed his arms, he didn’t blink, his mismatched eyes narrowed half-lidded.
Sitting across from the duke with Mick, Tina, and Zofia, Stefania turned to Mick, who was lounging against his chest catlike. “Mick darling…why is the ghost not looking at her? She’s trying everything—she’s even wearing Chanel No. Five.”
“Unfortunately, he’s not the kind you can catch easily; you're better off with a séance.” Mick shrugged.
“Oh, such a shame, and she’s single too.” Stefania clicked her tongue.
Zofia clasped her hands and grinned like a child getting a Christmas present. She grabbed her black and gold chainmail purse, unzipping the top. Mick, curious asked.
“Whach’a have there darlin’.”
Zofia held out a small, ornate, metallic snuff box; her slender fingers pulled out a plastic straw; one can assume she “burrowed” it from the front. She opened the lid, her lips curled into a mischievous grin. She placed it in the middle of the table.
“I know how to make things fun.” She said, waving the straw around like a wand.
“Alright! Now where talkin dove! What’s this one called?” Mick smiled like a fox in feathers.
“Snow from Zakopane.” Zofia grinned like a succubus preying on some poor soul's heart.
“Sounds like a failed Bond villain. Or a failed ski resort. Possibly both.” The Thin White Duke dryly remarked.
Zofia handed Mick the straw. All four models leaned in excitedly, waiting, watching, eagerly. Mick held the straw like a royal sceptre and bows in absurdity, his hand hovers over the snuff box. “Ladies first," he implies the duke. “Or should I do the honours?”
Mick hunched over the snuff box; he inhaled a small dosage. The lingering white powder stained his nose. “Ahh, that’s the Warsaw waltz right there.” Mick’s head leaned back, slowly exhaling; his eyes widened like spotlight apertures.
“Still, better than the stuff in Rio.”
“Your enthusiasm is so charming, Mick. Like a dog discovering mirrors.” The duke crossed his arms.
“Bloody hell, that does ski.”
Eliza stared at the duke, expecting him to join the fun. Her eyes perked up, she leaned over the table, stealing the straw from Mick’s grasp. If there’s one thing she’s planning tonight, it’s to have fun with the Thin White Duke and—a free drink. She handed the straw to Duke, smiling. “My dear Duke, if you will.” Her voice ached in a soft whisper.
“If any of you are poisoning me, do try to be creative about it.” The Duke didn’t smile; he was familiar with cocaine. He used it several times a day. This led to his downward spiral, or advancement; he worked endlessly day and night, but even this led to dire consequences. He lost weight, the ability to feel, the feeling of normality, and the feeling of being alive. But he didn’t care; he wanted to rule empires. His authority was above anyone else's. He threw darts in lovers eyes to prove how delusional they were, to wield power over them and manipulate them from his ‘magic circle’. Cocaine was his friend and his enemy.
“You always this cheerful at parties?” Mick asked grinning.
“Only when I’m surrounded by rock stars who can’t die properly.” The duke’s head fell back; smoke escaped his mouth, forming a cloud around him. The sound of laughter became a taunting spectacle. The song on the jukebox skipped over to ‘Suffragette City’. In the duke’s eyes, the world’s colour started to drain into a monochrome noir. The laughter grew louder, transforming into snarls; the models’ faces twisted and contorted, becoming violent, morphing succubi beneath. The noise of the clock started to speed up; conversations splintered into shatters. The Duke’s world faded into a numbness; he could no longer see or feel emotion. A shot of energy burst through his core, as if he had ten coffees at three am. He could do anything; he was a god, untouchable. Every bone in his body was buzzing; ideas were flowing. He could write a new song, perform, create a whole new album, sing all of it at the Nassau Coliseum. The four models got up from their seats and danced. Tina sways in motion to the rhythm, Zofia moved her hips with a drink in hand, Stefania locks eyes with Mick. Mick got on top of the table, wild, loose and animalistic. He starts to sway his hips and move like he does on stage—every step soaked in ego and sweat. Stefania steps up soon after, swaying to the rhythm with him, feeling nothing but the beat of the music. She starts to untie his scarf, tying it around her boot. Their laughter echoed throughout the bar, louder than the clack of the pool balls hitting the felt. Zofia pours whiskey down Mick’s throat, the liquid spilling over the table.
The Thin White Duke hovered, feeling the effects kick in. He swayed to the rhythm, moving his arms as if floating through space. His mismatched gaze met Eliza’s; she raised her arms around his neck, trying to maintain his focus. The duke dangled the cigarette from his lip while her lighter ignited his flame. She felt herself drowning in his gaze, getting closer and closer. The Duke kept his icy glare: “She was falling in love.” Eliza leaned forward, her lips gently pressed against the Duke’s, who didn’t return the favour. His cold glare narrowed; he hadn’t expected her to touch him without permission. His slender hands glided up her shoulders; he drew her away, the taste of alcohol lingering on her breath. Eliza leaned in, trying to get more of the taste. The Thin White Duke held her at a distance, keeping her at arm’s length.
“Don’t…ruin the art, darling.” The Duke said coldly.
“Why are you afraid, afraid of me?” Eliza whispered.
“Not Afraid. Not interested. You're mistaking proximity for privilege.”
Eliza opened her mouth only to be interrupted. Mick slinging his arms around Stefania, Zofia and Tina asked “Wanna hit the road mate?”
The duke, glancing sideways, followed suit. They stepped out into the cold night; the models giggled loudly, clicking their heels against the pavement. The Duke trailed behind.
“Off you go girls, the men ave’ shit to do.” Mick said with a sly smile.
Stefania, Zofia, and Tina waved, blowing kisses in Mick's direction. The three models said, “Bye, Darling. I’ll call you.”
“I’ll see you on New Year's Eve.”
“Bye, sweetheart.”
Eliza stayed behind, tucking a brown strand behind her ear. She grinned, leaning closely to the duke. She playfully brushed against his arm. Her hand curled, trying to hold his, but he pulled away. Eliza stopped looking into his mismatched eyes. She stared in awe, mesmerised by his smooth features.
“I had a fun time.” She said sheepishly.
“Likewise…” The duke said.
“If you ever wanted to, catch up again sometime, I have—” She reached into her glittery purse. She knelt, scribbling something on a piece of torn paper. She raised herself to the Duke; his eyebrows raised in curiosity.
She held out a piece of paper with numbers—her phone number—and handed it to the Duke. “Call me, if you want.” She smiled, waving.
The Duke didn’t give any farewell or gesture. He watched her walk into the distance with her group. His eyes trailed down to the number, sneering with disdain. His slender finger ran over the writing.
“Well, that was a fun night innit. Probably more than Studio fifty-four. Remember that. I swear one of the pretty girls rode in on a horse. And Andy—Andy Warhol just stood there, deadpan, filming it like it was breakfast. Didn’t blink. Said later he wanted to paint the horse, but never decided what colour—”
Mick stopped in his tracks; he watched the Duke hold the paper. The Duke’s eyes glared, narrowing further each time he re-read it. Mick trailed closer to the Duke, his hands shoved in his pockets. “What-cha doin—Oh! You got er’ number, nice one mate. See, I knew someone was into the whole deadpan, gothic funeral-in-a-suit thing.”
The Thin White Duke stared at the writing; his pale jaw clenched. His eyebrows furrowed. His other hand reached into his pocket, pulling out an ornate, silver lighter. He ignites the flame with the flick of his thumb. The flame danced around, swaying amber and gold. The Duke held the number between his thumb and index finger. “There are two types of people in this world—those who chase the flame. And those who are the flame. The flame never lingers. It burns, it blinds, and it vanishes. The ones who chase it. They write poems. The ones who are it—They don’t remember the names.”
The Duke observes the flame, a source of his reflection, he can never have.
“Some of us... We thrive in distance. In the space between the stations. Not lovers, not liars—just signals flickering in the fog. The others? They survive on contact. Kisses like confessions, hands like anchors. But we—we ride the last train, always leavin’,
always almost arriving. Drivin’ like a demon from station to station.”
The paper catches aflame, consuming into blackened ash. He let go, watching it fade onto the ground. His lips twitched. He grinded the burning piece under his black, polished leather shoe, trampling it like a cigarette.
“I’m the Thin White Duke. She wanted my fuckin’ answer, and I gave her one.” The Duke’s lips twitched into a seeming smile. “Now she’ll see reality for what it is, a smouldering hell of broken shit.”
Mick stared at him speechless, he didn’t know whether to applaud him or hire him for the next Shakespeare play “That was—that was either brilliant…or bollocks. You rehearsin’ for Hamlet, or are you always like this?”
“This is the rehearsal, darling. I’m recitin’ poetic shit.” The Duke said walking into the breezy night, pulling out a drag.
“Seriously, mate, you should write this down. Ever thought of becoming an author?” Mick followed suit.
“Once.”
The Duke and Mick wandered through the streets as the hustle and bustle faded. It was so quiet, the two men could be murdered, and no one would bat an eye. Mick walked casually, without a care, his hips loose, the cigarette in hand dangling. On the other hand, the Duke walked with precision, his ramrod straight like a marionette being held by strings. His hands were shoved in his pockets. His mismatched eyes scanned the area, unnerved. He knows he’s the most dangerous thing on the street. They walked beneath streetlights flickering with sparks; cars passed by on their way to various destinations. A dog behind a chain-linked fence barked furiously to ward off the intruders. Stray cats crawled into gutters and picked up whatever scraps they could to survive. In the alleyways they passed, you’d see the occasional drunk sleeping off the effects. They disappeared into the neon haze.
“That place smelled like regret and tequila. Bloody beautiful.” Mick said taking a sweet inhale of the night air.
“Regret has a bouquet. Tequila just slaps you in the face.” The duke said.
“Oh, you’re still doing that whole vampire-poet routine?” Mick leaned in, nudging the duke.
“Better than sounding like a cockney werewolf with glitter.” He twitched the corner of his lip.
“Touché, darling.”
The Duke’s steps slowed down, his gaze becoming inanimate, breaking the light moment. “You ever feel like these streets know us better than we know ourselves?”
“No. I barely know what city I’m in most nights.” He takes a drag. “But yeah... sometimes.”
The Duke trailed further behind; he stopped in front of an old pawn shop. Looking back, Mick followed, curious to what caught the Duke’s attention. Inside was a golden-brass saxophone with an outrageous price tag behind dirty glass.
The Duke pointed, touching the glass. “I hocked one just like that when I was twelve. I bought it back six years later. It sounded worse. I liked it better.”
“Everything sounds better broken. That’s the trick.” Mick rested a hand on the Duke’s shoulder.
“That’s because you sing with your hips.” The duke continued to walk.
“And you sing like a ghost trapped in a mirror.” Mick followed.
They passed a neon “vermillion hotel” sign buzzing in faded red above a cracked sidewalk. The Duke and Mick caught up in their world, surrounded by smoke, reminiscing about memories they shared. Their footsteps started to fall flat; something was off. Mick spotted something across the other side of the road. His gaze narrowed, and his smile thinned. The Duke raised an eyebrow, following where Mick was looking. A figure glided effortlessly across the path under the flickering street light. The figure, in turn, was still, back turned. She looked like a porcelain doll, her skin milky and pale. She was smaller in stature, petite and delicate. Her weight was willowy and slender, so they could easily see a trace of her spine going up to her swan-like neck. In contrast to the other models or actresses the superstars have come across, her hair wasn’t shaggy nor styled in sporadic feathered layers. She had dark, raven brunette tresses sitting lightly above her jawline, just above her pale neck. She had a black trench coat reaching her ankles.
“Who the bloody ell’ is that?” Mick questioned.
“Probably some nutter” The Duke mumbled.
“Fuck, she ain’t even wearin’ shoes.” Mick’s eyebrows furrowed.
She began to pivot, revealing her facial features. Her eyes were a striking aqua blue; her lips a deep, rosy, red, thinned into a neutral frown. She straightened her back and, with poise, pushed off with her right leg, keeping her other leg on the ground for support. Round and around, in a seamless rotation, she glided. An ‘obscure spectre’ she sailed with lithe, like a feather floating through the hallowing winds. She spun until she fluidly transitioned into her following sequence. She started to move in place, staying on her tiptoes with rapid, minuscule steps, waving her slim arms around like wings in motion. With one more step, she began to lean forward and spin; the fabric she wore glided with her.
She lept in the air, her agile legs spreading forward and behind.
“Jesus... she’s not dancing. She’s...” Mick’s eyes widened.
“Simply Insane. I’m surprised some bullshit like this impresses you Mick.” The Thin White Duke glared.
“Well, not every day you see someone this talented. Is this some art performance?”
“Even if it is, I don’t want to know.”
Her right foot landed behind her left; she kept her back straight, eyes closed. She was a statue, the veiled virgin tied in the living flesh; Galatea awoken by Aphrodite. She opened her eyes. A cold gaze that pierced through. She was staring—unmoving—directly at the two rock stars.
Mick was unnerved. He bit harder on the drag. “Well fuck me... she’s not even blinking. Like a fuckin’ painting that got bored of hangin' on a wall.”
The Duke stared back, his gaze unmoving. “Why would she? Blinking’s for people who give a shit.”
He observed her, assuming “like the Veiled Virgin…only flesh and breath wrapped tight like marble. Galatea after the gods got bored. A fuckin’ statue that woke up and decided not to care.”
“Sounds like me last girlfriend.” Mick snorted.
Nah, but look at her... That ain't just cold, that's calculated.”
“Not Calculated. Detached. She’s not here for us.” The Duke said.
Mick mischievously grinned, “Tell you what. You walk up to her, say anything that gets a reaction—blink, breath, twitch, fuckin’ eyebrow raise—and I’ll buy your next drink. Top shelf. No label.”
“You think I care about a drink?” The Duke glared.
“No. I think you care about being right. And I think you’re scared she’ll look at you and see exactly what the rest of us do.”
“And what’s that?”
“A pretty ghost in a suit who talks like he’s already dead.”
“Of fuckin’ course.” The duke rolled his eyes.
Mick stood back. The Duke—wanting to get this over with—walked with precision, his shoes ‘clacking’ against the pavement. He walked over as if this was nothing, another fangirl to worship his ground. Or, kidnap him. She didn’t move; her movement was so still it slightly unnerved the Duke, even if he didn’t express it. She didn’t smile, scream, faint or speak. He stopped at a distance between them. The last thing the Duke needed was to be touched again.
The wind gently picked up, breezing through the Duke’s amber-tinged blonde hair. He stared at the young woman; she looked eighteen at most. Not that it was uncommon for young women to succumb to lust, seeing the Duke. Neither of them spoke. It was as though they were having a staring contest to see who would blink first. The Duke turned his head, looking over his shoulder, seeing the smile on Mick’s face. He turned back slowly.
In a soft British accent, he muttered, “Hullo? Are you lost?”
She didn’t talk. She didn’t move; her eyes remained the same. Detached.
“What? Did you hear anything I said?” The duke said once more.
No response.
He let out a short, sharp sigh. “Listen—have you got a fuckin’ name, or is silence just your whole thin’?".
She wouldn’t budge.
“...Alright. That’s it, then.”
The Duke flicked his cigarette at her, grinding it under his boot.
“Right. Whatever. Enjoy the quiet, love. You’re about as interesting as a fuckin’ taxidermy piece."
She blinked slowly, as if they were ghosts passing by. She turned and walked away.
He trailed back to Mick who seemed rather over the moon. Mick shouted. “You hear me, love? You’re fuckin’ brilliant! Cold as a cathedral, but brilliant!”
The Duke shot a glare. "Mick, she’s not brilliant. She’s a puddle with a tutu. You can’t just stare off into space and call it art. It’s pretension dressed in chiffon. Silent art’s a scam. If you’re not showing me your demons, why bother showing up at all?"
"Maybe she’s just savin’ her demons for someone else."
The Duke’s voice grows in volume "Well, she’s savin’ them for a bloody long time, then. If you can’t open your mouth and let me in, what’s the point of havin’ demons? Art’s a conversation. You either talk or wave your arms around in the dark hopin’ someone notices." He continues. "I can do that. Hell, I do that. At least I know how to make a point."
Mick smiled, but he wasn’t listening. "Maybe you’re the one who’s got it wrong, huh? Maybe she’s speaking a different language—one you just can’t hear."
The duke shot a glare, his eyes narrowed. "I’m not here to learn a new language, Mick. I’m here for something real. Not some silent, pious, ‘look-at-me-I’m-art’ crap. If I wanted that, I’d hang out with pretentious poets who don’t know how to fuck."
His tone grew sharper. "She’s got a lot to say—but it’s all in the fuckin’ air, like the rest of that half-assed nonsense people call ‘culture’ these days."
Mick grinned, "Christ, you really hate everything, don’t you?"
The Duke’s voice returned hushed, "No, Mick... I don’t hate it. I loathe it. There's a difference."
The night was getting on; the two men wandered off to organise a cab home. They wandered through a livelier area, cars drifted by, and more people passed by. Standing on the curb's edge, Mick stuck his hand out, signalling for a cab. One pulled out, painted in yellow. The driver inside was like crumbled newspaper, his eyes drooping from too many overnight shifts with thick sideburns creeping down like ivy. A cigarette dangled from his lower lip, looking up in boredom. He dialled down the radio, not giving any recognition to the two rock stars. Mick opened the cab door, glancing back at the Duke.
“Well, Duke… I suppose this is where the curtain falls? You’re not comin’?” His head tilted.
The Duke stood by the curb, a cigarette fused between his fingers, representing him.
“No,” he said. “I don’t take cabs. I vanish.”
“Course you do. Alright then mate—no hard feelings?”
“None.”
Mick threw his arm out half lazily, and the Duke, with precision, took his hand with a gloved grip. Mick leaned in a sideways press. The Duke hesitated, angular and deliberate; he slowly followed. Mick clapped the duke’s back with a rhythmic loose pat. The Duke’s hand barely touched Mick’s Jacket. They pulled away quickly. The Duke exhaled, eyes glassy under the eyeliner. Mick ducked inside, slamming the cab door. The cab driver pulled away, the silhouette of the thin white duke’s figure growing smaller in the rearview mirror. The Duke stood alone in the faint of the night, the hustle and bustle dying down. He probably should have gone with Mick, yet he didn’t favour more unwelcomed company. With a sharp sigh, he started walking, trying to find another cab to take him home. He walked past shuttered storefronts and flickering laundry mats. The night was heavy, with a cold breeze, he pulled out a near-empty packet of cigarettes. He dangled it from his lip, igniting the smooth filter. Thoughts flickered through his mind like an old noir film. He thought of ‘Hunky Dory’, the strange burst of sunlight before the clouds came in. ‘The Man Who Sold The World’, the sharp paranoia of ‘Diamond Dogs’, the way Aladdin Sane felt like your soul trying to sing with your soul halfway out the door. Ziggy Stardust and Halloween Jack, glittering and doomed, a mask that smiled too wide. There were hotel rooms soaked in red velvet and reverb, laughter echoing through the corridors that always smelled like something burning. That was London. Madness in Makeup, now only static. He remembered the clubs in London, at three am, a guitar riff that felt like a lifeline, the cold grip of ambition, and the quiet horror of realising he’d become a myth soon. Somewhere through all the noise, he’d lost the man that blinked in mirrors. Now there was only the Thin White Duke—a very dark character. He was devoid of humanity, cold, superior, detached, and worn to survive the madness.
The Thin White Duke exhaled a ring of smoke. Names flashed through his mind with each ring—Angie, Trevour, Lou, Iggy, Mick, Coco—never settling. Loud reed, grinning like a sinner, with a secret, his words sharp and low, teaching him how to bleed with style. Mick Jagger, full of fire and arrogance, a man who danced like every street was his stage, their laughter once echoing off the walls off a too-bright hotel room. The Spiders From Mars flickered next, glitter, glamourous and brief—and Ronson, dear Ronno, had anchored Ziggy’s chaos, been the soul machine, guitar slung like a shield, a quiet northern boy with golden hands who made Ziggy sing. Ziggy never really got to say goodbye. Angie arrived in a flash of eyeliner and fury, part muse, part chaos engine, their love more of a battlefield than romance, their love burned fast and left ash, but still she was the one who dared him into becoming Ziggy Stardust. Zowie, his so, his lifeline, the only version of himself that didn’t feel burrowed or broken. And then Iggy—beautiful, broken, utterly alive— their friendship stitched together with noise, bruises, and an unspoken understanding of the abyss. The Duke walked on, each name trailing behind like the last note of a song he couldn’t finish.
He passed by a lit record shop, stopping—he saw a vinyl cover, a reflection of Ziggy Stardust staring back at him through the window. He stared at him like he owed him something. The Thin White Duke blew out smoke. He recalled the last notes of ‘Rock And Roll Suicide’, a cry for help, a blow to Ziggy Stardust’s character. That night felt like a wake. It was as if the man who created him had been consumed by the very fame he created. The Thin White Duke emerged, as the cold counterpoint to the mess of the glam and chaos, turning it monochrome, erasing it’s colours. A carefully curated reflection, a chilling self-image, an aristocrat with yellow eyes, detached and mechanical, a product of the cocaine haze and the sense of losing self-control. He turns away, continuing with nothing but the swirl of smoke trailing behind him.
He wasn’t sure how he came to be, how he was born, who he was. He remembered a name that echoed his image; he emerged not from a mother’s womb but a crack in the world, somewhere between a film’s reel’s final frame and the last note of a final chanson. The Thin White Duke was believed to be summoned by a broken man in Los Angeles from the other side of a mirror, desperate for reinvention, who poured all his brilliance and madness into a name and gave it life. He was the abandoned soul of aristocracy, pale, elegant and hollow, drifting through the corridors of time in search of a meaning he could never feel. He wore sorrow like a pressed white shirt, starched and spotless, masking the rot beneath. Cigarette in one hand, glass of milk in the other, he danced through midnight cabarets and decadent ruins, a ghost with no future or past. The Duke was not born of flesh, but conjured by loneliness, cocaine, and the unbearable weight of fame, an echo of David Bowie’s shadow given form. Though he wears his memories like stolen jewellery, glinting and ill-fitting. HE IS NOT DAVID BOWIE. He recalls things Bowie lived: The warm flicker of the Berlin bar, the dry heat of Los Angeles paranoia, the click of a tape machine rewinding—but for him, these are not memories, only hauntings. He walks through them like dreams someone else forgot. The Duke took the stage with immaculate grace, precise cruelty and no heart at all. He doesn’t bleed; he recites. Behind his eyes is a locked room with Bowie’s grief hung neatly on the walls like framed gold records. He remembers love, but did not love, which was almost worse.
The Duke lost in thought, strolled down the street, his shoes clicking in rhythm—‘tick, tick, tick—like the world was a metronome. Streetlamps buzzed nervously, casting a halo in the breezy night, and small insects flew to the light, trying to touch what they cannot reach. He reached into his pocket, exhaling smoke, pulling out a scrap of paper, a lyric he didn’t write from a song that never existed.
“From Kether to Malkuth, the path unravels.
I have walked the path from station to station, tasted divinity in a line of white, and still found myself hollow. From one empty room to another, naming them as I passed—yesod, Tiferet, Geburah—hoping if I named enough things, I would remember who I was.
But I never found Malkuth. The kingdom. The ground.
They say everything begins there, in the world that holds rest.
I never began.
They told me Kether, the crown, the blinding light at the top of the tree. But light means nothing if you’ve never known the warmth of the soil.
I am not the ladder. I am not the ascent.
I am only the shadow between stations.
I am only the echo in the tunnel.
I am only the dream of a man who forgot he was dreaming.”
The Thin White Duke paused, as though someone had strummed the wrong string on a guitar. His mismatched eyes flickered to a familiar face he had seen hours ago. The girl who danced to no melody. Her limbs were tucked into herself, lying down with a stillness. Her dark brunette hair clung to her face in strands, sprawled, making it harder to identify her pale face. Her black trench coat was fitted for the night’s chill air. She wasn’t crying. She was dreaming. She was sleeping…or tried to be. The Thin White Duke squinted his eyes and tilted his head. Something in her was broken, in the same way he had been constructed—deliberately, artfully, as if she was designed to be fractured. Her face was blank, her breath shallow. The Duke approaches quietly, careful not to disturb her slumber. His presence bends the air like heat over asphalt. He studied her, not like a man studies a girl, but like a mask studies mimicking art. There was no flinch, no recognition in her. The Duke’s smoke curled around him, a slow spell, coiling toward her.
He studied each aspect of virtue on her face. So, innocent. So, broken. A lost soul in the city of Los Angeles. He leaned in closer. Close enough, curious enough if there was any emotion behind her stitched closed eyelids. He whispers cruelly, “Little starless thing, would the shadows even notice you?”
With a single breath, her eyes flickered open, groggily trying to make sense of her surroundings. Her vision came into view, seeing the night sky and a tall, pale figure looming over her. She wasn’t startled; she did not flinch from his presence. Her light blue eyes widened, then narrowed.
The Duke spoke, his voice low and serrated, the scent of clove cigarettes. “Jesus, look at you.” He sneered.
“Poor little starless thing. No applause, no mirrors, no audience to clap when you collapse. What’s left? Just rot in silk shoes? Sleepin’ in public like a goddamn stray cat. Legs like snapped matchsticks. Dreams leakin’ out your ears.”
The young woman glared.
“Don’t bother. I’m not a man. I’m the bit that stayed behind when the rest of you grew up and fucked off.” He continued, sitting on the bench. “I’ve seen prettier ghosts. Cleaner corpses. You’re not tragic, love. You’re unfinished. That’s worse.”
She coiled; she moved away. Her blue eyes displayed a cold fury.
“The gutter’s full. You’re late for your last dance.” The Thin White Duke blew smoke in her face. “You’re not real.” He said lowly hypnotic.
The Duke looms over her like a ghost carved from glass and spite, all cigarette and silk disdain. He expected silence—sleepwalkers never talk back.
“Neither are you.”
He freezes, as if he struck the wrong keys on a piano—his head tilts, like a bird curious about a human. Something flickers in his face—not fear, not quite, but surprise. He masks this, quickly returning to his cold state. “Well...That’s new.” He studied her, like someone had just discovered the statue could bleed.
He noticed she spoke with an accent. It was measured, like someone who’d read every script he’d ever starred in and still chose not to clap. Her voice was deep, feminine, curling into something older and heavier.
“Is that an accent I detect, Russian?” He asked.
She doesn’t answer.
The Duke’s red lips curled into an aristocratic sneer he wore like cufflinks. “Look at you. Sleepin’ like a kicked dog in a stage costume. This is what it’s come to? Glitter and gutter water? I’ve seen mannequins with more soul than you. And they don’t stink of failure and stale dreams.”
His voice drips like venom. “I should leave you here. I should let the night swallow you, petal by petal. But no—I wanted to see what rotting hope looks like up close.”
Her voice was slow, cutting through the smoke like wire with silk. “What matters—” Her voice thick with an accent, cut like a diamond “is none of your concern.”
“Oh, but darling, you’re mistaken. Everything about you concerns me. You wear memory like perfume. You reek of it. And I remember every girl who thought she was stronger than the fall. You don’t get to hide behind riddles and that fucking accent. I’ve made better women than you come down.” The Thin White Duke rested his cheek on his hand.
He tilted his head “You… don’t know who I am, do you?”
“нет” she said.
“The name, The Thin White Duke, ring a bell? Station to station? Diamond Dogs? The man who sold the world? Not even Young Americans? Hell, have you ever heard of Ziggy Stardust or Aladdin Sane?”
She shook her head slowly.
“Bloody hell. Have you been living under a rock?” He said, surprised.
“Based on what I’ve seen…you’re ninety percent cheekbone and the rest is ego. You should come with a warning label.” She dryly remarked.
“Darling, I do—but no one ever reads the fine print. Besides, I’ve killed for less flattering insults. But Jesus, you’re refreshin’. Most people start crying.”
“You sound like a narcissist.” She said unblinking.
“No, darling. I sound like legacy.” He flicks bits of ash from his cigarette, purposefully on the seat. “But fuck me sideways—Someone in this city who doesn’t treat me like I’m carved out of gold and eyeliner. I’m in the papers every other week—when they’re not busy killing me: songs, scandal, a nervous breakdown in every suit. And you’ve missed all of it”
“I don’t read American papers.” She said mildly.
“Neither do I. They get the names wrong and the deaths early.” Smoke escapes his lips.
“So what’s your story love? Why are you sleepin’ like a stray dog?” his arm leaned over the bench.
“I flew from Russia, Moscow. I had an audition in New York. I made it to the final round.
But the company said my accent was too strong, and my paperwork was too weak. I took the bus west. I could book a hotel, but they wanted identification, credit cards, and a smile that didn’t tremble. They said, “They were fully booked.” She explained.
“So you danced your way to the edge of the world…and landed on a bench under a dying streetlamp.” The Duke muttered.
“It seemed poetic.”
“Or suicidal.”
“So in other words, you're trapped here in Los Angeles, living homeless until you do that audition?” He asked.
She nodded silently.
The Thin White Duke with a cold calculating gaze, leaned in closer but remained distant. The Smoke that escaped his lips swirled around them, like the devil making a deal. He wasn’t interested in saving her, not in the way she would imagine. There was something perfect about her in her brokenness. She was fragile, a thing that had been perfectly discarded but not shattered. It was a balance that had intrigued him, something that hadn’t happened for a long time. She’d fit perfectly, at the right space, at the right angle. He didn’t have to explain it, not to himself, not to anyone. She’s a puzzle piece, filling a space he hadn’t realized was empty until now. She wouldn’t need to ask anything. She wouldn’t even need to speak. That was the beauty of it wasn’t it? No expectations, no demands. She’d be another part of his décor, something he could keep close. Something he could mould without ever needing to acknowledge it. She didn’t know it yet, he’s not interested in her affection, he’s a God in his universe.
“You’ve nowhere to go.” He said almost with pity, though it was more of a performance than feeling. “The city will chew you up and spit you out, and no one will notice. But I notice.” The cigarette's amber cast a hollow flare against his high cheekbones.
“There’s a house in Bel Air. A quiet one. High walls, white floors, no questions. You wouldn’t have to explain yourself to anyone—not even me. You could rest. Disappear, if that’s what you need. Or be seen, properly seen, for once in your life. You wouldn’t owe me anything. I just… know where people like you belong. And it’s not on benches in the cold.” He offered mirroring warmth, akin to murderers offering sanctuary, mimicking normal people’s emotions.
“Why me?” She said sharply.
“Why you?” He echoed. He turned his head, as if the question amused him. The cigarette burned between his fingers, ash trailing like a tail. “Because, you’re already halfway gone. Most people fight to be seen. You? You vanish so well it’s practically an art form. You’re not loud. You don’t ask. You exist like smoke, and I admire that. You're the kind of quiet that makes a room hum.”
“Besides... I collect interesting things. And you, darling, are just barely still human. That’s rare.” His tone dripped with a sardonic edge.
The young woman looked at him, considering his offer.
“Come on then, lest you want to stay out here and rot.” He sat up, putting out the cigarette.
“Never quite caught your name anyway.” The Duke trailed down the street.
The young woman followed. “Miarka. Miarka Kovascavich.”
“Miarka. Now that’s exotic innit.” He spoke.
They walked beneath the jaundiced glow of street lamps, the Thin White Duke walking ahead. The scent of gasoline hung low in the air. He didn’t look back, but he knew she was following. Sodium lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that tired orange glow. The Thin White Duke stood at the curb; coat collar turned up against the faint chill. He raised one arm in arrogance and held out his fingers lazily as a distant pair of headlights drew closer. He didn’t whistle or shout; he stood still, like a man who expected the world to bend at his whim. The cab slowed its tires down, tires hissing against the asphalt, pulling up to the curb. He opened the door with a languid gesture. “After you,” his voice low and unbothered. Without a word, she stepped inside, and he followed.
The cab rolled away behind them like an old film reel burning out.
Chapter 2: TVC15
Summary:
The Thin White Duke brings Miarka to his in Bel-Air, he spends time at Cherokee studios and meets up with Iggy Pop at a party.
Notes:
A/N: Hello, another chapter posted, and this time it's more angsty. I spent two weeks on this chapter, and it came out like how I wanted. I put a spin vaguely on who the thin white duke may be or where he might come from, i'll add more depth as the chapters go on.
Warnings: Drug abuse, abuse, gore, swearing.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The Cab pulled up through the windy road, its tires crunching the gravelly path. Ahead, the house stood veiled by trees and shrubs in the hush of Stone Canyon, half-hidden by a wrought iron gate. The house emerged, flat and low against the hillside. Beyond it, the house stretched pale and horizontal, it’s white stucco glowing faintly scorned from the sun, though in the moonlight, it gave a spectral glow. Long glass panes shimmered within the reflection of swaying palm trees, like it was deep eyes of something deep and ancient. It looked less like a celebrity's retreat and more like a hideout for a man dissolving into myth. The Cab’s engine hummed beneath the weight of the dark, pulling up to the gate. The Driver didn’t make any comment; he didn’t react to the fact he was driving a god like rockstar. A breeze lifted dust and dry leaves into a swirling dance by the tires. The cab door clicked open. Miarka stepped out of the cab, her boots stepping into the gravel. The wind tugged at her coat and brunette locks, a wraith in a black trench coat. She stood motionless beneath the Jacaranda trees. The Thin White Duke stepped out like smoke pouring from a crack, one polished shoe meeting the gravel with ceremonial grace. The wind blew through his amber-blonde tinged hair, and his eyes were glassy with something unreachable—sleep, speed, or starlight. The Thin White Duke closed the cab door, not meeting Miarkas's or the driver’s gaze. He walked through the gravel, unfurling the gate inward. Miarka followed close behind, her movements just as fluid, her trench coat swaying gently. Neither of them spoke as they walked up the stone path, a silent procession to the heavy door, each step a quiet echo. The house was empty, not a single mess in sight.
The Thin White Duke, with a drag dangling from his lip, unlocked the white door. Inside, the floors were smooth and polished marble, stretching cold and uninviting beneath the dim glow of scattered lamps, their faingt light reflecting off the angular, sculptural furniture that seems more art than comfort. Black leather chairs with sharp, gometric lines are positioned deliberately. Against one wall, by the massive window, a grand piano stands—gleaming, immaculate, the source of the duke’s creativity. It’s lid closed with a glass of something half-finished on top. The crystal ashtray is overflowing with lip-stick stained butts. A wall of records with no sleeves. The air is thick with the scent of incense, mingling with the lingering perfume of old cigarettes, and the walls are adorned with a peculiar mix of surrealist paintings and abstract sculptures, each piece more unsettling than the last. Velvet curtains, heavy and crimson, hang from the windows, blocking any trace of the outside world and plunging the room into a perpetual constant darkness. The Space feels expensive and suffocating, where every step echos in the stillness, and every breath is thick with history, secrets and the faintest hint of decay.
Miarka stepped inside, her boots silent against the marble floor. The air inside smelled of tobacco and sandalwood. The Thin White Duke slips past her and lazily throws the keys in a Bauhaus side table with too much aggression for something that weighed two ounces, ringing loudly.
“Rented this place in seventy-five with a handshake and a nosebleed. Somewhere between Young Americans an’ a nervous breakdown.” The Thin White Duke slips off his coat, placing it on the rack. He slips off his black gloves and tosses them to the side.
“You sleep on the couch. Don’t get any bloody ideas.” The Duke’s head nodded over to the couch. It was a stark white monolith, low and angular, it’s leather surface stretched tight over a gleaming chrome frame. The leather was smooth and cool, offering no promise of comfort. Only the illusion. The Duke walked over to the bar, pouring himself a Bombay Sapphire Martini. He lifted the rim slowly to his lips, tasting the sharp, glacial clarity, all juniper and lemon oil. The Gin sang in cool botanical tones—coriander, orris root and a whisper of angelica.
Miarka didn’t flinch; she watched silently; her pale blue eyes did not turn away. She walked over to the art-ornamented lounge. Her slender fingers traced the smooth, leathery outline. Above her on the walls were framed vinyl records, Station to Station, its cover stark and minimalistic. Nearby, young Americans glowed with their warm sepia tones, then next to the records, art pieces jostled for attention—surrealist prints, sketches of fractured faces and black and white portraits shot in photo sessions with Helmut Newton and Brian Duffy. On the shelves, there were many avant-garde and abstract art pieces. A vintage Japanese Noh mask with its inscrutable expression; a sleek, angular sculpture of polished metal that caught the light like a shard. A brooding Henry Moore bronze hunched beside a winking Duchamp readymade, and a fierce, chaotic Basquiat loomed above it all. Each is a mirror of the Duke’s fragmented, curated mythology.
The Thin White Duke did not turn; he wandered over to the record player. He switched it on, and with a practice twist, the needle dropped onto the vinyl’s surface. For a moment, there was only the soft crackle of the groove seeking its place. With a sudden jolt of electricity, the unmistakable bassline ‘Fame’ filled the room. The funky, rebellious riff spilled out, raw and electrifying, cutting through the silence in the room.
The Duke took another sip. “You don’t talk much. That’s fine. Everyone in this bloody town talks too much an’ says fuck all.”
He continued assuming she was listening, “After I wrapped The Man Who Fell to Earth. Woke up in the bath three nights runnin’, convinced I was still on the bloody set. Still not entirely sure I’m not.”
Miarka sat down on the edge of the white leather couch. Her spine was perfect. Her hands were folded like a prayer to something that didn’t exist or not here.
The Duke glances down at her, he holds a drag in between his two slender fingers while holding the drink.
“You look like you fell out of a dream. Or a war.”
Miarka blinks slowly. She reminded him of a house cat.
“You just gonna sit there starin’, lovely? Or are you savin’ your voice for something biblical?” The Duke remarked.
“Only when I have to.” She says calmly.
“God, that’s fuckin’ brilliant. Everyone else just vomits words at you, don’t they?”
The Thin White Duke drooped down into a blue leather armchair. Drink in hand, lighting a new drag. Beside him on the table-side were a pile of novels.
“Don’t speak, then. I’ll make the noise. You—just keep watchin’.” He lets out a cloud of smoke escaping his red lips.
Miarka sat up, her slender hand reached out with deliberate calm, her index finger resting lightly against the spine of the worn book. Her blue eyes glanced over the words. The Thin White Duke, lounging, legs crossed, looks up.
“Whaddya doin’ love?” He mumbled.
“What are those books?” She asked, flicking through the pages.
“Oh these. I devour them. Each one a different world, a different skin to wear.” He poetically states. He picked one up after the other, showing them to her.
“This one—Kandinsky’s Concerning the Spiritual in Art—all colour and sound theory. Makes you believe painting’s a form of jazz, if you squint hard enough.” He sets it down picking up another.
“The Kybalion—some Hermetic nonsense about universal laws. It’s either genius or a very elegant hallucination. Can’t tell the difference anymore.” He goes through them.
“There’s The Master and Margarita by Bulgakov—dark, surreal, a dance with the devil. The Divided Self by Laing—fractured minds, fractured selves. The Songlines by Chatwin—journeys through the soul of Australia. And this one—On Having No Head by Douglass Harding. A meditation on the illusion of self.”
He tosses the books back into a neat-ish pile. He gazes up at her, taking a sip from his glass and meeting her gaze.
“Curious, are we?” He slurred.
“What do you seek in them?” She asked softly.
“Truth. Or the closest thing to it. In their pages, I find fragments of myself, of others. Pieces of the puzzle.”
“This one—the black cover that starts with an ‘N’… Nietzsche, right?” She reads the book’s title, which she picked up.
The Thin White Duke leans back, his mismatched eyes distant. “Ah, Nietzsche. Thus Spoke Zarathustra. The old madman’s gospel. Full of fire and fury, a damnation of gods and a celebration of the Übermensch—overman, beyond man. A book I’ve turned to more times than I care to count. Said it was his compass through the chaos—the fire that burned away the old gods and made room for the new. It’s not just philosophy. It’s a hymn to becoming—shedding skin, starting over.”
The Thin White Duke quoting himself softly. “Nietzsche said, “I love him who wants to create over and beyond himself and thus perishes. Chaos as creation… pain as architecture.”
“Why love someone who perishes for it?” Miarka asked.
The Thin White Duke remained silent; he flickered bits of ash into a silver dish by his side.
“If creation kills the creator, isn’t it just another kind of control? Another cage—only this one looks like freedom.”
The Duke answered “Maybe. But Nietzsche wasn’t writing for the careful ones. He wrote for the mad—for the ones who’d rather burn than live asleep. The kind of souls who leap off cliffs just to see if they’ll sprout wings on the way down.”
Miarka’s lips thinned; there was a flicker of curiosity—recognition.
“And what if they don’t grow wings?” She whispered.
“Then they leave a damn good silhouette on the ground.” He took a slow drag.
“You read him for the fire, but he warns you about the ash. Becoming more always means leaving something behind. So what part of you died the last time you read that?”
“Hell of a question, ballerina. Not something I can conjure up tonight eh?” The Thin White Duke sat up in his seat. He snuffed out the cigarette bud in the silver ashtray. Smoothing his hair back.
“I’m tired darling, time’s tickin’ on an’ I have shit to do tomorrow.”
Miarka curled her legs up on the couch, slipping off her trench coat and boots. She draws her knees to her chin, resting them. She watches him head off without acknowledging her.
“Доброй ночи” Miarka mutters. (“Goodnight”)
She finally slipped down on the couch, spreading her legs out, her breath was slow and steady, one arm draped over her chest. The other dangled on the floor like a fallen rose petal. The dim light from the pool outside cast shifting blue swirls across her face. The room was silent, with only the faint hum of the refrigerator. The city was dim, swallowed in a smog and sodium light, but everything inside was still. She had drifted off at around three am, worn down by the weight of her travel and uncomfortable situation. She pulled her coat up, using it as a blanket. Some dream, some don’t; her eyes stared into the abyss of nothingness. The occasional faint hum of cars in the distance didn’t rouse her. Now and then, her eyes would flutter. Her legs, tangled in the cashmere throw, she shifted slightly as she drifted deeper, her face softening and her thin lips parted in a dreamless peace. Her fingers brushed the coarse weave of the carpet—grounding her, perhaps or just touching something that wasn’t silk or glass.
The Thin White Duke left wordlessly, slipping into the bathroom early in the morning, feeling the sweet release of prying eyes. He hunched over the marble sink in the upstairs bathroom. The door locked behind him, two towels were stuffed under the gap to keep the light—and the sound—from leaking out. The room smelled faintly of lemon-scented cleaner, but mostly of sweat, ash, and something sterile. A mirror ran the length, reflecting too much of him. The sunken cheeks, the eyes that never stopped staring, even when there’s nothing left to see. The Coke was laid out on a glass compact atop the counter, cut into four long rails. His white shirt clung to him in places, damp with the heat rising in the closed room, collar crooked, cuffs undone. He hunched forward, his posture more like an animal than a man. He took the first line with a single breath. The rush hit him like a slap, cold and electric, his body pouring into a buzzing sensation, searing through his sinuses and into his skull. He gripped the counter for a second, knuckles pale, vision blurred. He coughed. Laughed. He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. The ache in his chest fluttered like a moth in a jar; he welcomed it, it made him feel. He took another line, then paced—back and forth across the cold tile floor, his bare feet silent and his slender fingers twitching.
He crouched in front of the sink, cocaine dust clung to the rim of the sink like frost, and the mirror, threw his reflection back at him. His head bowed and his fingers pressed into his temples. Inside he was splitting in two. The Duke—David—The Duke. What was left of David was rotting beneath it, talking to invisible people, forgetting what city he was in, waking up convinced demons were ripping his soul from his body. He forced himself up, staggered, his knuckles shaking, and his eyes darting everywhere as if he could hear voices that weren’t there. He took the third line, hitting his bloodstream like a scalpel, slicing away the edges of the moment until he was light, sharp and lucid.
Lucid visions of his memories crept in, or rather, the man before. He saw London 1971—Haddon Hall. Long hair, floral shirts, strange visitors at all hours and a boy playing with masks. Ziggy was still alive then, not yet devoured by the fame. He remembered standing barefoot with Angie, both of them high, laughing, pretending not to see the rot beneath their new world of colour. Life on mars? played on the turntable in the other room, and he thought, briefly they had made something real. 1974, New York. The Diamond Dogs era. He remembered dragging his body through the city like a mannequin, the paranoia tightening around his neck every day. Thin, pale, eyes darting beneath oversized sunglasses. The Hotel Chelsea. People coming and going at all hours. He remembered looking out the twenty-third street and being certain men in black cars were watching him. Something had followed him into the studio. He hadn’t eaten in days. He drank whole milk and hot peppers like medicine, reading Aleister Crowley in the bathtub, confident that if he arranged the words, he could open something—some portal, some power.
He remembered the fights with Angie. With himself. With mirrors. He remembered trying to exorcise the swimming pool because he was convinced it was possessed. He remembered seeing Jimmy Page, feeling both awed and disgusted. He remembered hiding a gun under his pillow. Always loaded.
He was talking to things, entities. Symbols. A tree of life is drawn across the wall in eyeliner. He couldn’t remember who had come to his house those nights—was it a cult? Or his friends?
Or was it just all in his head?
Another line. The fourth. Quick, clean. The Last.
He stood up straight now, breathing through his mouth, his heart fluttering in short bursts behind his ribs. He missed things that he wasn’t sure had happened. Ziggy? Aladdin? David?
And now here he was, locked in a pristine bathroom, percaline beneath his bare feet. Up here there was only the Thin White Duke. Sharp suit, dead eyes, white powder burning his sinuses, and the growing sense of whatever he’s left behind in those earlier years.
In the mirror’s fog, cocaine-smeared glass, the Duke saw it—not his reflection but a flicker, a ghost. Standing there, impossibly still in the middle of it all, was Zowie. Not as he was that morning—quiet, guarded, dreamlike. He wore a small red coat, too clean for this world of ash and wire. His blonde hair fell over his forehead, and his eyes were wide. He wasn’t smiling. He looked at his father as if through glass. The Duke took a step closer to the mirror, breath sharp, heart suddenly alive with something more painful than the drugs. He reached toward the vision, fingertips trembling just above the glass. Behind the boy, the city burned quietly. The tour set pieces, twisted and theatrical, looked like ruin, more than what they had on stage. A half-dog, half-man with his face limped across the background, skin peeling back to bone. The sky was bruised orange.
The boy stared in, seldom, disappointed or waiting. The Duke whispered “Look, look at what I’ve done.”
With a blink. The vision broke.
He saw a man staring back at him in the mirror. Not him. Two.
The man blinked.
And so did the Duke.
They shared a body—cheek bones like knives, a frame too stretched too thin from art and hunger, eyes rimmed like kohl and sleeplessness. They were not the same. The Duke looked back at him through the glass, no warmth, only myth.
“You asked for me, David.” The duke said coldly.
“No,” David whispered. “I am you.”
“That’s what you told yourself.” The Duke tilted his head. “But we both know I walked in when you left the door open. You left the lights on. You wanted someone to be the lifeline.”
David on the other side of the mirror, stepped back, his hands were shaking. “I have a son,” he said, as if that might anchor him.
“Yes,” the Duke replied. “And what does he see when he looks at you?”
And just like that the vision came back. A child standing in the ruins of Diamond Dogs—that broken feral world David built when the glitter cracked and the dream grew teeth.
David swallowed hard. “I made this for survival.”
“You made me for distance,” the Duke replied. “So you could disappear behind the art. So you wouldn't have to feel the rot underneath.”
The Duke leaned closer to the mirror. David did the same, perfectly mirroring the movements. “You’re killing me,” David whispered.
The Duke, for the first, grinned with mirth. “You were never built to last.”
He reached out—hand flat against the mirror, against the glass that separated the art from the artist.
“Not tonight,” The Duke whispered.
David didn’t vanish; he stepped away from the mirror. The vision returned to his bathroom.
The Thin white Duke sat cross-legged on the tile floor. He didn’t sing. The words belonged to another life. But the music… the music was still his to haunt.
February 9th, 1976, Bel-Air.
Early morning, Miarka stirred on the couch, eyes still closed. The sun’s rays shone through the cracks of the curtain. She could hear a melody slipping gently into her sleep like smoke under her door. The tune of a piano echoed throughout the house. Her breath caught. She opened her eyes slowly, the velvet hush of the Bel-Air house wrapping around her like second skin. The living room was dimly lit. The record player sat silently. The ash trays were cold. But the sound came from the music room—just beyond the long-arched hallway—again: rich piano keys struck not with fury, but with precision. She sat up, her coat slipping off her shoulders, her heartbeat crawling from her slumber. Miarka moved forward quietly, barefoot across the cool floor, drawn like gravity, toward the sound. Her mind was curious, racing with thoughts. She reached the hallway and froze.
There he was: The Thin White Duke, composed, sitting at the grand piano in the centre of the room. His back was straight, hands fluid. A cigarette burned in the tray beside him, forgotten as though he had left the world’s vices behind just long enough to remember. The melody rose and turned. Each note was a breath. Each cord a memory. The song filled the house like perfume, heavy with meaning, sharp at the edges.
He didn’t look up.
Miarka didn’t speak.
She watched him in silence. Afraid her breath might break the spell. She held no reaction, no stunned awe, but a flicker of fascination. He played not for an audience, not for her, himself—but for someone long gone. The version of himself he left behind. The Duke flicks ash into the silver tray. His voice was smooth and brittle, sliding effortlessly between low, almost whispering menace and a sharp staccato snap that mirrors the piano chords beneath him. There’s a sly way he phrases the lyrics—drawing out certain words with a mock tenderness before snapping back to a cold, biting tone, as if mocking both the song and anyone who listened to it. His delivery was hypnotic and unsettling, like a broadcast from the future. Hidden beneath layers of irony and disdain. His voice sharpens further when he hits the chorus, slicing through the room like a signal breaking through static.
“What are you playing?” She asks softly.
He didn’t answer. Continuing to play. His fingers glided across the piano effortlessly.
“One of these nights, I may just jump down that rainbow way
Be with my baby, then we'll, we'll spend some time together.
So hologramic, oh, my TVC 15
My baby's in there someplace, love's rating in the sky
So hologramic, oh, my TVC 15”
She tried asking again.
He glanced at her briefly, slamming a sharp chord, his red lips sneering sardonically. He sang louder.
“Transition
Transmission
Transition
Transmission
Oh, my TVC 15, oh, oh, TVC 15
Oh, my TVC 15, oh, oh, TVC 15
Oh, my TVC 15, oh, oh, TVC 15
Oh, my TVC 15, oh, oh, TVC 15”
“What’s—”
“Does it matter?” He arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, still ignoring her presence as she’s air. “Though, I’d assume you’d not know really? Figures.” He says in a bored tone. “TVC15. Love. It's a love song, of sorts. Inspired by a dream Iggy had—he claimed his girlfriend was swallowed by a television set. I took that image and ran with it. A world where the line between reality and broadcast blurs. Where your lover disappears into the screen, and you're left yearning for a connection that's become holographic, intangible. It's a commentary on obsession, technology, and the surreal nature of modern love.”
The Thin White Duke kept playing, hoping the answer would cause her to disappear.
“It’s... different.” She muttered.
“Or maybe it's just a catchy tune about a bloke and his telly. Interpret as you will. Now—fuck off an’ let me play.”
Miarka moved away from the music room, the sharp, cold notes of the piano still biting at her back like frost. The house was quiet except for the distant hum of the old fridge and the lingering echoes of TVC15 bleeding through the walls. She stepped barefoot onto the cold tile floor of the kitchen, the air thick with the stale ghosts of last night’s cigarette smoke and spilled whiskey. The morning light slipped through the wide window above the sink, catching dust in golden shafts. She opened the fridge, mindful not to make too much noise—not out of fear but respect for whatever mood possessed the man at the piano. Inside, was the aftermath of a forgotten party or a chaotic tour stop. A carton of eggs with only one left, yolk dried and crusted on the lid. A plate wrapped in crumbed foil holding a half-eaten edge of brie, slightly too soft around the edges. A bottle of flat Perrier, sweating against the back wall. A wire fruit basket sat on the counter, most bruised or collapsing under its weight. She plucked a banana—slightly overripe, speckled black like a Rorschach test—peeled it halfway, biting into the sweet, pulpy centre as she leaned one hip against the marble counter. An old Baguette sat on the cutting board, rock hard on one end. She took a bread knife, sawed off the softer centre, and smeared it with a fingerful of strawberry preserves from a nearly empty jar. The jam had crystallised at the rim—not that she cared. It tasted like sugar and memory. There was also a packet of salted butter, mostly melted from sitting out all night, and she pressed it between the slices, letting it soak into the bread. She opened the cupboard. Cereal boxes—stale, half-crushed. One was some off-brand cornflake label in German. Still, she reached inside the fridge to see it fill with whole milk and—not much else. She poured a small bowl from half a carton—sniffed it first for caution—and ate it standing over the sink with a silver spoon.
She drank the flat Perrier, chasing the sweetness in her mouth. As she stood there, eating her uneven slice of jam-slathered baguette, a banana in the other hand and cereal cooling in the sink, she looked around the kitchen. The mismatched China, the chipped cups, the ashtray full of lipstick-smeared butts. She took another bite and looked out the kitchen window.
She finished her meal; she trailed off to the bathroom. She stood momentarily, hand on the brass doorknob, looking inside. The room was adorned with earth-toned tiles in shades of avocado green and burnt orange: a large sunken bathtub, a clawfoot relic, the porcelain yellowed and stained with age. A scarf slung over the side as if left there in the moment of a drunken glamour. In the other corner, a separate glass-enclosed shower stood adjacent. Its brass frame is slightly dulled. The countertop lay scattered remnants of the Duke’s strange vanity, crushed powder compacts, antique combs, and a single tray with a single candle half burned, wax melted like tears. His toothbrush of all things was pristine—too pristine, like it’s never been used.
She turned the vintage cross-handle knobs and water cascaded from the rainfall showerhead, producing a soothing pattern on the floor. Steam began to fill the place, fogging up the expensive mirror, above the double vanity, which was lined with an array of glass perfume bottles and grooming essentials. She slipped off her black blouse and trousers. She glanced in the mirror, her body was angular and slender, her limbs were long, knees slightly too knobbly, ribs visible, and deliberate, stomach concave from habit not hunger. Her chest was almost flat, nipples dark and small like punctuation marks. Pectorals pressed tight against pale skin. Her hips were narrow. There was nothing soft left. Even her neck—long and clean—bore tension of years spent pretending it was enough to be a line. Her hands, knuckles prominent, traced the line of her hip absentmindedly waiting for correction. she wasn’t curvy like most actresses or models. She didn’t wear make-up, a shadow casting under her tired, narrow eyes. She didn’t look like one of those girls who would be brought to this place—the ethereal ones with glitter eyeliner and cigarettes clenched between their teeth like declarations. She looked real. Too real for this scene. She stepped into the water stream, the water enveloped her, washing away the remnants of the previous night’s haze. The scent of sandlewood soap mingled with the steam. She closed her eyes, letting the water run over her. The hot water beat down on her like a metronome set too fast. Her breath came in quiet, even rhythms.
And then, the sharp, clear echo of another time came from the fog to the present.
Kazan, Russia, May 4th, 1971.
Inside the cracked windows of the Soviet-era studio. The light there had been gray and joyless, the walls flaking, the floor warped with years of use. She could feel it even now, the splintered barre biting into her palms, her toes pressed into unforgiving shoes. She was Bone-thin and sinewed like wire, the other dancers feet blistered raw inside split-sole slippers, their hair scarped back so tightly it pulled at their temples. Eight hours a day, every day. The beat of the music. The brutal count of a metronome, the shrill voice of the Maestra, Encore! Encore! Miarka’s knees had ached with the kind of dull pain that didn’t go away, only the buried under new aches. They woke up at the crack of dawn on a winters morning with cold water and bitter tea, lined them up in front of the piano as the instructor—all bones and scowl—slammed out rhythm drills with no warmth, no patience, no praise. Her teacher’s voice had been harsh, almost male, barking commands that reduced flesh to function. “— Стой ровно. Пятая позиция. Нет, дура. Пальцы — вытяни!” Maestra shouted. (“— Stand straight. Fifth position. No, idiot. Fingers — stretch them!”)
“Ты хочешь быть балериной? Или ты хочешь быть девочкой?” the Maestra walked around them, like a wolf herding rabbits. She wielded a stick, a cane; she never used it in rhythm, only in violence. (“Do you want to be a ballerina? Or do you want to be a little girl?”)
“Балет — это не искусство. Это война. И ты — оружие.” (“Ballet is not art. It’s war. And you are the weapon”)
She first struck one of the weakest of girls, a red line bloomed across her shoulder. No reaction. That was the test. Cry and you were out. “Опусти подбородок. Смотри вперёд. Ещё раз!” (“Lower your chin. Look straight ahead. Again!”)
The teacher moved like a wraith, quick and precise. The cane was her pointer, her needle, her branding iron. Girls flinched at it’s whistle. It smelled of lacquer and sweat. Miarka stood at the front, smaller then the others, shoulders squared like a soldier getting ready for battle. She was the strongest—not just in muscle but in spirit. The one the Maestra feared and needed to break.
Without hesitation, the cane struck the ball of Miarka’s heel’s. Miarka didn’t flinch. Her jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched in her neck. The other girl’s watched; breath held.
“Ты думаешь, что сила — это бунт? Нет. Сила — это повиновение.” (“You think strength is rebellion? No. Strength is obedience.”)
Another strike, sharper, cutting through Miarka’s ribs. The girl inhaled sharply and stood taller; chin raised. The Maestra stepped closer. Miarka’s eyes burned—not with tears but with fierce fire. She was the girl who held the class together, the one who made the other girls believe they could survive.
“Вот что я называю настоящей силой.” (“Now that’s what I call real strength.”)
That day, Miarka was summoned early. No explanation. No eye contact. No congratulations. Just her name barked like a command down the hallway.
"Миарка — зал. Сейчас." (“Miarka — to the studio. Now.”)
She dismissed the other ballerinas staring at her. She was a soldier going back to the front.
Miarka trained every day alone. While the others practised port de bras, she was forced through repetition that bordered on cruelty: no music, just the metronome and the maestras voice. She was made to hold arabesques until her legs shook uncontrollably. Her sweat pooling beneath her like stain. She was denied water. She rehearsed fouettes until she couldn’t anymore.
“Смотри на неё, девочки. Это не балерина. Это война на ногах.” The Maestra bellowed to the other girls. (“Look at her, girls. That’s not a ballerina. That’s war on legs.”)
The other’s watched her ascend. Some with envy. Some with dread. Miarka was no longer one of them—she had crossed into something colder, something harder. A creature Maestra could not humiliate because she had already humiliated herself more then anyone could. The price of her strength was isolating.
Miarka never smiled. Not after that winter.
Never.
Back in the Bel-air house. She traced her fingers in a slow circle along her shoulder, where an old strain still whispered it’s complaints in damp weather. She let the memory rinse off like soap. It disgusted her, the way she looked. The way she was trained. It made her want to scream. It made her want to bite her own tongue out just to feel something that wasn’t curated. She tilted her head back and let the water pour into her mouth, then spit it against the wall—a silent act of rebellion. Or maybe just the memory playing itself out. She stepped out of the shower slowly, water clinging to her skin in rivulets, catching the light like lacquer. Her body was androgynous, all sharp grace, neither boy nor girl, exactly, but, something other, something sculpted to provoke confusion. The floor was warm beneath her feet. The towel untouched. She moved past the mirror without looking at herself. She didn’t want to gaze at her—body. Controlled. Worn. Ambiguous.
Steam clung to every surface, thick and slow-moving, like breath that wouldn’t leave the room. The marble walls, the polished brass, the million-dollar stillness— all of it felt burrowed. Rented. Fake. Miarka stood in the middle of it, naked and dripping, her arms at her sides. She turned to the mirror. At first it was just fog. Soft forgiving. But she lifted one hand and wiped a circle, clear with the flat of her palm. The condensation peeled away, revealing her reflection—half-formed, wet, raw. She stared at herself.
She stared at her body; she could see the leanness, the ambiguous, flat chest, and narrow hips. It was like God decided to make her unique, designed her to be…something. She knows she wasn’t out of this world, beautiful, or drop-dead gorgeous. She wasn’t hideous either. She was, rare, in terms of human nature. Her eyes, her eyes were the only thing that didn’t blur or fade. Cold. Focused. Like they were piercing through. She touched herself in the mirror. Pressing her slim fingers to the glass, lining them up with her own reflected hand. Skin to ash. A carved sculpture.
“So… this is what monsters among men look like… Not beasts with fangs, no — but men, true in form… tragic in soul. Terrible, yes, but not by birth — by choice, by pain… by flaw. How sad, da? The cruellest monsters wear the kindest faces.” She pressed her fingers to her cheek, lips, and eyelids, pulling at her pale skin.
“отвратительная.” She sneered. (“Disgusting!”)
She wanted to punch the mirror, remove it from her sight. She gripped the marble counter’s edge, taking a deep breath. Her aqua eyes spotted a spotless silver tooth comb. She stared at it for a moment; it clearly belonged to the Duke. She raked it through her wet hair, rough, like a man would. When it was done, she looked in the mirror; her hair was neater. She held her breath longer and looked into the mirror, whispering.
"Ты отвратительное чудовище" (“You are a disgusting monster.”)
She picked up a toothbrush—thankfully not used—brushing everywhere, then spitting. She slipped on her black blouse, trousers and trench coat; she wrapped it tightly around her slender frame, feeling exposed despite its weight. Then. There he was. The Thin White Duke's sharp, angular face casts a shadow against the light. His mismatched eyes fixed on her with intensity. “Starless thing.” He said his voice was low but with an edge dripping with arrogance. “We haven’t got all bloody night, have we? You’re dawdling. You look like you’re still not ready.” He stepped closer, the faint scent of cologne trailing behind him like a challenge. “Listen—this isn’t some bloody promenade, love. It’s Cherokee Studios. You think they care if you’re ‘ready’? You’re either on the bloody record or you’re not.”
Miarka made no eye contact, she thinned her lips and pressed on. The Duke, without waiting for a word, brushed past her as if she didn’t exist. “Get a move on, Starless Thing. I’m not here to wait while you fuss over your bloody coat. We’ve got sound to make, and I’m not interested in babysittin’.”
Miarka said nothing. She didn’t need his fussiness.
Outside, the day was dazzling—too much sun and clarity. The light hit the polished of the Mercedes parked in the circular driveway. The Duke turned the handle and opened the door. He stepped inside, one foot from inside the pavement, pausing inside only to adjust his cufflinks. Miarka followed, sitting in the back seat. The Duke sat straight-backed behind the wheel, switching the ignition on. The engine purred with languid confidence of old money and amphetamines. Miarka, in the back, watched his reflection in the rearview mirror. After ten minutes, he spoke without glancing back.
“You do realise.” He spoke with venom. “You can sit in the front. I’m not royalty.”
She didn’t move right away. Then she climbed forward, movements unhurried, feline.
“You act like you are,” She murmured, folding herself into the passenger seat.
“No, darling. I act like I’m extinct.”
The Mercedes floated through Bel-Air, whispering against the ash-filled air, the scent of fresh air wafting through the windows. The city flickered in pools of sodium light and early smog. Inside the car, the Duke drove with one hand on the wheel, the other suspended in space, a cigarette ghosting its way down to the filter. He hadn’t spoken in minutes. He didn’t need to. Miarka's knees were drawn up into the passenger seat like a child left behind at a party. Her blue eyes tracked the hills outside as if she were trying to dream. The silence carried on. It wasn’t uncomfortable. She studied his profile, those alien cheekbones lit by the passing sunlight. He looked less like a man and more like a rumour told at the wrong party.
“You’re late,” She broke the silence.
“I know.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Cherokee,” he said. “Studio time. Morning session.”
“Where is Cherokee?”
“Mm. Cherokee.” He paused. “It’s a studio. A rather infamous one. Like a mausoleum with better acoustics. Everyone’s overdosed in at least one of its corners. Founded in 1972, it's been the birthplace of many notable recordings. Artists like Steely Dan, Journey, and even myself have graced its halls. It's a sanctuary for sound, if you will.”
“Why’s it called that?”
“Because Americans have a strange habit of naming things after the people they destroy. Romantic, in a grotesque sort of way.” He continued, “Cherokee’s a fuckin’ shrine. A place where sound’s nailed down so tight it won’t fuckin’ get away.”
“Why does it matter?” She asks.
“Because everything else’s bullshit, isn’t it? Fleeting, fragile, and fucking pointless. But sound? Sound’s eternal.”
“Do you believe in defiance?” Miarka shifts, eyes sharp.
“Only in appearance. Every act of rebellion is just another mask, another performance.”
“What mask do you wear?”
“The mask of inevitability. The one that says, ‘You can’t fucking escape me.’” He takes a drag.
“Doesn’t that tire you?”
“The performance, maybe. The audience? Never.”
Miarka peeking over curiously, like a child curious about an object.
“What’s it like, being famous?”
“Fame, yeah? It’s a right bloody laugh — if you like gettin’ burned. A bleedin’ cage wrapped in shiny shit.” The Duke clenches his jaw. “Everyone’s wantin’ it but they don’t know how to live with it. You’re stuck in, but the bars? Made of mirrors. Can’t hide, can’t breathe, can’t fuckin’ run.”
“And do you want to escape?” She asks softly.
“Nah, love. I am the cage. The whole bloody fuckin’ thing.” He flicks ash against the floor. “Fame’s not about bein’ loved, it’s ‘bout bein’ worshipped. And I’m no saint, that’s for sure.”
“So what are you?”
“A goddamn ghost in a suit. Untouchable, uncatchable, and utterly alone.”
There was a moment of silence between them.
“You always drive this slow?”
“It’s not driving,” he said softly, voice velvet and bone. “It’s drifting. Precision ruins the mood.”
The Mercedes coasted to a slow, deliberate in front of the studio. Cherokee stood squat and unassuming in the warm Los Angelas sun, just another faded brick box on a forgotten street. The Duke cut the engine. He stepped out first, his coat billowing behind him like something from another century, eyes cold and glittering with disdain and anticipation. Miarka followed not saying, slow and distant, coat wrapped tight like a barrier. She said nothing, but her blue eyes took it all in—the faint hum of a guitar still bleeding from inside, the sour trace of old cigarettes and reel-to-reel tape. The lobby was dim and honey coloured, with thick rugs. Posters of past idols lined the walls—faces worn into myth. The Duke moved through the space as if it belonged to him. Down the hallway, the door to Studio One was slightly ajar. Inside, beneath the haze, and lamplight, stood Brian Eno. He was there naturally—expression unreadable, suit somehow both crisp and undone, a man who looked like he stepped out of a wrong mirror. His fingers rested lightly on a Minimoog, but his mind was elsewhere. The Duke offered no greeting.
“Eno,” the Duke said flatly, a cigarette burning between his two slender fingers.
Eno looked up slowly “You’re late.”
The Duke’s voice curled into his usual drawl, part West End theatre and part philosophy.
“Time waits for no man,” he said. “But it bloody well pauses for me.”
Miarka remained near the door. Eno glanced at her briefly, then back at the Duke—as if already cataloguing her presence, sorting her into the background noise of this strange collaboration. The Duke stepped forward, shedding his coat like a snake. “Shall we?”
And just like that, the session began.
The Duke entered first, already half possessed by what he’s summoned. He peeled off his gloves and laid them delicately over the monitor speaker—thick walls padded with sound decades of sound. Reel machines like chrome monsters waited with their mouths open. A tangle of chords and pedals slithered across the floor like veins. His shirt clung to his frame, his mis matched eyes scanned the room like a hawk trying to find prey. Miarka followed, silent footsteps. She didn’t speak. She only moved to the side—a low leather couch beneath a blown-out portrait of Iggy Pop—and sat. Legs tucked up, resting her head on her hand. She watched. Brian Eno was already in motion—gliding from synth to console like he was conducting air. His fingers turned the dials. Occasionally, a machine would whine or sputter, and he’d murmur something to the engineer—a man with a clipboard and a thousand-yard stare of someone who’d spend endless nights smoking, trying to take the perfect take.
The Duke stepped to the microphone. He didn’t look at anyone. He touched the stand, adjusted the cable with a twitch, then breathed in. “Roll it”, Eno said.
The tape hissed in motion.
And then the Duke sang.
It wasn’t a song—it was an incantation, a spiral jagged croon and a whispered threat. Words came out bent and stretched into alien shapes. His voice filled the room, thick and slow.
Miarka didn’t move. She only watched in silence. She sat perfectly still, watching him fold himself into sound. He was somewhere else. Not in Los Angelas. He was in a broken tower overlooking the city, rising above them as kingdoms fall. A superior being.
Eno adjusted the loop machine, adding a faint metallic rhythm. The Duke closed his eyes, twisting his voice around like a silk noose.
The session dragged on into the marrow of the evening. The sun had long since slipped behind the haze outside, and the world beyond Cherokee had turned ghostly—a half-lit Los Angeles of headlights. Inside, the last chord had rung out and was still hanging in the walls, vibrating faintly. The Duke leaned against the vocal booth, head tilted back, eyes closed. A thin film of sweat clung to his collarbone. His voice was hoarse but satisfied—not from strain but from victory. He lit a cigarette with the ease of a man who’d never once had to search for a match. Brian Eno was still hunched over a tangle of knobs and cables, muttering to himself about texture and, feeding loops through old machines feeding snakes through pipework. He hadn’t spoken to the Duke in over twenty minutes. Miarka was curled on the studio couch like an animal too elegant to be domestic, wrapped in her coat with her chin in her hand. She said nothing. The Duke looked over, exhaled smoke, and spoke—more to the room than anyone in it.
“Time’s slipped right through the bloody cracks, hasn’t it? This city eats it like candy.”
He stood straight again, adjusting his shirt cuffs. Something flashed in his eyes, not joy. Hunger.
“I’ve got to be at a thing”, He coldly stated. “One of those parties. Iggy’s there. Probably half the bloody Stones too. They’ll think I’ve gone saintly, hiding in this tomb.”
He looked at Eno. “You comin’?”
Eno didn’t look up. “No.”
“Course you’re not.”
He moved across the room with feline grace scooping up his coat from a chair and slipping it on with a practiced flick. He checked his reflection briefly in the dark glass of the control room—a silver of cheekbone, a shard of something dangerous. “Miarka.” He said without turning. “Come if you like. Or stay and haunt this place. You fit in either way.”
She rose without a word. The engineer glanced up from his notes. “Want a reel of the last take?”
“No need. It’s all in there,” he said, tapping his temple. “Where it’s safer.”
Then they were gone—swept into the night like smoke, bound for another room, another performance, another blur of starlight and ruin. The studio exhaled in their absence. Silence at last. The Mercedes hummed low and heavy as it pulled away from Cherokee studios, its dark chassis slicing through the cooling Los Angeles night like a phantom limousine. The Duke sat behind the wheel one glove hand resting lazily at twelve o’clock, the other holding a cigarette. The smoke curled toward the cracked moonroof and slipped out into the night, evaporating into the velvet dusk. Miarka sat beside him, utterly still. She hadn’t taken off her coat. Her legs were crossed and her face turned toward the window, watching the sprawl of Hollywood drag past—lit in places by jaundiced streetlamps and the occasional shriek of a neon sign advertising liquor, bail bonds or salvation—none of which anyone in the car needed.
“Funny,” the Duke said softly, almost to himself. “This place always feels like it’s pretending to be a city. Like a film set that got out of hand.”
He turned onto Melrose, then up La Brea, heading north. The streets were mostly empty now—the honest people were home and the liars were either asleep or performing. The Duke preferred the latter. He liked liars. At least they had imagination. The city blurred around them in washed of gold and violet. Billboards loomed and vanished. A woman in a sequined dress danced alone at a bus stop. A Rolls-Royce idled outside a darkened diner. Nothing looked real.
“You ever get the feeling,” the Duke said suddenly, “that time stops for us? Just… waits.”
Miarka didn’t answer. She blinked slowly, like a cat, continuing watching the city die and rebirth itself outside the passenger window. She hadn’t said a word since they left the studio. The silence suited the Duke. He didn’t need mirrors. He needed witnesses. He drove with the ease of a man who had memorized the roads. He drove with the ease of a man who had memorised the roads not from maps, from repetition, from funerals. At a red-light sunset, he glanced over at her. “You haven’t said anything all bloody drive, ever been in a car before?”
Still nothing.
“God. you’re a horror show.”
They climbed. The city dropped behind them as they wound up into the hills. Streets narrowed. Houses turned into fortresses. The sodium lights gave way to deep shadow. The Duke rolled down his window slightly and let the night in—the scent of dry earth and chlorine from distant, too-still swimming pools. At last he slowed in front of a wrought iron gate, a flicker of headlights and it creaked open like a sigh. A man in black gave a shallow nod and stepped inside. Up the long, curving drive, past manicured hedges and the soft glow of art deco sconces. The house at the top was part Mediterranean mansion, part dream sequence. It’s windows wide open to the night and from within came the pulse of bass, the glint of glass and the buzz of laughter slightly off tempo. A valet appeared without being summoned. The Duke stepped out and handed him the keys as if he were bestowing a title. “Be careful, she bites.” He said.
Miarka, without comment, exited. She didn’t look at the house. She didn’t look at the people drifting across the lawn. She only adjusted her coat, her hands vanishing once more into sleeves. From inside, the party beckoned—muffled funk music, the clink of crystal, the rise and fall of feverish conversation.
The Duke looked to her, that little smirk ghosting his face.
“Come now. Let’s go and be fascinating.”
They stepped into the house. It pulsed. Basslines thudded like a heartbeat through marble floors. Chandeliers shimmered like melting stars. A woman in silver body paint, drifted past, laughing at something no one said. A man wearing sunglasses and no shoes offered Miarka a martini, his hands trembling. She didn’t take it.
Across the room—there was Iggy.
He was shirtless, barefoot and electric. A human live wire slouched in a velvet chair, holding court over a circle of burnt-out models and roadies. He looked up, saw the duke, and grinned wide enough to break glass.
“Fuck me, if it ain’t the thin white duke!” he shouted, standing. “You’re late, you posh bastard!”
The Duke strode forward, arms out like some faded messiah and they embraced—rough. “You still breathing, Jim?”
“Barely. You?”
“Never”
Miarka remained in the middle of the crowd, where the couch was, people danced around her and even offered to invite her. She remained foreign, silent still. She glared at anyone who dared try to touch her. A couple stood next to her making out. She narrowed her eyes in disgust. “She yours?”
“No, just a stray thing that stuck around.”
The night fizzled on.
“She doesn’t say a damn word, doesn’t she?” Iggy observed.
“She reminds me of Paris, 1968. The riots. The ballet that never opened.” The Duke said.
“You know, speaking of Europe... I got wind of this place.” Iggy leaned forward. “A chateau. Near Collioure. Empty, forgotten. French windows, high ceilings, no press. Just echoes and bad wiring.”
“That one? Hérouville. Where Elton recorded?” The Duke raised an eyebrow.
“We disappear there. Reinvent. No more L.A. hysteria. Just tape machines and wine and... sanity. Maybe.” Iggy grinned.
“You mean Low? The album I planned on? I dreamt it. Walls of sound like concrete. No choruses. Just descent and form.”
“That’s the one. And the chateau’s just the opening act, man. Then we take Berlin.” Iggy leaned back confident in his plan.
“Berlin after France?” The Duke thought for a moment.
“Yes. We disappear. You’ll do your record, the idiot and I’ll do Low. We’ll pretend we’re normal men.” The Duke nodded, flicking ash on the floor.
“Château first. Then exile.” Iggy raised his glass of whiskey in agreement.
“Berlin isn’t exile. It’s asylum. And I need the quiet to hear myself again.” The Duke took a drag.
Their conversation was interrupted by an unmistakable, loud, giggling like a flock of cockatoos. Their hair was all over the place, one with the scent of strong Chanel perfume. They wore very shiny dresses with massive dangly earrings. They were here to get wasted or get in someone’s pants by the end of the night. One pointed out to Iggy, the other’s followed. One wore mirrored goggles and a crushed-velvet body suit; another wore a translucent trench coat over nothing but silver body paint. The third had a face dusted in glitter and eyes look like two collapsed stars. They smelled of Patchouli and burnt sugar. The Thin White Duke sat down on the couch, crossing one leg over the other. He blew out smoke. “We’ve brought gifts.” One of them said, their voice stretched and syrupy. From the folds of her sleeves, she drew a vial—slender and crystalline, filled with swirling amber powder. She offered it to Iggy and the Duke. “This is a psychotropic dream binder. DMT, Mescaline, a touch of psilocybin and something they haven’t named yet. It was synthesized last week in Amsterdam by a man who only speaks in chord progressions.”
Iggy accepted it wordlessly, tipping it toward his lips. The powder dissolved like sugar on his tongue, and his pupils dilated wide like vinyl records. “Delightful.” Eyes already unfocused and limbs loosening as if gravity had grown gentle. Always impatient, he stuck his tongue out at another girl, the one with silver paint, pressed a neon pink blotter into the centre. She held it there with a painted fingernail. “You’re gonna hear sound in a second.” She purred “and hear colour scream.”
The Duke took the vial; his slender fingers hovered near Miarka’s pale face. The crystalline vial reflected her figure like a mirror. His upper lip twitched. She was younger, newer to this world, not naïve but unweathered. He’d taken her under his wing, not out of affection but with control. She was an echo of something he’d lost. “Miarka” he whispered, his voice dry and cunning. “Do you want to see inside of God’s teeth?” He tilted it toward her but didn’t hand it to her. He held it just out of reach like a priest with communion, like a king testing loyalty. Miarka slowly blinked. She didn’t answer, but she stepped closer. The girls circled behind her like demons watching a game they’d seen too many times. Iggy, draped across a velvet armchair like a fallen idol, laughing softly to himself, body twitching in sync with invisible rhythms. “You know.” He drawled, the words lacquered in that clipped, refined South London curl, “In the Kabbalah, there’s a path called Da’at—hidden knowledge. Not even a real Saphira. It’s the space between. The abyss.” He twirled the vial lightly, watching the amber powder shimmer. “People think enlightenment is light. It's not. It’s a fall. It’s a bloody well-dressed collapse into the centre of everything.”
Miarka’s gaze flickered to the vial, then to his eyes. They were bottomless now—not blank, but charged with something more profound, older, awake. He wasn’t quite there anymore. The Duke stepped halfway into the other world and left his body behind. “You’re a clever girl”, he continued, the accent narrowing. “But cleverness won’t get you through the abyss. You must dissolve. Completely. Ego, body, past—Pouf!” He snapped his fingers delicately. “Only then do you get the real tune. The hidden melody. The God bit.”
She reached for it, slowly, as if under a spell—but he pulled back.
Not yet.
His lips curled into a cold, superior smile. “Not until you say please.”
In that moment, it became clear he wasn’t chasing the high anymore. He was orchestrating it, bending the night to his will. He wasn’t letting go. He was transmuting the experience into power, pulling everyone into his orbit. Miarka didn’t bow nor show any vulnerability; she’s been through this before. The Duke stood with one hip cocked like a fallen statue, eyes rimmed in coal and a smile that remembered Eden like a discarded costume. “You think your Eve”, he said, circling Miarka, his voice like a raspy, soaked prophecy. “But I see something else in you. Something older.” The vial glinted between his fingers like silver in moonstone. “Eve was given,” he whispered close to her ear. “But Lilith chose. She refused the yoke. She wanted to ride the storm, not tend the garden.” Miarka didn’t move, but something behind her eyes flickered—a recognition. The room around them twisted, the air pulsed with incense and something darker, like blood and violets. “You don’t have to take this.” The Duke said, raising the vial. “You want to”, he mocked, reverent. “Because you know the truth already, don’t you? That obedience is death in drag. That innocence is a cage dressed in lace. Take this and you’ll remember.”
His hands hovered in front of her, not forceful—inviting. Around them, the lights pulsed like a heartbeat and the music bent wordlessly, holy and obscene. Miarka looked into his eyes and saw not a man, but an angel with its wings burned off, beautiful in the ways ruins are, elegant, broken, eternal. And somewhere, just beyond the veil of sense, Lilith watched, laughing. Not cruelly. Not kindly.
“This is not sin”, he murmured, brushing the vial against her lips. “This is knowledge.”
The air around them crackled, alive with the hum of forbidden truth, and for a moment Miarka could swear the room had become a garden—not lush, but overgrown and rotting sweet, a paradise peeled back to show its teeth. “Eat”, he whispered. “And you’ll know what God won’t tell you. You’ll see the architecture behind the sky.” His voice coiled around her like smoke from an ancient altar, hypnotic, patient, no rush to damn. His hand, pale and precise, hovered over her collarbone as if offering benediction. She was Eve frozen before the tree, and the Duke was no man. He was the whisper in the leaves, the gleam in the serpent's eye, offering not ruin but revelation. Miarka didn’t flinch, she’s been through this, she didn’t even blink, she only watched him, eyes steady and dark with something he hadn’t expected, perspective. Then slowly, she stepped back from the vial and spoke in a soft voice, resonate like wind through old stone.
“Everyone always wants to call a woman Eve, naïve and obedient. Or Lilith, wild, punished, casted out; Tempted or tempter. The innocent or the rebel. The lamb or the serpent. But that’s still just a game men invented to feel like gods.”
The Duke said nothing—not yet. His hands remained outstretched, the vial glittering faintly between his fingers like a relic, though it seemed almost fragile, almost absurd. Miarka’s eyes lingered on it just long enough to acknowledge what she was refusing. “You mistake me” she continued. “I’m not here to rise or fall. I’m here to walk out of the story entirely. To choose something without needing it to be a myth.”
She turned on her heel, her black coat catching the edge of his cigarette glow as she passed through the threshold party. The room behind her blurred into music, laughter, and the faint acrid tang of something burning. Outside, the night was hot and damp. A yellow taxi idled at the corner, as If summoned by will alone. She raised her hand, calm and practiced, and stepped into the street. The Duke stood motionless in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. The party behind him pulsed on—Iggy howling over a synthesizer loop, bodies drifting through smoke like velvet lit-rooms. He watched the yellow taxi slip down the winding road, it’s break lights vanishing like a slow, deliberate curtain fall. She was going back to his house. Not running, not begging—just going, as if he were the one being dismissed. A sloe exhale left his lips. He didn’t follow. Didn’t shout. Didn’t smile. For the first time in a long while, he had nothing to say. In her silence there had been no defiance, no drama. Just choice. He stood there as the party raged on.
“Well. That was a fuckin’ disaster.” Iggy came around the corner.
“Mm. Tragedy with a touch of mascara. Like an opera,” He exhales a thin line of smoke.
“She left because you pushed her. You do see that, right?”
“You pushed her. Backed her into a corner and acted shocked when she bit back.” Iggy took a drag.
“I gave her a spotlight. She chose a tantrum.”
“She chose not to be another one of your goddamn ornaments.”
The Duke turned, lazily, bored with this conversation already.
“Ornaments are quiet. She was... fucking loud.”
“And now she’s gone. So what? You gonna sneer your way through it?”
“I sneer through everything, Iggy. It’s the only thing that keeps this whole rotten circus from falling apart.” He raised his drag.
“Bullshit. You act like you're untouchable, like none of it matters—But it does. And you’re just too much of a coward to admit it.” Iggy states.
“Takes one to know one, love. I may be dressed like a dream, but I’ve ended better men in worse suits.” The Duke steps closer, threatening.
“You’re not a god, Duke. You’re just a bitter bastard in nice clothes, driving off the last people who gave a shit. You ain’t “real.” You’re a posh twat in eyeliner with a God complex.” Iggy stands his ground.
“And don’t I wear it well? Oh, come off it, Ig. You lot love to act like I’m some kind of villain ‘cause I don’t fall to pieces over a pair of heels walkin’ out the door.” The Duke flicks ash to the ground.
“Careful what you wish for, love. One day you’ll wake up and realise you’re the last song on the record — and the needle’s already stopped.”
“Then leave, Ig. Go on. Join the parade.”
Without a word, the Duke flicks the dead cigarette to the floor and walks off into the shadows of the corridor, coat swirling behind him.
In the end, Eve took the apple, Lilith took the throne, and The Duke? lit the match — and between them, paradise never stood a chance.
Notes:
Please comment and give feedback if you can! it will help me loads!
Chapter 3: Station to Station
Summary:
The Duke and Miarka head out to breakfast. They head back to Cherokee studios and share something.
Notes:
Hello, hello, I'm back again with a new chapter, tensions rising this time. I'm aiming to get out 32 chapters at least. I recently bought an e-book for 'Low' which dives into the Duke and Bowie in Berlin.
Warnings: drug abuse, attempted masturbation vague, mentions of fascism vague though.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
February 10th, 1976, Bel-Air.
The Sunlight of Bel-Air didn’t rise so much as intrude. It slipped through the curtains in small hostile beams, pale and surgical, cutting across the dust and cigarette haze. The windows were tall but always half-shut. Miarka turned in her tangled coat, her dreams had been uneven, streaked with colour and fragmented memories. Hearing a piano, Miarka woke with the slow, syrupy confusion; her breath caught. Her eyes adjusted to the pale morning, drifting across the room like a weary animal, until they landed—on the Japanese Koh Mask. Not quite human. Not quite demon. It’s painted white face held the expression of perpetual performance; a glistening grin that didn’t quite reach its lacquered eyes. She didn’t remember it being there the night before, or she did but it was a different colour. It faced her like it had been placed there to watch her sleep or judge her dreaming. A wave of unease passed over her. Something deep and primitive, her skin pricked up. She sat up slowly, her coat falling away, the silk blouse she wore clung to her back. The mask didn’t move—of course it didn’t—but she felt the gravity that it might open it’s mouth at any moment and sing. A kabuki song. Mabey. Or scream. She crossed it cautiously, half daring it to move. Her fingers hovered, inches away. She turned hearing a note on the piano crack, sharp and wrong, like a snapped bone.
Miarka came down the stairs barefoot, her steps cautious on the stone cool floor. She stood at the edge of the room seeing the Thin White Duke play. The Thin White Duke sat with his back to the dawn, he hadn’t slept, not since he came back from Iggy’s party. He’d been playing since before the sky shifted colour, eyes glassy, staring past the keys into some private hallucination. The piano, a black Steinway, glossed like a lacquered coffin, seemed barely able to contain the sounds he coaxed from it. His fingers were long and restless, dancing between E minor and something un-nameable. The room was frozen around him in time; crystal ashtrays filled with lipstick-stained stubs, a low littered table with polaroids and scrawled lyrics, a glass of milk curdling slowly beside an untouched line of something finer then sugar. The music wasn’t for anyone, not even himself. It was a ritual, something to keep.
“In this age of grand illusion…”
His voice came out cracked, thin, and holy at first, as if it had been clawed somewhere deep inside, but there was power in it. The melody wavered slightly, just on the edge of pitch, as if it too were trembling. Another Koh mask—built on the wall like a trophy on a mount—watched both with the patience of something ancient and cruel.
“Lord I kneel and offer you, my word on a wing…”
He titled his head back slightly, pale throat exposed, the words pulled from a place raw and scared. It wasn’t a love song, not exactly. It was a flare in the dark. A question he hadn’t asked properly the first time. Then—he missed a note. A sharp, sour clang that cut through the reverie like a razor. The moment shattered. He yanked his hands from the keys as if they’d burn him. “Fuck” he hissed, voice suddenly very human, too human. He shoved the bench back with a harsh scrape, standing up in a flush of frustrated motion, shirt sticking to his spine. “Fuck this house, Fuck this song—”
Miarka flinched.
He froze mid-step. Turned his head toward her slowly, like the realisation had caught him too late. His expression cracked. “No—no. Not you.” His voice dropped to a murmur, strung with remorse. “I told you not to stand in the doorway.” He said his voice was elegant, yet venom-laced, like silk. “You look like a mistake that hasn’t decided what kind it wants to be.” His hands were trembling slightly, not from rage but from depletion. “It’s just—everything’s wrong. This whole place—I can’t hear God in this house.” He sat back down hard. Miarka didn’t move. She said nothing, her arms tightened around herself again, a quiet defence. His words always came barbed, but she never knew where they would land until they drew blood. He struck a chord—word on a wing again—not tender this time. Rough. Angry. Scared still, but in the way a dying prophet might claw at scripture to feel something holy under his fingernails. “I’m working,” he added flatly. “This isn’t a gig. This is invocation. You don’t speak during Invocation.” His voice had a strange politeness to it, the kind of clinical calm only heard in the places that didn’t allow shouting—museums or, padded rooms. He still wasn’t looking at her. His reflection in the piano’s glossed black surface looked more real than the man himself.
“You think because I let you stay here,” he said, softly now, playing a note with one hand, inhaling deeply, “that you matter in this equation. But you don’t. Not really.” He exhaled, a thin stream of smoke rising like incense. “you’re an echo, darling. A sound that bounces off the walls and tricks itself into thinking it was ever a voice.” Miarka’s expression didn’t change. Not right away. She stood like a statue someone hadn’t finished carving. He finally turned to glance at her, just once—sharp and withering. His eyes were ringed with sleepless nights and psychic erosion, black holes in place of pupils. “If you want to stay quiet, stay quiet. If you want to be seen, wear somethin’ worth lookin’ at. Otherwise, don’t haunt the corners like you’re waitin’ to be forgiven.”
Then he turned back to the keys. Begin to play again. Softly perfectly. “Lord, Lord, my prayer flies like a word on a wing…” And now, he sang like she wasn’t there at all. He lit another cigarette from the dying ember of the last, and whispered to himself like a prayer: “Just for love’s sake…”
Then he played again. And this time, the song held.
Miarka didn’t flinch, when he finished the line—my word on a wing—she stepped forward just slightly, into the edge of the room’s dim gravity. “You know”, she said, her voice calm, like light behind stained glass, “if God were listening, he’d probably prefer silence to your tantrums.” He paused. It was just half a second, but he paused. A single finger hung above the following note like he’d forgotten which one it was. Then he let the chord ring out and slowly turned to face her. “That so?” he said. Miarka didn’t blink.
“You talk to him like you’re equals. Like you’re both tired of each other.”
The Duke titled his head, the smirk still there, but something else behind the eyes now—curiosity, maybe, or the memory of it. He took a long drag and from the cigarette and exhaled toward the chandelier, exposing his pale neck. “Tell me. Miarka. Do you believe in God?”
“Faith isn’t about believing in God. It’s about what you do when he doesn’t answer.” She said.
He misses a note. Only slightly—but it’s enough. His jaw tenses. The music continues, but something creeps into it like shadow bleeding into water.
“Sounds like something a priest says to excuse the silence.” He says softly.
“Not silence. Absence. There’s a difference.”
“Go on then, theologian. Enlighten me.” His voice cocky.
“God doesn’t test us with fire. He tests us with the echo. Faith is whether you speak back into it—knowing no one might ever respond.” She steps forward slightly. The morning light touches her like a blessing he doesn’t receive. “You scream at the sky because you think God is an audience. But faith isn’t performance, it’s restraint.”
The Duke stops playing. The silence this time is thicker. More real. The Duke stares down at the keys, as if they’ve suddenly turned into something he doesn’t know how to use. A weapon, maybe. Or a confession. “Restraint’s never been my art form.”
“That’s why you need faith. Not to be saved—to be contained.” They both pause.
He touches the keys again. He plays a new chord—soft, aching.
Then, he laughs—quietly without venom. It’s not joy, it’s recognition. “God help me…”
He couldn’t believe it actually made him laugh. A sharp, dry sound, like a crystal breaking through his chest. He sat back against the piano bench, letting the cigarette rest on the rim of a glass. The house held still, like it was listening. He studied her now, properly, like she wasn’t just wallpaper with a pulse. Not desire exactly. But a flicker of something rarer: fascination. “You’re sharper than you look,” he said almost admiringly. “That’s dangerous in a place like this.”
Miarka stepped into the light, just a little. The Koh mask caught her movement in its blank lacquered stare. “So is playing God when you’re still afraid of sleep.” She spoke.
She didn’t leave. Didn’t whither. Instead, she said, evenly, “You know, for someone who claims to transcend ego, you’re awfully theatrical about it.” He glanced over, one brow arching delicately, amused. “And you’re awfully dressed for a philosopher.” He looked at her up and down, no unique glamour or pronounced make-up. “A little post-structuralist, a lot for breakfast in America.”
“And you’re quoting Plato through eyeliner and amphetamines.” She said softly, her Russian accent visible.
Something rare flickered behind his eyes. Not annoyance. Intrigue—that rare glint that meant The Thin White Duke had encountered something not easily dismissed.
He tapped out a dissonant triad and said, with mock solemnity, “‘As above, so below: as within, so without.”
She was undeterred. “‘As the universe, so the soul.’ I’ve read The Kybalion too,” she said. “The difference is, I didn’t underline the bits that only justified my narcissism.”
Another laugh lept out of him before he could stop it. It was sharp, short, and surprised—like a cough wrapped in silk. “You’re dangerous.” He said, half to her, half to the ghost of whatever vision had been forming in his head before she spoke. “I should have you thrown into the pool with the rest of the aspiring mystics.”
Miarka titled her head. “You already tried. I’m the one who climbed out.”
The Duke stood from the piano bench, he moved toward her, slow and languid, like smoke with a spine. The cigarette burned low between his fingers. When he got close enough to see her eyes—really see them—he stopped.
“This is how it starts, you know.” He said softly. “The unravelling. First you talk back, then you start writing your own gospel.”
“Only if the Gods keep falling asleep at their altars.” He stared at her for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching like it wanted to smile but hadn’t received permission from the rest of his face. Then he turned back to the piano and sat down again. This time, continuing word on a wing with a strange softness, a new cadence. A little less prayer. A little more invitation.
He finishes the last chord of word on a wing. The final note lingered like prayer in smoke. Silence follows.
He stands up abruptly. Lights a new cigarette. Paces once. Then stares at Miarka.
“Well, that’s enough pleading with invisible bastards for one morning.” He looks around with a vague sneer at the sterile opulence. Then, not loudly, but firmly.
“Miarka. Get dressed. We’re going out.”
Miarka stated. “You haven’t slept all night. I doubt you’ve slept for the past two days since I’ve been here.”
He strolls over to the foot of the staircase and looks up like he’s studying a painting. “Breakfast, darling. It’s a thing people eat when they’ve survived the night. Usually with pancakes, coffee and regret.”
“You’ve been playing that song since four AM, and now you want pancakes with coffee?” Miarka raised an eyebrow. She was stunned how it turned philosophical, now wanting breakfast.
“Not pancakes. Just something edible and maybe hot. The ghosts are starting to get bored with us sulking in silk.”
“You are a mad bastard.” She said calmly.
“And you’re barefoot in Bel-air, with the looks of a car crash. I haven’t slept since Nixon. So put some knickers on. We’re going to stumble into sunlight and pretend we’re human for an hour.” He starts making his way to the bathroom.
“Stay here and rot or come. I’m leaving in five fucking minuets.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” She mutters.
The Thin White Duke enters the bathroom. He starts to strip; he is a portrait of contradiction. Angular, ethereal, almost sexless in the pale light. His skin is alabaster, stretched thin over bones that seem too sharp, too deliberate, like an artist sculpted him with a grudge. There’s no softness to him. His hips jut out in stark lines, his ribs subtly visible beneath his chest, a chest that rises and falls with a slow steady rhythm, as if he’s burrowing breath rather than owning it. His arms are lean, sinewy, the muscle slight but wiry. His thighs are long, and spare, seem built for movement more then strength, like a dancer’s but without the joy. Below his naval, his pubic hair is sparse and neatly trimmed, the same careful grooming he applies to everything else. His penis, soft and unaroused, rests against one thigh, neither flaunted nor hidden, simply apart of the whole. He regards it briefly, clinically, as if it belonged to someone else; the body, the whole fragile organism, is a costume he puts on each day. It is not shame he feels, nor pride, but estrangement. His body has become a tool: something to dress, to display, to Abandon when it becomes irrelevant. And here, in the silence, there is no audience—only a man and the skin he’s wearing thin.
He places the single black towel folded on a heated rack. He turns on the hot water, almost scalding, and stands beneath the stream without moving for a full movement. Head bowed. As if enduring a baptism he doesn’t quite believe in. Steam rises like smoke off his pale skin; the scent of bergamot and iron fills the space. He washes himself with a bar of French soap so sharp it smells like medicinal. Every motion is exact: first the neck, the collarbones, then the wrists. His fingers lingers a moment over his chest, where his heart thuds like a metronome he’s trying not to listen to. He doesn’t hum, he doesn’t sing, he isn’t sentimental. The heart that beats is not his own, but someone else’s. After towelling off, he stands naked in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection, fascination and contempt. Under his eyes, faint bruises of insomnia. On his ribs, the quiet hallows of a man who forgets to eat unless reminded. He applies moisturizer like an act of diplomacy. Smooth, clinical and expensive. No scent. Preservation. Almost absently, his hand drifts down his stomach, over the pale stretched skin that rises and falls with his breath. Fingers trail across the sharp ridge of his hip bone, then lower. The touch isn’t erotic, not really. It’s exploratory, as if he’s checking for signs of life. His palm cups himself gently, like one might hold a fragile object found buried beneath dust. His eyes never leave the mirror. There’s a flicker of something, not arousal, but a memory of it.
The ghost of a younger man who once felt the hunger of his skin. He tightens his grip, just for a moment, but it’s no good. The sensation dissolves whatever spark he sought doesn’t come. His hands falls away. He exhales, sharp and joyless.
“I’m still here” he murmurs. “Un-fuckin-fortunately.”
He turns away, reaching for his silk undershirt, dressing like a man preparing for war. He starts with the undershirt—soft cotton, pure white—pulled over his narrow frame like a bandage. Each button is fastened slowly and methodically. At the cuffs, he secures silver cufflinks. He folds his collar, as if it were holding his neck like a hand. The vest follows, clasping against his narrow torso. Trousers next, pressed so sharply they could slice. He slides them on and tucks the shirt with clinical efficiency. He sits on the edge of the tub to put on his polished leather Oxford shoes. As he ties each lace, he hums a melody like Golden Years. It cuts off abruptly as he stands and reaches for the final pieces; the coat, long and black, and a thin silver ring onto his right hand.
He then applies a thin line of Khol under each eye with the steady precision of someone whose done it a thousand times in backstage mirrors and moving cars. His hair is combed back, damp, glistening like oil-slicked snow. He picks up his hat from the right side of the sink—wide-brimmed and black; he places it on a right angle. Finally, a thin silk scarf, pale grey, wrapped tight and tucked beneath the collar, he adjusts it without looking. He slips on a pair of black gloves.
He stands fully dressed now, looking like something the desert dreamed up after watching too many human films. He reaches into his inner pocket of the coat, draws out a slim, silver cigarette case, flips it open and takes one, closing the lid.
The Silver Mercedes glides out of the driveway like it never belonged there to begin with. Sunlight slicks across the windshield. Beyond them, Los Angeles sprawls and inside the car, silence. Miarka sits on the passenger seat, one leg curled under her, her mouth a line. Her wrists dangle out the window, fingers curled catching the warm rush of air. The Thin White Duke drives like he’s not really on the road. One hand on the wheel, gloved pristine, the other resting in his lap. His face is unreadable. Lips barely parted. His hat casts a sharp shadow over his eyes and he doesn’t bother turning on the radio. The only sounds, tires on asphalt, the low purr of the engine, and the occasional sigh. They pass Bel-Air and descend into the city, where the sun clings to everything tightly. Strip malls. Billboards. Palm trees bending slightly. Everything feels too slow and bright. Miarka doesn’t speak, she doesn’t look at him. She watches the outside blur. He doesn’t check the mirror and he doesn’t glance her way.
They take sunset east, then dip south, through old neighbourhoods with Spanish tile roofs and sprinklers still running. A lone dog watches them pass; a teenager on a skateboard stares at the car.
The Duke’s face doesn’t change. His fingers tap the steering wheel, slow then stop. Miarka shifts slightly, pulls her knees up and leans her head against the glass. Her eyes drift close. She doesn’t know where they’re going. He didn’t tell her.
The Mercedes slides into a narrow parking space beneath Jacaranda tree. The café is the kind that doesn’t try too hard, the sign is yellow and chipped reading simply: DINING – OPEN 6 AM. A metal fan spins slowly in the window above a row of bar stools. There’s no line, no valet. Just a few pick-ups in the lot and a station wagon that might not start again. The Duke kills the ignition, he steps out adjusting his gloves like he’s entering an embassy. The sunlight finds him immediately, bouncing off his coat, catches on the silver off his cufflinks. He smooths the line of his scarf and his hat stays low. Miarka opens the car door, she doesn’t need him to do it for her. She unfolds herself from the car in one long silent motion. Her bare feet slip into cracked leather sandals from the floor of the car. No one tells her she looks like a mess and she wouldn’t listen if they did.
They cross the parking lot.
The bell above the door rings as they enter. Not delicate, shrill. No one looks up. The place is mostly locals, two old men at the counter reading newspaper, a waitress wiping down a table with a dirty rag and a teenager in an apron moving too slow for how busy it isn’t. The air smells of grease, coffee and ancient sugar packs. The booths are red vinyl, cracked at the corners. Tables are Formica, fake woodgrain under a layer of cigarette burns. The ceiling fan clicks overhead like it might come loose. A radio near the register crackles out something lazy and slow, maybe “Low Rider” or “Dreams.” The Duke moved through the room like an apparition in cream and bone. Miarka follows him, not caring who looks. They slide into the booth on the far end. He takes a seat against the wall, facing the room. She sits across from him, folding her legs beneath her like a cat that might stay or bolt. The waitress walks over with a notepad, then decides not to care.
“Coffee hun?” she asked in a raspy voice.
The Duke nods once. Miarka doesn’t answer. She just holds up a cup from yesterday and waitress fills it like she understands something unsaid. She leaves. The Duke removes his hat and places it beside him. His gloves stay in his coat pockets. The sunlight from the window slices across his face—sharp cheekbones and tired eyes. Miarka stares at him like she’s watching a film she forgot the ending of.
The waitress in her mid-forties, face hard by too many sunrises approaches with a pad in one hand and a pencil behind her ear. “Y’all ready.”
“Eggs. Over hard. No toast.” She said not meeting her gaze.
“No toast?”
“You heard me.”
The waitress scribbles something down eyes flicking to the Duke. He sits ramrod straight, like he walked off in a record sleeve.
“And for you?”
“Just milk.” He spoke.
“Milk?”
“Whole. Nothing reduced. Nothing Altered. Nothing from a carton with a joke printed on it.” He glanced at her.
The waitress stares at him longer than she should have. Then she huffs, dragging a hand through her hair.
“You’re really just going to sit there and drink milk.” Miarka raised an eyebrow.
“Eventually. I enjoy the idea of it more than the act.” The Thin White Duke takes a short, sharp drag on his cigarette, blowing out swirls of smoke.
“So what now? You going back to London? Berlin? Floating into a television again?”
“Perhaps none of it. Perhaps something smaller. A flat with bad plumbing. A studio. A chair with one leg shorter than the others. Somewhere no one knows my name.” The Duke leaned back in his seat.
“But they always do.”
“Yes. But they forget it faster now. That’s the gift of time and too many records.”
“So, what, you want obscurity?” Miarka asked.
“I want silence that isn’t haunted. I want mornings without mirrors. Even the broken ones.”
Miarka grows quiet, she starts to fidget with the napkin in front of her.
“Doesn’t sound like much of a plan.” She murmured quietly.
“No. But I’ve had too many of those already. Plans tend to rot if you leave them out too long.”
There was a long pause. The two didn’t speak. To break the ice, the duke asked a generic question.
“Do you have a family?” He flicked bits of ash onto the table.
She blinks. Not out of surprise but trying to choose her words carefully.
“My Family? The Kovascavich believe in ambition. In silence. In rising—calmly, methodically. You don’t declare your hunger. You starve in front of kings until they hand you their crowns out of fear.”
“How very Protestant of you.” He mocked.
“We don’t scream. We observe. And when the room is weakest—we own it.”
“That’s a very expensive kind of madness. ‘Du musst Caligari werden.’”(You must become Caligari.) The Duke leaned forward, his head resting on his knuckles.
“You know, Miarka, Los Angeles always feels like a lie made flesh. A plastic dream with German subtitles.”
“And yet you’re here. Still haunting its corners. Still searching. What is it this time? Another myth to wear?” Miarka didn’t flinch.
“Not a myth. A gesture. I’m fascinated—mesmerized, even—by precision.
The German kind. 1930s Berlin. The lines were sharper. The eyes clearer.
The arrogance… exquisite.” The Duke halfly smirked.
“Dangerous admiration,” Miarka stated.
“Yes. But that’s what art does. It flirts with danger. The Reich… They understood aesthetics. The uniforms, the banners—pure theatre. They turned politics into opera. And the people? Willing audience. Curtain up on apocalypse.”
“And where do you stand? On that stage?”
“It’s the Expressionists that started it. They painted fever dreams, fractured faces screams in oil and shadow. Kirchner. Grosz. They were the prophets before the storm. You see, the industry—they lap up fascism, as long as it’s dressed in sequins and eyeliner. It’s not the message—it’s the masquerade that matters.” The Duke spoke as though it were his proudest moment.
Miarka knew this was a dangerous game; the duke was testing her. Her eye’s narrowed, never leaving his gaze, and in a calm voice, she replied. “You speak of the German stage. Of beauty and arrogance— as if that ever won anything that mattered. But tell me, Duke... who won?”
The Duke paused, raising an eyebrow.
“It wasn’t your generals with monogrammed pistols. It was the great-grandfather,
whose boots had holes and whose rations were frozen turnips. It was the winter. It was Stalingrad.” She continued.
Miarka leaned in closer, her voice low and stern.
“That’s what crushed your Reich. Not glamour. Not Wagner. Mud. Ice. Fire. The blunt, stupid persistence of people who refused to die.”
The Duke’s mouth slightly opened. He had no words.
“You think aesthetics are power. But the truth? Power doesn’t need to be beautiful. It just needs to endure—And since you love Bulgakov, you’ll remember this—"
At first Miarka spoke in Russian, sharp like a blade.
"Кирпич ни с того ни с сего никому и на голову не свалится."
Then, she spoke in English—her voice, lethal.
"No brick falls on anyone’s head by chance."
“Everything you worship—fascination, fate, arrogance— it collapsed. Because truth doesn’t care about uniforms. And beauty? It’s not a shield. It’s a target.”
The Duke blinks. His mouth was slightly open. His hand hovered over his cigarette slightly. For once in his life, he was speechless. The Duke box clicks to a new song, one he’d sung: Young Americans.
The Duke quietly muttered. “I remember that line. Page 27. Exactly.”
The waitress returned, interrupting his moment; the Duke snapped out of it and resumed his usual gaze. “Here you go, sir. Your milk.”
She sets it down. Along with Miarka’s eggs. The absurdity of it—milk after such a conversation—hangs in the air like cigarette smoke.
“Thank you.”
The waitress leaves without noticing. A bell chimes as someone exits. The Duke lifts the glass slowly to his lips, taking a sip. The cold milk slides down his throat as a reminder.
“Milk. The most Aryan drink of all.”
Miarka watches him calmly, she recalls the countless supplies of whole milk in the fridge when she needed something to eat.
The Duke set down the glass. It made no sound. Everything had changed in the moment it touched the table. Perhaps the moment her gaze refused to flinch at his pompous decay. He rose, slowly, dignity still clinging to his frame, and he adjusted his collar. He didn’t acknowledge her, avoiding her gaze and headed toward the door. Miarka stood gracefully coat draped over her slight form. They didn’t speak they had nothing left to say. The Duke opened the café door and the golden light inside briefly touched the glass, catching his reflection. The Duke opened the car door, sitting inside, the milk still clung faintly to his breath, curdled by the weight of his reflection. He gripped the wheel with slender fingers that once closed around grand ideas. Now, they tremble slightly, knuckles pale against leather. Beside him, Miarka folded herself into the backseat. Her eyes scanned the passing half-lit stations, stray cats prowling and old men smoking in doorways. The city peeled past them in layers, posters sun bleached, curling at the edges, rusted fences no one believed in anymore. The Duke said nothing. He was listening now, the way a man listens after he’s been bested not in battle, but in truth. At a red light he glanced sideways. Miarka didn’t turn to him. She radiated something he;d never known to name—grace without submission, power without a need to dominate. She had broken him without words, not with cruelty but with clarity, and now she sat beside him.
They turned off the main road and entered the back route to Cherokee. The Duke felt something loosen in his chest. For years, he worshipped structure—the architecture for control—but now with Miarka breathing evenly beside him, he let go, just a little.
“I should despise you for that. You made me look—what’s the word?” He lifts his hand with a slow gesture. “—mortal—Impertinent—Impressive.”
“Mock me if you like, Duke. But you asked the riddle. I only answered it.” She didn’t meet his gaze.
“You embarrassed me. That’s not an easy thing to do. I’ve read Naked Lunch and Nietzsche and died on more hotel floors than you've had lovers—but you, with your silence and your cold little face, you made me feel like... a bloody extra in a Kafka dream.” He continued leaning closer to her. “Where the hell did you learn to think like that? So precise. So fuckin’... surgical. You're not some clever street rat. You're trained. Who raised you?”
“In winter coats and bruised knuckles. We don’t shout. We outlast. My father said: ‘Let the loud ones burn out. You light your fire under the throne.’”
The Duke tapped the steering wheel. “And here I thought I was the monster in the room.”
“No. You’re the theatre. I’m the architect.” Miarka corrects him.
“Tragic. Or theatrical?” The Duke raised an eyebrow
“Which do you prefer?”
“Depends on the mood. Milk tastes different after you’ve lost. I thought it would soothe. It doesn’t. But I suppose you know that already.”
“Milk is for beginnings, Duke. Not endings.” Miarka muttered.
“Thank you for the game.”
“Don’t thank me. I didn’t lose on purpose.”
“You know what the worst part is? You don’t need to be loved. That’s what makes you dangerous.” The Duke slightly smirked.
“No. What makes me dangerous is that I was, once. And I buried it so deep I forgot what it looked like.”
“Jesus Christ. You scare the shit out of me.” The Duke lets out a mirthless chuckle.
“Good. It means I’m real.”
“Real. What a vicious little word. I hate brilliant people.”
The car’s engine murmured to silence as the Duke pulled into the back alley behind the studio. Miarka stepped out first, her shoes making a tapping sound against the concrete. The Duke followed slowly, the car door creaking. They stood outside the door for a moment, just a scuffed brass intercom, that buzzed with quiet electricity. He hesitated. Then pressed the button. The door opened before he could speak. And there, framed by the soft orange hallway light, was Brian Eno. He was barefoot, as always, in a silk shirt that shimmered between lavender and storm cloud. “You’re late” he stated. The Duke looked away, slipping past “I know.” Miarka slipped past both without saying a word. Eno turned and walked away expecting them to follow. They did.
The floor creaked. Somewhere deep in the studio, a piano chord hummed, from an unmanned room. They entered studio B, the heart of Cherokee. It was alive with dim gold lighting, heavy air and velvet draped over everything. Tapes spun slowly on their reels, even though no one pressed play. A Rhodes piano glowed in the corner. Guitars leaned against amplifiers. The smell was un-mistakable, old wood, wax, ozone and cigarettes. Miarka moved to the far wall and sat a wide divan, folding her legs beneath. She didn’t speak. She watched. Eno motioned to the vocal booth “do it now.” The Duke removed his coat and gloves slowly and stepped into the booth. It was small. Lit by a single orange bulb that made the mic look like an offering. Through the glass, he saw Miarka, unmoving. The Duke closed his eyes, the mic flickers and he begins to sing.
“The return of the Thin White Duke… throwing darts in lovers’ eyes…”
Eno didn’t move at the board. Just let the tape run. The Duke continues to sing like it’s a confession.
“ The return of the Thin White Duke … making sure white stains ”
The original is gone, replaced with cocaine gods and fascist shadows. He grips the microphone, but not tightly.
“It’s not the side effects of the cocaine…I’m thinking that it must be love…”
On that line his voice almost cracks. From behind the glass, Miarka simply watches. He continues more ragged.
“Once there were mountains on mountains…”
“And once there were sunbirds to soar with…And once I could never be down…”
The final repetition, like a final prayer, a final goodbye.
“…It’s too late…”
“…too late…”
The take ended flat. Like an echo bouncing off the walls. The Duke stood in the booth, fists curling slowly at his sides. His head tilted like he was trying to hear what went missing. He came out like a storm. Eno didn’t look up from the console. Just flicked a switch to rewind the tape. “It’s not right” the Duke snapped. “It’s absolute shite.”
Eno’s fingers didn’t stop “It was honest.”
The duke replied, his voice dry and mean. “It was limp. I sounded like I fuckin’ died somewhere in the second verse.”
“You did.” Eno murmured. “That’s why it works.”
“Don’t give me that bollocks.”
Miarka didn’t speak. She just looked up from the couch, her gaze gentle. That made it worse. He felt the heat from behind his eyes. The pressure in his skull. The ache for control. The ache to be perfect. “Fuck this” he hissed, already walking. “I’m not doing this like some bloody martyr in suede boots.” Eno called out to him.
But the bathroom door slammed like a gunshot.
Inside, it was a harsh, white light and ugly tile. He looked into the mirror and hated what he saw, not because he looked bad but because of what he saw, he looked real. Tired. Human. “Fuck this,” he whispered, voice shaking. He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a silver tin
He bent, sniffed, and stood upright fast — spine straightening like a marionette pulled tight.
His pupils widened. His heart galloped.
The mirror blurred.
And for a moment, the Duke was back. Cool. Icy. Untouchable.
He ran a hand through his hair and gave himself a twisted grin.
“There you are, you beautiful bastard.”
But the grin faded too quickly. Because behind the rush, behind the old armour, was the echo of a girl’s silence. Miarka, watching. Not fooled. Not leaving.
And for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure if the performance was enough.
He stood in front of the mirror, breath shallow and chest rising, his eyes were blown black, like two moons increasing at the same speed. Sweat slicked to the collar of his shirt. The tiled pulsed and buzzed, the world grew sharp and as if someone had twisted the knobs of reality too far. He leaned against the glass, nose nearly touching, he stared into the glass seeing his reflection. The Thin White Duke. But—there was a flicker—just behind the mask of cheekbones and ice—was David. The real one. Thinner, softer, eyes wet and red-rimmed. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in a week and hadn’t really felt in longer. Ane he was trapped. Pushing against the inside of the glass like a moth underwater. The Duke smiled—all elegance and cruelty—but David in the mirror did not. He just looked tired. Let me out. The Duke blinked, David’s voice came again—faint, cracked, like it had to travel miles of static. “You don’t need to do this anymore. You don’t need me.” The Duke’s knuckles whitened against the porcelain sink.
“No,” he muttered aloud. “No, not yet.”
The softest shuffling of footsteps emanated from the doorway. He turned his head slightly—and there she was. Miarka. Just looking at him. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t gasp. Didn’t accuse. Just standing there, against the door frame, arms clasped, not blinking. Her presence was calm and unbearable.
“What.” He spat “Come to watch the downfall? Is that it?”
She said nothing. Her gaze dropped—to the tin. To the edge of the sink. To him.
“Fuck’s sake,” he snapped. “What, d’you want a poem about it? Want to rescue me?”
Still. Silence.
He exploded. “Fuck off Miarka!”
It echoed off the tiles, cracked through the silence like broken glass. And she flinched, not from fear, but from the sadness of it. Then, without a word, she stepped back, turned and walked away. No drama. Just gone. The door clicked closed behind her. The soft little sound worse than a scream. He was alone now. Or not.
The eyes staring back weren’t just his anymore. The pupils had black and massive, swallowing blue. The whites were too white. They gleamed like marble. The face was still his, but something else had climbed into it. It smiled at him. He exhaled sharply, laughed under his breath. “Well. There they are.” He didn’t run. He didn’t recoil. He leaned in. And oh, how he loved them back—because they made him feel glorious. His limbs were lightning. His blood was jazz. His spine hummed like an antenna catching a signal from God.
“Please.” The Duke turned to the mirror. “She saw me, not you. Miarka saw me. And you told her to ‘fuck off’.”
“I had to.” His voice was sharp. “She doesn’t understand. None of them do. They need the Thin White Duke. They don’t want some sweating lad from Brixton shaking like a leaf.”
“They do now. You’re just too scared to be him again.”
That landed like a hammer to the spine. The Duke, standing on the other side, cocked his head—amused. Detached. Then David whispered, “If you stay like this, you’re going to die.”
David pressed his palms to the glass. Like he could reach himself. Like he could pull himself out. The Duke’s jaw clenched. His pupil twitched. His breath hitched. He staggered back, like the words had physically hit him, one arm bracing against the wall. For a second, a split second, he looked broken, open. Human. Then—just as fast—he pulled himself upright. Ran both hands through his amber-blonde tinged hair. Buttoned his shirt tighter. Tilted his chin until the old poise snapped back into place. He flung the door open like a man born anew, strode down the hallway as if walking on light. Not at the mirror. Not at himself. And the Bowie left inside—the real one—pressed his hand against the glass, watching the duke walk away with his body.
“I don’t know how much longer I can stay in here, before you burn us both.”
Eno looked up from the board, The Duke slid back into the booth with a maniac grin, eyes too wide, voice too easy. “Roll it. I’ve got it now. Le’s fucking go.”
Miarka sat in the far corner. She didn’t look at him directly. But her fingers were curled in her lap, and her gaze was fixed just slightly to the side, watching the cables, the floor, anywhere but his face. She knew. He sang. And he sounded fantastic. Too fantastic.
Like a god too loud to be touched. Like a star about to collapse. Like the most beautiful lie in the world.
His voice was velvety and venomous, coiled through the mic like candle smoke. Every phase sculpted, intellectual, decadent. His diction clipped, refined, the voice of someone who read Baudelaire at dawn and gone joyriding through hell by midnight. The track was strange, lush, and pulsing like something was alive. But then she asked him—
“Why.” The Duke froze mid-cord, his hand drifting from the keys as if the question had tilted the axis of the room. He stepped back from the mic “Don’t” he said sharply, his mismatched eyes narrowing as if the word itself was an insult. Eno watching, didn’t interfere—he knew better. “Don’t ask me that,” he said coolly. He stepped closer to the microphone, calmy, beginning to sing again when, suddenly—
“Why?”
He turned, suddenly animated, pacing in the booth like a panther. “Because it’s mine!” he barked, gesturing widely to the sound board, the walls, the ceiling. “I’ve built kingdoms of rhythm! I’ve subjugated tempo!” his voice rose, intoxicated with his own mythology. “Do you know what it means to command attention?” His face was flushed, sharp cheekbones casting into shadows. He was ranting, voice soaring, transcendent and terrifying. “I rule this. I rule them.” The tape hissed softly in the background, still rolling, catching every moment of unravelling.
“You don’t ask ‘why’. You never ask ‘why’. ‘Why’ is for people who still think there's meaning behind the curtain. You pull that curtain back and there's just me, bleeding into tape.”
Miarka didn’t flinch. She tilted her head and asked, plain as day, “What have you always wanted.”
And he stopped. Everything in him stilled. He stared at her like she opened a door he’d bricked up years ago. There was no performance, only breath. His voice dropped to a hush, staring directly into her eyes, filled with venom. “Why, the music industry, my dear.”
“I’ll rule kingdoms. I'll fuck history in the eye. I’ll enslave melody and make it beg. Do you know what it's like to own silence? To make 15 seconds of nothing sound like God breathing? I’ve been awake three days and I’ve written four songs that could raise the dead if I wanted them to. Do you know what it means to make an empire out of feedback?”
Miarka remained still, as if she were challenging a demon in human form. “Not the art?”
“Fuck No. I wanted the machine. The money. The myth. I wanted to turn myself into capital. I wanted to walk into a boardroom and make executives sweat just by breathing. I wanted to become the drug.”
Eno stood slowly, hands still coated in quiet, no dramatic gesture, just a calm cut through the Duke’s fever. “That’s enough David.” He said it gently, but it landed like a knife. David. Not “Duke.” Not “Sir.” Not “you elegant fucking tyrant.” Just David, the fragile scaffolding under Godhood. For a moment the Duke froze, eyes twitching slightly, cocaine sweat beading above one brow. He stared at Eno like a dog about to bite his master, but the fight bled out in silence. He ripped the headphones out from his ears, the cord snapping with a hiss. His shoes clicked across the floor like gunshots, he didn’t look at Miarka. She might as well be a smear on the wall, a stain on his mythology. His expression was porcelain—blank, uncracked—but everything in his body screamed: Get the fuck away from this. She rose quietly, her coat wrinkled from hours on the couch, and followed. Outside, the night had that stale Los Angelas heat, the kind that wraps around your throat like a rich man’s. The black Mercedes was already idling, exhaust curling up like incense at a funeral. He slid into the drivers seat, skeletal fingers gripping the wheel. Miarka opened the passenger door without asking. She didn’t speak. Neither did he.
The ride through the canyons were pure tension, no words, just the low growl of the engine and the occasional sound of him sniffing sharply, twitching. Bowie—no, the Duke—looked like an icon crumbling in real time, knuckles white, shirt stained at the collar with old sweat and newer blood from his nose. Every moment he’d flick his tongue over his teeth like he was tasting violence. Streetlights cut across his face like cuts.
When they reached the Bel-Air house, he killed the engine with a twist of the wrist that felt aggressive. The house loomed ahead: massive, sterile. He got out without waiting for her, his shoes thudding across the steps stones like war drums. Inside it was all marble, and mirrors. Cold. Disconnected. Sterile. There was no warmth—just artefacts, pianos, unopened books, antique chairs positioned like props in a museum exhibit called “the artist as corpse.” He threw his jacket to the floor without looking. Peeled off his waist coat like it offended him. His shirt was undone, revealing pale skin stretched too tight over bone. His movements were fast, jagged, like he was trying to outrun his own reflection. He muttered something—maybe to himself. Maybe to her. Maybe to God. Then he disappeared down the hallway, into the shadows.
Miarka followed, barefoot on the cold tile, trailing a step behind like a ghost. He reached to the bathroom, shoved the door open, and didn’t bother to close it fully. Light spilled into the hall in sharp gold slashes. Inside, he turned the taps on full blast—sink and tub—letting the roar drown out the world. The mirror caught him: an emaciated angel in decline, shirt hanging open, chest rising open, pupils still saucer wide, cocaine clinging to the edge of his nostril. He leaned over the sink, bracing himself, gripping the porcelain until his knuckles turned bone-white.
And then under his breath, under his breath, almost inaudible.
“Fuckin’ David…”
The bathroom door creaked open. Steam unfurled like smoke from a dying altar. The Duke stepped out slowly, shirt clinging damp to his torso, eyes red-rimmed, glassy, the cocaine crashed already hunting him like a wolf in bones. The water hadn’t cooled him. It only reminded him that he could still feel—and he hated that. He stood in the doorway, breathing hard, fingers twitching. There was blood in that nose again, dry at the edge. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. He caught sight of himself in the hallway mirror—wet hair plastered to his skull, cheekbones like razors, the faintest tremble in his jaw.
Disgusting.
The cocaine hadn’t fully worn off. It never did. He felt it still—flickering, buzzing in the edges of his perception. Doors breathing. He saw ghosts again. Or maybe just the residue of who he used to be.
Then he noticed the front door was ajar.
He moved like a sleepwalker, slow, deliberate, a silhouette draped in silk and sweat. He pushed the door wider and stepped into the cool night air.
There she was.
Miarka stood alone on the gravel path outside the house, arms crossed under the moonlight softening the lines of her face. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t crying. She never did. She looked up at the night sky like it owned her. Her bare feet were dirty from the walk down the drive, and she looked untouchable, eternal. The moon hovered above her—silver and bloated, uncaring. It cast her in a light that made her seem like a painting. The Duke watched her. He said nothing for a long time, simply leaning against the doorframe and let his body ache in silence. He lit a cigarette, the match flaring orange against the blue of the night. He exhaled slowly, trying to press down the thing inside him that threatened to split in half.
He then wandered, barefoot, drifting slow. He said nothing at first. He stood beside her, close enough to feel her warmth but not touch. She didn’t acknowledge him. She didn’t need to. They stood quiet. Then his gaze dropped—not at her, but through the glass, to the endless black hills and fractured lights below.
His voice broke the silence like a whisper trapped in velvet.
“A heart.”
The words fell heavy, it came out like a confession. Almost like it had escaped him. He blinked slow. His reflection haunted the window glass, faint and double exposed: the man, the Duke. The Artist. He looked into himself and felt like an archetype that had wandered too far from the stage. A God who forgot why he put on skin.
He muttered it again, almost to himself.
“A heart… that’s what I’ve always wanted.” He continued. “Not just to ride the cocaine high. Not just to drift from bed to bed, show to show, myth to myth. But to ache for something. Someone. Connection. To feel someone’s pulse… other than my own. Even if just for a fucking moment.”
Miarka turned to him, her narrowed, blue gaze looking up to him. Miarka didn’t move. He saw her nod. Just once. She turned quietly and walked back inside. The screen door creaked, then shut clicked shut behind her.
The Duke stood there a moment longer, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, gaze lifted toward the stars. He didn’t say anything else. Didn’t move.
Something shifted within him. Not dramatically. Quietly, like the slow reversal of a pendulums swing. ‘Polarity’ as the Kybalion says. What is pushed too far one way must return. The Duke had lived too long in mentalism, in the idea of himself. But now, the rhythm began to swing back.
He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe he meant it. Maybe it was the drugs, or maybe it was the first true thing he’d let escape his mouth in years. But the words hung in the air. Echoing around him like smoke.
A heart.
And he stood there in the dark, utterly still, transfixed. Not by the moon, not by the skyline, but by the weight of what he’d finally admitted to only himself.
“I forgot what it was like to be human once.”
Notes:
Please comment and kudos if you like the story, more chapters to come :).
Chapter 4: Golden years
Summary:
The Thin White Duke performs in inglewood once more. Miarka digs under his skin. We see more into her past in Kazan.
Notes:
Warnings: Swearing, heavy abuse, gore, mentions of facism (vague), drug abuse.
A/N: Hello. Wow it's been a week and i've conjured another chapter, I did a bit of research during the timeline of Miarka within her background and it was during the time of the cold war. I thought of using it as part of her background. Maybe a good idea. Probably not. I did more research on the Thin White Duke using 'low' as a reference source on google play books. I had to look up the dates of his performance too in Inglewood. I hope the Duke's and Miarka's dynamic is good, i'm not making them fall hard just yet ;). That'll come soon, i'm aiming to experiment with their build up more. feedback is welcomed! kudos too!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
February 11th, 1976, Bel-Air.
The Bel-Air house swarmed in shadows, even in daylight. Thick velvet curtains suffocated the California sun, sealing the place in a perpetual twilight that suited him. Cool, theatrical and utterly detached. The air was still with heavy incense, coke dust, and the ghost of whatever the hell they did on that glass table at four A.M. The Duke moved through the house like a God on a brink, buttoning his vest with his slender fingers that trembled slightly. The silence of the house was pierced by the low hum of the limo idling outside. He stopped by the mirror, brushing flecks of powder from his nose with the back of his hand—no time to rinse. A thin line of sweat traced his temple, performance fever, or maybe just the coke still humming in his system from two hours ago. He snatched his coat off the armchair, silk lining slapping against his wrist like a whisper of violence. From down below the corridor below, the limousine engine growled in quiet demand. “Miarka!” he said flatly, not turning. “You’ve got twenty seconds to rise from that bed like Lazarus or I leave your half-naked arse here for the maids to ponder!”
A rustle from her tangled coat—she stirred, drowsy, dream logged, her voice groaned. “What time is it…?”
He exhaled, sharp and unimpressed, stalking barefoot down the marble floor with his cigarette dangling from his lip with a sneer. She was curled into herself; her hair was a storm across the lounge. She looked like art. Or a disaster. Same thing.
“Time to wake the fuck up, love. The Forum’s expecting me. I don’t have the luxury of sleep or sentiment, and neither do you.” He lit the cigarette with a sliver lighter, inhaled, and let the smoke trail from his lips with clinical elegance. “You can either come as you are or be someone’s mystery stain on the minibar. Entirely your call.”
He yanked the curtain open with a violent flourish, flooding the room with the golden sun.
“Jesus,” she hissed, pulling the coat over her face.
“No, darling. Just me. The Thin White Fuckin’ Duke. And you’re sleeping through it like some washed-up starlet who never got the call back.”
He leaned in close now, one knee pressed at the edge of the lounge, cigarette smoke drifting between them like a threat. His eyes were hollow. “Get your knickers on. You have five minutes before I leave without you. I’m not late for anyone. Not God. Not Sinatra. Certainly not you.”
“And if I find my records scratched or my figurines moved again, I’ll feed you to the pool.”
He rose with a sharp breath, flicked his cigarette onto the carpet without looking and ground it under his heel.
The black limousine slid into the back entrance of the Forum like a hearse arriving late to its funeral. The roar of the crowd outside was distant. Inside, the cabin smelled of gin, leather and the cigarette he’d lit. The Duke hadn’t said a word since Mulholland Drive. His eyes were fixed on the reflection in his tinted glass, rehearsing the way his silhouette would step out onto the stage. The door opened, and he was out in one smooth motion, coat catching the wind like a theatrical curtain mid-dramatic reveal. He moved quickly, his boots hitting the pavement like clockwork. And then—Miarka. She stumbled out behind him, clutching her jacket like a lifeline, her brunette, raven hair, wild like a tangled halo that screamed every mile of the maniac ride from Bel-Air. She looked like the aftermath of a dream someone woke up from too violently. He turned, clocked her appearance with one sharp glance, and stopped dead in his tracks.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” His voice rang sharp against the walls of the loading dock. “You look like you’ve just crawled out of Marianne Faithfull’s handbag.”
She blinked, not in the mood to argue. He was already moving again, waving a dismissive hand in the air like brushing off a bad review. “This is not a bloody acid commune, Miarka. This is my show. Jesus.” He muttered something else. “Half feral and twenty minutes late,” and didn’t wait for her to catch up.
The crew parted for him as he swept through the corridor, no greetings, no smiles. Miarka trailed behind, barefoot in her boots, looking like she had a stormy night out, hungover. The stage manager approached with a clipboard and a nod.
“She with you, Mr. Duke?”
He paused just before disappearing behind the curtain, and one last glance was thrown over his shoulder. At her, At her mess of hair.
“For now,” he said, voice flat, sardonic. “If she makes it past soundcheck without combusting, buy her a comb.”
The backstage room was colder then she expected, bright with flickering bulbs and too many mirrors. The Thin White Duke’s multiplied and fractured: leaning into the dressing table, bent over a tiny silver spoon, now brushing on eyeliner. The Thin White Duke. Unreachable. Without looking, he tossed the comb over his shoulder. It landed by her feet. “There,” he said, dry as gin. “Make yourself look slightly less like you’ve been dragged backwards through a Fellini reel.” It landed with a dull clack near a pack of Gauloises and a bottle of something amber and expensive. She caught her reflection in one of the mirrors, hair wild, coat slightly crooked at the shoulder. She looked like a fever dream, as if someone had woken up too soon. Maybe she was. He adjusted his cufflinks, slowly, then slid his black waistcoat over with the grace of someone who’d done this ritual every night of his life in a hundred cities and remembered none of them. She nodded wordlessly, brushing her hair with precision. The comb snagged at first, but she worked through it, half listening to the muffled rumble of the crowd growing outside, the low thump of bass bleeding through the walls.
Then she saw him.
Not in the mirror, but through the thin gap in the heavy red curtain that framed the backstage hall. He’d moved without her noticing, already out there in the half-dark corridor beyond the door, standing under a bare bulb, staring straight ahead. The Duke. Still. Stark. Electric. Not. David. Not the man who’d rolled her into bed at five A.M. Not the one who smirked in silence when his hands shook too much to play piano. No. This was him—the thing he became. The Duke, tall and lean, brutal, eyes like razors, suit crisp as an executioner’s blade. He stood like a statue carved out of hunger and disdain, preparing to walk into the light and make Gods weep. And he turned, just slightly, just enough to glance over his shadow toward her shadow in the doorway. Not a smile, not warmth, just a flicker of recognition.
The stage manager’s voice cracked through the hallway: “Mr. Bowie—two minutes.”
He raised his chin, straightened his cuffs, and walked into the light. She stood there alone, comb still in hand, lightly breathing. The Duke had the arena. Miarka stood still at the edge of the curtain, the roar of the crowd rising behind her like a wave she refused to wade into. She fixed her hair. She coat was no longer askew. The comb rested on the vanity behind her like a discarded tool of war. Her expression was calm, void of awe. The Thin White Duke stepped into the light. Then—sound.
A hiss, a crackle, the room vibrating from the floor up. The first impossible train-whistle feedback scream of ‘Station to Station’ tore through the walls. The audience erupted on the other side of the world. She stood quickly, drawn like a moth to the slit in the curtain just past the dressing room door, her hand still tangled in her hair. And there he was. On stage. Under the lights. Transfigured. Not David, not even the man who leaned over her hours ago in silk and shadow. This was the Duke, alive, conjured by distortion and spotlight. Hands outstretched, moving like a conductor of storms. He didn’t speak. He commanded. The lights hit him like thunder, shoulders squared, that impossibly angular face calm and cold, as if sculpted by the music itself.
“The return of the Thin White Duke…”
His voice rolled out, slow and deliberate, like prophecy. And Miarka, watching from the dark, was no longer sure who she’d spent the night with, because the thing on that stage—
The Thing breathing fire and silk into a microphone—
That wasn’t a man.
That was a God dressed in sorrow and cocaine.
The bass kicked in. The train kept coming. And she didn’t move from that curtain. Not even when the door behind her clicked shut.
He moved with that calculated, gliding grace, half Spectre, half monarch, bathed in smoke and white heat. The spotlight, a blade slicing through the dark. He gripped the microphone like a weapon, suit pristine, posture perfect. The band launched into Station to Station, the train-screech intro splitting the air like metal on bone.
And—he saw her.
His eyed found her in the wings as if drawn by something unseen. And they stayed. He sand with cool detachment, but his gaze was molten, tracking her every breath, every blink, like he was trying to read her silence. Miarka didn’t look away. No flutter. No flinch. No blush. She stared with the same stillness she always carried. The same intelligence that had unnerved him twice. Her expression was blank, but not empty. It was the quiet of someone measuring him, studying the showman mid-performance and seeing all the gears turning behind the mask. She knew exactly what this was.
"It's not the side-effects of the cocaine..."
he sang, eyes still pinned to hers.
"...I'm thinking that it must be love."
He was trying to provoke her. Trying to pull something from her. She gave him nothing. Because she’d already seen the man beneath it, curled in velvet at four A.m. speaking in half-truths with powder on his lips. The Duke was performance. Controlled madness. A weapon of his own making. And she? She was simply watching the machine operate. She tilted her head, almost imperceptibly, as he reached the edge of the stage, his presence towering, his gaze demanding. He wanted her reaction. She refused him.
The silence between them said everything. When he finally turned from her and faced the crowd, it wasn’t victory, resignation. He couldn’t touch her. Not really. Not yet. The lights flared. The music swallowed him whole. Miarka exhaled slowly. Controlled. Unmoved.
The Thin White Duke prowled across the stage in Inglewood, all sharp and haunted charisma. The sound of his voice—detached, drawling, seductive—rippled through the crowd like velvet poison. For Miarka, the music did something more treacherous. It stirred the sediment of memory. She was no longer in California. She returned to Kazan, 1971.
March 1st, 1971.
The scent hit her first—cheap cologne, old floorboards, and the musk of sweat leotards too long worn. The studio had been dim and yellowed, paint peeling from the baseboards like aging skin. Her colleagues sat crouched in the corner between rehearsals. The air barely moved, heavy with the drag of smoke curling from thin fingers and rep-tipped nails, laughing over cigarette packs and swigs of smuggled Vodka. Miarka sat in silence, stretching her sore legs on the warped wooden floor, watching as Alina—seventeen, blonde, with legs like sharpened knives and a reputation that shimmered brighter than the stage lights—held court in the corner.
“Он дал мне триста рублей и мех. И даже не просил снять колготки,” Alina said with a sharp, wicked grin.
("He gave me three hundred rubles and a fur coat. Didn’t even ask me to take off my tights.")
The girls crackled, their laugh brittle. One of them took a swig from a bottle wrapped in a wool scarf, Vodka sharp enough to kill paint. They passed it like a communion. The ballet maestra had long since stopped caring about what happened between rehearsals, as long as their arabesques remained perfect. “Я сказала ему, что я только танцую, а он сказал, ‘Все вы танцуете, пока платят’.”
("I told him I only dance, and he said, ‘You all dance—until the money’s right.’")
There was no shame in Alina’s voice. Her lipstick smudged at the corner of her mouth, a bruised red like the bite of a plum. She lit another cigarette, flicking the match somewhere in the corner where someone had left their pointe shoes to dry. The satin was yellowed, bloodstained. Miarka felt her stomach turn—not with disgust, but with the bitter understanding of it. She had seen Alina come back late more then once, heels in hand, hair wild and cheeks flushed. The older men and soldiers waited in cars just past the tram tracks. There were always offers. Some girls said no. Some said yes. Most pretended they never decided. That night, Miarka couldn’t take it anymore. The silence of her own stomach hurt more then than the noise in the studio. She pulled her coat tight and slipped out the side door into the frozen dusk of Kazan. Snow had begun to fall in lazy spirals. She walked quickly, boots crunching over packed ice, toward the market near the cathedral.
The vendors were closing up, but she found a man selling hot картофель с укропом (potatoes with dill) from a steaming pot. She paid what little she had. As she ate with gloved hands, hunched behind a crate behind the stall. She thought of Alina’s lipstick and the sound of laughter in that cold yellow room. Miarka knew she couldn’t stay in Kazan forever. The city was bleeding her slowly, prettily.
The snow had started falling harder by the time Miarka had left the market, potatoes bundled in her arms. Steam still rising from the paper wrapping. The streets were nearly empty now, quiet in that eerie Kazan way—like the city was always watching. She turned the corner into the narrow lane behind the cathedral. She thought only of how much heat she could keep in her coat before the food went cold.
Then she heard it. Fast. Heavy. Intent.
“Эй, малышка, не бойся.”
("Hey, little one, don’t be afraid.")
She turned, instinct knotting at her throat. A man—older, unshaven, eyes glinting with Vodka and hunger—grabbed her arm, yanking her to the wall. The paper bag dropped, and the potatoes scattered and rolled into the snow. His was hot, putrid against her skin. She tried to scream, but his hand clamped hard over her mouth. “Будь хорошей. Только минутку.” ("Be good. Just a minute.")
Miarka turned her gaze toward the shimmer of a discarded bottle by the trash bins. No time to think. Just grab!
The bottle was half-broken already, its jagged edges catching the light like teeth. She raised it with both hands, and—
CRASH!
Glass shattered across his temple. He reeled back with a scream, blood mingling with liquor and melting snow. Miarka didn’t stop. She hit him again.
She ran. The paper bag forgotten, her food scattered in the snow like a dream already ruined. Miarka’s breath tore from her lungs in gasps as her boots slapped the cold freezing ground, slipping on patches of ice. Her coat flared behind her like a cape too thin for a city this cruel. She didn’t scream—there was no one to hear: just silence and him. The man cursed behind her, louder now. Closer.
"Стой, сука!"
("Stop, bitch!")
His boots thundered after her, heavy, fast. She ducked between two buildings, the narrow alley squeezing her between brick walls and rusted pipes. Her heart slammed against her ribs like it wanted out. The snow beneath her feet turned slushy and black with street grime. She didn’t look back.
He grabbed her.
His fingers hooked into her coat, yanking her off balance. She went down hard, knees slamming into the ice. Pain shot up her legs. She twisted violently, elbowing him in the gut. He grunted, lost his grip, but not for long. He grabbed a handful of her brunette hair and dragged her back. “Думаешь, сможешь от меня сбежать, маленькая сука?” He spat, his breath sour with the stench of rotgut and decay. (“Think you can run from me, little bitch?”)
Miarka screamed then—wordless raw—her fingernails clawing at his face, drawing blood. He cursed and slapped her, the blow sharp enough to blur the edges of her vision. But even dazed, she kept moving, slamming her knee to his groin. He howled. He let go. She bolted.
Down another alley, slipping past broken crates, glass crunching under her boots. Her thighs burned, lungs wheezing, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Her ballet training carried her farther than most girls could have. But it couldn’t outpace a predator. He tackled her again. This time, they crashed to the ground in a heap. Miarka’s head hit the stone, stars exploding her vision. He rolled on top of her, one hand pinning her throat, the other fumbling beneath his coat for something—knife? Belt? Worse? She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breath.
His face hovered inches from hers. Sweaty. Bloodied from where she scratched him. He was panting, smiling.
“Ты красивая, и дерзкая. Мне это нравится.”
("You're pretty, and feisty. I like that.")
She tried to scream again.
Then—Crack!
His head snapped sideways, a mist of blood spraying across her cheek. For a second, his body stayed upright, twitching. Then it collapsed over her, heavy and limp. The shot echoed and faded. Miarka shoved him off with all the strength her bruised arms could muster. She lay there, choking on her breath, until the shadow of a man stepped into an alley. He stopped in front of her. Looked her over. Not with pity, clarity. He saw her. And the body. “Живой ещё, мразь,” he muttered, crouching by the groaning man. ("Still alive, this piece of shit.")
Miarka flinched. She was shaking.
“Я спас тебя от смерти, но не от будущего,” he said. ("I saved you from death, not from your future.")
She stared at him confused.
He turned his gaze to her, eyes sharp as a blade. “Если хочешь выжить — научись убивать. Быстро. Без сожаления.”
("If you want to survive—you learn to kill. Fast. Without regret.")
Miarka had blood splattered across her coat and cheek. Her legs burned from the fall. Her heartbeat refused to slow. “Ты должна это закончить. По-настоящему. Он не человек — он угроза.” the soldier said in Russian. Calm. Flat. Unforgiving.
He held out a knife.
“Не из пистолета. Слишком легко. Ты должна почувствовать.”
("Not a gun. Too easy. You need to feel it.")
Miarka stared at the blade. It gleamed under the streetlamp. Not pristine. Not ceremonial. A soldier's tool. A killer’s truth.
“Я не могу.” (“I can’t,”) she whispered.
“Можешь. Ты уже начала. Теперь добей.”
("You can. You’ve already started. Now end it.")
The man on the ground groaned—choked on his blood—and reached weakley toward her boot. And something in her snapped. She took the knife. Her fingers tightened around the hilt, knuckles white. She knelt over the man. He gurgled something. Maybe “пожалуйста”—but it didn’t matter.
Her arm plunged down. The knife hit flesh.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Hot blood surged over her hands. The man jerked, then stilled. His body sagged, empty. The only sound was Miarka’s ragged, uneven breathing. She dropped the blade, staring at what she’d done. Her hands shook violently. The snow beneath her was red, steaming. The solider didn’t stop her. He let her tremble.
She turned to him. Her eyes were glassy. Numb.
“Хорошо.”
("Good.")
“Этот мир не терпит слабых,” the soldier said, voice low.
("This world has no mercy for the weak.")
He handed her a cloth bundle: rough black bread, dried sausage, and a small bottle of water. Then from his coat, a flask.
“Выпей. Поможет заглушить голос внутри.”
("Drink. Helps quiet the voice inside.")
She sipped. It scorched her throat.
He watched her quietly. “Ты напоминаешь мне мою дочь. Те же глаза. Такая же злость в сердце.”
("You remind me of my daughter. Same eyes. Same fire in the heart.")
“Что с ней случилось?” Miarka looked up at him. (“What happened to her?”)
“Умерла в Ленинграде. Медленно. От голода. Я не успел.”
("She died in Leningrad. Slowly. Of hunger. I wasn’t in time.")
He pulled gloves from his coat, worn but warm, and pushed them into her hands. “Я больше не могу спасать дочерей, но могу научить их не умирать зря.”
("I can't save daughters anymore, but I can teach them not to die for nothing.")
“Почему я?” Miarka whispered, (“Why me?”)
He didn’t hesitate.
“Потому что ты всё ещё жива. Потому что у тебя есть выбор. И потому что в тебе что-то есть. Что-то дикое.”
("Because you're still alive. Because you have a choice. And because there's something in you. Something wild.")
They walked through the snow in silence. At her building, he stopped.
“Никогда не доверяй улицам. Никому. Ни одной тени.”
("Never trust the streets. No one. Not a single shadow.")
For a moment, she thought he’d vanish, like smoke. No words. No goodbye. Instead, he reached into his coat—slow and careful—and drew a small, worn pistol. The steel was scratched and matte, but the way he held it, it had history. Use.
He glanced around, then handed it to her, grip first.
“Тебе нужна и близкая смерть, и дальняя,” he said.
("You need both a close death… and a distant one.")
Miarka stared at the weapon. “Но у меня уже есть нож.” (“But I already have the knife.”)
She took It with both hands, hesitating as her fingers curled around the cold metal. He pointed to a lamppost down the street. It’s glass cracked from some long-forgotten fight. “Смотри.” ("Watch.")
He took the pistol from her, aimed and fired once. The shot cracked through the frost. The bullet shattered the glass cleanly. He handed it back. “Сними предохранитель.” ("Take off the safety.")
She nodded, focused. He stepped back, watching her. She fired. The recoil jarred her shoulder. The shot missed, but not by much. She looked at him, her breath quick. He gave her a nod.
“Теперь ты не девочка. Ты солдат.”
("You’re not a girl now. You’re a soldier.")
“Я не хочу быть солдатом.”
("I don’t want to be a soldier.")
His voice softened just a notch. “Никто из нас не хотел.”
("None of us wanted to be.")
He reached out to grip her shoulder. Not for comfort, but to make her stand still. Hold the weight. Understand what she carried now.
Then he turned started to walk. She called out, voice rough. “Как тебя зовут?” ("What’s your name?")
He paused. Didn’t turn around.
“Никто, кого ты запомнишь.”
("No one you’ll remember.")
The wood floors of the ballet studio creaked beneath Miarka’s boots. The warm hum of a record player, warbled by a piano piece, filled the air with faint melancholy. Outside the snow still fell, soft and thick, muffling the city like a lullaby. But Miarka’s body was rigid. Her eyes had that thousand-yard distance, barely registering the faded mirrors, or the peeling posters of Beloshi legends. She had come straight from the market. Coat damp, cheeks wind-bitten, eyes hollow. She hadn’t eaten. Alina leaned against the windowsill, smoking a long cigarette like it was a part of her arm. Her leotard clung to her like oil. Blonde, seventeen, skin pale as milk and always smelling faintly of someone else’s cologne. Popular, envied, feared.
Her eyes scanned Miarka slowly, up and down. Lingering on the smudged mascara under her eyes. The streak of something reddish near her collarbone. A smirk curled on her lips. "Ты опять где-то шлялась?" she asked lazily. ("Out whoring around again?")
Miarka didn’t answer. She set the food down near her bag and pulled her coat off stiffly. Alina took a long drag and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Ты была с мужчинами, да? Посмотри на себя. Вся в синяках. Волосы как после чьих-то рук.”
("You were with men, weren’t you? Look at yourself. Covered in bruises. Your hair looks like someone had their hands all over you.")
Miarka didn’t flinch. Didn’t look at Alina.
Instead, she said calmly. "Мужчины берут то, что не могут удержать иначе. Они боятся нас, потому что не умеют чувствовать без власти."
("Men take what they can’t hold any other way. They fear us because they don’t know how to feel without power.")
Alina blinked. The smirk faded ever so slightly. Miarka turned to her now, her voice quiet but every voice landed like the crack of a metronome.
"Тебе кажется, что внимание — это победа. Но быть желанной — не значит быть свободной."
("You think attention is a victory. But being wanted doesn’t mean being free.")
Alina opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her expression shifted, neither angry nor smug, but just unsettled. As if she’d glimpsed a depth in Miarka she hadn’t expected. Miarka hung her coat on the hook near the barre, movements measured.
"Некоторые из нас танцуют, чтобы не забыть себя. Некоторые — чтобы спрятать раны."
("Some of us dance to remember who we are. Some of us dance to hide the wounds.")
She moved to the first position. Her feet, bruised and bloodstained inside the slippers, took the stance like armour. Alina stayed quiet.
Outside, the wind howled past the glass. Inside, the only sound was the slow pull of Miarka’s breath, steady as a soldier.
Miarka exhaled, slowly. Controlled. Unmoved. She turned away from the curtain.
Not out of fear. But out of boredom.
The audience thundered with applause, hands clapping like distant gunfire. Lights pulsed red and violet over the stage. The Thin White Duke stood motionless as the final notes to ‘stay’ drifted to static. His chest rose and fell under the sleek black waistcoat. His jaw was sharp, his eyes unreadable beneath smudged kohl. Half-time. He dropped the microphone as if it were a finished cigarette. Turning on his heel without saying a word. The crowd howled, drunk on his voice, unaware the Duke’s mind was elsewhere. Backstage was chaos. Technicians shouted. Make-up artists swarmed. Someone offered him water, while someone else offered him a cigarette. He ignored both. He moved through like a spectre, untouchable and austere. And then he saw her.
Miarka.
Across the hall, standing in the wings near a stack of crates. Coat half open, cheeks flushed from the cold. She hadn’t meant to be seen. She wasn’t supposed to be there at all. But she was. Watching.
And he hated that he liked it.
His lips parted slightly.
“There you are.” He whispered.
Not in greeting. In confirmation. Like she was something he’d summoned.
He tilted his head and studied her like a critic examines a painting. Not a young woman. Not a dancer. Not even a person.
An object. A relic. A porcelain doll cracked just right.
“Fuckin’ hell, I leave the stage for five bleedin’ minutes and there you are, sittin’ like the Queen of fuckin’ Saturn.”
He walked toward her slowly, deliberately. No one stopped him. No one would dare.
Miarka didn’t move. Her spine locked like a blade. She met his mismatched eyes—not with awe, but something closer to defiance. “I heard Saturn eats his children. Figured you’d appreciate the irony.”
He snorts. Not amused, agitated. He starts to pace, hands twitching. “You’re a real mouthy little thing, ain’t ya? All brains and no goddamn reverence. You think just ‘cause you’ve read a few books on ritual and decay, you can waltz into my room and school me like some uni twat?”
“You mistake my clarity for arrogance. You mistake your addiction for enlightenment.”’ He rounds on her, accent thickening on every word.
“I’ve danced with spirits that would chew through your mind. I’ve seen God, Miarka. I’ve spoken to Him. And he answered in German.” He chuckled, pouring himself a drink; he sipped, licking his lower lip. “I take it you’re not a fan of the aesthetic?”
“Aesthetic isn’t truth. And your philosophy is just nihilism wearing perfume. You quote Crowley like it makes you divine. You admire fascists because they dressed well and understood theatre. You speak of suffering like it’s a fucking accessory.”
He raised an eyebrow, sipping his glass paused mid-air.
“And what would you prefer, little iconoclast? The humble purity of resistance? You think there’s virtue in being devoured slowly?”
Miarka stepped closer now, the tension taut as a wire. “You admire power because you’ve never truly felt powerless.”
He was silenced, silenced for a second.
Miarka continued. Her voice was colder.
“You wear fascism as a metaphor. You perform occultism as theatre. You talk about blood, sacrifice, and magic as if it were performance art. But I’ve seen what real powerlessness does. What real ritual costs.”
She paused. Then.
“You don’t frighten me, Duke. Because underneath the references and the eyeliner, you’re a man terrified of softness. Of being seen. You wrap yourself in ‘neo-romance’ because the real thing would dismantle you.”
He stared at her, the smile slipping.
“I’ve read you,” she said softly. “You’re just Baudelaire with a stage and a scar. Mourning something you never dared to hold.”
He sat, slowly, exhaling smoke. And for once… he didn’t have a reply.
She looked down at the pile of books, picked one up, then glanced at him.
“You’ve consumed all the decadence of history… and learned nothing from it.”
She dropped it in front of him.
“I survived men like you before they learned to monologue.”
And with that, she walked out. The clicking of her heels was a final punctuation.
“You don’t get to walk out on me like that.”
The Thin White Duke’s face was pale with fury, pupils narrowing like a predator with prey, the elegant suit now feeling more like a straitjacket on a man about to crack. His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind that comes right before a storm. Miarka turned, slowly, composed. “I didn’t walk out. I outgrew the room.”
He stepped closer, each word clipped and venomous. “You think you’re clever? Quoting books like a little academic whore. You’re not above me, Miarka.”
That was the mistake. Her eyes sharpened. No fear, just a dangerous surgical calm. She stepped toward him, only a few inches apart. His breath hit her cheek. He was trembling with the need to dominate, to pull her back.
She spoke. “Do you know what the difference is between us?”
He didn’t answer.
“You believe power is having the last word.”
She leaned in closer, her tone soft. Devastatingly calm.
“But true power is knowing when silence is louder.”
“You’re not a myth, Duke. You’re a liability. You didn’t see God. You saw your own reflection at the bottom of a mirror lined with coke.”
He stopped cold.
“You clever bitch—”
“Yes,” she cuts in, voice sharp and eerily calm. “I am clever. That’s why you hate me. I don’t flinch when you reference Evola or flirt with the fascism of aesthetics. I see the coward underneath the Nietzschean coat.”
"You don’t like me, do you?" he whispered, with a crooked little smirk. "Think I’m vile. A prick in a suit. You’d be right. I’m all that and more." He leaned in, accent crisp, voice low and cruel. "But you’re still standing here. That’s the funny bit. Innit.”
Miarka whispers in his ear. “Ты не бог. Ты просто мужчина, который боится исчезнуть.” (You're not a god. You're just a man afraid of disappearing.)
“And now, you belong to me.”
The Duke says nothing; he looks down at his glass. He hurls it—smash!—into the wall. She doesn’t flinch.
The air in the dressing room was thick, not just with smoke, but with something unnameable. Something electric. Miarka stood near the vanity, still as sculpture, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of a table strewn with eyeliner pencils, used tissues and a half-drained glass of something expensive. Across from her, the Thin White Duke paced like a caged animal, shirt silk clinging to the sweat-slicked skin. The elegant lines of his black waistcoat had begun to crease from the tension in his shoulders. His mismatched eyes were sharp and colourless under the light. His gaze was fixed on her like a predator debating whether to kill. One hand twitched, the other curled around a bottle he hadn’t yet smashed—but he was thinking about it. He was seconds away from detonating; you could feel it in the silence between them, a silence shaped like violence.
But just as he opened his mouth—voiced cocked and loaded with fury—a knock shattered the moment. The door creaked open. A venue staffer poked his head in, sheepish and too casual to understand the war in the room. Behind him, a group of young women filtered in; polished, glammed up, eyes wide with excitement and nerves. Local elitists, label guests, a couple of rich daughters from the Canyon. The kind who thought their access meant something. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Jones,” the staffer said, “these are the VIPs for the meet-and-greet. Just a few minutes.”
The Duke turns, slowly, with a tight-lipped smile that barely hides the beast beneath. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s erasing anger. “Right, of course. Let the lambs in.”
The girls, all giddy, surround him, drunk off his presence. “Well, don’t be shy, girls,” he said. His accent swinging back into that one charming, rolling East London purr. “Come and see the creature up close.”
They giggled, awkwardly at first, then more freely, mistaking danger for performance. One girl in a halter dress stammered. “You were—amazing out there. Like, I swear, it didn’t even feel real.”
He cocked his head, the smirk deepening.
“Of course it didn’t feel real, love,” he drawled. “That’s the point. You want real, you talk to your dad. You come to me when you want the veil.”
The girls laughed, unsure if they should. Another one leaned in nervously, twirling a strand of blonde hair. “Are you always like this offstage?”
“Darlin’,” he murmured, circling her, “offstage is the stage. I haven’t been real in five fucking years. I sold my soul in ‘72 and all I got in return was better cheekbones.”
They didn’t understand the joke, or the warning inside it. But Miarka did.
She watched from her corner of the room, unmoving, as the Duke drifted between the girls like smoke, like a serpent. He hovered close to one who had nervously back toward the wall. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Jessica,” she said, voice small.
He grinned, wolfish. “Jessica. Pretty name. Would you let me wear your face if I asked nicely?”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Laughter caught in their throats. One girl half-giggled, trying to play along. The others started exchanging glances, unsettled. Another pipes up nervously, “You’re just joking, right?”
The Duke turns sharply, voice sharpened like a blade. “Oh, darling — everything I say is a fucking joke. You’re all part of the bit. Cardboard cutouts with tits.”
Silence. The staffer awkwardly chuckles. “Alright, let’s wrap it up—”
The Duke snaps. “No. Let them stay. Let them see.”
He turns to the mirror, smearing eyeliner back under his eyes. Eyes locked with Miarka’s reflection. “Oh, come on, don’t look so shocked. You came here for the weird, didn’t you? You want me to be strange, to be fucked up and brilliant and tragic. You don’t want David. You want the fucking Duke. Well congratulations. Here he is.”
He turned away from them with a flourish, grabbing a cigarette and lighting it. Miarka stepped forward slowly. Her voice, when it came, was cool and precise. “Why do you keep me here?” she asked softly.
The question cut through the room like a blade. The girls stilled. The Duke paused mid-drag. He turned, his face unreadable for a moment. The cigarette trembled faintly between his lips. “What?”
Miarka didn’t look away. “You call them figments. You treat them like paintings to hang in a hallway and forget. But me… I stay. Why?”
He stared at her for a long time, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes. But it wasn’t the same performative rage from before. This was smaller, meaner. Human.
“Because you don’t reflect me,” he said, voice lower now, rougher. The accent heavier. “You look at me and don’t see the genius. Don’t see the myth. You see the rot. And that... drives me fucking mad.”
Miarka tilted her head. “Then stop looking.”
He blinked. It landed like a blow.
She took a step closer, lowering voice, speaking only to him now. “You’re not God. You’re not Aleister Crowley. You’re not a fascist prophet or a doomed romantic hero. You’re just a man with too much powder up his nose and too many mirrors in his house.”
He didn’t move.
“You want to destroy me?” she added, softly. “You can’t. Because I already saw through you. And I’m still standing.”
She turned and walked toward the door. “I’ve seen monsters. Real ones. They don’t quote Nietzsche before breakfast.”
And then, without ceremony, Miarka opened the door and left. The girls were silent. The Duke stood there, utterly still, surrounded by women who no longer looked awed—just uneasy.
He reached for his drink. It trembled in his hand.
Miarka’s heels echoed across the linoleum as she walked away from him. No hurry. No panic. Just that same poised, deliberate silence. The Thin White Duke watched her retreat, chest having beneath the open collar of his sweat-drenched shirt. His fingers twitched like they wanted to break something, a glass, a throat, maybe even himself. One of the fangirls, still flushed with nerves, stepped forward with a hopeful little giggle, holding out a crumpled program a pen. Another girl followed suit. “Could you, please?”
“I loved Station to Station. it’s like nothing else—”
He didn’t hear them at first. Not really. All he saw was Miarka’s back as she reached the doorway. His own voice exploded before he could stop it, sharp and venomous.
“That’s all you are, Miarka!”
His voice cracked through the dressing room like gunfire.
“An object! A prop I carry! A bloody ornament!”
Miarka stopped at the doorway. She didn’t turn around. She narrowed her eyes and kept going, spite and brilliance mingling like poison in his mouth.
“Don’t flatter yourself thinking you're an equal. You were never real — you’re just another fragile little thing I let orbit me!”
Gasps rippled through the fangirls. One of them lowered her hand slowly, the pen still dangling between her fingers. Another muttered, “Jesus…” under her breath. Miarka said nothing. She stepped out of view, silently. The Duke stood there, breath ragged. His mis-matched eyes burned, not with fury now, but the panic of a man who said too much and too little all at once. Someone behind him whispered, “What the hell was that?” He didn’t answer. He reached out and signed the girl’s program with a violent flick of the pen, nearly tearing through the paper. Then another. His signature looked less like a name and more like wound. Without another word, he turned away and vanished toward the stage for the final encore, all white light, thunderous applause, and a God walking on the bones of his mythology. Lambs—all lambs, and he was their shepherd. He stormed through the corridors toward the stage like a man possessed. A cigarette burned too fast between his fingers. Two crew members stepped out of his way as he passed. One of them whispered, “He’s not right tonight.” The other nodded, saying nothing. No one spoke too loud around the Duke when he was in this state—loose, volatile, Godlike and furious. He could already hear the chant of the crowd outside—Duke! Duke! Duke!—as if they’d summoned a devil and were cheering for him to drag them into the pit.
One last set. One last hit.
He stepped into the glow of the stage lights again, the roar hitting them like a tidal wave. His silhouette reformed in the fog like a phantom—white shirt clinging to his chest, trousers sharp as blades, the mic already in his hand as if it had grown there. The opening riff of ‘Rebel Rebel’ screamed into the air—and he exploded. The audience ignited. Hands in the air. Screams from the pit. Bodies surging forward. But even as he strutted, sneered, and spit the lyrics into the crowd, something was missing in his eyes. The swagger was there, the hips, the pose, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips—but the fire had turned to something colder, more mechanical. Rage running on rails.
“You got your mother in a whirl…
She’s not sure if you're a boy or a girl…”
The crowd screamed the words back at him. And yet in his mind, she was still there. Miarka. Walking away from him. Back straightened. Not broken. Silent.
“Rebel Rebel, you tore your dress…”
He cracked the mic stand against the stage with theatrical flair.
“Rebel Rebel, your face is a mess…”
He saw her then—or thought he did. Just past the lights, in the shadowed edge of the crowd. Unmoving. Staring back. Judging. Knowing. By the time the final guitar solo wailed into the heavens, the crowd was convulsing with joy—but the Duke barely noticed. He tossed the mic behind him. Walked off before the last note finished ringing. No Encore. No bow. No thank you.
Just absence.
Miarka hadn’t moved. The door to the limo was still open, the driver standing nearby, uncertain. She sat curled in the back seat like a poised cat—not asleep. Just waiting. When the Duke finally appeared, it was like watching a fallen king retreat from battle. His white shirt now completely unbuttoned, drenched in sweat. He said nothing to the crowd of fans still hovering near the rear exit. He barely acknowledged the venue manager, thanking him. He got into the limo and closed the door behind him with a dull thud. Silence. The driver started the car. Miarka didn’t look at him. She just gazed out the window, the lights of Inglewood streaking across her face in yellow and red.
The Duke finally broke the silence.
“They love me,” he said, voice hoarse, as if to convince himself “Did you hear them?”
Miarka didn’t respond. He leaned back, resting his head against the seat, closing his eyes. “I gave them what they wanted.”
Still nothing.
Then, softer, “Didn’t I?”
She spoke in a measured and intelligent tone. “You gave them a corpse in drag. They didn’t know it was a funeral.”
He said nothing. She didn’t have to. They rode into the bleeding Los Angeles night in silence once more, both knowing something had shifted, maybe forever. The limousine glided through the serpentine streets, headlights cutting long white blades into the dark as it climbed. The Thin White Duke sprawled like a painting left unfinished, his legs stretched wide, hand curled loosely around a glass of scotch. He hadn’t changed after the show. He never did. He liked the look of decadence clinging to him. It said: I’ve conquered everything. And I’m still bored. Miarka sat across from him, back straight, legs crossed, her gaze thoughtful but steady. The road lights lit her face in intermittent flashes. She was quiet, composed, the storm always beneath the surface.
Miarka softly admitted. “I’m only here for the week.”
The Duke blinked once. Then, he slowly turned his head toward her, that perpetual, sharp smile teasing the edge of his lips. He sipped his scotch. “Well then,” he drawled, his accent slick, voice like silk soaked in venom, “we’ll call it a tragic waste of seven days, yeah?”
He didn’t waist for a reply. “Christ, and I thought you were different.” He chuckled without humour. “You lot always dress it up like it means something. The staring, the silence, the bleeding vulnerability. Like I’m supposed to lap it up and call it poetry.” He waved a hand. “It’s tedious. All of it. You especially.”
Miarka’s lips pressed together, unmoved.
The Duke leaned in, voice lower, more intimate, more dangerous. “You were a diversion, darling. A warm body. A curious accent and short legs in a good coat. You’re not with me. You were on me. There’s a difference.”
She didn’t flinch. That annoyed him. He scoffed.
He went on. “Do you really think I need your company? Hm?”
He leaned back again, eyes narrowing, smirk twitching.
“I’ve had better, stranger, more beautiful and more obedient. Your just another…souvenir, really.”
He turned to the window, voice casual, bored. “And like all good souvenirs, you’ll collect dust the moment you’re gone.”
For a long time, she didn’t respond. The limo turned down the Duke’s private road, winding toward the looming silhouette of his house in the hills, half castle, half prison.
Then, finally, Miarka spoke. Calm. Controlled. “If I’m a souvenir, you’re a ruin.”
Her voice held no emotion. “You’re not above me, Thin White Duke. You’re beneath yourself.”
He turned sharply, expression unreadable. And for a fraction of a second, just one, there was a flicker in his eyes. A crack in the porcelain. Then it was gone. He laughed, high and cruel, charmed by his own contempt. “Spare me the poetry, princess. You’ll be on a plane by the end of the week and, I, won’t even remember your name.”
He drowned the rest of his scotch, jaw tight, and tossed the glass onto the seat beside him. “And you’ll still dream about me.”
The night still clung to the mansion, the remnants of glasses half full, spilled cigarettes burning faint trails in ashtrays, and the ghostly laughter trapped in the walls. In a dimly lit bedroom, the Thin White Duke stood before a tall mirror framed in tarnished gold. His pale skin was luminescent against the deep shadows cast by the candlelight. He peeled off the crumbled silk shirt stained faintly in sweat and perfume, revealing the stark whiteness of his torso, bones sharp beneath translucent skin, every sinew taut with exhaustion. His movements were deliberate but languid, as if each gesture was part of an intricate, private ritual. On the dresses, beneath a cracked crystal ashtray, lay a razor blade and a thin line of cocaine, perfectly measured and gleaming like frozen starlight. Leaning close to the mirror, the Duke traced a finger through the powder, then deftly swept it onto a rolled-up banknote. His eyes, sharp and haunted, flickered with a cold intensity as he drew the line to his nostril. The sharp inhale was sudden and precise, a quick flash of pain that sparked a brittle smile on his lips. The drug hit like a jolt of electricity, igniting his veins with brittle fire and sharpening clarity. With the cocaine settling into his system, he turned his attention to the black velvet jacket waiting on the chair, perfect, sinister armour. The fabric slipped over his shoulders like liquid night, moulding to his thin frame. He fastened the buttons with slow precision. His reflection in the mirror looked less like a man and more like a ghost draped in decadence, eyes glittering with the cold fire of obsession and control. He paused, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and exhaled a plume of smoke that curled and twisted toward the ceiling, carrying with it the residue of a night spent chasing shadows in Bel-Air’s glamour.
Miarka stepped out into the warmish night, glancing at the railing on the balcony, she removed her boots. She lifted herself onto the railing with feline grace, her bare feet landing soundlessly on the narrow edge. Her arms lifted with the instinctual elegance of someone who knew her body like poetry. She began to move, not like a dancer in performance, but like a creature in communion with the sky, each step slow, deliberate, fearless. The wind tugged at her clothes, the fabric of her coat fluttering like wings. She walked the railing like a beam suspended between earth and dream, back arched, head tilted to the moon, as though daring gravity to contradict her. Miarka’s dance on the narrow railing was nothing short of a defiant masterpiece, an intimate recital performed on the razor’s edge between grace and danger. She began with a plié, her knees bending softly but with power, lowering her centre of gravity just enough to ground herself in the precarious balance demanded by the narrow iron beam. The movement was slow, each muscle taut beneath her smooth skin, as if preparing to summon the strength of the entire Bolshoi company in a single breath. Rising elegantly, she excuted a flawless tendu, extending one leg forward until her foot was fully pointed, brushing the railing as though coaxing the metal to yield beneath her touch. Her toes were sculpted, curving like delicate petals, and her footwork precise. An echo of countless hours rehearsed in cold marble halls of Kazan. Her ankle rolled with impeccable control, preventing any slip on the unforgiving surface.
Next, she shifted into a pas de bourrée, a subtle three-step movement, her feet whispering across the railing like a feline stalking its own shadow. The rhythm was smooth, the transitions seamless. Her body is a fluid instrument translating music into motion. Miarka arched backward into a deep cambré, the exquisite curve of her visible spine tracing a perfect cresent moon as she let her arms float upward and backward with effortless elegance. The stretch was audacious on a such a narrow perch, her chest lifted proudly to the moon, the muscles in her thin neck taut but graceful. Her arms traced the classical port de bras, flowing like liquid, soft yet defined, from the first position rising to a gentle fifth above her head, fingers barely brushing the air. The subtle undulation of her shoulders, the delicate flex of her wrists, all spoke of rigorous discipline. With a poised inhale, Miarka launched into a grand jeté, the signature leap that seemed to defy gravity. Her legs split in perfect line mid-air, front leg extended forward and the back leg stretched behind. Her toes reached like the tips of swords, and her torso remained upright, balanced. The leap spanned a breathless distance.
She landed with the softness of a feather, her knees bent slightly to absorb the shock, her feet immediately en pointe, her toes gripping the iron. There was a quiet relevé as she rose on the tips of her toes, small, before gliding into a pirouette. Her head spin was dizzying, her balance never wavered, arms folding into third position, her head flicking with perfect spotting to avoid the world spinning out of control. As she completed the rotation, Miarka swept into a pas de chat, a small, quick jump where her knees lifted high and feet passed close beneath her body like a cat leaping nimbly. She extened into a slow arabesque, one leg lifted behind her in a straight, elegant line, arms outstretched; one reaching forward toward the horizon. The other trailing behind like a silk banner. The curve of her back and tilt of her chin creating a line so pure it might have been carved from marble.
Finally, her arms swept in a graceful arc, gliding the turn as her feet pivoted en pointe, toes gripping the cold metal. With a sudden breath, she launched herself into the air, arching into a backwards circle, her spine curved. Her legs stretched in opposite directions, splitting into a perfect airbone leap. The fabric of her coat trailing like smoke. For a heartbeat, she hovered. Weightless. Fearless. Before landing back on the railing with the silent authority of a phantom ballerina.
Every breath she took was measured. Every heartbeat synchronized with the distant pulse of a Bolshoi orchestra playing just beyond the veil of memory and time.
The Thin White Duke watched from the shadows of the balcony doors, cigarette now lit between his fingers, his silhouette long and warped across the tiles, like a demon. His voice slid out, plummy, serpentine, unmistakably Bowie yet twisted into something colder. “Miarka, darling,” he called, tilting his head with a glint of amusement and venom, “you do realise balance is an illusion, yes? The All is Mind. The universe, an old thought God had and then forgot. One misstep, and Kether to Malkuth, just like that—splattered across the Tree of Life.”
She didn’t look at him. She pivoted on her heel and twirled, arms aloft. He took a step forward, smoke curling from his lips. “The Axis turns, and turns again. Fascism was never about politics—it was theatre. Ritual. Power. Symbols carved into the ether. And you—you think you're not part of the spell?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I could will you down, you know. A word, a breath—as above, so below.”
“you think you’re some kinda ballerina playing with fate up ‘ere? You remind me of Berlin, 1933 — a city on the brink, dancing on the edge of madness before the fascist cunt took hold. They said it was order, discipline, control — but it was just a chokehold. Same as this,” he spat, thumb grazing dangerously close to her throat. “Balance? Freedom? It’s all a bloody illusion. One slip, one fuckin’ push, and you’re just another body splattered on the pavement below. Ain’t it poetic, love? The fall is the only truth.”
Miarka’s eyes burned, steady as a steel blade, her voice cutting through the smoky tension like a scalpel.
“You’re drunk on your own history, Duke. Berlin was chaos born from lies, but it also birthed poets who wrote in blood and fire, who danced through the ashes with scars like medals. You think fear holds power? No. Power is born from the courage to rise—even when you’ve already fallen.” She met his gaze, cold and clear. “Ты забыл, что сила —
The Duke’s voice drops low and dangerous. “Balance, love? As above, so below. Kybalion’s grand fuckin’ joke—everything mirrored, everything doomed to fall. You’re just a flicker on the edge of chaos, like Crowley’s Beast writ small. You think you’re the Übermensch, striding above the herd? Nietzsche’s crown’s cracked, sweetheart. The strong don’t just rise—they drag others down with ‘em”
He suddenly grabs Miarka’s hair, pushing her head down toward the railing’s edge. Her breath hitches.
“One slip, one moment’s weakness, and you’re nothing but a body tumbling into oblivion. Tell me, dance queen—what’s your next move when gravity bites hard?”
“You speak of beasts and supermen like they’re gods, but they’re just men—flawed, desperate, and bound by their own shadows. Power without mercy is tyranny. True strength… it’s in choosing to let go, to rise without crushing what you fear.” Her voice was like a blade cutting through ice and diamonds. Her gaze never flinched.
She then whispered. “Я не паду, потому что моя сила — в свободе, а не в страхе.”
“I will not fall because my strength lies in freedom, not fear.”
The Duke’s fingers trembles. His jaw tightens, frustration and reluctant respect flickering behind cold eyes. He releases her hair slowly, stepping back into the smoke. The Duke’s grip faltered. A flash of frustration twisted his sharp features into a snarl. “Fuckin’ hell, you talk like you’ve swallowed a whole library of revolution and spit it back with venom. Christ, you’re a clever cunt.”
Miarka’s feet hit the stone softly, the echo of her leap. Her chest rose with slow, steady breaths, the adrenaline melting into stillness. She didn’t look back. Behind her, the Thin White Duke exhaled sharply through his nose, something between contempt and surrender. He stepped away from the balcony without another word, disappearing into the opulence and shadow like a theatre curtain drawn on an act unfinished. Somewhere inside, Miarka could still hear the echoes of his heels on marble, clicking like a metronome of madness. He was gone. And she had won. Not with force. Not with fear. But with truth. She turned barefoot through the hushed corridor, the lights low and golden, casting soft halos on the polished floors. Her body was bare, her clothes discarded somewhere along the way. She felt no shame in her nakedness; it was not a costume, it was not seduction. It was her simple self. Smooth chest, hips narrow, shoulders slender, neither a man or woman. Her nipples peaked in the cool air, and droplets of sweat from her earlier dance traced the lines down her ribs and her belly. Between her legs, the softness of her form remained ambiguous, tender and unclaimed. Her body was not an answer, it was a question, living and breathing.
She stepped into the bath, marble surrounded her, veins of gold threaded through pale stone. And the tub lay like an altar, already steaming, scented with eucalyptus leaves and faint musk. She lowered herself into the water, a sigh escaping her lips as it kissed her skin, the heat spreading through her limbs like a memory.
For a moment, her eyes closed. Her head rested back. And she was somewhere else.
March 1st, 1971.
That winter. The endless sky. Her gloves soaked in melted snow, her fingers pressed to another’s palm in the dark of the theatre’s wing. They had danced that night, Miarka and Anya. Or was it Yuri? Names blurred. It didn’t matter now. What mattered was the warmth of a stolen breath in her ear, the brush of a cheek, a body held a little too long in the corridor behind the black curtains. They weren’t allowed. Not there. Not then. They had done it anyway. The heat of the bath made her dizzy, and she rose slowly, water cascading off her like liquid glass. Every curve and line of her body glistened. Her thighs gleamed, her calves taut with memory. She wrapped herself in a thin cotton robe, the wetness immediately darkening the fabric. It clung to her like a second skin. Drawn by some half-formed instinct, she padded down the hall, cicadas outside, a faucet dripping somewhere far off. A light flickered beneath one of the doors.
She paused.
From within, a soft gasp. A whisper. The sound of bodies shifting in hushed passion. She pushed the door open just slightly. Inside, two dancers, barefoot, youthful, trembling. One straddled the other on a low divan, her shirt half-unbuttoned, the other’s fingers tangled in her auburn hair. They both froze when they saw Miarka. The taller one, raven-haired, with dark skin tone and flushed cheeks, stood abruptly. Her voice creaked with fear. “Миарка — пожалуйста — мы не хотели” “(Miarka—please—we didn’t mean—)”
“ам нельзя. Они сказали, что мы не можем. Если кто-нибудь узнает” “(We’re not supposed to. They told us we can’t. If anyone knows—)”
“Они нас разлучат!” (“They’ll separate us!”)
Her voice trembled on that word: Separate.
Miarka stood in the doorway, damp, radiant, untouched by judgment. Her towel clung to her hips and chest, revealing the soft shadows of her form beneath. Her face was unreadable. Still. Observant. Then, she gently spoke.
“Я знаю, каково это — любить в тишине.” (“I know what it is to love in silence.”) She spoke. She was soft, but not delicate. “Когда нежность называют преступлением. Когда телу велено служить, но не чувствовать. Об этом я молчать буду.” (“To be told your tenderness is a crime. That your body must perform, but never feel. I won’t speak of this.”)
The dancers were silent, eyes wide with disbelief and relief. Miarka looked at them. Really Looked. How their bodies pressed close in fear, not lust. How one still trembled, holding the other’s hand like it was a lifeline. She gave them a small, quiet nod. “Будьте добры друг к другу.” “(Be kind to each other.)”
Then she closed the door and let them be.
The ballet studio had settled into it’s late-night hush, the kind of silence that breathes against the skin. Miarka moved through it slowly, wrapped in a dry robe, her skin cooled, her hair dark and damp against her neck. Her muscles ached pleasantly from the earlier dance. She carried a small tin tucked beneath her arm, a stash of preserved food, hard-won from a soldier's rations, along with a battered Soviet-issued passport bound in faded red leather. A reminder. A tether. A weapon, if she needed it to be. She pushed open the door to her room, the old wood groaning faintly, then stopped. A shadow moved near her bed. It was small. Thin. Fast. A girl—no older than twelve—dressed in rags, her face sunken with hunger, hands already tearing open the lid of Miarka’s stash. Her dirty fingers trembled as they grasped the food and password, er chest heaving in silence, eyes wide like a cornered animal.
Miarka didn’t hesitate.
The drawer beside her creaked open, and in one swift motion, she had the small, cold pistol in her hand—a relic from the soldier she encountered earlier, tucked away beneath silk. Pressed the barrel firmly against the side of the girl’s head. The girl froze. Her breathing hitched. A sharp inhale. Miarka’s voice dropped to a whisper, quiet and lethal.
The girl froze. Her breathing hitched. A sharp inhale.
Miarka’s voice dropped to a whisper—quiet, lethal.
“Ты, блядь, не в ту комнату забрела, мышонок” (“Wrong fucking room, little mouse.”)
The girl didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Her lip quivered, and her fingers loosened slightly, the ration tin falling with a dull ‘clunk’ to the floor.
“Считаешь, это твоё?” (“You think this is yours?”)
Miarka hissed, pressing the gun tighter, her eyes narrowing. “Ты думаешь, можно просто взять то, за что кто-то кровью заплатил? Этот паспорт мне передал человек с кровью на зубах. Эта еда кормила меня, когда никто другой не хотел. А ты—” (“You think you can just take what someone bled for? That passport was handed to me by a man with blood in his teeth. That food’s fed me when no one else would. And you—”)
Her tone shifted, now colder, with less rage—more steel. “—Ты не имеешь права приползти сюда и взять то, что не заслужил. Не у меня” (““—You don’t get to crawl in here and take what you didn’t earn. Not from me.”)
The girl whimpered faintly, shoulders shaking. She didn’t beg. Miarka stared at her for a long moment, then slowly—very slowly—lowered the pistol. She crouched down until she was eye level. “Тебе повезло, что я не забыл, каково это — умирать с голоду.” (“You’re lucky I remember what it feels like to starve.”)
Miarka reached out and grabbed the food and passport, tucking them back into her robe. Then she stood. “Теперь выебывай отсюда” (“Now get the fuck out.”) The girl didn’t need to be told twice. She scrambled out of the room, bare feet slapping against the stone floor, vanishing down the hall like smoke. Miarka exhaled, locking the door behind her. She slid the gun back into the drawer, her hands only beginning to tremble, ever so slightly. And then, as if nothing had happened, she moved to her bed, laid the passport beneath her pillow, and curled into the sheets, body coiled like a watchful serpent, never quite asleep.
The air in the dormitory was stale with the scent of perfume and envy. Several ballerinas lounged near the vanity mirrors, brushing out their hair, gossiping in the hush of the morning light. They barely looked up when Miarka entered, until they saw the gun in her hand, still clutched tight at her side. It’s cold, black barrel catching a glint of gold from the windows. Now they stared. Miarka said nothing at first. She dropped her ration tin on the floor with a loud ‘clang’, the echo silencing through the delicate silence like a guillotine. Her robe was barely fastened, clinging damp to her androgynous body, her skin flushed, eyes ice-cold.
“Ты думаешь, что я ниже тебя” (“You think I’m beneath you”) she said at last, low and quiet. “Потому что я не смеюсь, потому что я не плачу, когда туфли натирают пятки, потому что я пахну сталью и землёй, а не розовой водой” ( “Because I don’t giggle, because I don’t cry when my shoes cut my heels, because I smell like steel and dirt instead of rosewater.”)
The room was still.
“Она зашла в мою комнату прошлой ночью” (“She came into my room last night”) Miarka said, her voice sharpened now, rising like a blade. “Та тощая маленькая стерва с костлявыми руками. Пыталась украсть мою еду. Мой паспорт. Что, ты думаешь, она была в отчаянии? Думаешь, у неё не было выбора?” (“That skinny little brat with the bird bones. Tried to steal my food. My passport. What, you think she was desperate? You think she had no choice?”)
She stepped forward, gun still looser in her hand, more like a memory than a threat. “У меня когда-то был выбор. Я могла сдаться, просить пощады, раскрыть ноги, позволить мужчинам владеть мной ради выживания. Но вместо этого солдат вложил мне в руку нож и сказал: «Хочешь жить? Научись убивать” (“I had a choice once. I could’ve given up, begged, spread my legs, let men own me to survive. But instead, a soldier—put a knife in my hand and said, 'You want to live? Learn to kill.'”)
Her eyes found each of them now, one by one. “Я убила своего первого человека. Перерезала ему горло и смотрела, как тепло уходит из него, будто это ничто. И я ела той ночью” (“I killed my first man. I slit his throat and watched the warmth drain out of him like it was nothing. And I ate that night.”)
Gasps. A few girls shrank back, repulsed. But Miarka didn’t flinch. She stepped closer to the mirrors, her reflection tall, lean and carved from fire. “Ты осуждаешь меня за то, что я ношу оружие. Я пережила то, что сломало бы каждого из вас. Вы танцуете ради аплодисментов. Я танцую, потому что это единственное, что у меня ещё осталось” (“You judge me because I carry a gun. I’ve survived what would’ve crushed all of you. You dance for applause. I dance because it’s the only thing left that still belongs to me”)
She finally set the gun down gently back into her drawer, with the reverence of a holy relic. Then she looked over shoulder and said, quiet, final. “В следующий раз, когда кто-то из вас решит шептать за моей спиной, помните — когда мир снова кончится, я буду тем, кто будет вас кормить.” (Next time any of you thinks to whisper behind my back, remember—when the world ends again, I’ll be the one feeding you.”)
And she walked away, slow and certain, her steps echoing like gunfire in a church.
The bathroom door creaked open, barley a whisper, but the Duke didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped inside like he owned the whole bloody world, the faint click of his oxford shoes on the cold tile echoing softly. Steam curled thick in the air, the smell of soap and something raw—almost electric—hanging between them. Miarka sat in the tub, water dark and swirling, barely covering her porcaline skin. She didn’t bother reaching for a towel. He didn’t care. His mismatched eyes flickered over her without shame or hesitation, like he was reading a damn book in scars. “Don’t bother pullin’ a bloody towel love.” He said, voice low, smooth, with that unmistakable Bowie drawl edged in Cockney bite. “I ain’t here to gawp. Just—observe.”
She sank deeper, the water hissing softly as it lapped against her skin, bubbles drifiting around her. Her voice broke quiet, thick with that subtle Russian cadence. “I never tell you before, but I’m terrified of the ocean. Not just water, but endless darkness. Thalassophobia. Fear of the sea.”
The Duke snorted, a slow crooked smile creeping across his face. “Yeah, Nietzche nailed it when he said, ‘If you stare long into the abyss, the abyss stares back.’ You’re scared, yeah? Scared of drowning in the dark, losing yourself to something cold and bottomless.”
She glanced away, eyes fixed on the dark swirl around her fingers. “It’s like, the water wants to swallow me whole. The silence, the cold pressing down. I feel like I could fucking drown just thinking about it.”
He landed back against the cold tile, eyes sharp, burning with a fierce light. “I’ve spent my life trying to be the Superman Nietzsche talked about—the one who fucking overcomes, who rises above fear and weakness. But even me—the Duke—knows you don’t just run from the abyss. The ocean? It’s part of all of us. You either learn to swim through the shit, or you get dragged under.”
Her eyes met his, tempered now with a quiet steel. “And you? What is your Abyss?”
He shrugged, voice dropping softer, almost haunted. “Mine’s the past. Bowie’s ghosts, chaos before the calm. All that broken music and shattered dreams. But you? You down yours right here, in this tub. That’s real courage love.”
The water hissed softly between them, thick with steam and silence. Naked, unguarded, towls circling the same damn fear, daring, just daring, to find something like hope in the black. The Duke eyes roamed over Miarka’s naked body with a mix of cold calculation and something darker, an edge of brutal honesty that stripped away any pretense. Her skin was pale, almost translucent under the steam haze, veins faintly visibly like fragile blue rivers beneath thin flesh. The sharp outline of her ribs hinted at a hard life lived without luxury, the kind of life that carved strength from pain. Her collarbones jutted out like fragile bones holding too much weight, but the fire in her dark eyes burned fierce, defiant. He didn’t look like a man ogling a woman—not lustful hunger—but a sailor reading a map, assessing battle lines and weak spots. “There’s somethin’ different about you,” he growled, voice low and rough, the kind of voice that could slice through silence like a knife. “Most women hide behind their pretty faces and fake smiles, but you? You’re raw, fuckin’ honest. You wear your scars like goddamn medals, you don’t hide em’”
Miarka glanced up, her fingers curled beneath the water. “When I danced—why didn’t you push me. When I speak the truth, you get angry, like I was asking for trouble. Why didn’t you shove me over the edge? Push me away?”
He leaned closer, the heat between them thick, like the steam. “Because you didn’t come here looking for a fight. You came bleeding, and I’m not a cunt who kicks when someone’s down. You’re swimming with sharks every damn day, and instead of dragging you under, I’m watching to see if you’ll fuckin’ survive.” Her eyes searched his, vulnerability flickering but steadied by raw courage. “I can feel your anger. It’s a storm around you. You’re angry at me, aren’t you?”
The Duke’s jaw tightened, his voice dropping lower, rougher. “I’m angry at the whole fuckin’ world, at ghosts that haunt me, at the past that won’t let go. But you? You’re not the cause of my rage. You’re a mirror. And when you stare into a mirror that’s cracked and bleedin’, it’s hard to hate what you see when it’s so fuckin’ real.”
She tilted her head, her blue eyes curious. “So, why not run? Why stay?”
He smirked, bitter and genuine. “Because underneath all this anger, and darkness, there’s something worth holding onto. You’ve got a fire, a fierce fuckin’ light I haven’t seen in a long time. And fire? You don’t push it away. You feed it.”
The steam curled around her naked skin and breaths. Two broken souls, bare and raw, tangled in the quiet war between intelligence and defiance, refusing to drown. The Duke finally stood, brushing the creases from his black trousers. Miarka had settled into the water, more relaxed now, her eyes still followed him with a wary animal kind of focus.
“Come sleep in the bed,” he said, as if the idea had only occurred to him. His tone was careless.
She blinked slowly. The water lapped gently at her collarbones “You mean with you? In that way?” Her tone was flat, guarded. There was an edge in her voice. She’d never had that experience before, to sleep with another man. The idea of sex. It was a foreign concept to her. Though, her ballet colleagues, often spoke of it as a pleasurable paradise, not in the act of love as most mothers and daughters do when they come of age. But in the act of granting an escape, to get satisfaction. She sunk lower, thinking—not that the concept disgusted her per say—she didn’t feel ready for such an act.
The Duke paused mid-turn, his face unreadable, then snorted. “No, no, no love. Not with me like that. Just, in bed. I’ve got the left side. You can take the right. Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve had my fair share but the idea with you—repulses me. I have standards.”
Her blue eyes narrowed. She studied him, searching for cruelty, manipulation, desire. But nothing. Only exhaustion, the weight of many nights, pressing into the hallows beneath his eyes. Finally. She nodded. “Fine. But I keep the knife under the pillow.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Later that night, the room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of a cracked lampshade. Miarka lay on the far side of the bed, back turned to him, the rise and fall of her breath steady, like ocean waves. Not a word had passed between them once the lights were out. She curled into herself with the posture of someone too used to being alone, even when beside another. The Thin White Duke, on the other hand, was wide awake. His thoughts spiralled as he stared at the ceiling, sheets twisted around his limbs, his breaths light. It wasn’t love—he never did love—neither lust. There was something about her that itched under his skin. The silence of her. The way her voice carried that raw Russian melancholy, like an old song soaked in snow and blood. She didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t cling. She—was—and somehow that unsettled him more than anyone whoever tried to possess him. He reached for a small glass vial on the nightstand and tapped out a line, sharp and thin, like a white highway to nowhere. The sound of the mirror tapping against the wood echoed too loudly in the still room. Miarka didn’t stir. With a practiced motion, he snorted. The burn hit immediately—hot and bright—clearing the dust and dragging the corners of his mind into jagged clarity. Then the hum began. The vibration. The colour behind his eyelids.
He was no longer in the room. The floor beneath him was black marble, infinite and rippling like water through it never moved. Above him, stars pulsed red, as if the sky itself had been shot full of holes and was bleeding gently onto the world.
And.
There she was.
Miarka.
Naked. Barefoot. Skin glowing like frost under moonlight, draped in blood.
She stood in the centre of the dark, her dark brunette tresses wet, dangling to her neck, her limbs sharp as blades and fluid as smoke. And, she danced. Slow at first like a puppet moving on invisible strings, her fingers twisting through the air like she was carving something unseen. Her hips turned with lazy precision, body language that belonged not to a human, but to something older—ancient, maybe holy. Or maybe cursed.
The Duke couldn’t speak. He didn’t want to.
She was unashamed. Her ribs rose and fell with each motion, casting shadows like bones beneath parchment. Her spine arched like the string of a bow, and her breasts swayed gently with each twist, but there was no seduction in it. No tease. It wasn’t for him. It wasn’t for anyone. It was as if she were dancing for the void itself. Around her feet, the floor cracked open, black water seeping through like veins. The air tasted like metal and roses. The music—because there was music—was dissonant, and far away, like something half-remembered from a childhood fever dream. A piano, maybe. The Duke’s own hands playing it in Berlin, in some basement soaked with cigarettes.
He watched. Spellbound.
Not with desire. Not even with awe.
With fascination, that cold, gnawing that thing that made you chase what should be left alone. Miarka’s face turned toward him finally, her eyes bright with blue orbs, her mouth smiling like a woman being burned alive.
She reached toward him, not in invitation, but in accusation.
“You only understand me when you’re bleeding,” She whispered. The words didn’t come from her lips. They echoed inside his chest.
He staggered forward in the dream, trying to reach her, but every step sank him deeper into the mirror floor. And she danced on, rising, spinning—more flame than flesh now—her brown hair catching fire as if it had always been waiting to burn.
He woke with a sharp breath, sheets twisted, face slick with sweat, heart hammering like a freight train. Miarka hadn’t moved. Still curled, breathing softer.
But he couldn’t stop staring at her back, her spine so visible. So sharp. The same spine that arched in the dream. He dragged a hand over his face, trembling.
“Fuck” he muttered to himself. “What the fuck are you, girl?”
And somehow.
That was worse.
Notes:
40 something chapters to come ;), I'll try to get on top of it, starting chapter five soon. In the meantime, enjoy this one.
Chapter 5: Fame
Summary:
The Duke and Miarka head out for dinner, a journalist catches them. They head for an interview.
Notes:
I read a fun fact about Bowie being an admirer of Yukio Mishima, he painted a portrait of Mishima in 1977 hanging it over his bed, owning a sculpture auctioned after his death and including him in his lyrics, most notably 'heat' from 2013, the next day. The Thin White Duke is certainly a complex persona, the hardest to write out of all Bowie's characters. The lyrics suggest a lot surrounding occultism, cocaine, fascism and a lot of very controversial things. I watched some character studies in the past and read a few websites, but they don't capture who the duke is, only an anomaly who was nasty. Bowie-from what I gather-made him out to be this hallow man who can't love, a demon, an ogre, the villian of his sona's, the opposite of Ziggy stardust, obsessed with Berlin, mysticism, and fascist German history (even though I don't support it). I wanted to add more depth to his character, taking inspiration from Neil Geiman's the return of The Thin White Duke which gives at least something to go off.
More about the Original character, I interpreted the Duke to simply not fall in love easily, or at least with a 'helpless doe eyed with the mind of a damsel'. I had this original character for a while and whilst originally she was written to be this edgelord scientist. I adapted her into a ballerina instead. I read more into the timeline and thought 'If she lived in Russia? she would be involved in the communist Cold War'. With the smarts of someone that can outwit him or, at least intrigue him. I won't give spoilers but, I thought the Duke would suit someone smart and independent while also like him-a mirror. In Neil Geiman's version the Duke lives in another dimension achieving everything he's ever wanted. He seeks out a quest to regain humanity and become less disconnected, he seeks out to rescue 'the queen' in order to obtain 'a heart'. A theme I included. While she is young, I compare their relationship to Jane Eyre or wuthering heights at their darkest, whilst there is an age gap, Miarka is described to act older than she is.
I was fascinated by including some scenes that sound similar to Edgar Allen Poes 'The Tell-Tale Heart' and 'The Black Cat', a reference to Miarka's eyes symbolising judgement. A theme common in reference to madness, guilt, and the self-destructive nature of the human mind.
I interpret the Thin White Duke as this source of enigma, not human, not a ghost, a vampire who speaks of love but cannot, an emotionless hollow man. Station to Station has alot of mysticism references and European lines in it that tell who the thin white duke might be.
Anyways, enough of that, please like and comment, it helps me alot :) more chapters to come, chapter six will be out soon.
Chapter Text
February 12th, 1976, Bel-Air.
The wee hours of the evening carried on, the Duke stood barefoot on the marble floor, dressed in a white robe, with a glass of bourbon in hand. Like a king waiting for an answer from his servant. His robe was undone at the waist, showcasing what many would like to see. His pupils were blown from whatever he took earlier. Miarka entered without a word. Her boots clicked against the polished concrete, a dark trench coat hung from her shoulders. The Duke turned to watch her, slowly, like a record spinning half speed. “Well, well, you’re late, aren’t you?” he said softly, English thick with old cigarettes and cocaine slurred through honey. “You’re dressed like you're leaving a man, darling.”
Miarka didn’t glance at him, concentrating on packing what she needed. “I told you. Audition.”
“Ah, yes,” he muttered. “The one you didn’t mention until twenty minutes before leaving. Very rock ’n roll of you. You’re always auditioning. For what, though? Something better than me?” He chuckled bitterly. “How tragic.”
She didn’t flinch. “I’m leaving now.”
She stopped at the door, hand on the handle. “Don’t wait up.”
His throat tightened. That stung, but he didn’t show it. He just took a slow drag, exhaled the smoke toward the chandelier above. Then crushed the cigarette into a nearby ashtray. That old, terrible, human feeling again.
He reached for her wrist—raising his slender fingers—then let his hand fall away like a puppet with cut strings.
“Don’t wait up on me.” She says dismissively, closing the door.
He was alone.
The Duke stayed frozen for a long time. He exhaled, like a hiss. He stalked three strides to the bar, sloshing a whiskey into a glass, almost spilling it. His slender fingers trembled. What is it? Anger? Lust? Desire? Love? He couldn’t pinpoint what it was. He sank into the leather armchair by the window, legs spread, glass in one hand and the other resting on his thigh. “She just walks away,” he said aloud, to no one. His voice echoed like the beginning of a confession. “As if I’m something she can just turn off. Like a bloody television set.”
A mirror on the ceiling caught his movement, caught his throat swallowing, but it wasn’t the liquor burning up inside of him.
It was her. Miarka.
His mis-matched eyes close, and there she was. Naked. Not seductive, but predatory and powerful. The lines of her body were sharp, sculpted and soft in other places. Her hips were curved, shoulders angular, a flat chest and a stomach like carved onyx. She was not a woman. Man. Angel. Nor Devil. Her thighs parted slightly, and he saw a temple behind the smoke. She was soft and dark between her leg. She was a body visionary. She danced slowly, pirouetting, her silken brown tresses wet clung to her neck. A smile appeared on her lips. Her eyes—her eyes were ice. They stared through him. Piercing and empty. Wide as the sky in The Man Who Fell To Earth. Wide like Kafka’s description of God watching from a ledge. Or, it was from William Burroughs book, the one where he read high out of his skull in Berlin. ‘Eyes like frozen mercury’. He remembers the way she stares at him, eyes locked onto his, while her body moved like a sin itself, like the devil slow dancing in a jazz bar. And yet, nothing. No love. No lust. His hand drifted down over the soft silk of his robe, toward the growing tension of his thigh.
He touched himself, feeling the thick, soft body of his pale penis. Nothing. No fire. No sting. Not even the dull buzz of pleasure. Just the body of doing something cold and mechanical. He tried to squeeze his eyes tighter, focusing on her hips, thighs, and the arch of her slender back. “Fuck’s sake.” he rasped, pulling his hand away in disgust. “What’s wrong with me?”
He sat still for a moment. A tremor moved through him. It wasn’t desire. It was panic.
Her blue eyes wouldn’t leave him.
He rose abruptly, storming out of his seat, heading across into the bathroom. He turned on the light, emitting a faint glow, it made him look like a vampire. He gripped the porcelain sink with both hands. Skin pale, eyes hollow with mistmatched colours, one of the blue sky and the other swallowing darkness. His ribs were visible and collarbones were sharp. “Jesus Christ.” He muttered to himself. He trembled. He couldn’t remember what it felt like, what it felt like before in 1975, when he was alive. Human. To feel pleasure in the art of sex. He had sex before. He had sex a lot in the past with women whose names he couldn’t remember now. Well, he recalls some were models, some were actresses, other’s members of his band. He’s even thought of men. Yet, why can’t he…do what he done many times before? Surely, he’s seen a naked body.
He yanked the robe off, letting it fall to the floor. He looked down at himself, hand brushing the soft flesh of his thighs, trying to coax something from it. Some heat. Some signal. Some meaning. But there was nothing. He was warm, yes and alive, the skin was responsive, the veins ghost blue under his skin. But his penis just hung there, uninterested, as if it too had turned its back on him. “No one’s home,” he whispered with a sardonic twist of his lip. He pressed his hand firmer, fingers curling, pumping slowly for proof. Muscles tensed. He imagined Miarka again, naked, smiling again, her hips moving, her breasts glinting with sweat. That feline grace. Her skin, so porcelain and soft. But her eyes—god, her eyes. They never matched her body. They stayed flat. Deep. Empty. Like a painting. His mind flickered to the Burroughs book again. “Mercury’s pools.”
Maybe Kafka. Maybe just him.
He stroked himself harder, desperate. Painting slightly, trying to force something, a memory, a twitch, a spark. He pictured her straddling him, staring down with a soft smile, a dead stare, and hips riding him. But there was no rise from him. Only coldness.
A growl escaped him, low and guttural. His knees buckled as he braced himself against the sink.
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you, Miarka.”
He pushed away from the sink, penis half-hard, half-forgotten, the robe pooling around him like spilt blood. He stood naked, trembling. Empty. Something stung behind his eyes. A tightness in his throat. A tear.
No.
He choked back, jaw clenched. “You’re the fuckin’ Thin White Duke. You are The Thin White Duke. You’re not some lovesick fool broken by a girl with plastic doll eyes.”
He stumbled back into the main room, robe dragging open, and collapsed over his shoulder. The lines were waiting. He bent down, naked and hollow, rolled a fifty-dollar bill with fingers that shook too much. He inhaled like a starving man. One line. Another. A third. Each one hit him like static through his skull, sharp, bright, numbing. But not enough. Still she lingered. In his chest. In his fucking bones.
“What have you always wanted?”
“A heart.”
He snorted more, jagged greedy lines.
Another.
Another.
But that didn’t work. She was still in his head.
“What have you always wanted?”
“A heart.”
The lines replayed over and over. He wants a heart.
He snapped, talking to no one, his pupils wider than two moons in the darkness. The cursed aristocrat floating with diamonds under his eyelids. “I don’t want a heart.”
“I want to feel nothing again. That’s how it used to be. Before her. Before the fuckin’ audition, the eyes, the way she walks out like she’s not even real—”
A knock. Two slow taps.
The Duke didn’t move at first. He stared at the door. Then laughed under his breath. Like some broken, dry thing. “Only one man knocks like that.” He muttered to himself.
He slipped the robe back on, barely tied, his chest exposed, soft, pale penis soft against his thigh—a smear of blood in one nostril. He opened the door.
It was Iggy Pop. He was lean, cigarette already lit, grinning like the devil. “Well shit, look at you,” Iggy muttered, stepping inside. “You look like someone pulled a fuckin’ angel out of a blender.”
The Duke managed a smirk. “Come in, Jimmy. There’s whiskey, if you don’t mind blood on the ice.”
Iggy walked in like he owned the place, flicking ash on the rug. He took one glance at the Duke, who looked like a deranged spa goer, leaning against the velvet, Egyptian-style sofa. His face was the mask of casual arrogance. His nose was smeared with a white substance mixed with red. Iggy scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting around like a junkyard dog in a diamond shop. “You weren’t at that party, were you?” he said, grin widening.
The Duke raised an eyebrow, the cigarette still in his fingers. “Darling, I was the party. I simply chose not to attend.” He exhaled a perfect spiral of smoke “Besides, the last one ended in a séance and an orgy, not necessarily in that order. I needed a spiritual rinse.”
Iggy snorted, plopping down across from him and stubbing a cigarette on the arm of the couch. “You’re full of shit, mate. You needed a bath and an alibi.”
Iggy fished in his jacket and pulled out a crumbled piece of paper. “Listen—had this idea on the drive over. Real grimy, real street, y’know? It’s called Nightclaw Baby, get this: it’s got this dirty synth line and like—tick-tick-BAM, right? Like a back alley heartbeat.”
He hummed a rhythm with his heel against the glass coffee table.
“Jesus Christ, Jimmy, that’s bloody brilliant. Sounds like it crawled out of Berlin and tried to mug a priest.” The Duke’s eyes lit up, muttering.
“That’s exactly the vibe. And Lou’s throwing something tonight. Some dive near the Strip. We could go, stir some shit. Wear something awful. Come on, man.” Iggy nudged him.
“You want me to go out again? Look at me. I’m in a bloody bathrobe, Jimmy.” The Duke leaned back, his mismatched eyes half lidded from the heat.
Iggy grinned, “Even better. You’ll scare the rich girls and confuse the hell outta the junkies.” He leaned closer. “And Lou’s been on one lately. Says he wrote a song called Plastic Cross. Sounds like a suicide letter sung by a vending machine.”
The Duke’s head threw back, exposing his neck, laughing low. “Fucking hell, that bastard never ceases to amaze. Alright. Give me ten to conjure some trousers and possibly a new reality.”
Iggy raised his glass of scotch. “To trousers and new realities.”
The Duke stood, the robe slightly revealing his shoulders.
“You’re a fucking menace, Jimmy.”
“And you’re a goddamn vampire, Dave. Now hurry up. We’ve got sins to commit.”
The Mercedes slid down the sunset like a black serpent. Iggy was in the passenger seat, his boots on the dash, smoking something dubious and laughing at a joke he had just told. The Thin White Duke drove, his mismatched eyes on the road, though his mind was far behind.
He saw her eyes—Miarka’s narrow blue gaze.
The way she had looked at him last night. Her voice echoing, like a tape playing backwards.
“What have you always wanted?”
The question had embedded itself in his chest like a shard. He hadn’t answered. Couldn’t. Her blue eyes had stared right through him, into the hollow between his ribs.
A heart. A heart. A heart.
His hands tightened on the wheel. Just enough that his knuckles are whitened. He didn’t show Iggy. Iggy was mid-story. Something about chasing a girl in a cemetery who turned out to be an ex of Lou’s, or a vampire. Possibly both. The city rolled by neon streaks. Pink light smeared across his vision like lipstick across a confession booth. The air was dry and electric. The Duke lit another cigarette with a shaking hand. Smiling thinly.
“Do go on, Jimmy. Your romantic misadventures always make me feel positively adjusted. Perhaps the reason I don’t need it.”
Iggy laughed, “Man, you need this club. Shake the dust off. Let the cobwebs scream a little.”
They pulled up to a black-painting building with no sign, just a flickering red light above the door like a cigarette held too long—Nightclaw baby. The kind of club that didn’t exist until someone asked if it had been real. The bouncer was dressed like a mortician and waved them in without a word. Inside, it was all chrome and darkness, velvet shadows and synths. Bodies moved like ghosts having sex with the beat. The air was saturated with perfume, sweat, reverb, and the scent of cigarettes. And there, at the bar, drink in hand, face like someone had carved it from sarcasm and asphalt. Lou Reed. “Look who crawled in,” Lou said, voice flat as vinyl. “White Dracula and the American Werewolf.”
Iggy laughed and grabbed Lou by the shoulders, as if they were old veteran buddies. “Baby, you look like shit. Which means you look amazing.”
The Duke approached more slowly, slipping into the trio like smoke. “Still poisoning the youth with poetry, Louis?” Lou smirked. “Only the beautiful ones.”
They drank. And drank. Hours blurred. Time melted under synth bass and strobe lights. Someone played ‘plastic cross’ on cassette. It sounded like God crying into a circuit board. The Duke smiled and nodded along, but his mind wandered—Miarka’s eyes.
“What have you always wanted?”
A heart.
A heart.
He pressed his lips to the rim of his glass and swallowed the thought. Lou looked at him sideways, like he could smell the ghosts. “You okay England?”
The Duke didn’t answer right away. Just lit another cigarette. “Of course not,” he said. “But I’m dressed for it.”
Lou clinked glasses with him. “Good. It’s that kind of night.”
The night had thinned, stretched into something raw. The king of hour where the lights seemed too bright and too dim all at once, where the music became a texture rather than a sound, something you wore like a sickness. The Duke stood at the edge of the dancefloor, a drink clutched in his hand like an anchor. Sweat clung to the collar of his robe-turned-jacket. His hair was damp. Pale. His eyes, too wide for comfort, flickered across the crowd. But all he saw were hers—Miarka’s eyes.
Everywhere. Reflected in the mirror behind the bar. In the red lenses of the Dj’s glasses. In the glitter of spilled drinks on black tile floors. They weren’t real. They couldn’t be. But they stared.“What have you always wanted?”
The voice curled inside his ear like a question whispered by God. He pressed the heel of hand against his temple. Lou passed him, dragging a woman in her thirties by the wrist, laughing in that low, nasal bark of his. “You’re missing the good part, Duke. The collapse!”
Iggy was on a speaker, shirtless now, tangled in the arms of two dancers, shouting something about raw power and how everyone should go skinny-dipping in the reservoir. It should’ve been wild. Liberating. But the Duke couldn’t laugh. Not now. Not with that voice tapping at his spine like a metronome.
What have you always wanted?
A heart.
A heart. A heart.
He tipped back the drink. It didn’t help. His vision blurred, Miarka in the strobe lights. His hair slick with shadow, eyes locked on his from across the floor. Not smiling. Just watching. He blinked. She was gone. Or she wasn’t there at all. The room twisted again.
He made his way to a corner booth, velvet torn, a single red candle guttering in the middle. Sat down hard. Tried to breathe. Someone passed him a new glass. A stranger in a mask. He didn’t ask what it was. He drank it. It tasted like something forbidden, chemical and sharp. Across the room, Lou and Iggy were arguing over a turntable, both grinning like wolves with guitars. The club pulsed like living thing. The floor throbbed beneath him.
Miarka’s eyes were still there. Behind his own lids now. Waiting.
What have you always wanted?
He let the question sit there. Let it seep through him. Let it rot. He didn’t know. That was the worst part. He, the Duke, ghost in silk, who reinvented himself weekly, who conjured personas like spells, had no answer. Not one that wouldn’t crumble under her gaze. His fingers twitched. Cigarette burned to the filter. He dropped into the drink. Watched it drown. From across the club, just for a moment. Not pity. Not concerned. Just recognition. The Thin White Duke rose too fast, the vinyl upholstery of the booth catching for a moment on his silk trousers. The lights of the club were too yellow now, too humid, dripping with the sweat of memory. Her eyes were everywhere—Miarka’s—drifting through the shadows like cigarette smoke. He couldn’t bear the weight of that recognition. Not again. Not when it stripped him of his artifice, his ritual of becoming. “I need air,” he uttered, speaking to no one.
Iggy saw him moving through the club, like a ghost parting the crowd. He was halfway out the door when Iggy called, voice cutting through the drone of laughter and clinking glasses. “Dave—where you going, mate?”
But the Duke didn’t turn back. Couldn’t. If he acknowledged that voice, warm, rough, tethering, he’d shatter. He slid into the Mercedes, hands shaking as they gripped the wheel. His knuckles were pale as chalk. The engine growled to life like some beast disturbed. He drove. Through the sleeping veins of Los Angeles, up winding roads that clung to the cliffsides like whispered regrets. The palm trees were spindly silhouettes in the headlines, twitching like nervous dancers. The night was too quick. Every tick of the turn signal felt like a countdown. He could still feel her looking at him. Blue eyes like polished ice, glacial, vast. There was no accusation in them. That would’ve been easier. He defended himself against the accusation. But recognition? That stripped him naked. That said, ‘I see you. I see past all of it.’
And what did she see?
The man who had forgotten how to want. A creature of silk and cocaine, all posture and legend. A whisper in a white suit. He reached the gate of the Bel-air house and opened the gate with trembling fingers. The iron gate slid open, reluctantly. The house beyond it was too loud in the confined space. He lit another cigarette with hands that barely obeyed. Inside, everything was in it place. Museum-clean. Bleached of warmth. He walked past the grand piano without touching it, past mirrored walls that refused to reflect anything real. He sat at the edge of the sunken living room, ash falling from his hand like snow. The Duke took off his jacket. Just the jacket. Left the rest on like armour. He leaned back. Tried to disappear into the cushions. But the eyes were still there, behind his own lids, impossible to unsee. He hadn’t answered her because he didn’t know.
What had he always wanted?
To be loved? To be someone else? To be forgiven for things he hadn’t and had done yet?
He didn’t feel it. He turned his head slowly, the cigarette halfway to his lips. And—
She was standing in the doorway.
Miarka.
The trench coat hung from her like it belonged to someone else. Her hair was windblown, her eyes—the same ice-glass things—steady, unnerving, calm like a still lake hiding a body. She closed the door behind her with a soft click. The sound echoed through the house like a bullet dropped on marble. “I did the audition,” she said, her voice measured, unbothered. “They want to see me again. Said I came out high rank. They’ll let me know.”
The Duke blinked. Swallowed. His mouth was dry. She was supposed to be gone, ghosted out into the LA fog like everyone else. She wasn’t supposed to return. Not like this. Not looking like she’d seen through him and still walked in. He stubbed out the cigarette too hard, ash spilling over the glass tray. “Fuckin’ brilliant,” he muttered, letting the accent curl, rich and bitten. “That’s—yeah. That’s fuckin’ brilliant.”
She said nothing. Just stood there. Something in him cracked—a tight little nerve right behind the temple. “You Hungry?” he asked suddenly, sharply. “Jesus, I’ll buy you dinner yeah? Let’s go to fuckin’ Giorgio’s or wherever the hell people pretend to like each other. Champagne, steak, whatever. On me. My treat. My fuckin’ control.”
He regretted the last word as soon as it left his mouth. Too raw. Too revealing. It made him feel—small. Like a boy pretending to be a man. Still, she said nothing. Just stared. Head tilted slightly. Blue eyes pinned him like a moth to velvet. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that!” he snapped. His voice cracked. “Stop!”
He hated the way it came out—pleading, half a snarl.
She stepped forward. And there she was—right In front of him. A breath away.
“Да”, she said softly. (“Yes”)
And it wasn’t just an answer to dinner. It was heavier. Ancient. It filled the room with gravity, like a spell spoken aloud. The Duke exhaled. A long, unsteady drag of breath that made his shoulders rise and fall. He blinked rapidly. His jaw flexed. His hands were shaking again, damn them. He stood abruptly, movements sharp, almost clumsy. “I need a piss” he muttered, storming off before she could say anything else. “Don’t touch anything.”
He slammed the bathroom door behind him and leaned against the sink, breathing hard, heart hammering. His reflection in the mirror looked pale, drawn, far too human. The Duke stared at it. Then turned the tap on and let the water run over his hands, as if it might drown something in him.
Outside, she was still there.
“Да.”
And it echoed through his mind louder than anything he’d said that night. He unbuckled his trousers and lifted the toilet seat, fumbling. He allowed the yellow stream to pour down the toilet bowl, one hand braced on the wall, the other still trembling. Everything about him—his breath, his thoughts, his pulse—felt off tempo, like a record skipping in the dark. When he finished—the yellow stream becoming thin—he flushed, didn’t wash his hands—just stood there for a second, staring at the tiled floor like it might open and swallow him whole. The silence felt jagged. So, he opened the mini fridge under the vanity. Pulled out a chilled bottle of whole milk, he kept it stocked obsessively, ritualistically, like it could anchor him to something remotely human. He cracked the lid. Took a long, deliberate swig. Then stepped into the shower, fully nude, glass bottle still in hand. Hot water hit him like absolution. He drank the milk as if it were a sacrament. Steam curling around him, milk running down his chin. It made no sense, but neither did anything else. This was his strange religion: Water, peppers, calcium, cocaine.
He reached out blindly, fingers finding the edge of the sink where he’d left a fine, precise line. The silver blade glinted next to it. He bent forward, still dripping, and inhaled the line with practiced detachment. The burn was familiar—cold fire. A veil dropped over his brain.
But the eyes were still there.
Her eyes.
Miarka.
Not just hers. Not her. Something more. They floated in the steam like a judgement passed down beyond time, cool, omniscient and unflinching. He’d read about those eyes once, years ago, in a tattered book he’d stolen from a lover in Berlin. Eyes like Aletheia, the goddess of truth, daughter of Zues, who stood behind every mask and myth and whispered, “This is what you really are.” The philosophers said she was unbearable. The truth was too much for men to look at for long. That’s why we built Gods, art, fashion. Lies.
The Duke screamed wordlessly and hurled the milk bottle across the bathroom. It shattered against the wall with a deafening crash, white liquid, glass, and heat erupting in one violent moment. The blue eyes were gone. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was clean. No more mirrors behind his eyes. No more Goddess. No more milk. Just steam. He exhaled slowly. Controlled, stepped out of the shower like a man reborn. He wiped the mirror clean with the heel of his palm. His face looked less haunted. Still pale, still beautiful, still impossibly thin, but composed. He opened the lacquered wardrobe by the sink. He chose the plum velvet blazer. Black slacks. No shirt. Just skin and scent and silk. A necklace like a noose. Diamond cufflinks. He looked like he was going on stage. Maybe he was. He stepped back into the hallway, barefoot and immaculate, eyes dead calm. He paused when he saw her still standing there in that damn black trench coat, like the night hadn’t cracked and remade itself in the bathroom. “You’re not going like that,” he said flatly, voice low, almost too calm.
Miarka raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“It’s fancy, darling. It’s fuckin’ decadent. You look like you’re about to sell black market secrets under a bridge.” He moved past her in a sweep of velved and eau de nihilism, tanking open a tall lacquered wardrobe near the hallway. Clothes rustled. A ghost of perfume from a decade ago leaked out. He pulled something with a triumphant snarl. Held it aloft like a trophy. An elegant black dress. Silk that caught the light like oil on water. “I wore this once,” he muttered. “Hammersmith. 74. Screamed though ‘sweet thing’ in it. Caused a scandal, naturally.”
Miarka crossed her arms, but the corner of her mouth twitched “Where’d you even get it?”
He turned to her with the grin of a man who’d made a deal at a crossroads. “A French countess. Or a London drag queen. Maybe both. I was very high.”
She took it with a nod, the way a priest might accept a relic. He handed it over like he was passing on a part of himself. Miarka disappeared into the guest bathroom to do her makeup. The Duke waited, lighting another cigarette he didn’t need. Pacing. The silence wasn’t so jagged now; it was tense, elegant, like the music of a string before a fall.
When she emerged, everything stopped.
The dress was a nineteen-seventies relic of sinuous elegance, cut from the weightless black silk that shimmered like a raven’s wing in moonlight. It clung and flowed in perfect balance, hugging Miarka’s androgynous frame in a way that both celebrated and obscured it. The neckline was high, almost austere, creating a statuesque silhouette. Still, the back dipped low in a dramatic sweep, just enough to suggest vulnerability, a silver of bare spine revealed like the trailing edge of a secret. The sleeves were long and fitted, ending just at her wrists, like gloves made of shadow. The fabric moved with her, liquid and silent, catching every whisper of air as she walked. It didn’t reveal, it suggested—a quiet kind of power. The hem floated just above her ankles, allowing glimpses of her legs, lean and precise, as she stepped carefully into vintage black heels that added a few inches to her already tall, willowy figure. Her makeup was minimal but sculptural. Angular. Carefully chosen to blur the lines of gender rather than define them. Her thin brows were brushed up and darkened slightly, sharp and expressionless. A smudge of smoky charcoal at the lids deepened at the shape of her blue eyes, turning them glacial, unreadable, ancient. Her cheekbones were carved in subtle shadow, contour catching the light like bones beneath glass. No blush, just a coolness to the skin, almost ethereal.
Her lips were painted the colour of old wine, dark, blood-tinged plum. Not glossy. Matte. Bold and final. She wore no jewellery except a single ring, a heavy onyx set in silver on her right hand. It added weight to her gesture, like punctuation. Her medium brown hair was swept back into a low knot at the nape of her neck, clean and severe, revealing the strong line of her jaw and the proud angle of her neck. In that dress, Miarka became something outside of time. Not a girl. Not a woman. Not a boy. Not a man. Something distilled, pure form, elegance cut from a darker cloth. But it wasn’t the outfit—it was her.
She looked older. Not in years, but in presence. She wasn’t the girl who walked into this house four days ago. She was something else now. Something composed, transformed. Something holy. The Duke stared—not out of lust—that would’ve been easier. This was reverence. Recognition. “Christ,” he murmured. “You look like Lady Rowena.”
He said it without thinking, the name leaping from the vault of a book he’s come across once. Ivanhoe. The tragic, graceful noblewoman who always seemed to stand just outside the world, untouchable. Idealised. Unreal. A figure of sorrow and strength. A muse that made men ache with inadequacy. Miarka didn’t smile. Just tilted her head, waiting. “Turn around,” he said softly. She did.
His fingers found the zipper and pulled it up slowly, reverently, brushing the cool line of her spine. There was a gravity in it, like performing a final gesture in a rite. Like binding fate. The zipper clicked into place. He didn’t move his hand from her hand back right away. She didn’t step away. When she finally turned to face him again, there was something unspoken in the air. Not tension. Not desire. Inevitably.
The Mercedes cruised down from the hills of Bel-Air like a great silver fin slicing through dusk. Los Angeles glittered in the rearview mirror, just a suggestion of neon and illusion. Inside the car, silence stretched between them, velvet and static, the radio off, the engine humming low like a conspirator. The restaurant sat carved into the side of West Hollywood’s illusion of European elegance, all gold trim and frosted glass, where chandeliers hung like captured Gods. Vlaets moved like tuxedoed beetles. The Thin White Duke parked the Mercedes himself, ignoring the boy reaching for the keys. He stepped out slowly, pulling on gravity like a glove, then turned and offered Miarka his arm. She took it, without smile or hesitation, her hand resting lightly, as if she barely touched the world. In the black silk dress, she didn’t walk so much as glide. The two od them together—an apparition and an oracle—sent murmurs rippling through the foyer. People looked. And the Duke noticed. He always noticed. A matron with skin like stretched champagne. A man with teeth too white, trying not to look hard. A waiter dropping his eyes a second too late. All of them devouring with their eyes. All of them breathing him. He thought of Zarathustra, sneering inwardly. Pale-bellied last men, soft with security and tasteless wine, whose only rebellion was their overpriced suit lining. Cattle in silk. He could’ve whispered a sentence and broken their spines. But he didn’t bother.
Let them watch.
Inside, the lighting was soft amber, music a quiet thread through air perfumed with money. Miarka’s eyes moved, not nervously, but cautiously, tracking the elegant couples. There were older men with wives in their forties, lacquered like porcelain. Lovers with matching expressions. Cynical men dining with younger women, young enough to be their daughters. “They all look like sets,” she said quietly. “Tableaus. Arrangements. They don’t talk, just move their mouths. Like taxidermy that forgot it’s dead.”
He laughed once, sharp. “You’re poetic when you’re cruel.”
They were seated at a round table with too much linen, too many utensils. The Duke leaned back in his chair like he was about to perform alchemy, letting the candlelight catch his cheekbones just so. “So,” he began, slender fingers steepled. “Let’s speak of things worth speaking. The Kybalion. Hermes Trismegistus. The seven principles.”
He listed them lazily, “Mentalism, correspondence, vibration, polarity, rhythm, cause and effect, gender.” He glanced at her sideways. “All of it, truth buried in metaphor. Like fascism, if you understand the theatre of it. Mythmaking. The idea of order. Not the politics, the shape.”
Miarka watched him like she was watching a stage slowly collapse. “You talk like you’re above everything,” she said, “But you still build cages, just prettier ones. The Kybalion says the universe is mental, yes? But it doesn’t mean we’re Gods, Duke. It means we’re prisoners in our own thoughts. You’re not escaping anything.”
That hit him. Not visibly, not quite—but his fingers twitched once—a minuscule shift.
“Do you think I’m just—performing?”
She didn’t blink. “I think you’re so afraid of being seen that you dress up as the person who already saw himself burn.”
He said nothing. The waitress appeared like a breath of relief, all false lashes and practiced smiles. She placed their dishes gently.
“Here we are, steak for the lady,” she said brightly. “And red peppers and milk for you, sir.”
Miarka didn’t speak. Just stared down at the steak, rare, gleaming, sheened in blood, she hadn’t ordered.
The Duke waved her off with a nod, his mind snapping back to the table. He raised his glass of milk like a man toasting a grave. “What’s Russia like?” he asked suddenly, watching her instead of the food.
Miarka didn’t look up at first. She sliced the steak mechanically, then finally met his mismatched eyes. “In Moscow,” she continued, “my aunt used to take me past Lubyanka Square—the old KGB building. You could feel the silence there, even years after it stopped being used for interrogations. No one spoke. No one made eye contact. Children went quiet, just walking past. You were shot if you did.”
He sipped his milk. It was warm now. That answer echoed deeper than he expected. The night moved on. But something had shifted. Something old and wordless. Real.
He leaned forward, elbow on the white linen, cigarette between long fingers, turning it slowly, like a wand or a weapon. “A Clockwork Orange,” he said again, like the title itself was a spell. “That one cut deeper than most. It’s just above violence. Everyone focuses on the beatings, the rape, the droogs, but that’s not what lasts. What lasts is the question: ‘is it better to choose evil than to be forced into good?”
He paused, watching her. She didn’t blink. He continued, voice like silk over razors. “The Ludovico Technique. That ghastly, beautiful scene—Alex strapped to the chair, eyes clamped open, Mozart blaring while he’s reconditioned like a fuckin’ dog. They didn’t kill the monster. They just neuter him. Strip him of free will. He becomes palatable. Society safe. A clockwork. Mechanical. Obedient.”
His grin widened, cold and knowing. “And isn’t that the point? That true morality must come from within, even if it means darkness? Otherwise, we’re just mannequins dressed in virtue.”
Miarka set down her fork. Camly. “The real horror of Clockwork Orange,” she said evenly, “Is that it assumed there are only two choices: chaos or obedience. That humans are either animals or machines. It’s false binary. A childish one.”
He tilted his head, curious now.
“It wasn’t violence or moral surgery. It was delay as punishment. Uncertainty as a weapon. You weren’t turned into a machine—you were erased. Slowly. With formality. And that’s worse than Ludovico.”
The Thin White Duke was silent. The candle between them flickered faintly, casting soft gold along his cheekbone, but his eyes were flint. He tapped the cigarette on the table once. Twice. Then.
“You ever read Artuad?”
Miarka shook her head slowly. “No.”
He inhaled the cigarette. Exhaled through his nose.
“French madman. Theatre of Cruelty. Said that art had to be violent, not to provoke shock, but to rip illusion off the bones of the world. To show life without the masks. Without the story. Just the wound itself.” He looked over the flame. “You’d like him. Or maybe he’d be afraid of you.”
Miarka didn’t smile.
“Maybe,” she said. “But I don’t need to rip the world open to see the wound. I was born inside it.”
The Duke sat back slowly. Milk untouched. The peppers now softening into the plate. He watched her like one might watch a mirror that’s begun to reflect more than your face. “You’d like Mishima too,” he said finally, voice cooled. “Confessions of a Mask. Japanese writer. Obsessed with death, with beauty, with failure.”
He smiled faintly, bitter at the corners. “He tried to make his life into a performance too. Killed himself in full regalia. Left the word a final, perfect pose.” He had always admired Yukio Mishima, a world-renowned Japanese author, and the Duke was a doting admirer of his works, reading and being inspired by them endlessly.
Miarka dind’t respond immediately.
“If you need death to make something beautiful, it was never beautiful to begin with.”
That stopped him for a second.
But in David’s mind—the Duke’s mind—the second rang loud. Like someone knocking, very gently, at a locked door deep inside him. He took a long breath.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, almost fond. “You’re terrifying.”
He looked at her across the table, his cheek lit like pale marble beneath the candle’s glow, the untouched milk catching the light beside him like a porcelain ghost. The silence pressed close again, not uncomfortable, but ripe, thick with possibility. Then his voice came low.
“Would you dance with me, Miarka?”
She didn’t blink. Just lifted her gaze from the half-finished steak, her dark plum lips a still line.
“Now?”
He stood, already smoothing his velvet blazer, the gesture sharp and ceremonial. “Especially now.”
He held out his hand like a prince in a fever dream. She took it.
The floor had cleared sometime in the hush of the late hour, just a few other couples moving like echoes. But when the two of them stepped onto it, everything around seemed to bend inward, attention, energy, and air. The first notes of the tango hit low and slow, slithering like smoke. A violin crept in, weeping with restraint. They moved as if born for it, Miarka coiled, controlled, her back taut, head proud. The Duke, sharp edge in velvet, all lines and leanes, the curl of his hand on her back like a brand. They circled one another, steps deliberate, slow, pivots of predator and prey—but it was never clear who was who. A viper. A spider.
A flick of silk. A tightening of fang.
“You know,” he said under his breath, half-laughing as he turned her sharply. “Neitzche would’ve said this is the highest form of will. Dancing. Pure becoming. The body and soul in unity.”
She countered, pivoted, spun. “And yet Nietzche died broken, speaking to horses.”
He smirked, lips near her ear. “All the best ones do.”
The rhythm tightened. The beat swelled. The drums joined in like a challenge. He began pushing—spins, crosses, a flick of the leg that demanded an answer. She answered. Perfectly. Each gesture she made mirrored him like a question reversed. A taunt. Her arms were sharp and fluid, her heel slicing, tasting the same wind, never touching, then colliding again in perfect counterpoint. He started to sing, under his breath at first, then louder, his voice melodic and bitter-sweet in time with the rhythm. “We’re nothing, darling, if not art in motion.”
His accent crumbled into melody. Then she cut upward—out of the tango entirely—into a balletic lift, her leg into a balletic lift, her leg rising in a line so perfect it could’ve sliced time. The audience gasped. She returned to him like a swan descending into violence. He adjusted. Of course he did. The tempo changed again, no warning. The song transformed beneath them into a Paso Dabole waltz hybrid, impossible time signatures clashing like waves. But they danced it.
He, all cape and fire. She, all form and poise. Not a couple, but combatants, two chessboards thrown into orbit, pieces flying but somehow making sense.
She pushed forward. He twisted left. She mirrored. He spun her out. She stopped herself an inch too early—on purpose—and when she spun back in, he knew she was testing him. The dancefloor wasn’t a floor anymore. It was a mirror. A maze. A cathedral of rhythm and ruin built just for them. And in the faces of the onlookers, something shifted, awed, unnerved, small. The room seemed to shift too, chaneliers, light warping like melting gold, tables distant and half-forgotten.
Just them. Then—silence.
The music stopped. Cut. No fade. No cue. Just the snap of breath.
They halted inches apart. No sweat. No breathlessness. Just perfect stillness. A frozen checkmate. Miarka blinked once. The Duke smiled. Slightly. And the world began to breath again. He leaned back slowly, the velvet of his blazer creaking faintly against the leather booth. The cigarette had died out, but he held it still, like a relic of something holy. Or unholy. Across the table, Miarka sat like a silhouette in oil, immaculate, untouched, unreal. Candlelight flickered at her cheekbones, catching the shimmer in her tied-back hair. Her fingers resting lightly on the rim of the untouched water glass. No ring. He saw it then, not weakness, but stillness. And stillness was dangerous. Because it made him fill in the silence with himself. He leaned forward. Eyes narrowed. Voice low, hypnotic, melodic and seeping. “Let me ask you something, darling.” He said, accent thick. “You ever read Faust?”
She didn’t answer. He kept going.
“Man trades his soul to Mephistopheles for knowledge, power, all that delicious mythic rot. Ends up damned. Naturally. But not because he sins, not really. He;s damned because he wants more. Always more.”
He tilted his head. “Tell me, what’s more honest than wanting too much?”
His smile widened. Eyes sharp as needles. “You’re a ghost, Miarka. You drift. You observe. You haunt things, but you don’t live in them. You wear silence like armour. And I get it. You sinned. Somewhere back in whatever Russian frostbitten graveyard of a memory you came from.”
He continued, “And now you’re just the echo of her, walking around like you haven’t rotted.”
He exhaled. A hiss more then a breath. “I could fix that. I could stain you so beautifully you’d never want to be clean again.”
That was the poison. Slow. Seductive. The devil not offering brimstone, but red wine. A render evil. Not demanding she kneel, but asking her to lean forward just a little.
“You want to suffer, don’t you?” he said, voice laced with syrup and smoke. “That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’re with me. Because I’m the fuckin’ cathedra of beautiful suffering. I’m the devil in silk.”
“And I can show you pain that feels like truth.”
He reached out, not to touch her, but to hover, just inches from her skin. “You won’t even remember your name when I’m finished.”
The silence that followed was not empty. It was final. Miarka didn’t move. Then, with clinical stillness, she lifted her eyes to his. Not cold. Not angry. Just aware. “You talk,” she said, voice level, low, crystalline. “Like the devil trying to posion a ghost who already drank hemlock centuries ago. Who already stood before God with her sins in both hands and wasn’t turned away, just left there. Left to walk.”
The words hit like stones dropped in water. No splash. Just depth. “You don’t tempt me,” she continued. “You repeat yourself. You’re not a cathedral. You’re an echo chamber. You want to think you’re a God of pain because it keeps you from admitting you were just a boy who wasn’t touched gently enough.”
That silence? It roared. He stared. Frozen. Something twisted in his chest. A nerve. A name. A truth. Then he started laughing again. But this time it wasn’t theatrical. It was real. Unhinged. Like glass cracking under pressure.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed, tears almost pricking the edge of his eyes. “You are foul. You’re—Christ, you’re fuckin—”
He grinned through it. Bitterly. Wildly. “Your eyes. Your fuckin’ eyes. You look at me like I’m an insect that crawled out of a book you were bored of halfway through.”
He dropped the dead cigarette into the glass of milk. “I think I hate you,” he said again.
But this time, there was fear in it. Miarka didn’t smile. She reached for her glass of water and took a sip.
The milk glass shattered. That was the sound he made as he stood, the chair behind him tipping slightly, caught at the edge of collapse. His mismatched eyes were wide now, wild, starving, like something inside him had finally been cornered and was tearing its way out through the skin. “I HATE YOU!” he roared, the vowels stretched like a scream cracked across marble. His voice shot through the restaurant, crisp and perfect in posh, cigarette-scorched accent. “I HATE YOUR FUCKIN’ EYES! DO YOU HEAR ME MIARKA!”
She sat still. Poised. Untouched. As if the hurricane was happening in another dimension.
“They’re—filthy,” he spat, hand trembling as he pointed at her across the candlelit table, eyes bright with something grief and reverence. “You look at me like I’m a fuckin’ joke. Like a rotting suit stitched with metaphors. You look at me like you know me—and I’ll tell you something—NO ONE KNOWS ME! Not the fans. Not the fuckin’ leeches at RCA. Not the fuckwits who paint me in glitter like I’m their fuckin’ goddamn religion!”
People were staring now. The room had frozen mid-bite, mid-toast, mid-slip. Silverware paused in mid-air. A hundred faux-elegant faces tilted toward the rising apocalypse in velvet. The Duke turned, gesturing wildly with both hands, addressing the room like a mad king on a balcony. “She’s got fuckin’ knives in her stare, this one! I swear to Christ! Those disgusting, monstrous, saintly eyes! She’s a fuckin’ exorcism in heels!”
And that’s when he saw him. Back corner. Tweed jacket. Big glasses. Trying to shrink into his seat but not fast enough—scrawling with quiet panic into a small leather notepad. A reporter. Undercover. Anonymous. But not anonymous enough. The Thin White Duke narrowed his mismatched gaze.
“You. You.” He growled.
The reporter froze—Pen mid-word.
“Oh, marvellous. Of course you’d be here. Scribbling like some voyeur behind a wine glass. Probably wrote ‘thin-lipped paranoia’ in your notes already, didn’t you?”
The Duke lunged across the restaurant, grabbing the notepad in a snatch so fast and so practised. ““What the fuck is this?!” he bellowed, flipping pages. “‘Subject is unstable, exhibiting signs of mania, heavy dissociative language use, references to possession’—oh you sanctimonious cunt!”
The reporter squeaked something and scurried, his chair falling behind him as he ran, jacket flapping, notepad clenched like a bomb. The Duke shouted after him, full-lunged, the kind of scream that cracked from the bones and bled through his throat. “PRINT IT, THEN! YOU WANNA KNOW TRUTH? I’LL GIVE YOU FUCKING TRUTH! I’M THE GHOST OF LONDON AND THE SPIRIT OF FUCKIN’ HIROSHIMA! YOU’RE ALL DINNER THEATRE TO ME!”
The door slammed shut behind the fleeing man. Silence again. He stood there, chest heaving amber-blonde tipped hair strands clinging to his temple, lip split just barely from the force of his shouting.
Then slowly, he turned back to Miarka. She hadn’t moved. She simply looked at him. Those awful, blue, eyes. The one’s that refused to flinch. The one’s that knew. He collapsed into the chair again, all sinew and ruin.
Breathing like a man who had just seen the edge of the void and realised it was inside him. “Fucking press,” he muttered, voice hoarse, almost amused. “They’ll make it all rhyme by morning.”
He exhaled a ring of smoke through his lips.
“I swear,” he rasped, exhaling, “you’ve got the sort of eyes priests have nightmares about. Judging without blinking. Fucking biblical.”
He chuckled. Rising from his seat as he headed back to the Mercedes. “I think I’d rather rot in hell than be seen by you again.”
She didn’t move. She didn’t react. And that infuriated him more than all the devils in the world.
February 13th, 1976, Bel-Air.
The morning heat was sharp, with headlines. Los Angeles sunlight cracked off car roofs and window glass as though even God had taken up paparazzi work. The streets outside the Bel-Air whispered like gossiping women, names like spells and rumours like scripture. On the front page of the Los Angeles Times, nestled between of Nixon’s shadow and cocaine rings was ‘The Duke’s Doll: Who is the new flame on His Arm?’ A black and white photo of the Thin White Duke, blurred mid-step and beside him, Miarka, unreadable in her black nineteen-seventies dress with heels, blue eyes like ice. She didn’t smile. That only made them write more.
“Eastern heiress?”
“mail-order bride?”
Gold-digging young wife?”
The Thin White Duke furrowed his brows, his mismatched eyes growing a glassy fury reading the headlines. He slammed the paper with a loud ‘thud’ against the café table as they sat for breakfast at a sidewalk spot. The waitstaff didn’t meet his eyes, busy dealing with other customers needing coffee. They’d seen the article too. “Fuckin’ obscene.” He muttered, sliding on his sunglasses. “They’ve painted you as some European Lolita in a fur coat.” Miarka stirred her black tea slowly, even circles, emotionless. The spoon clinked rhythmically. “They’ll tire, they always do,” she sounded nonchalant.
“No.” He snapped. “They won’t. They’ve found a character they didn’t write and now they want to devour you.”
A gaggle of girls—eighteen to nineteen, even younger—drifted near the table with the hushed urgency of pilgrims One had dyed her hair black in a rock n roll style with jangly ear rings and wore platform heeled boots. An unmistakable style influenced by today's rock stars. Another clutched a vinyl copy of ‘Station To Station’ like a holy grail. They whispered, giggling, blushing, trying not to look directly at them—of course they did. They stared and one broke formation. “Excuse me,” she said with a meek, rosy smile. “You’re the Thin White Duke’s girlfriend, right?”
Miarka didn’t meet there gaze, sipping her tea.
“I just wanted to say, oh—you’re brilliant. And you Thin White Duke, you’re—oh god you’re—music inspired me, you saved my life.”
The Duke flicked ash onto his plate. Another fangirl, far younger than the rest—fifteen stepped forward. “You, Mr. Duke, I saw you on stage and—I’ve been a fan ever since I heard you in nineteen-seventy-four, Young Americans, Aladdin Sane, Ziggy Stardust, Man Who Sold the World. I could go on. Adoring. Creative. So bloody well done.” Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, as if staring directly at an angel.
The Duke sharply sighed. Trying to be polite but not really.
“You know I’m just a man right? Not some black and White myth crawling out of a record sleeve?” he said, voice cool and dry as wine left in the sun.
The young girls hesitated. The one whispered. “B-but that’s why you're such a Rock n’ Roll God, Mr. Bowie.”
They left soon after, managing to get the Duke to sign the album with a kiss to his hand. They giggled with the ecstasy of witnessing something important. Miarka didn’t smile. She watched them go like someone observing birds fly across the blue sky. “See?” the Duke said bitterly. “They don’t even want Aladdin Sane or Halloween Jack anymore. I’m the new mask. The new cult. And your dragged into this.”
“I didn’t ask for it,” she said unbothered.
“Well—neither did I love, but that’s fame for you. I spose’” The Duke gulped a carton of whole milk.
Across the street, a news stand had another headline. “Who is Thin white Duke’s new beau? Taking Over Hollywood’s mystery”
Beneath it, a photo of them in the restaurant, with a supposed date of the Thin White Duke’s interview of his album. The Duke crushed his cigarette into the yolk of his runny egg. He looked over at her, half-mocking, half-resigned. “Congratulations. We’re a goddamn religion now, a sensation of Hollywood.”
Miarka finished sipping her tea with both hands, wiping her upper lip to rid it of the residue. “Of fuckin’ course.”
Wandering outside the small suburban café, along the side street, a car picked the two of them up with no license plates. A matte black vehicle, purring like a low predator, the driver didn’t speak, and the glass turned the world outside into a dramatic blur. The Duke smirked the whole ride, legs crossed, cigarette dancing between his lips. He wore a white shirt half-unbuttoned, black waistcoat and a silk scarf the colour of blood left out in the sun. Miarka sat beside him, wearing her usual black coat. She didn’t ask questions, she didn’t have to. The room was anonymous. Clean but not sterile. Somewhere between a hotel suite and an interrogation chamber. Cameras hidden. A reel-to-reel recorder turned lazily on a low table. There was one chair. They were told to share it. The interviewer entered without a name or face, voice hidden behind round sunglasses and a clipboard that had nothing written on it. “Alright, let’s begin.”
The Duke lit a cigarette with a practiced flick. Miarka sat perfectly still, her posture upright. She hadn’t spoken a word since they left the Bel-Air house. She curled her fingers. Her lips thinned slightly. They didn’t know—they didn’t know she was Russian. America didn’t know who Miarka was, if they knew her papers weren’t authentic—if this was a trap, a leak, a set-up—she’d be detained. No trail. No goodbyes. Back to Kazan, Moscow, or St. Petersburg. A van and a plane East.
The camera flickered on with a click, a low him of tape rolling behind it. The room was dim, the heat outside still clinging to the walls like sweat. The Duke sat slim with a cool smirk on his face. Her narrow blue eyes turn to him. He knew exactly the power he had over her in this moment. She didn’t speak English, properly, they’d know her accent. She didn’t talk, period. The Duke had power and he could spill the whole truth, making Miarka out to be some Russian spy sent to interrogate the government. If they asked where she came from—if he said the truth—she’ll be arrested. She’d vanish.
Miarka stayed quiet. For the first time, she was praying. For the first time, she was at a loss for strategy; the whole world would know. All that mattered was the ticking countdown of the Duke’s cruel punishment. To send her to hell.
The interviewer cleared his throat. He spoke in an American accent. “Thanks for meeting with us, David.”
The Duke nodded, softly spoken. “Yeah. Sure. It’s nice to…talk.” He quietly giggled.
Miarka tilted her head; it was as if she was staring at a different person entirely.
The interviewer smiled. “We’ve, well, we’ve seen the photos. Is this young woman your new uh, fling shall we say?”
The Duke looked over at Miarka and smiled, almost sheepish. Miarka twitched her lip, seeing a chameleon change in demeanour. “Oh—I think she’s warm, actually,” he said. “Just, y’know. Very, very quiet.”
“Where’s she from?”
The Duke paused.
Miarka’s hands were folded in her lap. She didn’t move, but he felt it, he enjoyed the control he had over her. ‘Don’t say it. Don’t ruin this. Please for once don’t—’
He turned over to Miarka, his eyes like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He gently smiled, turning to the interviewer, “Oh, um, Norway.”
He laughed nervously, like an act he had perform, to play the part. “Or Denmark. I mix the two up sometimes. Or maybe she’s from space. Hard to keep track, innit?”
The interviewer raised an eyebrow “She doesn’t speak?”
The Duke shook his head. “Not in English. Not much. We sort of, tune in to each other, y’knowq? Like frequencies.”
The questions shifted, they always did. “People are saying things, David, interesting things. About your, Sexuality. You mentioned before you were bisexual. Was that honest? Or part of the act of Ziggy Stardust.”
He ran a hand through his hair, shrugging. “Ziggy was honest. In his way. And I—mean, I was being honest then. I think,” he said. “I just didn’t quite know what I was telling the truth about.” He paused, thoughtful. “I think I just wanted to, breath the mirror. Or hold it up. Or something in between.”
The interviewer scribbled furiously.
Miarka glanced down like a statue, pondering. She was astonished. He didn’t give her up for one thing, but also, wondered why he changed his personality, switching. She was certain, the Duke enjoyed this, enjoyed seeing her under pressure; he had control.
“And now? Are you still Ziggy?”
The duke smiled gently. “No, love. Ziggy died. Horribly. Rock' n' Roll suicide. All glitter an’ teeth.”
The American interviewer glanced over at Miarka with a small nod. “I think I’m someone else now, for a while at least.”
“Is this your muse?”
The Duke gave a soft laugh. “No, I don’t think so. I think she’s more of a reminder…”
“Of what?”
“That I don’t know anything.”
“Is she legal?” The question was asked so suddenly. Miarka blinked. Her hands were clenched tightly. The Duke’s smile didn’t falter, a mix of genuine mirth and amusement.
“Legal to what exactly?” he asked softly, playing dumb. “Dance? Exist? Wear black at a wedding?”
He titled his head. “I think that’s a dreadful question, really.”
The interviewer shifted. The Duke turned back to the recorder. “Look, I came here to talk about the music, yeah?”
He leaned forward, more animated. “There’s a new thing happening, not out yet. But it’s changing. All of it. It’s cleaner and colder. I want silence to mean something again. Noise is exhausting.”
The interviewer ended without resolution. The rape ran out slowly, with a hiss. Miarka stood first, still didn’t speak. But as they out of the studio together, she slipped her hand into his briefly. A thank you—more so—a warning. The Duke didn’t say a word, he didn’t even squeeze her hand, nor touched it, he slipped it out of hers as though it was a disgusting disease.
He wasn’t David anymore. He’d gone quiet in the ride back, his posture stiffening, jaw clenching. That gentler softness he’d worn like fragile silk during the interview had begun to peel, thread by thread. Miarka knew what was coming.
The headlines awaited them inside the house like vultures. "The Duke's New Flame Melts the Ice" "Reformed Rock God Grows Up: From Ziggy to Besotted" ‘They Tune Into Each Other’ – Bowie and Mystery Girl Share Silent Romance"
There were photos inside the recording studio, his hand hovering too closely behind her shoulder. They’d twisted every word and turned it into fluff, turned him into something sweet. Domesticated.
The interview’s tapes were tampered with.
“No. She's… not just a muse.” He glances at Miarka, almost tenderly.
“She’s a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That I don’t know anything. That I thought I did… until her.”
The papers burned in his pale, thin hands. “This is—this is shit.” He snapped, flinging one to the floor. “They’ve made me into a f-fuckin’ puppy, Miarka.”
“They took me and shaved off the edges, turned the Thin White Duke into some docile, heart-eyed poppet playing house with a pretty girl.”
His voice cracked with bitterness as he paced. “I was a vampire, I was untouchable, I was the man in Berlin—Not this! Not this…” he trailed off.
He stormed out. The door slamming shut.
Much later, around three A.M. he returned. He reeked of smoke, whiskey and city lights. Miarka was already in bed, spine curled inward, the sheets wrapped like a cocoon. But she wasn’t asleep. He undressed silently, slipping under the covers with slow movement. The tension clung to him like static. Then, a sigh. Broken. Low.
“I can’t do it, Miarka.” His voice was hoarse.
“They keep turning me into things I never meant to be. Ziggy. The Duke. Now this? This tame, docile, lovestruck fool who sleeps beside a mystery girl with haunted eyes. They write it like we’re in some doomed romance novel.”
She didn’t move. He stared at the ceiling. “I told them I didn’t know who I was anymore,” he muttered. “That wasn’t a metaphor.”
Long. Breathing.
Silence.
Her hand. Just her hand. Lightly pressing against his slender, bare, pale arm. It wasn’t bold. Not romantic. Just—human.
He went still, his whole body freezing. As if her touch made him aware of every bone in his body. Every lie he’d told to protect himself.
He pulled away. Sharply. With ice in his voice.
“Don’t do that.”
Miarka looked at him. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“I will never love you,” he said coldly.
Each word a dagger carved in breath. “Whatever fantasy they’ve printed, whatever they’re trying to conjure with your stillness and my cheekbones—forget it. I don’t love. I can’t love. I use. I possess. And I leave.”
She looked at him, not wounded. Not broken. Still. Emotionless.
He hated it. Hated that he couldn’t ruin her.
He got out of bed. Walked across the room. Not slamming the door this time, just closing it behind him and leaving her there in the bed. Under the weight of everything he refused to be.
The Thin White Duke muttered something under his breath, Miarka caught. “They turned me—into a man—I was supposed to be immortal.”
A fallen angel turned mortal.
Chapter 6: stay
Summary:
The Duke develops a flu. We see more of Miarka's backstory and The Duke draws art.
Notes:
Hello, another chapter is out! I've researched David Bowie's artwork more, and it's truly impressive and abstract. https://veryprivategallery.com/david-bowie-paintings/ Here are some examples if you're interested. I especially loved his self-portraits and the Hunger City illustrations. I incorporated that style into The Duke's story, even though his artwork isn't widely recognised apart from his music. He was also a talented actor, starring in films like 'The Man Who Fell to Earth', 'The Linguini Incident', 'Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence', 'The Hunger', 'Baal', 'Just a Giolo', and 'Labyrinth'. Additionally, he performed in The Elephant Man. There's a lot more but that would be too much of a list.
Regarding Miarka's character, I expanded on her flashback, particularly in Russia during the Cold War, which reveals that no direct conflict occurred. I thought of her having a French background as well to enhance her ethnicity.
Please comment feedback! love the support and to that one person, thanks for the commentary, I will be posting hopfully in the next coming week. <3
Note: The sketches I found were on Pinterest, and I didn't investigate further, so I was unable to identify the artist. I included both purely as illustrations—nothing more. If they are AI-generated by chance, please don't be upset with me for sharing them. As I mentioned, they are mainly for illustration purposes, and I do not claim to be an artist; I share some images that showcase the style from Pinterest similar to Bowie's.
Warning: Abuse, Facism mention, assult, drug abuse, NSFW.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
February 13th, 1976, Bel-Air
The Bel-Air morning was the colour of honey smoked, filtered through the sheet drapes stained by years of sun. Outside, palm trees whispered in the heat, and the air was already thick with the scent of bougainvillea and exhaust. The mansion loomed above the hills like a decaying altar to forgotten gods, with marble floors, oil paintings that seemed to follow, and ashtrays heavy with opium-sweet residue. Noh masks scattered around with expressions, Henry Moore and Marcel Duchamp, along with the Egyptian interior—the Thin White Duke’s kingdom, or perhaps his mausoleum. Miarka awoke in the parlor beneath a silk throw, her limbs slow to move, her head cool and clear in a way that made her feel inhuman. She dreamed of nothing. Nothing at all. She turned in the low blue sheets, rising slowly from the bed. A sound pulled her gaze—loud and wet. She turned her head toward the chaise lounge at the far end of the room, past the crumbling roses in their silver vase, past the piano where the Duke played. There he was—the Thin White Duke. He knelt like a beast between the thighs of a woman she didn’t recognize. Pale skin stretched over sharp bones, hair slicked back with something glinted like oil. His mouth was on her, fingers buried, movements erratic and possessive. The woman writhed, moaned and dug her nails into the Duke’s shoulder—he wasn’t looking at her—he was looking at Miarka. Right at her. Their eyes locked across the room like a sniper’s sight. No shame. No apology. No invitation. Just a slow, deliberate knowing. His mouth curled against the woman’s skin, and he licked his lips with the theatrical relish, eyes never leaving Miarka's face. She blinked twice. Then rose.
Her bare feet whispered across the marble as she crossed the room. She did not speak. She did not avert her eyes. She simply walked past them as if they were art, or rot, or both. Down the hall, the breakfast room yawned in soft blues and creams. California light spilled through the stained glass in fractured ribbons. The tables were already laid—eggs, caviar, champagne sweating in a crystal bucket. A record played somewhere distant, ambient and unsettled. Miarka poured herself coffee from a silver carafe, her hands steady. She ate half a fig, peeled it first. Her expression remained unchanged as she heard the soft, satisfied sigh of the woman echoing down the corridor, followed by the rhythmic thump of the chaise against the floorboards. She had grown used to the sounds of consumption. The Thin White Duke arrived ten minutes later, a robe hanging open over his chest, still glistening with sweat. He looked like a spectre from a dream where pleasure had gone sour. He poured himself a drink—gin with something herbal—and leaned against the doorframe. “I’ve invited a little friend this morning.” He said, his voice dry and decadent, like cigarette smoke curling inside a cathedral. “I’m curious how long it will take you to feel something.”
Miarka said nothing. He watched her, eyes narrowing like a blade.
“She’s from Laurel Canyon. Thinks I’m a prophet. Or a devil. She didn’t seem to care which.” He snipped. “I thought we might fuck her together. Or fight over her. Or maybe I’ll let her sob on the carpet while you critique her posture.”
Still nothing. He hated that. He turned and vanished.
The woman was dizzy with perfume and adoration, Polaroid. Honey-blonde hair feathered to perfection, eyes wide with mascara dreams, soft bell-bottoms brushing against the tiled floor. She was the kind of woman who sounded like she was half laughing, half crying, even when she whispered. The Duke greeted her like a serpent, coiling an arm around her waist and leading her through the house like she was a lamb and he, the knife. They passed Miarka, seated on the divan, reading Anaïs Nin with one leg draped over the armrest. She didn’t look up. He made love to the woman loudly, deliberately and destructively. In the next room. Doors open. Curtains fluttering in the warm breeze like theatre gauze. He laughed, growled, and whispered cruel things. The woman cried. Then giggled. Then cried again. Miarka turned a page. Eventually, the woman stumbled out, lipstick smeared, eyes wide and distant like someone who had been devoured and asked for more. The Duke followed, lighting a cigarette with a hand that trembled from adrenaline or cocaine or hunger. He looked at Miarka. She was whispering—giggling into the hollow of the Duke’s pale, thin neck, lips grazing his skin with faux-intimacy. “You taste like smoke and decay.” She said in a murmur, as if the words would save her. “And ruin.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t even seem to hear her. She kissed his cheek, vanishing out the doors of the mansion, perfume trailing behind her. Gone. The Duke stood for a long moment, mismatched eyes narrowed against the light. Then, slowly, he turned to Miarka, who was now peeling the skin from the grape with her fingers. He didn’t sit. He hovered. “Still here?” he asked with a lopsided smirk, voice slow and hoarse, like dragged ash. “How spiritually exhausting. I thought you’d transcend in your sleep. Or dissolve into vapour, like a saint in reverse.”
Miarka said nothing. He chuckled dryly, then coughed—coughed hard, doubling forward slightly, one pale hand clutched over his mouth. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t poetic. It was human. Another cough, sharp. A quick wipe at his nose, slender fingers shaking. He sank into a nearby armchair with a long exhale like a marionette whose strings had momentarily gone slack. A copy of ‘午後の曳航, Gogo no Eikō, The sailor who fell from grace by Yushio Moshimo.’ Sat on the table beside him, picked it up, and flipped it open somewhere in the middle without looking. Miarka watched him like a scientist might study a subject in its final hours.
“You’re sick,” she said.
“I’m—what?” he snapped, eyes flashing over the top of the book.
“Sick,” she repeated. “You're coughing all over the place. You're sniffling with running snot. You’re shaking and—not to mention, you’re sneezing. You’re sick.”
The Duke’s eyes returned to the page, but they didn’t move. Silence. Then a wet, rattling sneeze tore from him like his body was trying to eject something. He sniffed and blinked.
He scoffed. Snorted “Darling, I am not sick. I am transforming.” A wheeze punctuated the sentence. She tilted her head.
“You’re sick,” she repeated, bored, brushing lint from her coat.
The Duke’s eyes returned to the page. “Bloody well am not, darling. Remember, my race can’t get sick, it’s logic.”
His hand trembled as he turned the page. Miarka could see it from a mile away.
“Have you ever read 午後の曳航?” he asked, almost dreamily. “The sailor who fell from Grace with the sea, Yukio Mishima, darling. God, what a man. There’s a boy in that book, quiet and brilliant, brutal. He watched the sailor descend. From God to domestic creature. Love ruins him. Beauty turns to shame. And what do they do?”
He turned to her; one thin brow raised like punctuation. “They cut him open. To preserve the ideal.”
Miarka did not blink. “You are not ideal.”
He smiled faintly, cigarette smouldering between his lips like a dying comet. “And yet I’m still intact.”
“You know,” he said, almost gently. “There’s a line in Mishima’s book that struck me, back when I could still feel struck by things. The boy, Noboru, says something like: ‘Only the truly beautiful should be allowed to live.’ Isn’t that magnificent?”
He laughed bitterly. “So logical. Nihilism as elegance.”
Miarka said nothing.
He turned then, slowly, like a man unspooling his last thread of control. “That’s the trouble with this era, Miarka. The rot. The softness. Sentimentality has infected everything, art, sex. Biology. And we—we few—are meant to stand there watching it melt, pretending we don’t see the deformity.”
He stepped closer, voice quieter now, eyes strangely wide. “I’m not preserving myself. I’m preserving the form—the ideal—my race, the one that lives on the fault line between God and the afterlife. We were never meant to survive the way others do. We were meant to be remembered. Etched in static. Untouched.”
His slender, pale hands trembled again. He let out a cough.
“Noboru and the boys, they understood. When the sailor gave himself over to love, to mediocrity, to warmth, he had to be dismantled. Not punished. Preserved. As he was in the golden moment. Before he spoiled.”
He opened it blindly, letting the pages fall where they were.
“There isn't any fear in existence itself, or any uncertainty, but living creates it”, he quoted softly. “Only the cool purity of the ideal.”
He raised his mismatched eyes to Miarka’s. “That’s why you can’t help me, darling. You are the cold ideal—but you don’t feel it. And I—” his lips twitched. “I feel it too much.”
She stepped forward, clinical. “You are not preserving your race. You are collapsing.”
His reddish lips curled into a smile, and for a moment, it was almost beautiful. Almost.
The Duke paced slowly, one hand grazing along the velvet of the curtain, the other pressed against his temple. His eyes were shining, not with health, but with that glinting, fevered intellect that made him terrifying when he spoke too long, when no one interrupted.
“You think this is about politics?” he said suddenly, the words uncoiling like incense. “This isn’t about Nuremberg or flags or uniforms. That’s all—theatre for the underfed. No, the true Aryan ideal—it’s spiritual. Mystical.”
He turned toward her, eyes flashing. “There was a reason the Thule society reached Atlantis. Why did they hunt relics? They understood something primal, that race is not just blood. It’s a frequency—a tuning fork of ancient geometry. The Aryan body, the true form, was the vessel. A walking rune.”
He lifted his hand, fingers trembling from the fabric of the curtain with something that felt dangerously close to ecstasy. “The shape of the face, the curve of the bone, the hollowness in the eyes, it meant something. Sigils in flesh. Carriers of Godlight. Not just superior, chosen. Built to house divinity without bursting into ash.”
He smiled faintly, as if remembering something sacred and long-lost. “That’s why I must hold this shape. This silence. This cold. The warmth is corruption. The myth only survives in ice. It must never melt.”
Miarka’s blue eyes locked on him like a lens. “You are quoting Guido Von List.” She said coolly. “A man who claimed to hear racial prophecy after going blind from syphilis.”
The Duke’s breath caught. He stared at her, blinking, as if she had just recited his private scripture backwards.
“I—” he began, followed with nothing.
Miarka continued. “Your mysticism is not ancient. It is misquoted folklore, repackaged delusion. A rotted myth stitched together by failed men desperate to make their bodies matter.”
She didn’t raise her voice.
“Your face is not a rune. It is a mask. And it is slipping.”
The Duke staggered back half a step, not out of weakness, but disorientation as if the floor had tilted beneath him—his posture. Still impeccable, no longer felt like strength—more like scaffolding holding up a ruin.
“You read too much,” he muttered hoarsely. “You read—cold.”
“I read accurately,” she replied. “And I do not worship what idealises the extermination of millions.”
“I am not some failed occultist,” he said without turning. “I’m what remains when everything else lies in ash.”
“You are what remains when delusion outlasts the flame,” Miarka answered.
The Duke's smile collapsed. He looked very tired. Then. “You really do know how to kill the mood, my love.”
He turned away, pacing to the door with that long, eerie grace, but something wild fraying at the edges of his movement now. Less performance, more, retreat. “I don’t need a watcher, or a caretaker. Or some synthetic oracle pointing out my flaws with the precision of a spreadsheet. I need silence. Art. Cigarettes. An Eliot.”
His voice cracked, barely. Then he stopped. Without turning back. “Leave me alone, Miarka.”
He disappeared into the hallway. A second later, the bedroom door slammed with vicious finality, the sound echoing down the spine of the house like a gunshot.
Miarka remained.
“That is not purity. That is pathology.”
The book still lay open on the floor. She retrieved it and held it in her hands. Beneath her gaze, the pages fluttered, where his annotations had slashed across the book’s quiet ruins.
“There isn't any fear in existence itself, or any uncertainty, but living creates it."
She spoke with the cold precision of a surgeon, each word a scalpel.
"Your ideals are not purity; they are constructs, fragile and prone to decay.
You fear the chaos of existence, so you build walls of myth and blood.
But in doing so, you only imprison yourself within a lie.”
She stared. Then closed the book.
Miarka gently closed her narrow eyes, recalling a transformation in her life.
Kazan, Russia – May 4th, 1972.
The girl’s dormitory was thick with warm perfume and self-satisfied chatter. Alina stood in the centre, the axis of attention, her honey blonde hair curled into soft spirals, catching the light like fine silk. She was talking too loudly, clearly wanting to be overheard, her voice bright and syrupy as she bragged about some new admirer, older, essential and wealthy. The girls around her clung to every word, laughing where she laughed, gasping where she paused. Miarka sat still on her narrow bunk in the corner, her blue eyes unreadable, her face pale and smooth like porcelain glazed over with frost. She didn’t react, she didn’t blink, didn’t so much as tilt her head. She watched, not Alina but the empty spaces between her words. Something was off. Something didn’t fit. When the crowd dispersed and the echo of giggles faded down the hallway, Miarka stood. Silent, she drifted toward Alina’s side of the room like a shadow cast by nothing. Her hands moved with quiet certainty, opening the drawer of Alina’s little vanity table, careful not to disturb a single hairbrush or crumbled love letter. There—beneath a compact and a cheap golden locket—was a folded piece of paper written in Scripp. Alina always thought she was clever using that code; Miarka had memorised it long ago.
Her fingers unfolded the note without hesitation. The lines were rushed, the ink slightly smeared, as though written in fear or haste. The message was blunt, and it didn’t match the glamorous image Alina tried to project. ‘Ты обещала, что придёшь. Он знает. Мне страшно. Статуя в галерее. Ты помнишь — та, что переживает всё. Я буду ждать. Просто скажи, что мне делать.’ (‘You promised you’d come. He knows. I’m scared. The statue in the gallery. You remember — the one that survives everything. I’ll wait. Just tell me what to do’)
A second, different handwriting trailed beneath it: ‘Это моё, Алина. Ты сама так сказала. Ты сказала, что мы разберёмся с этим вместе’ (‘It’s mine, Alina. You said so. You said we’d figure it out together.’)
The paper trembled slightly in her grip, but Miarka’s face did not. She folded the note again and slid it into the sleeve of her coat. No panic. No thrill. Only a cold, clinical deduction behind her steady gaze. Alina was hiding something. The bragging was a mask; underneath it lay fear. Perhaps shame. Perhaps a mistake that couldn’t be undone. And now a man was involved, someone unknown, maybe dangerous. The art gallery. The statue. Miarka knew the one: ‘The Survivant.’ An abstract, iron figure forged during the Second World War. Set in a dim alcove beneath a cracked skylight. It represented hunger, solitude, and survival against hopeless odds. Most people passed it without stopping. But Miarka had always looked. Always wondered what kind of person could keep living like that, frozen, wounded, but never breaking.
She left the dormitory without a sound, her expression still flat, eyes dark and steady. She didn’t do this out of concern for Alina. This was about truth, raw, unpolished. Miarka didn’t deal in comfort. She dealt in understanding, in control. And something told her that this gallery meeting would crack open something far uglier than Alina’s sparkling lies. Something Miarka needed to see for herself.
Miarka stood beneath the looming iron presence of The Survivant, her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, her hair in twin plaits, face blank and breath shallow in the cold gallery air. The statue towered above her, faceless, hollow-chested, arms reaching through imagined snow, a relic of pain turned into resilience. The gallery was nearly empty, save for an older couple murmuring by a war-era painting. Then, she heard footsteps, measured, soft-soled, just off-beat enough to be foreign. She didn’t look up until the figure stopped beside her. He was tall, poorly shaved, with dark hair that didn’t quite match his thick scarf and Russian coat, which seemed too clean and intentional. When he spoke, the accent immediately betrayed him. His Russian was sloppy, the consonants slurred, vowels mispronounced in ways only non-native speakers got wrong. He tried to mask it, but Miarka caught the American cadence underneath. He mentioned that Kazan was always cold, even in May.
“You’re not Russian,” she said quietly, blue eyes still on the statue.
The man hesitated for half a second, then chuckled under his breath. “No. I guess I’m not.” He tilted his head, half impressed. “You caught that quick.”
“Your ы sounds like i,” Miarka said. “Your ‘zh’ is too sharp. You learned phonetically — probably from tapes, not people. You also just used the word for cold that only Muscovites use.” She finally looked at him. “Are you American?”
He smiled, a flash of something sharp beneath the charm. “Very good. You’re smarter than I expected.”
“And you’re worse at hiding than you expected.” Miarka’s blue eyes narrowed. “You left the note for Alina. The one I found. She didn’t write it, her handwriting is wide and careless. Yours is tight. Structured. You used Scripp to make it look like it came from a girl.”
The man paused, observing her now. “What gave it away?”
“She brags too much to be in love,” Miarka said. “And she’s too clever to get pregnant. It’s not romance. It’s survival. Alina was gathering information for someone. You.”
He laughed, almost genuinely this time. “You’re not just clever. You’re dangerous. Fourteen right?”
“Almost fifteen,” Miarka corrected, tone flat. “And I don’t care what happens to Alina.”
“Then why’d you come?”
She turned back to the statue, her voice cold and distant. “I wanted to know the truth.”
A silence settled between them, heavy as the metal limbs of the sculpture above them. The man looked at her with something closer to respect, now mixed with wariness. “Ever thought about leaving this place?” he asked. “Not the gallery. Russia.”
Miarka didn’t answer.
He reached into his coat an pulled out a small folder, just thick enough to mean something. “Fake Visa. Western papers. New identity. I can get you out. In return, you help us. You’re quiet. You observe. And clearly, you think faster than half the men I work with.”
Miarka stared at the folder, than at him. “Why do you trust me?”
“I don’t,” he said. “But you already pieced this together without training. I figure you’ll say yes, not because you want to help me, but because you want to know more.”
Then gave her pause. He wasn’t wrong. Miarka looked up at, the survivor with no face and no name. Then she looked back at the American and nodded once. “I’ll do it,” She said. “But don’t lie to me again.”
He grinned. “Deal.”
And just like that, Miarka took her first step into the cold machinery of secrets, not for country or cause, but for curiosity.
In the evening, the dormitory buzzed with the tremors of a celebration, a spring party thrown for the older students, filled with clinking glasses, records spinning melancholy Russian ballads, and girls whispering behind manicured hands. Miarka had returned unnoticed, slipping through the side entrance of the building just as dusk painted Kazan in amber hues. She didn’t go back to her bunk. Instead, she veered off toward the costume room, a cluttered, forgotten corner near the old theatre wing, full of discarded garments, wings and heavy capes from school plays no one remembered. Her hands moved with calm precision. She chose a bright blonde wig, not shimmering gold of Alina’s hair, but a richer, more aged tone, darker at the roots. She pinned it expertly, tight against her scalp, and dusted her cheeks with powder, contouring shadows along her jaw and nose. Lipstick bled into the corners of her mouth, as she painted on a softer, older expression. There was no trace of Miarka’s pale, ghostlike self in the mirror now. What stared back was someone else entirely —a woman in her twenties, polished and aloof, with sharp, distant eyes and the hint of wealth in her bearing.
From a rack of old Soviet costume dresses, she found exactly what she was looking for. A deep crimson satin piece with wide, bell-shaped sleeves and gold embroidery curling along the collar and cuffs. The fabric was slightly faded, but it carried the air of affluence, the kind reserved for bureaucrats' wives —the ones who chuckled and drank tea without sugar. She stepped into it, tugging the waistline snug, allowing the weight of the fabric to alter her movement and stance subtly. She was taller now, somehow. When she emerged and walked through the halls, no one paid her any mind. She blended in like smoke, gliding past teachers and matrons with a nod too confident to question. The music from the assembly room grew louder, and so did the laughter and the scent of citrus and cheap perfume. She didn’t pay any mind.
The music from the party still echoed faintly behind her, distant, dull and like a memory she was already beginning to discard. Miarka stood alone in the dark corridor outside the costume room, pulling the blonde wig tighter against her skull. She no longer looked like a fourteen-year-old girl.
She stepped out into the Kazan night, blending with the shadows as she made her way through the shadows as she made her way through the city’s quiet, frost-laced streets. Her destination was clear: the government buildings near the centre of town, an administrative headquarters often used by mid-level Soviet officers, military attaches, and party officials —a place layered in smoke, secrets, and silence. As she approached, she slowed, eyes narrowing as she spotted the man—him—the soldier. Broad-shouldered, flushed with alcohol, standing near the entrance with a cigarette between his fingers. Miarka knew his face. He was the one Alina whispered about, not with affection but strategy, one of her paying ‘clients’, a man who thought he was in control until the moment passed. He hadn’t seen Miarka before. He wouldn’t recognise her now. Men stared as she passed through the gate, her posture stiff. She didn’t acknowledge them, only offered a glance from beneath lowered lashes. Let them look. It distracted them. She let them assume. Then, when the moment she veered off, slipping past the hedges and down the side of the building, where shadows grew thick and the yellow light from the windows didn’t quite reach. Miarka moved through the alleys toward the administrative building. The stone walls loomed above her, and she paused in the shadows, just beyond the back entrance. Two soldiers patrolled the area; one paced back and forth along a narrow corridor near the delivery dock, while the other was stationed further along, near the side gate. Miarka crouched low behind a metal crate, silent. Her eyes followed the nearer guard’s movements, watching his boots tap the same rhythm over cracked concrete. She narrowed her eyes.
One, two, three, turn. One, two, three, wait. One, two, three, turn.
She mouthed the timing to herself again and again, matching her heartbeat to his boots. A three-second pause every third rotation. Just enough. She moved during the pause, gliding low across the space between two loading barrels, the hem of her crimson costume dress trailing behind her like a whisper. She ducked into a service alcove just as the guard turned again, never once breaking rhythm. The door was locked, but only lightly. Old. Worn. Miarka produced a small wire from her stocking, shaped like a hairpin. She worked quickly, and the lock clicked. She slipped inside and shut it behind her without a sound. Inside the rear office hall, fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and typewriters sat still on desks, the air stale with the scent of paper and dust.
She moved quickly, hands brushing against the file drawers marked in coded numbers and red stripes. It didn’t take long to find the drawer labelled. ‘13-БЯ.’ A designation she’d been told to look for, but never told what it contained. She opened it, expecting routine reports. But what she found made her pause.
The first document stamped ‘ОСОБО СЕКРЕТНО — Top Secret.’ She unfolded it slowly. It was about nuclear weapons testing, specifically regions near the Ural Mountains. The document listed failed detonations, misfires, but more alarmingly, missing radioactive material. One entry had been circled by someone else, weeks ago: “Высокообогащённый уран — пропал без учёта во время транспортировки. Операция по восстановлению неудачна. Подозрение на внутреннюю кражу” (Highly enriched uranium — unaccounted for during transit. Recovery operation unsuccessful. Suspected internal theft.”)
The second file was worse. It contained photographs, grainy, black and white, surveillance images taken through long-lens cameras. One image was of a man meeting with a Soviet official on a park bench. The other: a young girl, Alina, blurred but unmistakable, walking toward a military jeep with documents in hand. There were names scrawled along the border in English. Miarka blinked. These weren’t Soviet files.
They were intercepted American intelligence, stolen from CIA drop points. Someone had smuggled them back into Soviet hands. Or perhaps they never left Russian soil at all. The final document was incomplete, coded, but it took Miarka only a moment to realise what it was—a spy roster. Alleged Western agents embedded within Soviet research labs, some names blacked out, others in Cyrillic, some in English. One name wasn’t redacted.
Her blue eyes froze on it.
The soldier who’d been seen with Alina—Major Lysenko—was listed under ‘Unstable, Monitored Asset.’ Notes beside his name marked ‘Нестабильный — Объект под наблюдением’ (Unstable—Monitored Asset.) Notes beside his name marked ‘Использовано финансовое давление’ (Financial leverage used) and ‘Повышенный доступ к отделу химического оружия.’ (Increased access to the chemical weapons division.) Miarka’s breath slowed, her mind racing. This wasn’t gossip or scandal. This was an intersection of weapons, traitors and manipulation. Alina, the girl who giggled about lovers and perfume, was a courier caught in a much darker web.
Miarka pulled the most crucial pages, the nuclear theft report, the CIA photo set, and the partial spy roster. She folded them into the inner seam of her coat with surgical precision. The rest, decoys, cover reports, routine memos, she returned to the drawer. Clutter that would stall anyone who followed.
She froze. The door creaked open, and a shaft of hallway light cut through. A shadow stepped in, tall, broad, rifle gripped in one gloved hand, scanning the dark like a blade—a guard.
Her blue eyes snapped wide, the pale colour flashing in the gloom like a startled cat caught in candlelight. Her heart didn’t race. Her face didn’t twitch. She moved, impossibly fast and fluid. Miarka bent her small frame backward into a deep, unnatural arch, her arms reaching behind her like water flowing uphill. She twisted, knees folding beneath her, shoulders compressing, and in one breathless motion, she slipped into an empty drawer beneath a filing cabinet. The space was just wide enough to fit a child, barely. Dust clung to her lips. Her back cramped from the unnatural angle. She didn’t make a sound. The guard stepped further into the room, the flashlight beam sweeping across the desks, walls, and cabinets. His boots thudded against the floor, rifle poised at his shoulder. He paused at the open file drawer.
Miarka’s fingers, steady as stone, slipped a replica document, carefully aged, slightly misprinted, created days earlier by the American, back into the exact place where the original had been. The replacement was just convincing enough to pass a casual inspection, even in low light. The guard stopped. He squinted at the open drawer. For a moment, Miarka thought he’d reach in. He didn’t. He muttered something, probably about clerical laziness, then turned on his heel, flashlight beam bobbing toward the door. She waited until the latch clicked closed again.
She exhaled.
She slid from the drawer like a serpent uncoiling, her limbs stiff. She took the same route, avoiding the patrol with the practised timing of a phantom. Under a streetlamp outside the compound, Miarka stopped. She unfolded the stolen documents, her pale fingers careful against the fragile, dangerous papers. She reread them, her face remained unchanged, no fear, no thrill—just calmness.
Then, without hesitation, she removed the non-essential pages and let them fall into the gutter, where the rain would ruin the ink and carry the scraps into nothing. The important pages? Those she would remember, every word and every name.
Miarka whispered to herself. “Alina wasn't a fool. She was bait.”
Miarka met up with the American Spy under the street light. He flickered a cocky smile, “Well colour me impressed.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a neatly folded visa to France and a passport—one with male information—sliding them into his hand. “Here,” she said.
“This is your ticket out. A new identity, a new country. A way past the iron curtain into a world that’s supposed to be a little less black and white.”
Miarka's fingers brushed over the passport, noting the masculine name and details. Her eyes locked onto his. “I don’t care for war.” She said evenly. “Not because I don’t understand it, but because I reject the whole damn calculus. War turns people into numbers, pawns in a game where ideology wears a mask of righteousness and the individual gets crushed under the weight of it all.”
He studied her for a moment, brow furrowing, like he was weighing her words against complex reality. “And yet, here you are, knee-deep in the machinery of it.”
Her voice stayed steady, resolute. “I don’t dive into the fire. I did it to expose the gears turning behind the scenes, the hidden forces that push and pull on the balance of everything. I’m not loyal to war. I’m loyal to survival. To the truth. To a future where we’re not trapped in an endless cycle of destruction.”
He nodded, a hint of something almost like understanding in his eyes. “Maybe this isn’t just running away. Maybe it’s your shot at rewriting the whole damn play.”
The dormitory was dim that night, lit only by the weak amber glow of a bedside lamp and the silver wash of moonlight leaking through the cracked windowpanes. Miarka stood in the doorway, barefoot on cold linoleum, her long brown hair falling around her shoulders in quiet waves. She wore a simple nightgown, pale ivory, the hem brushing her ankles, catching the faint breeze from the open window.
She looked eerily like her mother.
It wasn’t intentional. But anyone who glanced at her in that moment would have seen it, the same sharp cheekbones, the heavy-lidded, unreadable eyes, the coiled restraint. Her aunt had once said that when Miarka let her hair down, it was like a ghost entered the room. Down the hallway, muffled and sweet, came the soft echo of singing.
It was Alina.
The sound drifted through the door left ajar at the end of the dorm. Her voice was delicate, untrained, yet haunting in its vulnerability. A folk lullaby, half hummed, half sung. Not for anyone. Not for a performance. Just something to fill the silence. Miarka walked toward it, her steps deliberate. She didn’t knock. Inside, Alina sat cross-legged on her bunk, long blonde hair loose down her back, her robe slipping from one shoulder. She didn’t startle when she saw Miarka. She just smiled faintly, finishing her last line before the quiet returned.
Miarka didn’t sit. She stood by the edge of the bed, her arms loose at her sides, eyes locked onto Alina’s like a mirror refusing to blink. “Хватит нести чушь”(Cut the crap) she said.
Alina raised an eyebrow.
“Ты не беременна” (You’re not pregnant), Miarka continued. “Ты не больна. Ты просто устала. Ты хочешь выйти — и хочешь красивую отговорку, чтобы это оправдать.” (You’re not sick. You’re just done. You want out — and you want a pretty excuse to wrap it in.)
Alina’s smile shifted, not quite fading, sharpening. “Есть два вида выживания” (There’s two kinds of survival) she said softly. “Один — когда ты умоляешь о пощаде. Другой — когда ты заставляешь их поверить, что тебя слишком ценно убивать” (One where you beg for mercy. And one where you make them believe you’re too valuable to kill.)
Miarka rolled her eyes. “Мне наплевать на твои метафоры о выживании.” (I don’t give a damn about your survival metaphors)
“Нет.” Alina agreed, “Ты не понимаешь. Но ты их понимаешь.” (No, You don’t. But you understand them.)
Miarka asked coldly, “Какую информацию они запрашивали?” (What intel did they ask for?)
Alina smiled. “Почему?” (why?)
“Я подумаю о том, чтобы спросить за тебя.” (I’ll consider asking for you) Miarka replied. “Помочь тебе выбраться. Но я хочу правду” (Help you get out. But I want the truth.)
Alina’s eyes flashed, something bitter and feral. Her hand darted under the mattress. Miarka moved a second too late.
Steel caught the light, a small and sharp knife. Flashing toward Miarka with lightning speed. She stumbled back, not far enough. Alina lunged, grabbing her by the wrist, pinning her backward onto the bedframe. Miarka’s breath hitched. Her nightgown twisted at her hip as she struggled, but Alina had her arm across her chest, pressing her down, the knife just close enough to threaten.
“За меньшее я перерезала глотки” (I’ve slit throats for less) Alina whispered in her ear.
“Ты вообще ничего не перерезала” (You never slit anything) Miarka hissed back. “Ты просто передавала нож мужчинам и указывала, куда резать” (You handed the knife to men and told them where to cut.)
That made Alina pause. Miarka shifted her weight and kicked up hard, catching Alina behind the knee. The blonde girl yelped, stumbled, and Miarka twisted, breaking her arm free, using the bedframe to launch herself upright. The two girls crashed to the floor, limbs entangled, the knife skittering across the tile out of reach. Miarka straddled her then, panting, brunette locks falling like a veil around her face.
“Я знаю всё” (I know everything) she said, voice low and deadly. “Уран. Список. Солдат. Твои фальшивые слёзы. Твои спектакли. Ты не сломлена, Алина. Ты просто больше не играешь свою роль” (The uranium. The roster. The soldier. Your fake crying. Your performances. You’re not broken, Alina. You’re done playing your part.)
Alina stopped struggling. She lay still for a moment, eyes glassy, not with fear but coldness.
“Я перехожу на другую сторону.” (I’m defecting) she said softly. “В Австрию. Мне не нужна Москва. Я хочу границу, где нет языка” (To Austria. I don’t want Moscow. I want a border with no language.)
Miarka eased back. Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t reach for the knife.
“Тогда скажи это” (Then say that) she muttered.
Alina sat up slowly, brushing her blonde hair back from her face, her robe slipping further from one shoulder. “Людям вроде меня не положено говорить такое вслух” (It’s not something people like me get to say out loud.)
Miarka oversaw her. “Ты думаешь, мы с тобой одинаковые?” (You think you and I are the same?)
Alina looked up at her, tired, proud and broken.
“Нет” (No) she said. “Ты — то, кем я был(а), прежде чем начал(а) лгать, чтобы выжить. (You’re what I was before I started lying to survive)
Miarka didn’t respond; she left without another word. Alina’s voice followed her into the hallway like smoke.
“Однажды, Мярка... и ты начнёшь лгать. Только ты будешь лучше в том, чтобы в это верить.”(One day, Miarka... you’ll lie too. You’ll just be better at believing it.)
Long after she was gone, that line stayed, curled up in Miarka’s chest like a second heartbeat.
In the quiet solitude of her dorm room, Miarka stood before the cracked mirror, the weight of her long brown hair pressing heavily down her back. The pale bulb overhead cast a dim, flickering light, casting long shadows on the peeling wallpaper. Her fingers trembled slightly as she picked up the small, worn scissors she had hidden beneath her bed, a secret weapon against the legacy that felt like it was suffocating her. The memory of her aunt’s voice floated through her mind, warm and proud, speaking in soft French tones. “Ma petite étoile, tu as la voix de ta mère, la célèbre chanteuse de Paris.” (My little star, you have your mother’s voice, the famous singer of Paris.)
That image, her mother, the celebrated French chanteuse, had always felt like a shackle, a role forced upon her before she had even learned to breathe. Tonight, Miarka decided to break free. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the scissors, and as she began to sing softly, her voice shaky but gathering strength, the opening notes of Philosophy's ‘Voilà’ slipped past her lips.
“Voila, c’est fini, voilà, c’est fini.”
Each poignant note echoed in the still room, and with every phrase, she took a lock of her brown tress between her fingers and cut.
“Voila, c’est fini, les beaux jours sont finis...”
The strands fell silently onto the floor, her reflection shifting with each snip. The long, soft waves transformed, inch by inch, into something sharper, edgier.
“Tu ne m’aimes plus.”
Her voice grew stronger, more determined, as the locks of hair became shorter, revealing a narrower jawline and bolder cheekbones. She was no longer the delicate girl her aunt wanted her to be.
“Je t’aime encore.”
“Voilà, c’est fini, voilà, c’est fini.”
The words stirred a vivid flashback. Her gaze locked on the mirror, but her mind transported her back to a freezing night a year ago, when she was thirteen, a girl darting through shadowed alleys in Kazan. Her heart pounded like a frantic drum as the sound of heavy boots echoed behind her. She was cornered, vulnerable, and gasping for breath when suddenly, a soldier's gun pulled her from the darkness. He shielded her from a looming threat, a predator whose grasp she narrowly escaped. The memory was raw: the cold bite of fear, the aching tension of survival and the soldiers gruff whisper. “You’re not a girl now. You’re a soldier.” Survival, she realised, wasn’t an act of kindness; it was a harsh necessity, a razor’s edge between life and oblivion.
“Les beaux jours sont finis.”
As the melody flowed into the following line. Miarka saw herself sprinting through the frozen, desolate streets, cheeks stinging from the biting wind, limbs burning with exhaustion. The world around her was indifferent, an endless maze of danger of distrust. The soldiers warning lingered: “If you want to survive—you learn to kill. Fast. Without regret." It was not a promise of safety but a demand for restless flight. Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered the chilling night air, the pounding footsteps fading behind her, and the bitter loneliness of knowing that some days—the beautiful days—were already gone, lost to shadows and fear. Running had become her defiance, her only weapon against a world that wanted to see her broken.
“Tu ne m’aimes plus...”
Her fingers closed tightly around a thick lock of hair as the music deepened, and the mirror blurred with a new image: a soldier’s sharp eyes, dark and cautious, watching her not with warmth but with the cold calculus of survival. She wasn’t loved. Not truly. To him, she was a fragile piece on a sprawling chessboard, moved by necessity and danger. The weight of that truth settled like ice in her chest. Her heart ached with the knowledge that affection was a luxury she could not afford, just like safety, just like trust. The world had taught her early that love was a fragile thing, often absent in the harshest of battles.
“Je t’aime encore...”
Miarka’s voice grew stronger with the final notes, her hands moved with deliberate precision, cutting strand after strand of her long, dark, brown hair. Each lock fell silently to the floor, peeling away the fragile image she had inherited—the daughter of a famous French singer, the ‘petite étoile’ her aunt often praised. Her eyes fiercer, the delicate child transformed into something raw and striking androgyny. She was no longer bound by the expectations of her mother’s legacy or the past she never chose. She was reborn, sharper, stronger and fiercely her own.
Her voice did not falter. She sang it not as a daughter to a mother, not as a girl wishing to be loved, but as someone who had clawed their way into becoming. Her hair was gone now, cropped to her head in jagged tufts. Her face in the mirror had changed. Where once stood a beautiful girl with a sorrowful past, now saw no mother’s ghost in this reflection. She saw himself.
He placed the scissors down on the desk, he stared at the mirror, blood pounding, chest tight, breath shaky but free.
“I am not her daughter.” He said quietly.
“I’m not your little star.”
His voice was hoarse.
“I’m not a girl.”
He let the words hang. They didn’t feel like rebellion. They felt like the truth.
“I’m now a man, for the time being.” He said. “I’m Marceau Chevalier.”
There it was. Real. Solid. Whole.
The hair lay in soft brown heaps on the dormitory floor, the last traces of the girl Miarka had been. Jagged tufts remained, uneven and sharp, around his jawline. Not the delicate strands her aunt once adored, not the carefully brushed locks that reminded everyone of ‘la fille de la chanteuse française.’
No. She was no one’s daughter now. No one’s star.
Miarka—Marceau—stared into the cracked mirror. His breath fogged the glass. The boy staring back was raw, but real—with cropped hair, fierce eyes, and the growing silence of a storm gathering just behind the chest. “Voilà” he whispered, the final note of the song still trembling through the air. Not an ending. A beginning.
He turned away from the mirror and moved across the room. From under the loose floorboard, he pulled a tightly rolled bundle, the soldier's uniform he had stolen piece by piece over months—bartered for scraps, filched from washing lines, stitched together in secret. Soviet Khaki. Thick, heavy fabric. It still smelled faintly of smoke and iron. Miarka stripped off the thin nightgown—the last feminine thing he would ever wear—and tossed it aside like shedding skin. The shirt clung to his chest at first, a reminder of the body that never felt quite right, but he pulled the belt tight, cinching it around his narrow waist, straightening his spine. He shoved his feet into black boots, too big for him but grounding, solid.
In the mirror, he no longer looked like a girl rebelling. He looked like a boy stepping into his own shadow. A soldier in his own right. He crossed the room and reached beneath the floorboards again, this time retrieving the envelope the American spy had given him. The fake visa. One name. One destination. France.
His fingers trembled as he opened it, not from fear—from something older. A quiet rage, and a promise. He stared down at the paper, reading the name. Not Miarka. Not the name of the dead singer’s daughter. It was a new name, one he had whispered to himself in the dark.
Marceau Chevalier.
A boy born from the ash of a vanished girl. A boy no one would expect. A boy with fire in his lungs and steel in his bones. He tucked the visa carefully inside the pocket. He stepped back, looking at himself in the mirror for the final time. He no longer looked like a student. Not like a child.
He looked like someone who belonged to himself. He gave his reflection a curt nod. Then Marceau turned, buttoned his collar, and left the dormitory without a sound, walking into the dark Kazan streets, his boots striking the cobblestone like drumbeats. Behind him, the ghost of Miarka faded like a shadow at dawn.
Ahead of him, a border. A train. A life to steal back. And no one would see him coming.
Miarka placed the book back down. She approached the Duke’s bedroom like she might approach a dying star, light still leaking through the cracks, burning itself out from the inside. The air in the corridor was thick with a too-still tension, as though the house were holding its breath. In her hands, she carried a glass of whole milk, absurdly domestic, as she walked barefoot past frame obsessions and cigarette burn-scarred furniture. She pushed open the door without knocking. He was folded on the bed like some broken deity, back to the frame, shirt unbuttoned, ribs casting thin, sharp shadows under low light of the chandelier. His pale skin glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. A cigarette hung unlit from his lips, forgotten. The Thin White Duke, but his face—David’s face—looked wrecked. Haunted.
He didn’t look up as she entered. Only spoke. Voice quiet. Refined. A little too calm. A velvet glove over a broken wrist. “Y’know what Mishima said? ‘True beauty is something that attacks, overpowers, robs, and finally destroys.”
He exhaled slowly, coughing, though no words, no voice came from his mouth—just air—grief masquerading as fiery ice. “I think that’s what I’ve become, Miarka. A slow, exquisite disaster.”
She set the milk down between them. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days,” she said gently.
He smiled at her, razor thin and glassy-eyed. The smile he always had, all irony and charm lacquered over something cruel and tender. “I had a line for breakfast. Some bourbon for brunch. This,” he nodded at the milk. “Is practically a fuckin’ sacrament.”
He reached for the glass, hand trembling, and drank. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. It looked unnatural, almost painful, like his body didn’t quite remember how to receive something pure. Miarka sat down beside him on the bed, her knees brushing the silk sheets. She watched him. He was sick. The way his long fingers cradled the glass. The way the hollow of his neck looked carved from insomnia. She reached out, carefully, to touch the delicate edge of his wrist. A human gesture. Small. Soft. Anchoring.
He flinched. Hard.
The cigarette fell from his mouth, and his entire body pulled away from her like she’d burned him. Not violently but instantly. Instinctually.
“Don’t—Don’t touch me—Don’t fuckin’ touch me.”
His voice cracked. Then hardened. Guttural.
“Never touch the art.”
Miarka blinked. Her pale fingers remained open in the air, then slowly lowered. “The art?” she asked softly. “You’re the art?”
He gave a crooked laugh, twisting through the Duke’s gleaming teeth.
“I’m a masterpiece of dissociation, darling. Hangin’ in a gallery no one visits anymore.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “Why don’t you like it?” she asked. “Being touched?”
He didn’t answer at first, just picked up the cigarette again. Didn’t light it. He just held it there, like a shield. A crutch.
“Because touch is real,” he said at last, with disgust. “It’s sweaty, it’s unedited. It’s sticky with intent.”
He lowly mocked, cockily “Beside, the body’s just a rented suit. Who cares if someone brushes the sleeve.”
His mismatched gaze said otherwise, his body was still taut. Humming with refusal.
Miarka broke the silence, pulling her hand back. “I was nine when I was accepted into the Bolshoi dance school. Classical Vaganova style, it wasn’t a school, it was a—” she looked up to the ceiling, blue eyes unfocused. “A machine made of mirrors and bones.”
The Duke flickered ash into a glass tray. Miarka’s voice thinned into memory. “There was the instructor, Madame Terekhova. She wore blood-red lipstick and fur in summer. Her voice was a weapon. She believed every mistake was a sin against the body. If you cried, she’d make you dance again until your feet bled. And when you bled, you weren’t allowed to use any tourniquet or bandage until the last rehearsal ended. Pain was the price of transcendence.”
The Duke blinked, expression unreadable. But his posture had changed; his body now leaned toward her. “One winter,” Miarka said, voice cold. “I tore the ligaments in my left ankle mid-pirouette. I hit the floor, and the world went sideways. Everyone kept dancing around me. I was crying. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Madame stood there, arms folded, watching me like I was a defective instrument.”
Her voice was calm, yet her eyes read of something else.
“And then, out of nowhere, this older girl—Vera—she broke rank. Ran across the floor and knelt beside me. Held my hand. It was so small. So stupid. She touched me. Everyone else just watched. She touched me.”
Miarka met the Duke’s mismatched eyes, unblinking. “It saved me. That moment of touch.”
The Duke was silent—no witty comment nor clever remark. No deflection. Just smoke curling from his cigarette, his gaze fixed on her face like it held something too human to understand. She moved her hand again. Slowly. Gently. Not to touch him, but to set it down, palm up, between them. “I don’t want to fix you.” She said. “I just want you to know you can be held.”
He stared at her hand for a long time, as though it were a live wire. Then looked at the milk glass in his hand—absurdly white against his nicotine-stained fingers. “You’re not supposed to be real,” he murmured. Voice low. Hoarse. No mask. No affectation. “You’re supposed to be a hallucination. A fever dream. Something beautiful that disappears when the lights come on.”
He set the glass down and leaned back, legs long and sprawling like a puppet with its strings cut. “But here you are. Talking about some bullshit that happened years ago in Kazan. About pain. And Vera and blood on satin slippers. Fuck.”
His voice cracked again. Faintly.
The Duke pushed himself from the bedframe, heading toward the bathroom. The smell was reminiscent of amber oil, stale smoke, and metal, with a hint of cologne. The marble tiles shimmered under soft lights. The tub was claw-footed, deep enough to drown in. His eyes tracked her as she entered. He smiled cruelly.
A predator’s smile at seeing its prey.
“Let’s play.”
Miarka leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Play what?”
He gestured toward the room with a lazy flourish, voice honeyed and hollow. “Chess. Strip. Confession. I don’t care. I’m bored, and you’re not bad looking, love. Seems unfair.”
She stepped inside. Calm. He watched her like a lion watches the air shift around a gazelle, not hungry. Curious. “Undress me.”
It wasn’t a request. She didn’t blink. “I’d rather eat dirt.”
The Duke laughed, low and breathless. “God, you’re delightful. So resistant. So precise.”
He rose towering over her. “Here, I’ll get started.” His robe slid off, revealing his pale, slim body, everything there. He lowered himself into the tub, his legs sprawling, letting out a relaxed sigh. He reached out with one dripping hand to hand her a sponge. “Wash me.”
Miarka took it, slowly, like she was accepting a dare. Her blue eyes narrowed, she knew what he was doing, and she didn’t back down. Water cascaded down his chest, revealing more of his long, haunted body. Miarka moved toward him, kneeling.
She ran the sponge over his chest, slow and unbothered. Over his sternum. Down the sharp line of his ribs. He watched, head tilting like a bird.
“You’re very good at pretending this doesn’t affect you,” He teased. “But I can feel your pulse in the way you breathe.”
“You mistake focus for fear,” Miarka replied.
“I mistake nothing. I edit everything.” His fingers intertwined, leaning his elbows against the tub’s rim; his cheek pressed against his hand. Smirking with satisfaction.
He shifted forward, catching her wrist. Gently with intention. He guided her hand lower, beneath the water's surface. She didn’t resist, but her blue eyes locked on his, sharp.
He moved her hand closer, trailing her hand up his thigh, intimate, just a hair’s breadth away from contact. “Go on,” he said, voice gone velvet. “Touch the part of me everyone wants but no one loves.”
Her hand hovered there, and he trailed ever closer. A beat passed. He pulled her hand gently, brushing past the tip of his penis.
Miarka, having enough, lunged in, her mouth close to his ear. Holding the back of his neck, her breath warm. Her voice threatening. “You want worship, not connection. That’s why no one can touch you, because you must touch them. It’s about control. Pleasure with you would taste like ash.”
He froze. She held his gaze, her hand still brushing past the tip.
“You’re not as smart as you think you are. You beg for power, you don’t offer it.”
She pulled her hand back and roughly shoved him back. She set the sponge firmly on the edge of the tub. “Checkmate.” She said.
The Duke let out a long, quiet exhale. Something in him flickered, rage and shame, he didn’t even know. She was halfway to the door.
“Miarka!” he called out, stripped of polish. “Why’d you stay.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Because I’m not afraid of what’s broken in you. When great powers fall and history moves on, you’ll be nothing. Thy kingdom come.”
Then she was gone. The Duke alone in the bath, stared at the rising steam like it might whisper the next move. He didn’t chase her. He didn’t speak. The steam settled around his face like a mask, for a moment, unreadable.
Then—a laugh.
Not warmth. Not gratitude. Something thinner. Crooked. As if her whole existence was a performance he’d seen and dismissed. “Pity’s such a vulgar emotion,” he murmured. “Like champagne spilled on linoleum.”
He rose from the bath, water hissing as it hit the cool air. Unhurried, unashamed, as though nakedness were just another costume. Within minutes, he was in his robe, long, ash-grey, drifting barefoot across the Persian rug to the antique desk in the corner. A flick of a match lit another cigarette. He opened a drawer.
Pulled out charcoal. Paper. A sketchpad. The desk light flicked on, a dim, intimate yellow. He sat down. Beginning to draw. The charcoal moved fast. Jagged. Controlled. He didn’t sketch like someone trying to create beauty, he sketched like someone exorcising something. Miarka stood in the doorway, silent.
Watching.
“What are you drawing?” she asked softly.
The scratch of charcoal continued. “A corpse that forgot to lie down.”
“No wait—a woman, mid-dream, just before waking up becomes unbearable.”
She stepped closer. The desk was cluttered with cigarette burns, notebooks, and a single, stained black coffee cup. And on the page, razor-edge lines. A contorted female figure. The arms are too long. Spine arched. Knees drawn up as if levitating. Egon Schiele through a Berlin lens. Expressionist. “You draw like you want to punish the subject,” Miarka murmured.
“Of course I do,” he said. “That’s how you keep them still.”
He paused, glanced at her from under his lashes. The Duke’s smile had returned, languid and serpentine. “Miarka,” he said, lazily. “Would you pose for me?”
She stiffened. “Why?”
He tapped ash into a crystal dish. “Because I’ve seen you know. Not just the body, the memory. The Russian girl from Kazan. The bleeding swan. The king of pain belongs in charcoal.”
She said nothing. She nodded. Slowly.
“Clothes off or on?” she asked, unblinking.
The Duke chuckled. “Dealer’s choice. Just don’t smile. I hate smiles in art. They lie.”
Miarka stepped into the room, whispering across the floor. She found a spot on the chaise longue across from him. One leg tilted as her arms stuck out, in a ballet pose. Chin tilted slightly, as if in defiance of gravity. Stillness. The ballet-trained stillness. Bred as a Bolshoi, starved into muscle memory. He stared at her for a long time. Then began to draw again. Faster this time. Breath slowing. Something about her quiet, composed pose, unavailable but present seemed to pull him deeper.
He spoke while sketching, voice low. “When I was living in Berlin,” he said. “I used to wander into galleries at three o’clock in the mornin’, half coked out and hollow. I saw this one painting, outsider stuff, schizophrenic scrawl, like a map drawn in blood.”
“I couldn’t stop staring. I thought, ‘This is what the inside of me head looks like.’”
The charcoal moved faster “Art isn’t about truth,” he murmured. “It’s about containment. If I can draw it, I don’t have to live it.”
He stopped suddenly. Looked up. “That’s what you are to me, Miarka. Containment. You hold something I spilled.”
She didn’t reply, she stood there. Still. Regal.
A Brixton vampire and a Kazan girl.
He looked down at his drawing.
The Duke sat with his back curved over the desk, the air around him alive with charcoal dust, cigarette ash, and that raw smell of something half-finished. The page beneath his hands looked tortured, violent strokes, blackened fingers, splinters of form. Miarka stood behind him. Watching.
She could see herself on the paper, but not the self she wore in public. Not the poised, long-limbed mystery. This was her, undone and disfigured by honesty. The body, contorted in Schiele’s twisted elegance, ribs stark beneath skin. The eyes, non-existent, hollow, as if emotion had been gouged out. The backdrop, brutalist, stark ink slashes reminiscent of Heckel’s jagged expressionism, carved like a city collapsing in on itself. And yet, it was beautiful. In a way that felt profane.
He didn’t look at her. Just tapped the edge of the paper once, as if sealing it shut. “Were you afraid?” he asked.
Miarka blinked. “Of what?”
The Duke finally turned his head, cigarette between two fingers, grin full of teeth. “When they interviewed us? That I’d give your true origin away.”
She said nothing at first. Her shoulders stayed relaxed. Trained. Emotionless, like the Bolshoi stage demanded. “No” she lied.
His smile widened. Predatory.
“You forget, I know when you lie. You do this thing with your throat. Tension at the base. Not visible but audible.”
He leaned back, regarding her like she were both enemy and muse. “You were terrified,” he said, voice smooth. “I could’ve snapped you open with a sentence. Like a candy wrapper. And you knew it.”
Miarka didn’t flinch. “So why didn’t you?”
He tilted his head, eyes glittering. “Because you’re mine darling. And I don’t throw away what I’ve broken myself.”
She exhaled. The kind of breath dancers lean to take under pressure, in pain mid-performance.
“You think we’re still playing house?”
The Duke laughed. “Please. If we’re anything, we’re like an old married couple. Except instead of shared keys, we’ve got bruised egos and unspoken betrayls, and the enduring stench of disgust.”
He turned the artwork toward her.
“I still hate you, by the way,” he added, conversationally. “You ruin everything I try to idealise.” Miarka studied the drawing. Not afraid of it. Not ashamed.”
“And yet you keep drawing me.”
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, grinning.
“Because I can reduce you to lines, then I control the proportions—the angles. The distortion. It’s the only time you’re quiet.”
She walked toward the desk, slowly. Bent down and whispered. “You’ll never get the angles right. Because I live in the space between strokes.”
The Duke drank half a glass of vermouth. The sketchpad sat open before him—a finished work, rendered in violent blacks and haunted greys. The last lines still smouldering with intensity. He looked, exhilarated.
Not kind. Not stable. Alive, in that thin, jittery way, like a man at the edge of collapse who suddenly found a reason not to jump. Miarka lingered at the edge of the room, silent, barefoot on marble. He saw her with a fractured smile. The kind that doesn’t reach the eyes but still manages to gleam.
“You want to see it?” he asked. “Properly?”
She said nothing. He took it as a ‘yes’. He turned the page toward her and held it like a priest offering communion. The drawing was brutal. Raw. Elegant in its desecration. Miarka stared. It was her. But not.
Limbs like branches, spine curved in a crucifixion of control. One hand curled as if mid-pirouette, the other limp as if surrendering. The background ruined industrialism.
He watched her closely. “Egon Schiele taught me how to break the body,” he said tenderly. “How to make suffering beautiful. Elongation is distortion, distortion is confession. And you, my dear, are nothing if not confessional.”
She didn’t respond. Looking harder.
“The background—” he gestured, dragging a slim finger across the edge of the paper. “Is pure Heckel, emotional ruin disguised as landscape. See those blocky ruins? Berlin. Vienna. Kazan. Take your pick. Your cities collapse like dancers.”
Then his voice dropped. Intimate. Dangerous. “I used to think art was about representation. Now I think it’s about containment.”
“Of what?” she stared.
He leaned in, too close. The scent of vermouth, tobacco, and bath oil clung to his robe. “Desire. Madness. The urge to touch what you can’t understand.”
He ran a finger along the spine of the page, almost affectionately. “This—” he nodded at the drawing. “isn’t a portrait. It’s an exorcism. You’re not the subject. You’re the infection I’ve quarantined on paper.”
Miarka studied the art piece.
“You say that like it’s a compliment.”
“It is,” he replied, smiling. “The best kind. You’ll outlive the original.”
He stood, lit another cigarette with the end of the last one. Pacing and turned theatrically. “Do you know what Station To Station really was?”
Miarka blinked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “It wasn’t a record—it was a ritual. The Thin White Duke crossing spiritual no-man’s-land. Kabbalah to Malkuth, filled with Cocaine, European ruins and ritual mysticism, all on vinyl. I wasn’t writing songs. I was mapping a breakdown.”
He exhaled smoke like punctuation. “This—” he tapped the drawing, “Is my second Station To Station. Another conjuring. Another crash. And you’re the apparition that wandered in.”
She tilted her head. “So, does that make you the conductor?”
He smiled more slowly and sadly.
“No. Just a passenger. And the train’s on fire.”
Miarka looked down at the sketch again. Her body was deformed. Her pain reimagined as posture. Her silence and emotionless immortalised.
“Do you hate me?” she asked, recalling what he said.
He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“And I hate what that says about me.”
That flicker in his mismatched eyes returned. The one she knew too well. He hated her because she never bled the way he expected.
Hate was easier than love. The Devil never loved. But neither did she.
Notes:
Thanks for reading, do let me know what you think of the portrayal of the Thin White Duke and Miarka, I'm buying a book that's hopefully factual and not biased to Bowie's life and music.
Chapter 7: Wild is the wind
Summary:
Miarka and The Duke head to Pheonix for his next tour. We found out what happens to Miarka after Kazan.
Notes:
Hello.
Chapter 7 out of 40. I referenced an Egon Schiele painting called 'Death and the Maiden,' which resonated with me because of its symbolism and story in my fic. I genuinely hope I got the Thin White Duke's character right; he was very paranoid in his day. I read articles, whether they are secondary or biased, and I recently bought a book labelled the 'Bible of bowie' so I'll use that as a reference. I wanted to look at the Duke from an artistic point of view, and a mixture of Bowie's life that doesn't delve into the scandals of his sex life so much. There are a lot of rumours, but I'll take it with a grain of salt.Let me know what you guys think! what you think of Miarka and The Duke!
Art: Death and the maiden by Egon Schiele
Warnings: NSFW, mentions of Facism, Drug abuse
Chapter Text
February 14th, 1976. Bel-Air.
The sun rose in the morning of Bel-Air, and the house was quiet except for the swaying palm trees in the summer breeze. The painting hung in front of Miarka, like a tormenting reminder of the Duke’s disdain toward her. Miarka didn’t sleep; her blue eyes had dark circles beneath them. Her mind was transfixed in that painting, like paranoia she can’t shake. She sees herself on that jagged, merciless sheet of paper. You would think that when someone paints a lady, it would be because they would be a muse, but Miarka was not. No. Her body looked starved in that painting, contorted, with her ribs very visible, sharp and bony beneath the stretched skin. All sketched in Schiele’s contorted style, stretched thin by fear and truth. The eyes appeared as hollow pits, as if the Duke gouged them out because they revealed too much judgement—like a cruel joke. Oh, how he despised her eyes. They tormented him in his dreams, in his mind, in his visions. He made comparisons to the previous night, when she was a myth, trying to make sense of it to comfort his thoughts, so he could no longer see them. To silence the paranoia. Behind her was a brutalist backdrop, clawed and slashed, harsh ink lines jagged and sharp as Heckel’s artistic nightmares. The Duke referenced it as ‘Hunger City,’ the city of ruin in the apocalypse. One thing Miarka noticed was her bare body, her nakedness exposing her as what should’ve been vulnerability, except it’s not, showcasing she was only hollow. The painting was a mark of the Duke’s blatant hatred. But despite the horror—God help her—it was beautiful, profane and raw, it was everything she was. A message hidden deep within it was the beauty she held in the art of ballet.
Miarka knows the Duke hates her; he has stated it so many times that she has spat it out at her in words, bellowing it. When she attempted to reach out, he recoiled in disgust, whispering he wouldn’t love her. Even the bruises he’s put her through—physical and psychological—she stays. Why? Maybe because she has nowhere to go, maybe because his darkness reflects her shadows lurking. Or maybe, just perhaps, dare she admit it, she’s addicted to the stimulus he brings. The Duke hasn’t physically abused her; he wouldn’t do such a thing, too barbaric. Miarka observed the way he treated other women, using them solely for entertainment and control. They provide no stimulus or challenge for the Duke, only a quick shag, and then off they go. Those who fall for the Duke end up with darts in their eyes, reflecting their broken fantasy. Miarka is the exception, providing both a challenge and defiance for the Duke’s intellectual mind.
The creak of the stairs snaps her out of the endless loop of torment, dragging her attention away from the painting. The Thin White Duke glides down in a silk ivory robe, catching the light like liquid mercury. His amber-blond, tinged hair was dishevelled; he was still recovering from a mild cold he had contracted the day before. Miarka swore with a flash; he was wearing no underwear beneath that. His voice dripped with venomous wit: “Bored out of my bloody mind.” He announced like a God bored with playing with his creations. “And frankly, I’ve been about as considerate as a brick wall. Ignorin’ you with the dedication of a monk on retreat, yeah?”
Miarka glared at him, like a cat with any creature invading their space. She was not in the mood.
The Duke dismissed it, “Well, sorry for the neglect, though I doubt your missin’ me much.”
Her eyes narrowed further, her lips thinning, her eyebrows furrowed together. He was one word away from stepping on a landmine.
He paused, flicking an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve. “So Miarka darling, I’m dragging your arse out of this funk town and into the beautiful mess of the city. Buckle up—tonight’s going to be a rude, ridiculous, and absolutely, unforgettable ride.”
The Duke smirked, mismatched eyes glittering with cruel fun, the kind of promise that would make you either laugh, cry, or disappear drunk on a forgettable night. “And if you think I’m gentle—sweetheart, you clearly don’t know me at all.”
Miarka stood stiff, the trench coat hanging off her like dead weight. It’s what she’s been wearing most of the time, although the Duke was having none of it this morning. He stood before her, all cheekbones and cruelty, cigarettes dangling carelessly from his lips. Smoke curled around him like incense around an idol. “No. No. No,” he tutted, mismatched eyes dragging over her like an aristocrat art critic disgusted with poor taste. “That bloody trench—it’s givin’ me ‘lost in a London fog and crying for hours’ vibes You’re not castin’ for a bloody noir film, darling, you’re coming out with me. Which means you need to look like you matter.”
He vanished briefly down the hallway. He returned with an armful of fashion that looked like it had been stolen from the wardrobe of a demoness at Studio fifty-four. Velvet. Leather. Dark fabrics with strange sheens—burnt silver, poisoned plum, oil-slick black. A blouse with a sharp, high-waisted collar, trousers, and a long, lacquered coat. “These”, he tossed the clothes on a velvet black chair. “These are what you wear when you want to make the world sit the fuck up.”
“These were burrowed. From the closet of a woman I despised. She had exquisite taste and a face like spoiled milk. I kept the wardrobe, and she can very well bloody rot.”
Miarka opened her mouth to protest, but the Duke cut her off with a raised eyebrow and perfectly timed drag. “Don’t argue. I’m in a mood. You don’t want to see what happens when I get bored and disappointed.”
He gestured for her to stand. “Undress love.”
There was no seduction, just command and art.
Miarka obeyed, slowly, awkwardly, under his gaze. He circled her like a director staging the opening scene of a cruel opera. Every now and then, he reached out to adjust the angle of her collar, smooth a wrinkle, pull a belt tighter than necessary. “Put these on.” The Duke ordered, sitting like a lounging serpent across the arm of a chaise. “And sit bloody still while I make you look presentable, you twitch, and I’ll take it as a personal insult.”
Miarka complied silently, letting him drape and cinch and adjust her as if she were some living doll. His slender hands were quick and sure, adjusting the hem of the blouse, rolling up the sleeves just so, tugging the collar into asymmetry like a sculptor perfecting tension. He paced around her like he was examining a new installation at an underground gallery, slender fingers steepled beneath his. “You’ll keep the trench here,” he said firmly, pointing to the chair. “You’re not dragging that sad little shroud into my car, this isn’t a funeral, Miarka. It’s a performance art.”
She sat stiffly where he pointed, on the edge of a suede bench by the front door, as he grabbed a silver scarf and gently—mockingly, wryly—looped it around her neck. “Good girl,” he murmured. He crouched to light another cigarette, mismatched eyes flicking up to meet hers, a half-smile on his lips. “I want them to see you and wonder, ‘who the hell is that and what did she do to earn him?’”
He handed her a pair of dark sunglasses with gold accents and dangling hoop ear rings. “Put these on. Not because of the sun, darling, but because your eye’s are too honest, and we can’t have that.”
She did. And now she looked like a fashion statement in the mouth of madness. He stood with his arms crossed. He ordered again, “Still. No fidgeting. That blouse has structure. It cannot survive your anxiety.”
He slipped on his own black leather gloves, deliberate, slender fingers flexing like talons testing the air. “The world’s a stage, Miarka. And you, this morning, are my prop. My mirror. My punctuation mark.”
Outside, the Mercedes purred, its obsidian black exterior windows tinted like a hearse for the divine. He opened the door and glanced back at her, one hand resting on the frame, perfect posture. He held the door open.
“You’ll sit beside me like a decadent little oracle, and you’ll say nothing unless I ask. And if anyone touches you, I’ll kill them with manners.”
He slipped past the driver’s seat with a dancer’s grace and gave her one last look as she settled. “We’re going out,” he said, “you look like sin dressed for a funeral. Don’t ruin it with hope.”
The car slid down the long Bel Air drive like a hearse toward Hollywood, and the city opened its jaws. Miarka looked out the window, and the palm trees swayed. Looking out at the street made her remember a time, a time when cigarette smoke meant something more and the music was vastly elegant.
January 3rd, 1973. Paris. Montreuil.
The streets always smelled faintly of rot, of yesterday’s bread, cigarette butts soaked in rain, and garbage that lingered longer than it should. Miarka had long since stood noticing. His name—out here—was Marceau Chevalier, a fifteen-year-old boy with no family, home, papers or past. He kept his head low, his cap pulled down, his scarf pulled high to hide his sharp jaw and silent eyes. Marceau worked where he could, running crates behind the fish market. Scrubbing floors in a dingy theatre that no one visits anymore. Hauling sacks of potatoes into the back of restaurants that paid in stale leftovers and shrugged when he left early. His coat was patched too many times to count, his boots cracked, and his toes bruised from walking in shoes that didn’t quite fit. He wasn’t a thief, not really, not always. Only when the work ran dry, and his stomach growled. He was careful, discreet. Pockets on the Metro, purses in the market crowd, wallets from drunk men arguing over football scores. Never children. Never the old. Never the sick or starving. Just enough to survive. His fingers were deft, trained from years of ballet. He could lift a coin purse without being noticed.
No one suspected the skinny boy with the bruised knuckles and silent eyes. No one looked twice. However, it wasn’t always easy; coppers passed by purposefully, cornering him, screaming in French. You had to be witty enough to avoid them. Sometimes, he joined gangs, and other fellow boys were trying to survive. It never lasts, like a group of cheetahs that only stick together to hunt; they teamed up. Some try to steal from Marceau; he fights or kicks them into flight. After all, they're only trying to survive. Marceau kept the pistol that the soldier gave him, so if anyone tried anything, he could threaten them. He wouldn’t shoot, though; they were only kids after all, left and forgotten.
He never really paid much attention to the crowds, only when they mentioned something interesting, like any updates in today's world.
That was—until her.
It was outside a bookstore near République, just as the sun was dipping low behind the buildings and throwing long shadows across the wet pavement. Marceau had just come off a long day unloading boxes for a man who paid him with a wink and a slice of bread. He was kind enough to provide food. His hands were numb. His cap pulled low. He wasn’t in the mood to be seen. He was deep in thought. But she saw him.
“Oh!” the voice rang out like bells, startling him mid-step. “Attends !”
He turned instinctively, blue eyes narrowing, hands slipping into his coat pocket where his stolen treasures lived, just in case. She was sixteen. Her skin was deep brown, glowing against her wine-red coat. Her hair was a halo of tight black curls wrapped in a bold yellow scarf. She looked like she’d stepped out of a painting, vibrant, youthful, full of mischief, and utterly without fear, stunning. “Je t’ai déjà vu.”(I’ve seen you before)
She said breathlessly, pointing. “Tu passes devant ma boutique tout le temps. Tu ne t’arrêtes pas. Pas une seule fois. Tu es comme—comme un petit fantôme” (You walk past my shop all the time. You don’t stop. Not once. You’re like—like a little ghost.”)
Marceau didn’t answer. He stood still. A trick he’d learnt. If you don’t move, people forget you exist. She stepped closer, undeterred. Her smile was wide, lopsided, ridiculous and blinding. “Tu ne vas pas t’enfuir, hein?” (You’re not going to run, are you?)
“Ce n’était pas mon intention. Tu devrais juste passer ton chemin. Je ne suis personneI.” (I wasn’t planning on it, you should just past by, I’m no one.) Marceau replied, deepening his voice automatically. The accent was passably enough, Parisian enough to pass. Masculine sufficient to escape.
The girl’s eyes lit up. “Tu parles comme quelqu’un qui lit.” (You talk like someone who reads.)
He blinked, thrown. “Excuse-moi? (Excuse me?)
“Je le savais” (I knew it) she beamed. “Tu as ce regard. Comme si tu avais des conversations entières dans ta tête avec Edgar Allan Poe, Oscar Wilde, et Mary Shelley, sans en parler à personne (You have that look. Like you have whole conversations in your head with Edgar Allen Poe and Oscar Wild, and My shelly and don’t tell anyone about it.)
Marceau stared. “C’est quoi ce genre de fille, toi?” (What the hell kind of girl are you?)
“Je suis Delphine.”(I’m Delphine) She offered, sticking out a hand, half-gloved and ink stained. “Je travaille à la librairie juste là-bas. Et toi, tu es?” (I work at the bookstore just over there. And you’re?)
There was a moment when Marceau glared suspiciously. And who can blame him? After being raised in a country where survival is the primary focus, it's no wonder that kindness seems foreign.
“Marceau, " he said at last. “Marceau. Chevalier”
“Oh là là, c’est dramatique !” (Oh la la, how dramatic.) Delphine purred, clasping her hands. “Tu ressembles à l’assistante d’un magicien ou à un détective dans une vieille émission radiophonique.” (You sound like a magician’s assistant or a detective in an old radio play.)
Marceau cluelessly stared. “Je décharge des cartons et je passe la serpillière.” (I unload boxes and mop floors.)
“Tout le monde a besoin d’un job à côté.” (Everyone needs a day job) Delphine shrugged, her muddy eyes twinkling. “Et puis — Marceau Chevalier, ça sonne comme quelqu’un qui a des secrets. J’aime ça” (And besides—Marceau Chevalier sounds like someone with secrets. I like that)
She turned, playfully winking and placing a hand over her chest. “Allez, j’allais faire du thé. On dirait que t’as connu des semaines mieux que celle-là.” (Come on. I was going to make tea. You look like you’ve seen better weeks.)
Marceau was hesitant. His thin, brown eyebrows furrowed together. His hands shoved in his pockets, was she dangerous? People like her didn’t get kindness easily. They accept oranges or walk into apartments with strangers who smiled easily. The last kind person nearly stabbed her.
But this wasn’t Russia; this was a different country. And Delphine seemed genuine. Maybe it was the way she looked at him—not with suspicion, but with fascination. Like Marceau was a poem she wanted to memorise. Marceau followed, not giving any gesture or a “thank you.”
That night, she sat in a cramped kitchen, holding a chipped cup of tea that tasted like spices and honet, listening to Delphine talk about everything. Books, music, boys she didn’t like, girls she did, revolution, and her dream of moving to London. “Où personne n’en a rien à foutre si tu portes des bottes en juillet ou si tu embrasses les mauvaises personnes.” (where nobody gives a damn if you wear boots in July or kiss the wrong people.)
Marceau didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. Delphine filled the silence, then leaned back with a childish grin. “Tu es silencieux, Marceau. Comme un espion” (You’re quiet, Marceau. Like a spy)
Marceau looked at him over the rim of her cup, her sleeve brushing against his coat pocket, where the envelope of stolen Soviet intelligence still lay.
“C’est un peu ça” (Something like that)," whispered Marceau.
From then on, it became routine.
Marceau appeared near sunset, slipping in through the side alley of the bookstore with a bag of pastries gone stale or a bruised apple tucked in his coat. Delphine would greet him like a firework, all open arms, crooked grins, her eyes lighting up when she spotted her ghost-boy on the curb. She didn’t mind if his shirt, pants or coat were stained with mud; she still smiled.
They’d sit on the floor of Delphine’s tiny flat, leaning back against the radiator, passing a cheap bottle of wine between them, laughing at nothing, trading words like coins. Delphine spoke in colour and rhythm, Marceau spoke in grey and noir. But with her, the world hummed in a light he’d never seen before. Sometimes, Delphine would read aloud. Neruda. Prévert. Colette. Her voice changed with the lines—husky, teasing, breathy. She’d thrown in her commentary between verses, dramatic.
Marceau, chin tucked into his knees, listened like she was fire dancing in the flame.
“Je le jureI” (swear) Delphine said one night, flopping back onto the mattress, curls spilling everywhere, “T’es un sacré mystère. Tu ne parles jamais de toi, et quand tu le fais, on dirait que tu récites un roman dont tu te souviens à moitié, comme dans un rêve (you’re a damn puzzle. You never talk about yourself, and when you do, it’s like you’re quoting a novel you half-remembered in a dream.)
Marceau looked at her, the candlelight catching the sharp line of his cheek. He said nothing.
Delphine rolled over on her side, her voice softer now, her skirt spread on the floor like a silk sheet. “J’ai déjà embrassé des gens, tu sais, mais je n’étais jamais amoureuse d’eux” (I’ve kissed people before, y’know, but I was never in love with them.)
Marceau paused, his breath stopped. Something sparked behind his ribs.
Delphine chuckled; she leaned in closer. “T’as déjà embrassé quelqu’un, Marceau? (Have you kissed anyone before Marceau?)
Marceau’s throat tightened, his eyes widened. He’s never kissed before. Come to think of it, he’s never kissed before. It never crossed his mind. He’s seen lovers on the street. The girls in his dormitory in Russia spoke of making out. Marceau hated to admit that he had no clue how to. He knew the process involved pressing lips, but it sounded like you're essentially a fish swapping spit.
Marceau looked into Delphine’s deep brown eyes; he turned his head away, feeling a blush creep up, and he tried to cover it by pressing his hand to his cheeks.
Delphine leaned back, laughing hard to the point tears pricked her eyes. “T’es rouge comme une tomate!” (You're as red as a tomato!)
Another night, rain pattered against the window. The lights in the bookstore below flickering out, Marceau was curled in Delphine's bed, fully clothed, boots still on, muddy, arms crossed. He hadn’t ever taken his clothes off, not around anyone, he felt guilty, sleepless nights of anxious thought, playing someone that isn’t him. He wondered if she would understand the horrors he had gone through to be here. The fact that he was from a Soviet ballet school associated with the Bolshoi in Moscow. Delphine lay beside him, drawing patterns of stars in the condensation on the window with one finger.
“Pourquoi tu as toujours l’air prêt à t’enfuir?” (Why do you always look like you’re ready to run) She asked quietly, not meeting his gaze.
Marceau didn’t answer for a long time. He remained silent, his eyes closed.
“Parce que je le suis” (Because I am.) She said finally, her voice quiet so the storm could take over.
Delphine turned to her, “Qu’est-ce que tu fuis? (What are you running from?)
“Moi-même” (Myself…) Marceau said, surprising himself with honesty.
Delphine reached out and touched his slender wrist, just her fingers over the glove. “Tu peux enlever ton manteau, tu sais (You can take your coat off, you know) she whispered. “Personne ne te regarde ici” (No one’s watching you here.)
Marceau looked at her, really looked at her, Delphine’s open face and her heart on display like it wasn’t a dangerous thing to carry. Her dark eyes were wide and soft, filled with something more dangerous than suspicion: trust. That night, Marceau slipped off his coat a bit, to reveal his shoulders, but it wasn’t enough to show her his femininity.
Delphine reached over, resting her head against his shoulder, and neither of them moved away.
They spent more time with each other over the coming days, Delphine’s fingers brushing more over his; over books, over spilled tea, on purpose. Accidentally. Delphine started calling her ‘ghost boy’ and ‘Ma chère’.
Once Marceau returned with a bruised lip from an encounter gone wrong in the market, the owner caught the boy stealing and decided to teach him a lesson. Delphine cupped Marceau’s face, thumb brushing the bruised high cheek with featherlight care, her eyes full of fire.
“Je tuerais quiconque te ferait du mal.” (I’d kill anyone who hurt you), she said, smiling. Marceau gently stared; however, he knew she wouldn’t last in a fight. His eyes softened.
There were nights when they slept shoulder to shoulder, the bed barely wide enough for one, or two. Delphine reached for her in her sleep; she believed in sharing sweet dreams, and she wanted Marceau to experience them—a hand on his arm. A knee against his leg, a breath on his neck. Marceau never pulled away. He just lay there, wide awake, heart aching with the impossible guilt of it all.
He wanted to tell her.
He wanted to say: “My name is not Marceau. I’m not a boy. I’m not from France. I’m not safe. I’m not who you think I am. I am a woman who is also a man. I’ve escaped the Cold War.
He said nothing. Because Delphine looked at him as if he were someone worth loving. A good person who has misfortune. A boy who acts as a ghost.
And Marceau didn’t want to break that illusion.
It was late, one of those strange Paris nights where everything felt suspended in time. The city below was breathing softly, its sounds muffled by the rain that had stopped just an hour before. The window was cracked open, letting in the scent of wet stone and a breeze that moved the curtain with a sigh.
Marceau sat on the bed in Delphine’s little apartment, her coat folded neatly on the floor, his cap resting beside it. He wore an old sweater borrowed from Delphine, a soft, warm, fuzzy thing. Slightly too big, the sleeves swallowed his hands. It was the first time he’d let himself be seen like this—something with warmth.
“Pourquoi t’as toujours l’air d’être ailleurs?” (Why do you look like you're always somewhere else?) she asked, her voice sincere.
Marceau looked down at his hands, swallowed, and then said, “Parce que je ne sais pas comment être ici.(Because I don’t know how to be here.)
The silence that followed was gentle. The kind that lives between people who don’t need to fill every second with speaking.
Delphine shifted close. “Tu veux apprendre?” (Do you want to learn?)
Marceau looked up. The question lingered between them like a kiss that hadn’t happened.
“Je ne sais pas comment” (I don’t know how), Marceau admitted.
Delphine smiled, not the one she wore for crowds, but the one she saved for Marceau when they were alone, soft, aching and terribly kind. “Tu viens de le faire” (You just did,)
She reached forward, and took his slender, pale hand. Marceau flinched, wanting to pull back, but Delphine didn’t let go. She traces her thumb over his knuckles, so light it felt like a memory. “Tu n’as pas besoin de tout me dire” (You don’t have to tell me everything.)
“Mais je veux que tu saches quelque chose” (but I want you to know something.) Delphine said.
Marceau’s blue gaze met Delphine’s dark eyes.
“Si tu étais un endroit” (If you were a place) Delphine softly said. “Je reviendrais toujours vers toi. Peu importe à quel point je me perds.” (I’d come back to you every time. No matter how lost I got)
Marceau didn’t know what to say. So, he could do the only thing he could; he leaned forward, forehead gently touching Delphine’s, their breaths tangling. It wasn’t a kiss. It was more sacred.
A moment without masks, a promise without words. They stayed like that for a long time, eyes closed, the world holding around them.
If anyone had seen them, just a girl dressed as a boy and a girl on a burrowed mattress, bathed in the flicker of candlelight and city haze, they might not have known the whole story. They wouldn’t have known about the falsely named, the stolen documents, the ghost of Moscow stitched into Miarka’s coat. They would have remembered the way Delphine held him. The way Marceau’s hands trembled, then didn’t. The way their silence wasn’t empty, but full, so full it could’ve bloomed. It was the kind of moment people forgot.
The kind that aches sweetly in memory. The kind that means everything, even if it couldn’t last.
Marceau hadn’t meant to stay long that day. He’d brought a half-eaten croissant from the back of the café, swept floors in and to bruised pears wrapped in newspaper. It was raining again, and his coat dripped as he stood awkwardly near Delphine’s door, expecting to be shooed away.
Delphine beamed. “Tu es revenue” (You came back)
Marceau gave the smallest shrug. “Juste parce que le vin la dernière fois était buvable.” (Only because the wine last time was tolerable)
“Aha!” She said pointing. “C’est presque une déclaration d’amour dans ta langue.” (That’s practically a declaration of love in your language)
She took the croissant with a reverence she reserved for gifts. No matter how small. Marceau sat on the floor, knees drawn up, coat unbuttoned enough to breathe. That’s when Delphine pulled the record out.
Tchaikovsky. Swan Lake.
“Tu dois détester ça, hein?” (You probably hate this, don’t you?) she asked, placing the record onto the turntable. “Tellement cliché. Mais j’aime les clichés. C’est rassurant. Et puis — une musique comme ça me donne toujours envie de faire semblant d’être ballerine” (So cliché. But I like clichés. They're comforting. Besides—music like this always makes me want to pretend I’m a ballerina.)
The needle scratched. The room filled with sound, trembling strings, soft and sad, as if the music had memories of its own. Delphine twirled in socked feet, her skirt catching around her knees, arms too loose, too joyful to be proper. She was not the best dancer, but rather the dance moves of a child trying to be a ballerina. She laughed as she danced, fumbling and trying to stand still.
“Je suis atroce, hein ? J’avoue, j’ai toujours voulu être ballerine, mais je n’ai jamais pu.” (I’m atrocious, aren’t I? I admit, i always wanted to be a ballerina but, i never could.)
Marceau didn’t answer, not with words. He rose slowly, starting into first position. The room fell back to when Marceau was—Miarka. He moved. His form begins with a proper leg raise, and his arms are raised. Marceau spun, executing a pirouette, then rose smoothly onto the tips of his toes in a flawless relevé, balancing with poise. His arms curved elegantly back into first position. With a swift motion, a powerful push, he launched into a series of jetés, his legs extending fully as he flew across the floor in perfect harmony with the music. Each leap was light, perfect, his feet barely brushing the ground, as if he were weightless. He transitioned into a series of pirouettes, tight and endless—Delphine was captivated. He extended one leg behind as his torso leaned forward, arms stretched out in a delicate balance. Delphine watched, unable to tear her eyes away from the exceptional dancer who transformed the room into a stage. Her mouth parted.
Marceau moved like a ghost through light, his body carried by the sorrowful rise of swan lake. He began at the centre of the room with a deep plié, his fingers floating into fith position overhead. He—spun. A clean pirouette, then another, and another, turning faster, like a storm gathering silence. His feet barely kissed the floor as he moved through a series of chaînés, travelling spins that carried him in a sweeping arc across the wooden floor, the edges of the fabric he wore flaring like wings.
He leapt next, soaring into a grand jeté, legs slicing through the air in a perfect split, his landing so quiet Delphine swore the room held its breath for him. He did it again, another jeté, higher this time, his muscles coiled with ease. Between each leap he moved with fluid pas de bourrées, gliding like water, only to explode into another tour en l'air, a full mid-air spin that made him look suspended in time.
Marceau froze, mid step.
Идиотка! Идиотка! (Idiot. Idiot.)
She didn’t mock him. She didn’t even speak. He stepped back, sat down, crossed-legged on the mattress, and didn’t mean to get too wrapped up in the music. He gazed over to Marceau, who didn’t speak.
Her eyes welled up with tears, and she hitched in a sob. Her hands covered her eyes, attempting to wipe them away. Marceau’s eyes widened, and he was speechless. He didn’t know what to do; his breath caught in his throat.
“Tu étais… tu es…” (You were… you are…) she began, then paused. “Tu n’es pas d’ici.” (You’re not from here.)
Marceau said nothing. He could only watch; he never really was good with emotions. Delphine stood slowly, stepping toward him. “Tu ne me dis jamais qui tu es vraiment” (You never tell me who you really are.)
“Tu agis comme quelqu’un qui a passé des années à être observé. Pas vu — observé. Comme si ta vie était une scène sur laquelle tu n’as jamais demandé à monter.” (You act like someone who’s spent years being watched. Not seen—watched. Like your life’s a stage you never asked to stand on.)
Marceau looked away.
Delphine’s fingers found his sleeve, just a touch. “Mais tu n’as pas à le faire. Je sais déjà que tu n’es pas vraiment qui tu prétends être. Pas vraiment.” (But you don’t have to. I already know you’re not who you pretend to be. Not really)
His voice calmly spoke, “Pourquoi me laisser rester?” (Why let me stay?)
She smiled. “Parce que tu reviens.” (Because you come back)
And he did. Everyday.
Even when he told himself it was only for the heat, the bread, the shelter. When he lied and said he was only surviving. That he didn’t need her, every moment he stepped into that apartment and saw her smile, he forgot to be afraid. He forgot to be Marceau Chevalier. He was Miarka. Miarka Kovoscavich.
In these moments, Delphine saw him, not the boy he pretended to be, but the person beneath growing faintly, like an ember struggling not to go out.
It was after midnight when the storm broke. Paris had been holding its breath all day, hot, the kind of day that clings to your skin. The moment the first drops fell, the street lamps turned golden and soft, thunder murmured in the distance like a half-remembered lullaby. Marceau stood in the threshold of Delphine’s apartment, his collar turned up, cap pulled low. He was ready to leave; vanish like he always did.
Delphine was barefoot in the doorway behind him, holding her orange tinged skirt up with both hands, dark eyes shimmering in the streetlight. “Cours avec moi” (Run with me) she said.
He turned to her slowly. “Quoi?” (What?)
She smiled like she was made of rebellion. “La pluie — elle est chaude. C’est parfait. Allez, garçon-fantôme. Une nuit. Ne réfléchis pas.” (The rain—it’s warm. It’s perfect. Come on, ghost-boy. One night. Don’t think.)
He didn’t answer. His mouth opened and Delphine grabbed his hand running into the street. Down the stairs, out into the cobbled street, splashing through puddles that glittered like oil paintings. The rain fell in warm sheets on their faces. It soaked through his coat, through her dress, until they were both dripping and breathless, laughing like two fools who had the world in their grasp.
They ran past shuttered cafes and broken bicycles, under hanging vines, through empty intersections that belonged to them. The city blurred, just wet stone and music from an open window and the scent of rain-soaked lavender.
Delphine led him down toward a canal, toward the old bridge where the moss grew along the stones and no one ever came at this hour.
She stopped, panting, cheeks flushed, curls plastered to her forehead. She looked up at him with something he couldn’t name, longing, maybe, worse: hope.
The rein pooled around them. The Seine rolled dark and slow.
“Je pense” (I think), she said softly, catching her breath. “Je suis en train de tomber amoureuse de toi.” (I’m falling in love with you)
Marceau stood still. The words echoed like thunder in his chest, he couldn’t tell if this was real. His jaw partially opened, his eyebrows furrowed.
Delphine stepped closer, close enough to see the water caught in her lashes. “Tu n’as rien à dire. Juste—laisse-moi me souvenir de ça. Qu’une fois, une nuit comme celle-ci, j’ai embrassé quelqu’un qui a fait taire le monde.” (You don’t have to say anything. Just—just let me remember this. That once, on a night like this, I kissed someone who made the world quiet.)
He should’ve stopped her. He should’ve told her the truth right there. Instead, he didn’t; he was in the eyes of Miarka. Why? Because she looked at him as if he were someone worth knowing. Because he wanted to be that person—he owed her nothing—because he wanted to give her something—even if it was a lie.
So, Delphine leaned in. Her lips were soft and shaking against his. Her hands, cold and wet, came up to cup his sharp jaw, and he stood there like a statue sculpted out of ash and guilt. Marceau’s cheeks lit up with redness, his eyes widened, he had never kissed before. He copied her movements, kissing her back gently and slowly. It’s nothing compared to what the other girls describe, nor what the media portrays. Kissing should be passionate, romantic, as though it’s something beautiful—but it wasn’t. Marceau thought the sensation was odd, unnatural and weird. Should he be more romantic? Give more? Although how could he—this wasn’t a romantic fairytale, instead, this was Something tragic. Something sad.
Delphine didn’t know. He wasn’t Marceau. He wasn’t hers. He couldn’t love her—not really—not as a boy. Not as a lie. She smiled against his mouth, trembling and full of wonder, and whispered, “Tu ressembles à un rêve” (You feel like a dream)
He muttered back. “Je ne suis pas un rêve. Je suis un cauchemar.” (I'm not a dream. I'm a nightmare)
He couldn’t. Dreams weren’t supposed to hurt like this.
Later, after she had fallen asleep curled beside him on the mattress, a faint smile still on her lips, he sat by the window, wet clothes clinging to his back, watching the city breathe. He touched his lips where she had kissed him and felt the weight of it—not because he loved her, but because she had. And because she would never know the truth. The days shortened. Rain fell harder. Leaves turned dark and dropped like dying embers across the cobblestone. Still, Marceau came. Every night. Every dusk. Even when he had nothing to bring.
Even when it ached to stay.
Delphine no longer needed to ask.
She always left the window unlatched, the kettle warm, and one of her thick, ridiculous wool blankets folded at the end of the bed, waiting.
In those months, their life became something small and soft. A rhythm neither of them said aloud. Marceau would read aloud from whatever he had lifted from the bookstalls. Some nights they would talk until dawn, about stupid things—food, actors, dreams of cities, crushes, what they wanted to be.
Sometimes, Delphine would grow quiet. And one evening, as the wind battered the glass and Marceau wrapped the blanket tighter around his thin shoulders, she spoke softly from the other side of the room.
“Tu veux savoir pourquoi j’ai arrêté de danser?” (Do you want to know why I stopped dancing?)
Marceau looked up from the pages of Prévert. Delphine wasn’t looking at him. She was staring out the window, eyes unfocused, lips parted as if she were speaking to the air.
“Je dansais au conservatoire” (I used to dance at the conservatoire) she said. “Je n’ai jamais été excellente, mais j’avais cette flamme pour ça. Tu vois ? Quelque chose de fou et de lumineux.” (I was never great, but I had this fire for it. You know? Something mad and bright)
“Puis mon cœur a lâché.” Delphine smiled faintly.
“Je me suis effondrée sur scène. Les médecins ont dit que c’était une malformation de naissance. Congénitale. Un de ces beaux mots qui veut dire “cassée” (“I was never great, but I had this fire for it. You know? Something mad and bright.)
Marceau paused. Now it made sense, the reason why Delphine wept that day they danced.
Delphine turned to meet his gaze “Ça va empirer. C’est déjà le cas. Certains jours, je me réveille et tout va trop vite, ou tout est trop lourd. Certains jours, j’ai l’impression que je pars déjà.” (It’ll get worse. It already is. Some days I wake up and everything’s too fast, or too heavy. Some days I feel like I’m already leaving)
Marceau was speechless; he tried to offer words of comfort and reassurance, but his throat went dry and tightened. For the first time, his blue eyes flickered and his eyebrows furrowed together with a slight tilt. He never knew, he didn’t know.
The room went quiet, the sound of dripping water from the tap and the ticking of the little kitchen clock deafening. “Je ne savais pas” (I didn’t know)
“Bien sûr que tu ne savais pas” (Of course you didn’t know.) Delphine said softly.
“Je ne voulais pas que tu le fasses. Je voulais que tu m’aimes avant de me plaindre” (I didn’t want you to. I wanted you to love me before you pitied me.)
That made Marceau’s stomach twist. Delphine looked at him—at her—with such softness, with the kind of love Marceau had read about or seen in old films and strangers in the street. And the worst part? She was in love with the boy, Marceau—not Miarka. Marceau couldn’t break this; she was already too far in. They kissed for goodness' sake. It’s too late for the truth. The question lingered: did Miarka feel the same?
“Je ne te plains pas.” (I don’t pity you), he said coldly.
Delphine looked up smiling. “Alors, qu’est-ce que tu ressens?” (Then what do you feel?)
Marceau looked at her—really tried to look at her. He gazed into her dark eyes, trying to envision. He tried to imagine a life, not as himself, but as the person he used to be. He pictured them together, lying in a house by a fireplace, visiting him, intertwining hands; her pale, cold fingers slipping into her warm, dark hand. Her bronzed full lips pressing Miarka’s blushed, fine-lined upper lip. A promise, between them. A freeing passion between two girls. A tragic ghost and a vibrant ray of sun. Feeling the rain, feeling eternity even in death. A dolorous woman wearing clothes that don’t matter, smiling…
To be happy…
To feel joy…
To have the truth…
Would…
Ruin her…
That’s not Miarka, is it?
Her family name Kovoscavich. To be a Kovoscavich meant to be victorious. Ambitious. A leader. To conquer.
So why can’t she feel happy when she’s with Delphine? Should her heart flutter? Shouldn’t she be crashing her with compassion?
She couldn’t feel the same. Not in the way Delphine loved her. Not in the way Delphine deserved.
Marceau though—felt—oh he felt. Something deep, something wrenching. Guilt. Compassion. A fierce tenderness. And above all, a longing for what could never be.
He’d live this lie. He’d live this lie until he couldn’t anymore. For her sake. For Delphine’s.
He pressed his forehead to Delphine’s and whispered. “Je suis là, comme la marée—silencieuse, constante, et douloureusement attirée vers toi.” (I’m here like the tide—silent, constant, and aching toward you.)
That was enough.
That night, Delphine kissed him again, this time not for love, not for pity, because Delphine needed it.
For one moment, Miarka could pretend the boy Delphine loved.
The one who could stay.
Over the months that followed, Miarka played the part more fully. Marceau let Delphine rest his head on his shoulder, let her fingers trail over his ribs. He walked slowly beside her when her heart couldn’t keep up. He held her when the pain returned like a tide.
When Delphine whispered, “Je crois que tu m’as sauvé” (I think you saved me) Marceau gave a small smile and kissed her temple.
In the dark, when Delphine slept soundly and the city moved on without them, Marceau stared at the ceiling and wondered—
What does it mean to be kind or generous? To pity?
What does it mean to be loved for something you’re not?
And worse. Is it cruel to give someone hope, knowing you’ll take it away?
To give this perishing girl false hope?
Maybe. maybe not.
Miarka flinched as the Duke turned, snapping her back to reality like a magician's trick. The Mercedes whispered up the curb outside the Felix Landu Gallery like ghosts had summoned it. The engine turned off, and the morning pressed on. The Thin White Duke opened the door and walked past Miarka’s passenger side. Miarka swung open the door, her blue eyes squinting from the sun’s brightness. The Duke emerged slowly, languidly dressed. His suit was black, with his collar buttoned, exposing his pale neck. He wore a black tailored coat with neatly ironed black trousers. Through his eyes, covered behind dark mirrored aviators. He adjusted the brim of his dark fedora and lit a cigarette with two fingers wrapped in a glove. “Off we go, Miarka”, he murmured. “Let’s go stare at someone else’s suffering for a change.”
She followed him, heels ticking like clock hands against the pavement. She hadn’t worn heels since the dinner and nineteen-seventy-two. She was so used to her trench coat that she tried to slip her hands into her pockets, forgetting they weren’t there. It's a force of habit on her end. She watched people pass them by through her sunglasses, giving them stares as if they had stepped straight out of a Yves Saint Laurent fashion shoot. The gallery loomed ahead, modest on the outside like a chapel for those who worship paint and madness. Inside, the air was thick with turpentine, varnish and the soft hush of restraint—a hush he promptly violated. Miarka thought the Duke belonged here, a madhouse with his kind, locked away to showcase their art of depravity. The Duke moved with impunity, trailing the scent of tobacco, Book’s forty-four and Creed’s silver mountain water cologne; with herbaceous, citrus and slightly earthy woodiness. The gallery lights hit him like a film set, sharpening his cheekbones and body into a skeletal light.
“Schiele,” he said, “Death and the Maiden,” pausing before a portrait with two lovers in an embrace, the woman clutching onto the shape of death as her lover, feeling a sense of comfort and humanity, wearing a monk’s robes. “Now this, this man, understood violence and death, Miarka. Not the kind with fists like a barbaric bastard—no, he painted with the kind that festers inside your bones until your skin tries to walk away without you.” He leaned in, cigarette burning down between his teeth. “Look at that hand, the way she clutches him, it’s painted in the style of the Renaissance, oil on canvas.”
Miarka stood next to him, transfixed. The way the artist captured a weak, innocent girl holding a skeletal figure. The contrast between life and death. Weakness and fragility. Death is a figure of danger, fear, and comfort, yet it also resembles a presence of familial affection. It resonated with Miarka; the landscape being a zone of death and survival, and how the dangerous part of her still holds onto fragility. Despite all that has happened, she's still just a girl. Clutching onto what remained, the femininity of her reality and the masculinity of her innocence. She recognised the art style, the hollow eyes, the angular lines, the erotic decay. She’s seen this in the Duke’s painting, the one of her. “You’ve painted like this,” she mentions.
He leaned in, as if she had stated the obvious. “Of course I have, that’s the trick darling, if I imagine something and it inspires me, I create art. Art’s made with dreams.”
They moved on. Before Francis Bacon, he scoffed—not with disdain but something else. “I read interviews with Bacon in a flat with no furniture, high enough to talk to God through the plugs in the wall. Wanted to like him. Couldn’t. He paints like he’s trying to scrape himself out of his own skin. There’s genius in that, sure, but no grace. Just eat and memory, flayed and twitching.”
They paused before a Klimt, all gold and silk. The Duke spoke again, less cruel. “I remember walking into a desert with sand in my lungs and contact lenses welded to me eyes. The Man Who Fell to Earth. Hah! I didn’t fall, I was dropped. Like a needle on a record scratched down into New Mexico heat. The cameras weren’t watching an actor. They were filming an alien. Thomas Newton was—in many ways—was me, screaming behind glass, eh.”
He exhaled a small ring of smoke curling toward the gallery ceiling like a spell. “That film wasn’t science fiction. It was a fuckin’ documentary.”
Miarka looked at him and then saw it. How much of him had been left out there in the desert. How much still wandered the stars, searching for water, or grace and or some lost planet called home. The gallery narrowed around them. A hush spread, drowning the world in later. They stood before the Egon Schiele painting again, ‘Death and the Maiden.’ The strokes were brutal, angular, intimate, in a way that begged you not to look, yet you dared keep staring. The Duke was transfixed, his body still buzzing under the tailored suit like a radio catching static from another world. Miarka stepped beside him, her shadow merging with his. She said nothing at first. Her lips parted, then closed again, caught between thought and reverence. Her blue eyes glistened but refused to blink. The painting had caught her breath, too. It stirred something buried deep.
“I’m here like the tide,” she whispered, remembering those dark eyes and soft features of bronzed full lips. “Silent, constant, and aching toward you.”
The words came not from her, but through her—Delphine’s voice, that dusky, fragile French lilt. Still blooming behind her teeth like a wound that hadn’t closed. Delphine—his Delphine—the girl with ink-smudged fingers and a voice that made music out of morning. Miarka could still see her, the way her skirt flowed in the gentle breeze, the way she danced around the room and how she was fearless. Marceau, on the run from Kazan, Soviet ash still clinging to his breath, wrapped in coats and wanting.
“I never understood what that meant, but I think I do now,” Miarka said out loud.
The Duke turned his head, curious.
“This painting,” Miarka continued, “looks like yearning. Not the kind that asks. The kind that waits. That watches from the corners. That aches with no promise of return.” Her blue eyes met his gaze. “I learned how to make connections. People who knew how to reach out with hope. I learned longing, but never possession. I learned kindness, pity, but not sympathy.” She turned back, facing the painting as if it were a mirror. “There’s a difference. One assumed you understood. The other knows you never will.”
The Duke parted faintly, no comment or sly remark. His silence was reverent. Gently, Miarka looked down, gazing at his left hand. Her fingers gently brushed his. The Duke’s hand twitched, and for a moment, he let her hold on. That pale, sinewy hand, so often curled around cigarettes and shattered glass. It was warmer than she thought, feeling the leather and flesh beneath. It trembled slightly. His jaw tensed. His gaze didn’t meet hers. He felt something. Not love nor lust. A ripple of what it felt like to be human before the Duke existed. A memory of being held, not possessed, not praised—but—loved. Somewhere long ago.
The Duke stared into the painting, seeing visions of his past.
The Garden. Bromley.
A summer afternoon smudged at the edges with golden haze. His mum, kneeling over the flowerbed in rubber gloves, humming a song that never made the radio. Hay-fevered laughter. He was a boy again, five maybe six, barefoot in the dirt, smashing petals between his fingers to see what kind of colour they left behind. And his brother—his beautiful brother—spinning around the lawn with arms outstretched like a windmill, yelling nonsense about stars and time. He recounts how much he loved his dear brother.
That was before.
Before fame. Before London. Before America. Before pills, drugs and rail-thin cheekbones and the scream, he turned into a stage persona. It was quiet in that memory. Not grand. Not genius. He remembered the first time his dad took him on the tube, how the train rattled through the dark like it was chasing ghosts, and how David held his hand so tight he forgot to be afraid. He remembered the smell of old books at the Brixton library and the first time someone let him play a saxophone and told him he wasn’t bad.
He remembered feeling wanted.
A pub smoke. Noise. The Konrads. He was seventeen, barely eighteen. They practised in someone’s garage with nothing but stubbornness and second-hand amplifiers. He remembered gripping the saxophone like a lifeline, desperate to be heard, desperate to be seen, not as a boy with two different eyes, or the kid with an alien stare, but someone with sound inside him.
He remembered laughing —real, unguarded, snorting, cheek-burning laughter —when someone played the wrong chord and the whole song fell apart. He remembered putting on a suit jacket that was too big and saying to himself. “This is it, this is how I’ll leave Bromley.”
There were no drugs then—just nerves. And hope—hope, the most dangerous drug of all.
The King Bees. That was where the look began, sharp hair, sharp boots, pretending to be Jagger before he even knew who he was. He sang into tin microphones like they were confessions, and afterwards he’d pace the venue. Hungry for feedback, afraid of praise. He remembered a girl who danced in the front row every single time. He never spoke to her. But her presence felt like faith.
“It’s strange”, he thought, “How early strangers could make you feel like you mattered more than your own name.”
Posters in windows, Bowie albums. Past lives. Ziggy Stardust. Aladdin Sane. Diamond Dogs. The Man Who Sold the World. He stared at his face, distorted by glass, with remnants of features from them all. His persona’s staring back at him through shattered glass.
He remembered recording Honky Dory, sleeping on a floor with his ex-wife, and baby Zowie in the next room, a guitar balanced on his stomach and notebooks full of strange little poems about space and men who fell from it. He remembered what it felt like to hold his son—not like a rock star, not like a concept—but like a father. His son’s warmth was different from fame. It needed nothing from him. It just was.
There’d been a brief year or two, before the mask hardened, when he thought maybe he could do both. David Bowie on stage. David Jones at home. He remembered the smell of milk on Zowie’s shirt, the crayon drawings on studio tape boxes, the way Angie would hum under her breath when she thought he was asleep.
But life was a current he couldn’t stop. And eventually, the river pulled too hard.
Those mornings weren’t about fame, or art, or escape. They were quiet, ordinary, a father and his son weaving moments out of thin air, pockets of peace in a world that was always spinning too fast.
The Duke closed his eyes, his fingers curling in her grasp, as if to touch that time again. For a fleeting moment, David Jones—the man behind the mask—wasn’t lost in the shadow of the Duke after all.
It hurt.
All of it hurt.
When his eyes flickered open, he met her gaze, and for a moment, he recounted the madness they caused him. Those—beautiful—horrid—blue eyes he wanted to gauge.
His mis-matched gaze snapped, furious and wild. “Don’t. touch. Me—Don’t touch me like you know me.” He hissed, venom coiling through.
She didn’t flinch. She remained quiet.
“You don’t, you don’t get to—” he broke off, yanked his hand away like she’d burned him. “Fuck’s sake,” he snapped, turning, striding off through the gallery with his coat flaring behind him. And just like that, he was gone.
Miarka stood there, hand still lifted, as if the space between them could still be rewound. The painting watched her, mute and merciless. Death stared at her.
Delphine’s voice echoed in a whisper, only to her. “I’m here like the tide—silent, constant, and aching toward you.”
She didn’t chase him; she didn’t move at all. The silence he left behind stretched like a final chord, vibrating through her bones and settling heavy in her chest. The gallery swallowed, the sound of people walking past, swallowed everything except the dull throb in her fingertips where she’d touch him, briefly and foolishly. He was, warm, with flesh and bone. Miarka looked down at her hand, her slender fingers curled, as if holding the shape of something that no longer existed.
An echo.
She turned back to the painting. The woman on the canvas is clinging to death like a lifeline.
Miarka’s voice came in a hush, more of a breath.
“Я всегда остаюсь. Даже когда меня не ждут.” (I always remain. Even when no one is waiting for me.)
She swallowed. "Я люблю тех, кто не видит меня." (I love those who never see me.)
Her accent was soft, tinged with Russian and French, the kind of Russian spoken in half whispers, behind doors, in train stations, in letters never sent. The type that carried hunger in every vowel. She looked down at her hand, in the echo of Delphine’s voice and the way the Duke stared at her like a memory—a curse. The painting didn’t speak back. It didn’t have to.
Miarka left, her heels clicking against the floor like a metronome, and she kept to herself. Many eyes glanced at her and then dismissed her, like a ghost. She knew the Duke was waiting; he wouldn’t have driven off without her, even if she infuriated him. And—there he was—sitting in the driver’s seat of the Mercedes, huffing something that Miarka could only assume to be what she thought it was. Cocaine. She let out a short, sharp sigh, walking toward the passenger seat. The Duke’s red lips curled into a grin “Took you long enough, bloody starin your arse off art eh, can’t say I blame you, but I doubt you’d have art in some communist country. Burning it all, burning all your culture, Miarka.”
Miarka didn’t adknowledge his comment. She asked “Why did you turn away is it touch you fear? Is it human—”
“Miarka.” He said firmly. “I think we should pay ol’ Cherokee Studios a visit.
The warm hum of Cherokee Studios wrapped around them like a living thing, thick with echoes of restless guitars. The scent of leather, damp wood, and faint cigarette smoke hung heavy. Miarka followed the Thin White Duke inside, her footsteps soft on the aged wooden floorboards, her eyes darting around as if the walls might whisper secrets. Near a cluttered corner strewn with cables and half-empty whiskey bottles, Iggy Pop lounged like a wild animal tamed only by exhaustion. His pale face flickered with sharp, unpredictable energy as he caught sight of the Duke. The Duke’s lips curved, and suddenly there was a spark, a light in his eyes that Miarka hadn’t seen. He moved toward Iggy with an effortless grace, slipping into a language all his own—a rapid-fire exchange peppered with musical Jargon and strange references.
She stood quietly, the words washing over her like fragments of a foreign song she couldn’t quite catch. Her heart thudded with a mix of fascination and confusion. Are they mad? Or is this how all English rock stars are? She caught glimpses of their expressions, intense, sharp, alive, warm. She was trying to process the strange intimacy between two legends speaking in whispered tongues.
Then abruptly, the Duke's face shifted, replaced by a shadow darker than him. His voice lowered, thick with fear, and his words stabbed like a warning. “My house,” he said with a hiss. “It’s haunted. Not just tricks of the mind. Things move, voices. Things that don’t belong to this world.” His mismatched eyes flickered to Miarka, a fierce look. “I’ve called an exorcist, told him to prepare. Tonight, we can’t go home. We have to stay somewhere safe—a hotel. We’re lucky I have the next show in Phoenix.”
Miarka’s breath caught, her skin prickling with the absurdity. She opened her mouth to speak—something reasonable, sensible and grounded—but the Duke didn’t give her the chance. His gaze pinned her, unblinking. Hard.
She swallowed, remaining still, baffled by his words. Did he think ghosts were haunting his…house? She said nothing.
Her narrowed, blue eyes followed him as he turned away. The haunted man she was leaning towards revealed something dangerous that he carried. Something he couldn’t chase away.
The Mercedes purred through the slick streets of Hollywood, neon signs blurring into streaks of fire and glass. The Duke adjusted his hat, casting a shadow over those inscrutable eyes, and Miarka watched him, watching the city pulse like a living beast. They pulled outside Wallichs Music City, a legendary record store squeezed between peeling billboards and a dive bar flickering in electric blue. He stepped out first, fingers curling around the cigarette as if it were a talisman. “This place,” he said in a low sardonic voice. “Used to be the heart of sound in the city. Walls stacked high with every record that mattered, a few that didn’t,” his gaze flickered to a poster of Ziggy Stardust. A ghost of a self that haunted and infuriated him. A scowl tugged at his lips. “Ziggy,” he muttered darkly. “A bastard child of fantasy and flesh. What a fuckin’ racket.”
Inside, the air was thick with vinyl, incense, and the quiet reverence of collectors who still believed in magic. The Duke moved with the ease of a man reclaiming lost ground, fingers brushing over racks of rare pressings and stacks of obscure jazz music. He pulled a few leather-bound volumes from a shadowed shelf, works by his favourite occultists, philosophers and mystics. His mismatched eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he exclaimed over the books, the familiar weight of secrets in his hands. “These,” he said softly, “are the maps for the lost world. The guides for anyone who’s ever wanted to talk to the darkness without getting swallowed whole.”
Miarka followed, intrigued and baffled by his sudden change in demeanour. His mood shifted once more on the way to the Bodhi Tree Bookstore—a sanctuary of esoteric knowledge nestled in a quieter part of town. Here, walls whispered of Eastern philosophies, mysticism, and shadows that flickered just beyond the edge of sight. He leaned in close, voice barely above a breath. “The demons Miarka—they're watching me,” he said, his mismatched eyes sharp and cold. “There are people after me. Not fans. Not press. Something else. Something real.”
Miarka blinked, slowly, her lips slightly parted, as if she were staring at a loony man who escaped a madhouse. “Are you nuts?” she asked.
The Duke’s face hardened, the faintest flicker of a smile vanishing. “Dead serious,” he said. Then, without another word, he turned sharply and began walking away, not toward the storefront or the street. But in a strange, twisting path that seemed almost aimless, his coat flared like dark wings.
Miarka hesitated, then caught up just as he reached a café. He took a seat, holding up a menu and closely hiding his face. The café’s low hum wrapped around them, like smoke curling through a dim room. The Thin White Duke sat close to Miarka, his coat collar turned up, shadowing his face but never hiding the sharp glint in his eyes. He leaned toward her, voice dropping to a low whisper so soft it could have been a secret.
“Witches,” he said, each word measured heavily. He continued in a low whisper, afraid that if he spoke any louder, someone would hear him. “Not some old wives’ tale. Not stories for fools. Real. Watching. Waiting. I’m bloody terrified of ’em.”
Miarka’s brow furrowed, a mix of disbelief and curiosity flashing through her steady gaze. “Are you fucking serious?” she said bluntly, the bluntness a shield against the wildness of his words.
He gave her a thin, mirthless smile. “I was already tangled up with Aleister Crowley, you know. Named the bastard in ‘Quicksand’ on ‘Hunky Dory’ back in seventy-one. But then Jimmy Page came along, and page—he knew Crowley better than anyone. Had a hold on darker things. I got obsessed, yeah. Paranoia crept in, the kind that twists your blood and your thoughts. At the time, madness feeding madness.”
He paused, voice dropping lower, still almost conspiratorial. “Casety Rae, that rock critic, talks about it in his book ‘William S. Burroughs and the Cult of Rock ‘n’ Roll.’ Says I started storing my own piss in the fridge to stop those witches tied to Page from using it in some sick ritual. To birth the Antichrist or some fucked-up sex Magic.”
Miarka’s mouth dropped, and she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was she just so happening to stay with a Scientologist? A conspiracy theorist?
Miarka slowly blinked, the absurdity of it swirling in her mind. “That’s insane—you’re a man. Cold, emotionless, and yet—you believe this?”
He glanced around the café, his mismatched eyes narrowing like a hawk. “Don’t look too hard, love. Sometimes the truth hides best in shadows.” His voice was a warning.
Miarka sat back, fingers pressed lightly to her lips as she tried to piece it all together. The obsession, the fear, the tangled web of rock legend and real paranoia. “So, what was it really like between you and Page? How did it come to that?”
He exhaled slowly, a flicker of something raw crossed his sharp face. “We met back in sixty-five. The Manish Boys needed a guitarist for a session—Page was just a kid, twenty-one, but he had that fire. We got along. Warm words, respect. But by seventy-five, he joined me and Ava Cherry at my Manhattan place. Page spilled wine on silk cushions and blamed Ava. I told him, ‘Why don’t you take the window?’”
“They say we glared at him, like he was summoning dark forces, me trying to show him my will was stronger. After that…I didn’t trust him. Not for a second.” A smile formed on his red lips.
Miarka shook her head, disbelief melting into a cold sort of awe. “Oh my God—you’re insane.”
The Duke’s eyes locked with hers. “Don’t stare too hard Miarka. Some things…you don’t want to see.”
Miarka noticed he wasn’t speaking in any sense, slurring. She chewed on that, the pieces swirling in her mind. Is it madness, or is it survival? Then she asked quietly, “Do you think it was the fear of losing control? Or the fear that you were already losing it?”
He let out a slow breath, his smile twitching. “I know it’s real, Miarka, you're too naïve and young to understand.”
Miarka said nothing else. Her blue eyes narrowed.
She followed the Duke as he got up without paying. Miarka slid into the passenger seat, staring out the window. She couldn’t comprehend the words he said. The drive was long, silent and peaceful, oddly. Miarka, in the passenger seat, started to drift off, her head pressed against the window. The Duke’s slender hands gripped the wheel; he wasn’t tired, he never slept. His gaze stared out over the horizon, following the road’s lines. Occasionally, his eyes trailed to Miarka’s sleeping form and then flickered back to the road. They crossed the state line, and Arizona hit like a furnace. Miarka’s heels were off, her knees pulled to her chest. Her breaths were slow and faint. The Duke took a drag as he spotted the hotel in the distance, finally getting a break from five hours of driving.
The car stopped in a parking lot that was made for an action film. The door opened, and he stepped out. He looked like something dragged from a dream of fascist fashion. He shook Miarka awake. “Wakey, Wakey, we’re here, love. Come on, out you hop.” Miarka jolted; she stretched her arms out like a cat waking from a nap. She mumbled, “What—where—are we?”
The Duke didn’t have time to answer; she would see for herself. he began heading toward the hotel’s entrance. Miarka stepped out of the passenger seat, falling behind, rubbing her eyes, and sliding her brown hair back from the long trip. The sun was blinding, and the heat was uncomfortable compared to what she was used to. The hotel itself looked like a mirage; her eyes adjusted faintly to the sliding door. The glass doors parted with a ‘ding’, entering the hotel lobby like two ghosts returning from the dead. They didn’t even have a bead of sweat; he was still perfect and precise. Impressive compared to Miarka who was trying to wipe away the sweat from her forehead.
At the desk, the receptionist wearing a neat honey-blonde bun with a neat uniform filed her nails, humming a song from Blondie. She mumbled with no effort, “Hi there, how can I help yo—”
Her green eyes trailed up, staring. Her mouth fell open.
“Oh. My. GOD!”
He removed his sunglasses, slowly, like peeling off a mask. Underneath, his mismatched eyes held no emotion, no cruelty, no warmth, just a hint of amusement with no smile. “Evenin’,” he said in that gentle British cadence. “Room under Thin White Duke. Just any room available.”
The girl blinked. Her hands fumbled over the registration card like her fingers were jelly.
“You’re—I mean—I saw you in Los Angeles. You were like—like—a God.”
He gazed at her, expecting her reaction. “Mm. I still am. Briefly.”
Her cheeks flushed. “I—” she began, but he raised one slender, gloved finger.
“No need, love. Keep your ecstasies for later, yeah? You know, you’re beautiful, wouldn’t mind you in my bed, if you’re quiet hm?”
She choked on her voice. “W-what was that, Mr Duke?”
“Didn’t stutter darling,” he said lightly, adjusting his cuffs. “Seventeenth floor. Come after midnight. Don’t knock too loud, my girl’s got a thing about—property.”
Miarka stood behind him. Her blue eyes flickered to the receptionist—who was wide, breathless, pink in the face—and then to him, her face blank but tired beneath.
He turned his head slightly, speaking to her without meeting her gaze. “Miarka, dove, do be a dear and fetch the lift? Oh. And. As for you, I’ll be waitin’ yeah?”
The girl behind the counter couldn’t move; the Duke behind the cold façade enjoyed this.
He slid his sunglasses back on, tilting them into place with a single finger.
“Thank you ever so much, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dripping in sarcasm and English honey. “You’ve made my welcome positively religious.”
And then he walked away, the hotel lobby becoming colder in his wake.
The elevator doors closed with a metallic sigh, swallowing them in brass and red velvet. A tune playing cracked faintly from an overhead speaker, the kind that once tried to be romantic in a bar at closing time. Miarka stood near the wall, her arms folded tightly around herself. Her reflection floated in the mirrors, multiplied, tired, and small. The Duke stood beside her, gazing at his reflection like it owed him an explanation. He didn’t speak, then, with a sigh.
“You’re actin’ like I murdered someone.”
Miarka didn’t look at him. “You humiliated me. Again.”
He glanced at her, head tilted. As though studying a photograph. “I offered her a place in our bed. Out of charity, of course.”
“No,” she said. “Out of spite.”
He chuckled softly, no mirth, just amusement that she still fought back. “Always so quick, darling. Quick with words. Slow to forgive.”
He moved, a single, measured step closer. His hand reached out, fingers brushing against her upper arm, her skin feeling the leather. It wasn’t affectionate. It was claiming.
She jerked away, shoulders squaring. “Don’t.”
He blinked once, slowly. “I’m not hurting you, didn’t you want to touch me, in the Felix Landu Gallery. Or was that just your pity spiel?”
“No,” she said. “That was a mistake.”
He leaned closer to her, close enough that she could feel his breath. “You forget Miarka, I found you when you were no one. I found you on that bench. I took you in because I was feeling generous. And now look at you. Reading poetry in my wake, wrapped in silk, too proud to crawl back when you ache.”
“I’m not yours.”
“You are darlin’, for a moment,” he hummed. “That’s more than most ever get.”
The elevator dinged—Floor seventeen—the doors slid open, neither moved, and then Miarka walked out, followed by him. Miarka walked further, and the Duke tried to keep up the pace. They reached room ‘1705’, the suite.
The Duke slid the key in and opened the door. The room was lavish in a way that expensive hotels are. The walls were peach coloured with gold trim. Twin armchairs sat neatly by a broad window framed in thick, mustard-gold curtains. The king-sized bed dominated the space, draped in off white linen and a wine-red throw that looked like someone’s idea of luxury in nineteen-sixty-eight. A faux-crystal chandelier flickered above—a bar cart glittered in the corner, obscene little bottles of liquor. Ice melting in a silver bucket.
Miarka moved toward the window, pulling one curtain slightly to peek out. Phoenix stretched far below the heat haze, red roofs, empty swimming pools, a sky beginning to pinken with evening. Behind her, the Duke shrugged off his coat. He placed it over the back of one of the chairs.
He poured himself a drink, deep and amber. He teased. “Shall we play house, then?”
She didn’t answer. He approached slowly, glass in hand. Miarka slipped down and grabbed a book, reading on the bed.
His mismatched gaze drifted to her book, clutched in her hand. “What is it today?” he murmured. “Rilke? Anaïs Nin? Something desperately earnest, I’m sure.”
“I’m reading.” She said, not turning around, “While you invite strangers into my bed.”
He stepped beside her, sitting down close to her, purposefully interrupting her concentration. “She looked clean,” he said, sipping. “Bit tragic in the eyes, almost like you. You’d have liked her.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re lonely,” he replied, turning to face her. “You won’t leave. You could have done it days ago. But here you are. Book and all. With me.” He sipped the alcohol.
She looked up at him, eyes burning, her voice sarcastic. “I stay because I want to see if there’s any humanity left in you.”
His smirk twitched, not pleased, not angry—something stranger. “You’re either the cruellest thing I’ve ever met,” he said, swirling his glass. “Or the stupidest.”
He offered her the drink. She stared at it. “I’m tired, and I’m not drinking.”
She lay back on the bed, continuing to read.
He watched her, his smirk still apparent.
“And I’m not the one whose killin’ the mood love.”
Miarka tossed the book to the side and got up, brushing past him. She trailed off to the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror. Unscrewing the cap of the makeup remover, she found in the drawer. She wiped the mascara from her lashes slowly. From the bed, the Thin White Duke watched her through half-lidded eyes, sprawled out like a decadent serpent. He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a pale chest, sharp under the cotton. He pulled a drag lazily, the ash falling on the sheets.
“You do that like it’s an exorcism,” he said softly. “Washing me off your face.”
She didn’t respond. Just kept removing layers. Lipstick, rouge, eyeshadow. Gone.
Her face stripped bare. She leaned down, slipped off her heels—first one, then the other—and stood upright. Her spine was stiff, and her bare feet were on the cold floor.
“You look like a woman again.” The Duke exhaled smoke in a long, thin line.
“What do I usually look like?” She turned, arms loose at her sides.
“A weapon,” He murmured. “Or an angry gothic, depending on the lighting.”
She crossed the room without a word and sank onto the corner of the bed, facing away from him. Her hands ran over her calves, sore from standing, from walking on glass-thin patience. “You know,” he said after a moment. Voice low and lazy. “Remember when I mentioned we’re like a married couple? Well, we’re like one of those married couples in a Bergman film. You ever see scenes from a marriage?”
“No.”
“It’s depressin’ as fuck. They scream and fuck and scream again. But they never leave each other. That’s us. Just a bit more eyeliner and better cheekbones.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You think comparing us to a marriage is supposed to make me stay?”
He sat up now, drink in one hand, drag in the other.
“I think.” He said slowly, “You’d rather argue with me than whisper sweet nothings to some dull prick who doesn’t make you feel like you’re on fire.”
“You don’t make me feel ‘on fire’,” she muttered. “You make me drier than this desert.”
He crawled across the bed toward her like a snake with venom. Pressed his face to her neck, just behind her ear.
“You’re sick for me,” he whispered. “That’s the difference.”
She flinched, pulling away. “Don’t.”
He laughed. It was a sharp sound, like glass cracking.
“Oh come on, Miarka,” he purred, crawling back toward the pillows. “Don’t act like some bloody nun. We’ve already sinned. Might as well fuck about in it, yeah?”
“You want to pretend this is romantic, desirable?” she said. “It’s not. You offer me drugs like chocolates. You flirt with strangers in front of me. You can’t stand it when I touch you. You make jokes about sex and philosophical shit because it’s the only language you know.”
He stared at her for a long time, his smile didn’t move, but it cooled. “You’re the one who never leaves.”
He reached for a vial in his left pocket and tapped out a line across the glass-topped side table. He bent over it, pausing. “I could make you forget your own name,” he whispered.
She stood up, slowly, backing away from the bed. “I want to remember my name. That’s why I don’t touch your poison.”
He leaned back on the pillows, arms behind his head, body spread like something ready to be worshipped. “We could divine, you and I”, he said. “The God and his martyr. You need to bleed a little more. Taste the temptation.”
“Watch yourself, Duke,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “You’re rotting.”
He chuckled and turned to her. “Still married, aren’t we, darlin’?”
She didn’t look up as he moved about the room, though she could hear everything. The click of a lighter. The clink of ice. The mutter of half-sung lyrics under his breath, trailing off into nothing. ‘Young Americans’. His voice occasionally shifted registers, then the telltale sniff. The Thin White Duke stood at the bar cart, bent over slightly over the polished surface, wiping his nose with a silk handkerchief. He turned; his pupils were too large, like two moons, increasing in size toward the earth. He smiled widely, a reptilian-like, false smile.
“Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law,” he said, voice too euphoric. “Old Crowley, always did know how to throw a party.”
Miarka didn’t answer; she reached for her book, turning the page slowly, not reading it.
He walked across the room like a cat that had just eaten something dangerous. His wine glass glinted in his hand. “I’ve decided I’m the mediator between the head and the hands,” he continued, pacing. “You know. Like in ‘Metropolis’. The heart. That’s me. That’s what I am. Can’t you feel it, darlin'? Me at every centre of the machine. Sacred. Mechanical.”
He stopped in front of her and offered the glass. “Drink with me. Just one,” he whispered in a voice so soft it felt like smoke. “Red. Like a sacrament.”
She didn’t look at him.
“No.”
His smile twitched. Then fell.
“Oh, come now. No need to play the weary wife,” he said, kneeling slowly beside her like a suitor in some forgotten play. “We’ve shared everything else. Books. Beds. Secrets. Syringes—”
“I never touched your shit.”
He tilted his head. “You let me touch you.”
She slammed her book shut and sat up. “Don’t twist this. I’m not like one of your tragic girls, you leave with a broken heart.”
“You’re mine,” he said with a quiet conviction. “I’m not ready to set you loose.”
She stood. “Then get used to disappointment.”
He rose to his feet, like something dangerous preparing to strike. Then, with sudden brightness. “Burroughs said—” and here he raised one finger, performing the quote like theatre. “Hustlers of the world, there is one mark you cannot beat: ‘the mark inside’.”
He pulled the silver vial from his pocket and held it toward her.
“Come on, kitten,” he purred. “Take a little. To peel it all back. You don’t know how loud your soul screams until you silence the rest of you.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“Miarka,” he said, voice cold and flat. “You’re no saint. Don’t pretend.”
“I have to pretend,” she snapped. “Or I’ll become you.”
He looked at her, something flickering in his face. For a second, the Duke. David. His smirk dropped, staring at her as if her words meant something.
Then it was gone, replaced by his returning smile. He turned, took a brutal line from the counter, and collapsed backward onto the bed like a ragdoll.
“You’re borin’” he mumbled. “You’re afraid of everything real.”
She shot him a glare.
“Oh don’t look at me like that,” he drawled. “You knew what I was when you laid down in my bed.”
She didn’t speak.
He licked his red lips, leaning forward, elbows on knees.
“We’re past all the moaning, love. You stay. I rot. You watch. It’s theatre, innit?”
His voice dropped low, sly and curling, and smoke curled around him like a bundle of serpents. “We argue, then you crawl back. You always do. Maybe this time, you’ll finally let me fuck the rage out of you.”
A sharp, guttural hiss escaped her mouth, like a feral animal warning its predator. Her blue eyes flared, flashing, a pale, white fury crossing her face.
It was real. Real anger.
The Duke froze for a moment.
She had never looked at him like that.
“Don’t speak to me like I’m your property.” She spoke. “Don’t talk about my body like it’s something you’re entitled to. You touch me with those hands, and then you touch your fucking poison. You stink of rot and sex and nothing.”
The Duke’s jaw tightened, his mismatched eyes narrowed, and his brows furrowed. “No one talks to me like that,” he said lowly.
“You're not a God. You’re a junkie.”
He stood towering over her, glass crashing to the floor beside him.
“I made you.” He growled.
She stopped, heading toward the door, turning back just enough to let the full weight of her anger hit him like heat from an open oven. “You mentioned before, the mediator between the head and the hands. Well, Duke, when the heart is reduced to a mere instrument of mediation, it ceases to be the seat of consciousness and becomes a servant to order. The intellect, unchecked by empathy, constructs systems that are efficient and absolute. And the hands, stripped of meaning, become mechanised extensions of will. To enthrone the heart solely as mediator is to misunderstand its power; it must not only bridge, but contend, disrupt, and defy. For, without resistance to the cold tyranny of logic, humanity threatens to become precise, obedient, and completely lost. I believe you're afraid of remembering your humanity and losing control; that’s why you despise being touched.”
He rose from the bed, his mismatched eyes growing desperate, and he raised an arm out toward her. “Miarka—”
She was already gone, heading down the hallway, and the door slammed shut.
And for the first time in years, the Thin White Duke stood alone, surrounded by mirrors that did not flatter. He lost his family, he was losing his friends, and he was financially in debt. He was alone. Isolated. The reality set in; he stared at his hands, trembling, and his lower red lip quivered. He stared at the door.
The bar was quiet, mostly empty, save for a few locals folded over their beers like sad origami. Neon flickered in the window behind her, bleeding red into her glass of white wine. Miarka sat at the end of the counter, one leg crossed over the other, her bare feet slipped into an old pair of sandals she found at the bottom of the hotel’s wardrobe. The makeup was gone, the gloss of the night stripped clean. What remained was her, bone-tired but breathing. She sipped her drink. Her blue eyes were heavy. Her jaw was tight. She kept shifting on the barstool like she was trying to shake him off.
The Duke’s voice, smooth and snake-like, still lived in her ears.
You’re boring.
I made you.
the mediator between the head and the hand.
I hate you.
That’s right, he hated her as he reminded her often.
And then, without permission, a memory came.
Paris, 1974. Montreuil.
The hill was covered in wildflowers, violet, gold, white as sun-bleached paper. The sky was morning haze. The air hung heavy, still too cold for the season. Marceau stood at the top, his coat drawn tight around her, scarf knotted neatly at his throat, eyes sharp despite the warmth of the field. The city whispered faintly behind the, irrelevant. The place had been Delphine’s idea.
“J’ai toujours voulu mourir dans un endroit joli” (I always wanted to die somewhere beautiful), Delphine said, her voice barely a breath.
Marceau didn’t reply. Delphine sat carefully in the grass, her arms frail now, her bones bird-thin beneath her yellow dress. Her cheeks colour flush was gone, but her smile was calm. Brighter than what Marceau’s seen. “Je n’ai pas dit à ma mère”(I didn’t tell my mother)
“Ni à mes sœurs. Je ne voulais pas qu’elles me voient m’éteindre. C’est ce que je voulais” (Or my sisters. I didn’t want them to watch me fade. I wanted this.)
Marceau pulled Delphine’s hands in her lap, his expression unreadable. Delphine turned her face to him. “Je veux que tu te souviennes de moi ici, Marceau. Pas dans ce lit. Pas dans un hôpital avec des machines qui bipent et des inconnus qui chuchotent.” (I want you to remember me here, Marceau. Not in that bed. Not in a hospital with beeping machines and strangers whispering.)
She closed her eyes for a moment. Her lashes fluttered against her dark skin.
“J'ai fait un vœu.” She whispered. “Je viens de faire un vœu.”(I made a wish—Just now)
Marceau stared, her voice came out colder than she meant. “Les vœux ne comptent pas” (Wishes don’t matter.)
Delphine smiled weakly. “Quand même, j'en ai fait un. Ça ne veut pas dire que je m'y attends” (Still. I made one. Doesn’t mean I expect it)
Wind shifted over the flowers.
Delphine opened her bronzed eyes again, glassier now. She reached out, fingers trembling. Marceau took her hand.
“Promets-moi quelque chose” Delphine said. (Promise me something)
“Promets-moi que tu continueras. Peu importe ce que tu es vraiment” (Promise me you’ll keep going. No matter what you really are.”
Marceau looked away. “C’est cruel.” (That’s cruel) he said quietly. “Tu ne me connais même pas.” (You don’t even know me)
“Si, je te connais. Pas ta vérité, mais ta forme. La part de toi qui est restée.” Delphine said, eyes shining. (Not the truth of you. But the shape of you. The part that stayed.)
Delphine leaned in, delicate and trembling, kissing Marceau on the lips.
It wasn’t desire. It was a goodbye.
She pulled away, her breath hitched. She hummed the tune to Swan Lake. Her head fell against Marceau’s shoulders.
The song, the melody, her voice—started to fade.
Delphine was gone.
Marceau had seen death before, back in Kazan when he killed that man.
This was different.
Marceau knew Delphine. She was kind. She cared. She loved.
Marceau closed her eyes, carefully. She appeared to be in a slumber.
He didn’t cry. Not then. Not when she lifted her in her arms. Marceau dug in the dirt with her bare hands, dirt under her fingernails, shoulders aching. He dug for hours. He dug a grave for her. She deserved it. He wrapped her in the wool blanket they used to fall asleep in, the one that still smelled like oranges and candle smoke.
Marceau planted a seed in her palm before covering her with the earth.
A red poppy. The kind that means remembrance and eternity. That kind that means sleep. The kind that no one notices until it blooms out of nothing. The type that blooms when soldier’s blood was spilled after the war, their ghosts still marching.
The wind died. Marceau sat there until the last bit of warmth left his body.
Marceau stood. He didn’t look back.
A final hum escaped his lips—Swan Lake.
Paris, 1974, École de Danse de l’Opéra national de Paris.
Rain pattered against the studio’s high windows. Grey light bled through, diffused and flat. The ballet studio smelled of chalk and rosin, the polished wood floor gleaming like the inside of a music box. Auditions had already begun—Giselle, Le Carnaval des Animaux, and Swan Lake. One girl will take the lead based on her rank.
Girls in pink tights and perfect buns waited in rows. Some in silence, others whispering nervously. Most were local, with a few international names already familiar to them. Though the prize, was who ranked the lead aside from the roles in performances. A place in the upcoming season meant prestige and attention, which would lead to a lead role in an upcoming film. The Jacques Moreau was observing this round. He had already handpicked a few promising ones. And even one, who had been a ballerina for ten years was promised the lead.
Then—late—Marceau Chevalier arrived.
Small. Pale. Tense, like wire wound too tightly.
No one knew the boy. Some stared. He didn’t wear the school’s uniform; instead, he wore a black trench coat with boots. He wore a cap with a scarf draping behind him like wings. His presence unnerved the other girls, sharp, silent, and too serious for a fifteen-year-old.
Marceau stepped forward. He felt the cold air pierce through his sleeves. His bones were still aching from the hill, his palms calloused from digging.
Delphine’s voice was in his blood. ‘Live for something beautiful’.
She walked to the centre of the floor. No music. No introduction. “Qui es-tu?” (Who are you?)
What came out of her wasn’t choreography, it was grief. A grand jete launched like an escape. Pivots spun from instinct. His back bent, not with grace but anguish. His fingers trembled through a développé, as if he were trying to reach someone who was no longer there. The girls gasped behind her. A few froze watching.
Even Moreau’s expression shifted.
It was real, it was perfect, it was polished.
When he landed the final fouetté, barely breathing, the room was silent.
“Où t’es-tu entraîné?” (Where did you train?)
Marceau looked at them; he tossed his cap to the side, sliding off his coat. Tired of playing the peasant French boy. His voice still hoarse from the cold of the earth he’d buried Delphine in, came low.
“Je suis née à Kazan” (I was born in Kazan). Heads turned. One woman’s brows arched sharply. Marceau looked at them.
“Je me suis entraîné(e) au Bolchoï jusqu’à mes quatorze ans. Je me suis enfui(e). J’ai vécu en garçon à Montreuil. Je volais pour manger. Le nom sur ta liste n’est pas le vrai. Je ne suis pas Marceau. Je suis—”
“—Miarka”
“Pourquoi mentir?” (Why lie?) A young assistant asked.
“Parce qu’une fille sans pays n’est pas en sécurité. Un garçon avec des chaussures volées est invisible. J’ai choisi l’invisibilité” (Because a girl without a country isn’t safe. A boy with stolen shoes is invisible. I chose invisible.)
She turned to Moreau. Her hands still.
“Mais je ne suis pas venu(e) ici pour rester invisible.” (But I didn’t come here to be invisible anymore)
“Tu as dit le Bolchoï?” (You said Bolshoi?) the assistant asked. “Quelle année?” (What year?)
Moreau stood, arms folded, eyes narrowed, calculating. “Elle est des nôtres.” (She’s in.)
“Mais…” (But—) the assistant said.
“Elle est des nôtres” (She’s in) she said. “Le talent, c’est le talent. Et cette fille — qui qu’elle soit — danse comme si elle allait mourir. Et c’est exactement le genre de danseuse qu’il nous faut.” (Talent is talent. And this girl—whoever she is—dances like she’s dying. And that’s the kind of dancer we need)
Miarka gave a glance, then left. She knew she began as soon as the next day hit dawn. She was accustomed to the hours. Later, outside the building, as rain came down harder on the step stones, Miarka stood alone, her coat back over her shoulders, her boots hanging wet from her fingers. Miarka walked alone until she paused, hearing music without flinching. Swan Lake echoed through the alley, crackling from an old phonograph left near a flooded stage, warped but still mournful.
It called her.
The sky above was grey and wide, spitting in crooked sheets. The concrete hilltop lined with rusted railings and wild, overgrown vines, Miarka was alone.
She moved. Not like before, not the stage-trained perfection they’d taught her to wear like glasses. This was memory. Hers.
She slid off her boots, her bare feet feeling the cold, wet pavement. Her feet slid across the slick pavement, toes flexing instinctively for balance. One arm lifted, fingers curved with slow elegance. Her breath synced with the broken melody. She drew her body into first position, then turned, half-measured at first, like her limbs had forgotten. But they hadn’t.
Her legs extended into arabesque, wet skin flashing through torn pants. She spun, pirouette after pirouette, her wet brown hair whipping against her neck. The rain clung to her lashes. Her mouth opened, gasping not from pain.
She saw her.
Delphine.
Delphine in the tiny warmth of that run-down bookstore, hair wild, mismatched socks pulled high, laughing awkwardly as she mimicked the dance, no rhythm, no grace. A disaster. She’d giggled. But it makes you smile. A crooked record playing, Swan Lake. Arms flailing in her yellow dress, tea sloshing from the chipped mug in her hand.
“Je suis atroce, hein ? J’avoue, j’ai toujours voulu être ballerine, mais je n’ai jamais pu.” (I’m atrocious, aren’t I? I admit, I always wanted to be a ballerina, but I never could.)
Miarka had stood in the rain then, too. She turned faster, faster again. Her knees bent deep into a plié, her arms slicing through the air like wings caught in a storm. The choreography came in fragments, relics of old mingled with emotion.
And then.
That night.
Delphine’s hands cold against her skin. Her mouth hot and trembling. The kiss that stole Marceau’s breath like a confession. Their bodies pressed together, wet from the rain, soaked through their clothes, legs tangled, fingers digging into flesh, not out of lust, but fear. Need. The kind of intimacy born of people who knew their time was brief—the kind where kindness introduced humanity to somberness.
Miarka leapt into a grand jeté. The arc of it carried her across the rooftop like she could outrun grief. She landed hard. Her breath broke. Her arms rose again, faster, now frantic. She spun—again, again, again—faster than her footing could manage.
Her foot slipped. She fell. Knees skidded across the soaked cement. Her hands slapped the ground. The music played on, distant, distorted and full of mourning.
Miarka did not move. Her eyes, wide and stunned, stared ahead, mouth parted, chest heaving. And then it came crashing in.
Delphine’s last breath. Her weight against Miarka’s shoulder. The poppy seed in her palm. That kiss, the one that wasn’t for pleasure but for goodbye.
The sob tore out of her without warning.
She curled over her knees, soaked, shaking, breathless with sorrow. “She was the only one,” she whispered to no one. “The only fucking one.”
Lightning flashed overhead.
“I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t even try. I left her to fade, and I danced through it all like I wasn’t already ruined.”
Her voice cracked. She gritted her teeth, tears spilling down her porcelain cheeks, mixing with the rain. “I’m weak. I’m so weak.”
She looked up, gasping. A bird stood on the railing, feathers dark and soaked, completely still. Watching her. Miarka stared at it through the rain. Something passed between them. Not pity. Not comfort. A challenge.
She rose. Slowly, her body sore, soaked through, her tights ripped at the knees. Blood trickled down her shin. Her chest was still shaking.
Her eyes had gone cold. Focused. Lit with something dangerous.
“I’m going to win,” she told the bird. Her voice was low as a blade. “For her.”
She stepped toward the edge of the rooftop, not to fall, but to leap forward into whatever came next. Miarka turned away from the grave in her mind.
She would dance again, not for them, not for the judges. The reckless heart. The only one who saw her.
The jukebox changed tracks, concluding its final note. A new vinyl track switched over, changing to ‘Word on a Wing’, a song she had heard before, the piano notes well in her mind—the haunting music. The voice that sounds like it’s reaching out to a gospel, a melodic voice. The bar smelled of bourbon, Marlboros, and Aqua Net. Polyester stuck to thighs, and platform heels clicked. Halter tops glittered. Everyone looked like they were trying to get cast in a Roxy Music album cover.
Not her.
That was when a flash disturbed her presence—a snap from a Polaroid without her permission. No smile. No pose. Just that empty, clear-eyed stare and the camera flash bouncing off nothing but mood. Miarka, caught in a daze, peered around in the direction of the flash.
She saw a man.
He’d been leaning at the other end of the bar, nursing a gin and tonic, chatting up some girl in a suede vest when the camera went off. His head turned. He froze. Miarka’s blue eyes narrowed; she was not in the mood for paparazzi or perverts asking for a night's stand.
Though he was not a weird man, he was Lionel Trask, an American born in Detroit, bred in L.A. Now drifting wherever the mood—and the money—took him. At forty-two, he looked like someone who once toured with The Rolling Stones to document the backstage chaos. His tan was real, his teeth Hollywood white, and his black shirt was unbuttoned just enough to hint at a lifestyle. He wore a gold chain, Levi’s and expensive Cuban heels. A Nikon hung from his neck. Always did. He knew people. Real people. He was in with the big boys.
He photographed Debbie Harry when she was still working as a waitress. Patti Hansen had once fallen asleep on his shoulder at a shoot in Palm Springs. He shared cigarettes with Iggy Pop in Berlin, so he saw Bianca Jagger cry once, and had taken pictures of Stevie Nicks in nothing but white lace and thunder. He was the reason, people think she’s a white witch. He’d seen it all. But he had never seen her.
And that—that—bothered him.
He approached the booth as if it were sacred ground, his two fingers raised in a peace sign. “Hey there,” he said in a smooth American accent. “Mind if I interrupt the solitude?”
Miarka didn’t look up. “Depends. On what you’re offering.”
He smiled. “A conversation. And maybe your future.”
She looked up. Her eyes were pale, intelligent, and tired of games. The accent hit him like cool vodka. Russian. Cold and unapologetic. “Strange,” she said. “I did not realise my future was in this bar. Or in your hands.”
Lionel blinked, impressed, then grinned. “Touché.”
She took a slow sip of her drink.
“I’m Lionel. Trask. I’m a photographer—fashion, music, ads. I’ve worked with everyone—from Halston girls to Zeppelin’s label. You’ve got a face that doesn’t walk into rooms like this. You haunt them.”
Miarka raised an eyebrow, her lips thinning. “Is this what American men say when they want to photograph girls who are alone?”
He laughed. “Only the honest ones.”
She stared, unblinking.
“I’m serious,” he went on, trying not to overplay it. “There’s a whole world of girls out there right now trying to look like you. But they don’t look like you. You’re not disco, you’re not peasant-chic, you’re not trying to be Twiggy or Farrah. You’re just—”
“Bored.” She said, “Of your flattery.”
He paused. Then fished in his jacket pocket and slid a card across the table. Sleek. Cream coloured. Gold lettering.
LIONEL TRASK
Photography | Talent | L.A. | NYC | London
Studio 212.555.1984
“See Before the World Does”
“Call me if you change your mind,” he said, stepping back. “You’d kill in Paris. Even just walking.”
Miarka picked up the card, catching it, and studied it like it might self-destruct. “Paris is full of dead girls with pretty faces. I prefer to keep mine.”
Lionel’s grin faltered just a fraction. “Smart,” he said. “Maybe too smart for this city.”
She shrugged, “Phoenix is temporary. Like the heat. It goes, and so do I.”
She turned, rising, leaving the bar with little interest.
Miarka held the business card in her palm. He nodded and left, boots clicking on the linoleum floor.
Miarka walked through the hallway; the air was metallic and dry. She went up the lift. Leaning against the wall, ignoring those who entered and left. Eventually, she made it to the seventeenth floor.
Miarka turned the key in room ‘1705’ and slipped inside, her bare feet whispering against the old carpet, the door clicking shut behind her with a final, weighty sound. The room in question, was chaos.
Curtains were half-ripped from the rod, a broken lamp twitching its light like it was trying to send Morse code from another realm. Broken gin, wine, and whiskey glasses lie shattered on the ground. A copy of ‘The Golden Bough’ with claw marks down its spine. A mirror cracked with what looked like a ring or maybe a fist. Cigarette burns in the carpet. Wine spilled like blood across the pages of an Aleister Crowley book.
And him.
The Duke was curled on the bathroom tiled floor in nothing but black trousers, which clung to his thin frame like wet paper. His bones looked like punctuation marks under his skin. The White tile under him was smeared with eyeliner, ash and sweat—his amber hair, with a blonde streak, stuck to his temples. He mumbled to the bathroom light, trembling like a man coming down from the ceiling of heaven. Miarka leaned on the doorframe. Her face was a mask, unmoving. He didn’t even register her presence.
“Fuckin’…fuckin’ shadows,” he rasped, English accent thick, from shouting or smoking too much.
“They’re in the fuckin corners, Mi—arka—I saw them. I saw em’. I was lookin’ in the goddamn mirror and they were lookin’ back, tall fuckers, grey, no mouths, just bloody teeth and suits.”
His voice pitched up.
“Don’t you get it? They know, Miarka. They know what I’ve done. I’ve fucked it, I opened the wrong bloody book. I lit the wrong candle, read from that—that Hebrew.”
He pressed his palms to his forehead and moaned.
“They whispered through the fuckin’ amplifier, I swear. I heard it when I played that demo from Berlin. Eno warned me, said I was diving too deep. I didn’t listen. I never fuckin’ listen.”
“The witches.” He whispered hoarsely. “They’ve come down through the mirrors. They whisper behind the walls. ‘Crowley, Crowley’, said it would be this way: all this, all this Kabbalistic rot. The Sephiroth is cracked. It’s cracked right open.”
Miarka didn’t move. She only watched him. He rolled onto his back, laughing to no one, to nothing.
“Do you hear it, Miarka? Can you—hear it? ‘Caw, Caw, Caw’—like the crows at the gates of Eden. They know what I did. I opened something. I read too much. I invoked.”
Hr gripped his head, nails digging into his scalp.
“God dammit, Bowie’s going to leave me. They always leave me. He’ll melt into another skin, another star, another song, and I’ll stay here. In the in-between.”
He started laughing again. Loudly. Then quoted.
“The doors of perception, if cleansed.” He whispered, “But I can’t cleanse them. I can’t. They’re filthy, they’re stuck. I see too much.”
She stepped closer.
His mismatched eyes flickered toward her, but he didn’t see her. He was in another place. Between worlds. Somewhere where reality was made of paperback pages and mirror shards. “Duke?” she asked softly.
No answer.
He whispered something in German, something from Nietzsche or the Kybalion.
He laughed louder.
“You ever try snorting coke off a tarot deck? I did. In Chelsea. Jimmy Page showed me how. Said it’d open the gates. Bastard wasn’t wrong.”
Miarka’s brow ticked, but she said nothing.
He rolled over on the tile, eyes blown wide, staring through the ceiling.
“I’ve been, dream walking. Through hotel rooms, through fuckin’ walls. I saw Lou in my sleep, bleeding eyeliner. He told me to get our of L.A. He said they were building altars out of broken records. Told me I’m next. Told me Bowie’s gonna shed me like a lizard skin. And he’s right—he will.”
Duke shuddered violently.
“I am him, and I’m not. He’s somewhere else now, reading Kahlil Gibran and trying to be sober in fuckin’ Switzerland or whatever, while I’m down here in Phoenix with demons crawling through the fuckin’ mini-fridge.”
His laugh was hollow.
“Bowie’s gone. He left me here. With all this goddamn mysticism and my cock in the dirt.”
Miarka was still. She was standing there, still, she hesitated.
“You ever done so much blow you forget which soul belongs to you?” he asked, his voice hushed, curious, almost childlike. “You ever looked in a mirror and seen seven of yourself, but only one’s real and she’s laughing at you?”
Miarka blinked. She crouched, just close enough to see the veins in his temple throbbing like fault lines. She didn’t touch him. She just watched.
He stared at her like she was the last sane thing in the room. “I miss him, Miarka, the one who used to write songs in Brixton kitchens. The boy who wore too much blush and wanted to save the world with alien ballads.”
He pressed his head to the tile again. Eyes red. “I lost me. And now I’m stuck with me.”
The Duke muttered something in Latin.
Then it came, sudden and raw—a guttural scream.
Ripped from his throat like someone dragging glass across a chalkboard. A scream that didn’t sound like words anymore. Just panic and pain and something else, something clawing its way underneath.
“GET IT OUT!” he howled, hands tearing at his chest, his ribs. “GET IT OUT OF ME! GET IT OUT—PLEASE! IT’S UNDER MY FUCKIN’ SKIN, MIARKA PLEASE, I FEEL IT, I SWEAR TO CHRIST I FEEL IT MOVIN—”
He writhed, thrashed, his limbs jerking like a man being exorcised from the inside.
“IT’S INSIDE ME!” he hissed again, curling tighter on the tile like a dying animal. His voice came low, raw, desperate, still laced with British drawl. Part South London, part lost alien, part rock God turned cracked porcelain.
“It’s crawling in my fuckin’ veins, love,” he whispered, trembling. “I can feel it, wriggling about, like, like summat put there by someone else. Some—some curse or fuckin’—Christ, I dunno. I’m rottin’, I am, from the inside out.”
He gagged once. Dry. Violent.
“You—didn’t eat, did you?” his mismatched eyes snapped to her, red and glassy. “You didn’t touch the food. You—you could’ve done it, Miarka. You could’ve slipped something in. I saw you watching. Always watching.”
“God, your eyes. I WANT TO GOUGE THEM! THEY LOOK AT ME AND JUDGE! WELL, ARE YOU HAPPY NOW! SEEIN’ THE JUNKIE IN FRONT OF YOU!”
She didn’t move. Her hands were lightly shaking.
“Was it you?” he choked. “WAS IT FUCKIN YOU?”
She stood in place.
He gasped again, like something inside his chest was trying to get out. Then the rage collapsed—just like that—into tears. Sobbing. Real, body-breaking, salt-stinging, weeping. “Why…why…why…why”
He cried into the crook of his own arm, the sound echoing off the tile like a curse. “Why do they leave, Miarka? Why do they all fuckin’ leave?”
His words slurred, his breath hitched, his shoulders spasmed. “Mick fucked off. Lou won’t answer. Eno’s gone cold. Angie’s lost in a bottle somewhere in bloody Nottin’ Hill screamin’ at ghosts I left in the wardrobe. And me manager—” he laughed bitterly.
“He’s taken it all. Everything. Back catalogue, publishin’, the fucking money, Miarka. The lot. Years. Gone. I cane’t even sue him, I’m too bloody tired to sign a fuckin’ cheque or autograph.”
He stared up at the celing like it might split open and suck him back to Mars.
“D’you know I had to sell the Berlin flat? The place with the cracked window and the harmonium. Had to let it go. Too many fuckin’ memories.”
Then, his voice dropped again, trembling, childlike.
“Oh God, I miss my son.”
Miarka blinked, her blue eyes stayed fixed on him, wide.
“I miss Zowie,” he whispered. “He’s so small still. Thinks I’m magic. Thinks I come from stars. But when I do see him, I look like—like this. Like some broken vampire who reads Aleister Crowley out to the fuckin’ minibar.”
His breathing trembled. His voice cracked open.
“I’d give it all away, Miarka: every bloody note, every record, every show with a red light and too much makeup. Just to hold him. Just to be his fuckin’ dad. Properly. To take him to school and pack him somethin’ that doesn’t smell like cigarettes.”
He clutched his chest. “I love im’ Miarka. So much it hurts. Hurts like teeth under the skin. Hurts like a song that never ends.”
His thin frame sagged against the floor. He leaned toward her, not as a choice, not affection, just gravity. His head pressed softly into her lap, and Miarka sat sliding against the bathroom wall. His cheekbone against the fabric of her dress. And he didn’t hold her back. He didn’t acknowledge her arms, or her presence. He just breathed. Finally, still.
Miarka sat frozen. Her arms around his fragile body felt like they didn’t belong to her. Her throat closed. No words would come. None.
She was only eighteen. And he was almost thirty, falling to pieces in front of her—this man she once saw as untouchable, unknowable, carved out of sound and stardust.
Now he was human—a man.
She looked down at him, her body stiff, her mind blank. His voice is gone.
Because how do you hold a fallen God?
How do you survive being trusted with the wreckage of someone the world only ever worshipped?
The Thin White Duke fell asleep in her arms. The room had gone quiet. No more screaming, no more sobbing or broken mutterings. Just the faint hum of the air conditioner rattling behind stained drapes.
Miarka sat stiffly against the bathroom wall, Duke curled half in her lap, his sharp face pressed near her hip like a lost child who couldn’t find his bed. She didn’t cry. She couldn’t speak. Her slender hand traced circles up and down against the sharp angles of his back.
Her lips parted. She hummed.
Just barely, soft as a whisper, almost unsure.
The tune was slow, swaying like smoke. ‘Wild is the Wind.’ The way he sang it: long vowels and aching pauses. It slipped from her like memory, tentative and half sung into his tangled amber-blonde streaked hair. The moment he recognised it, his breath hitched, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t say thank you. His breath slowed, deepened, but he didn’t sleep. “I hate sleep.”
Miarka blinked, her fingers twitching lightly against his shoulder. “I do,” he went on, voice low, almost dreamlike. “It’s a liar, Miarka. Tells you you’re safe. Tells you tomorrow will be different. Then it spits you back into the same goddamn hell with the same face in the mirror.”
He paused, exhaling.
She said nothing. Only kept humming, slower now, the tune fading in and out like a tide.
“I didn’t sleep anymore,” he muttered. “I just—rest sometimes. Go deep. Not all the way. Somewhere in between. Like a, like a trance, y’know? Like meditation, but with ghosts.”
He chuckled—a dry, breathless sound.
“It’s how I wrote ‘Station to Station,’ actually. Didn’t sleep for five, six days. Just wandered the halls. Smoked, fasted. Drew sigils in me diary. And then—boom. The fuckin’ Thin White Duke walks out of me like some magician’s trick. And i—” he coughed, “I just let im’ take the mic.”
Miarka paused.
“Soft. Cold. Like, a cathedral if you’d lived in it alone for centuries.”
She didn’t know what to say. So she hummed again. The bridge. Slow and winding. “Love me, love me, say you do.”
He sighed. His fingers uncurled at her side.
“Don’t go,” he said finally. Barely audible. “Just don’t go.”
Miarka didn’t promise. She didn’t leave.
She stayed—arms aching, legs numb—her voice humming the last line. The night held them both.
February 15th, Phoenix. 1976
Morning broke through the half-shut, torn curtains in slanted gold, lighting up the wreckage of room ‘1705’ like a museum of beautiful ruin. Miarka sat upright in bed now, knees tucked under the crisp sheets. A silver tray balanced on her lap—toast, eggs, strong black coffee, and a grapefruit split like a wound. She hadn’t ordered it. Duke must have, before he left the surrealism of the night behind. She hadn’t moved since. Still wearing the same black dress, now creased and soft from sleep.
Her brown hair was tangled. Her face was bare. Her blue eyes were awake now. Watching. Waiting.
The bathroom door opened with a faint hiss of steam. And there he was—Duke, again.
Sharp.
His amber-blonde streaked hair was slicked back. Cheekbones sharp. Dressed in a black waistcoat over a translucent silk shirt, sleeves rolled up, wrists jangling with bracelets and rings from someone he once promised his life to. His mismatched eyes were lined again, and his mouth held that subtle curve, wry, unreadable and invincible.
The madman from last night had vanished like spilled ink mopped up before dawn. “Mm. Christ,” he muttered, adjusting his cuffs. “I’m late. Should be at rehearsal.”
He didn’t look at her. Not directly.
She watched him. He moved quickly across the room, lighting a cigarette, sliding into Cuban heels, and buttoning his jacket with precise elegance. His voice returned to that clipped, posh rhythm, smooth and airy like a man with places to be and personas to maintain. “Got a lighting run-through in twenty minutes. Tony’s bringin’ in the new synth setup, fuckin’ nightmare if the levels are off again. I swear to God, I’m going to strangle he sound guy with his own scarf.”
He glanced at himself in the mirror, adjusted a necklace and smiled at himself, not her. No mention of the night before. No acknowledgement of the screaming, the sobbing, the collapse. It was as if it had never happened.
“Right,” he said briskly, snatching his cigarettes and a worn leather notebook off the side table and a pack of Gitanes cigarettes. “I’ll be gone most of the day. Maybe back late. Or not.”
He started toward the door, then hesitated. For the briefest moment, he turned back, mismatched eyes flicking to hers like a camera shutter. Not long. Just enough.
And then, he reached out, gently.
A single fingertip brushed the top of her hand. Barely there. Like a secret. Like a thank you he didn’t know how to say out loud.
He was gone.
The door slammed shut behind him with a theatrical bang, leaving only the scent of smoke and Creede’s cologne.
Miarka stared at the door. Then she backed away slowly, collapsed into the pillows, arm outstretched like a girl in a painting. Like a saint or murder victim.
She looked at the ceiling. She spoke, voice soft, distant and half-wrapped in poetry.
“Where would I be in Metropolis? One of the ones digging graves with broken nails. Or maybe the girl standing in the tower with smoke in her eyes. Watching the machine men build a future she wasn’t invited to.”
“Or the dead girl in Death and the Maiden, lying pale while the skull kisses her throat, And no one knows if she’s dying or just resting.”
She looked to her dresser, where an unfinished sketch lay curled under his notebook. A portrait of her. Painted by him. All crooked angles and bleeding lines. Like Egon Schiele might’ve scratched out after a sleepless night and a bottle of gin. Her ribs were exposed in charcoal. Her mouth a slash. Her eyes empty but watching.
“Beautiful.” She muttered.
“Beautiful and fucking cursed.”
She rolled her eyes, groaning, and flopped face-first into the mattress.
“Jesus Christ, Miarka,” she grumbled into the pillow. “You’re eighteen, you just became someone’s emotional support cryptid, and now you’re in a Schiele sketch in a hotel room full of cigarette and smoke.”
She flipped onto her back, eyes to the ceiling.
“—Fuck.”
Chapter 8: Space Oddity
Summary:
The Thin White Duke performs in Arizona, we see more of an insight to his struggles. Miarka has another flashback, seeing a return we didn't expect.
Chapter Text
A/n: So. Hello again. I came out with chapter 8. I wanted to take a different direction compared to your ye ol’ usual Bowie fic. I invested my time looking up the chord progression of the songs he used, exploring Bowie’s creativity and his performance and capturing that true Bowie essence. I skimmed through some of his 1976 performance as well, there’s a video I used for reference on youtube that’s an hour long. (I won’t even go into the mention by how high he was during that.) I ordered two books on Bowie’s life. I wanted to capture the Thin White Duke persona in a complex way whilst also maintaining Bowie’s essence.
I learned about his performance, which featured a Cabaret style within a station-to-station aesthetic. Although there are recordings and footage of his live shows, I could only find rehearsal clips. I discovered that he used the infamous eye scene from Un Chien Andalou, created by Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí as a nightmare. I checked the set list but initially got the dates wrong; however, previous chapters clarified he had performed at those times. I realised it might become repetitive to list the same set list repeatedly, so I decided to focus more on his inner life and struggles rather than his other creative works. For this chapter, I included the set list from a specific performance.
Here's a story: I ordered a deluxe edition of The Fly in the Milk: David Bowie, cracked actor, based on exclusive access to internal BBC files and interviews. It has unpublished pictures of his concert from his 1974 tour. This also features Mark Wardel’s beautiful artwork, and I am enamoured with it.
The mask I received is beautifully crafted. Initially, the mask was a semi-transparent plastic life mask that Bowie held over his face in 1975 for the documentary Cracked Actor. In the mid-1990s, Wardel took a mould from the cast of the original. He smoothed and refined it into a plaster reproduction. In 2013, there was a limited edition during the ‘David Bowie is’ exhibition at the V&A, featuring a silver finish (Silver Duke); Bowie’s team purchased them. They were acquired from the Isolar tour for inclusion in the official archive.
This box set was number 5 out of 300 sold. I asked the creator how many were left, and there were 7!!! I don’t often spend a buttload of money but this was one of those rare cases that truly inspired me. It was signed by Mark as well. The book surprised me as it was in collaboration with the director of ‘The Man Who Fell to Earth.’ And Alan Yabento’s experience with the cracked actor documentary. The costume designs were fun, Bowie had a massive admiration for Japanese culture, getting most from Kansai Yamamoto in depth. I included a scene in which he talks about Japan fondly, he also describes liking the pop art style Gatsby of America.
“I do recall reading a small section of a fan jumping onto the front of his limosence. “As the second half of the show came to a close, Bowie shocked the crowd by doing an encore, something he generally avoided: the hardcore Bowie fans took it as a personal gift, something they had willed by their own enthusiasm. About halfway through the song, Gia grabbed Karen’s hand and dragged her out the side exit of the theater and around back. As Bowie shuffled out the stage door and slid into his waiting limo, Gia vaulted over the yellow police barricade and leaped onto the hood of the car, face against the windshield. Bowie slunk down into the back seat as Karen waved to him from the sidelines. And when it became clear that the driver wasn’t going to stop, Gia rolled off the hood, victoriously brushing off her hands. “Geez, we just wanted to say hi,” she said.”
I was blown away with how obsessive Bowie fans could be, there is also accounts of other interviews with fans. And another I read of her was “His extended visit made the Bowie kids feel they had been somehow chosen for a divine mission. A core group camped out in front of the studio each evening while Bowie worked through the night, and waited in front of his hotel all day while he slept. During the two weeks Bowie was in town, Gia and the other apostles didn’t even go to the Jersey Shore, where Philadelphians usually migrated each summer. Several of the older fans were fired from their jobs because of the time spent waiting. They grew so chummy with Bowie’s entourage that one night they convinced his limo driver to let them pick David’s hairs off the car’s backseat and empty the cigarette butts from his ashtrays.” This was from the article in Philadelphia or Philly mag. www.phillymag.com this covers the same story inside the book.
“A fan named Gia managed to wedge herself into David Bowie’s hotel elevator before the doors closed. Upon realizing he’d been “caught,” Bowie leaned against the wood-paneled wall, closing his eyes in a moment of human pause—gone from stage persona to real vulnerability. Gia, too stunned to react at first, finally said hello, introduced herself, and nervously shook his hand before he exited the elevator. It was an intimate, unguarded moment—an inadvertent encounter turned quietly meaningful”
I was inspired to hold a similar fictional scenario based on this encounter through another chapter I’m currently writing.
Here is the mask they included. I bought another mask from Etsy, a while ago, with the persona ‘Periott.’ The size in comparison made his nose bigger, and his lips wider. My friend made a joke, comparing him to a ‘bird.’ I’ll include some artwork pictures at the bottom and the mask, so that it doesn’t collide with the story.
I ordered another book that is supposedly called ‘The Bowie bible.’ But we’ll see when Amazon delivers it.
I managed to do something a bit different from most fics. I was inspired to add in chord progressions to see how this would play out. To make Bowie feel like he’s singing along with the chords. It was a toss-up between Space Oddity and Life on Mars? I thought Space Oddity represented his old memories.
For Miarka’s mother, I was inspired by a lot of French singers, three in their voices. Indilia. Barbara Pravi. Françoise Hardy. I was taken by their voices and developed this new founding idea for what she might be like and her style. If you’d like to listen to some of their songs, that should give you a good idea.
For her father, I had him for a while. He initially planned a novel for this lord, who aspired to ambition and gothic literature. Dracula, The House of Usher, and The Master and Margarita inspired me—a powerful man with many complexities, who wouldn’t kill without reason. Who knows, I might pick it up someday.
https://open.spotify.com/track/0NiBlwO56EgiwWsYisRfoF?si=80106f11ca854540
https://open.spotify.com/track/0dBzi0Vapr6MZUsTb47Mx9?si=767c54050fa24832
David Bowie and Kristen Wiig - Space Oddity
I wanted to try something different and include chord progressions on guitar to showcase the scene of the two singing together. It was hard to put together, but if you want to listen to the one with Natalie Merchant or the YouTube video along with it. I imagined his voice to be much deeper, a comeback to his original. Listening to these three made me realise how I wanted them to sound. Whilst I don’t picture Miarka singing well, it was a moment for me to see their connection. Both struggles and situations they shared come together in this song.
I was worried whether there would be too much exposition, but who knows. As someone who has experienced isolation, that was the theme of this chapter. Through isolation, we all experience the desire for connection. I have a hard time with it. So writing is my escape. Bowie experienced this or was fascinated with the idea much in the 70s when he was in Los Angeles. This chapter hit home hard.
What do you think? Let me know. I was curious to try something different.
Warning: Mentions of Fascism, Mental illness and drug usage.
February 15th, 1976, Arizona Veterans Memorial Coliseum.
The stage flashed white, with lights blaring over the roaring crowd in numbers of thousands. The lights drop. The air inside the Arizona Veterans Memorial Coliseum stills as though something ancient is about to awaken. A restless hum crackles through the crowd, and whispers fill the air. Then—flickering into graining focus—a black and white film rolls onto the massive curtain screen. The crowd cheered, and some muttered in confusion. At first, an eye. Then a razor. The razor sliced the eye, liquid gelatine pouring out. Some of the audience winced, gagged and gasped. A scream from someone in the back. It was ‘Un Chien Andalou’ Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí’s nightmare, the infamous scene that made stomachs turn. A woman’s mouth moves, but no sound comes; a cloud cuts across the moon and then, the notorious eye is sliced again with the razor.
The screen vanishes.
A white light explodes across the stage. Sterile and clinical. Fluorescent tubes ignite in brutal vertical lines, like the frame of a dissecting room or interrogation cell. The audience covers their eyes—no colour, just black and white.
The room was silent—for a beat. The audience was in awe of what they had witnessed, some horrified and hesitant, while others were thrilled, a long, piercing shriek from one of the audience members in the front row. The guitars swell with chords filling the room. Boom. Boom. Boom. The strums strike like a ritual, deep and loud. A chugging rhythm kicks in like a train grinding to life. Station to Station opens, and the audience erupts. The haunting song features piano chords, followed by a slow bass drop as the guitar takes its solo. Next comes the riff.
The song kicks in, the slow tune rolling in, waiting for the lyrics.
From the shadows at stage left, he walks in slow, cigarette smoke trailing behind him like a whisper. The stage lights focus on him. He was thin, like brittle bird's bones, dressed in black trousers, a black waistcoat, and a white shirt. His amber-blonde hair slicked back like a lacquered flame.
The Thin White Duke has come.
He reaches the centre of the stage and stands perfectly still. Head tilted. One hand tucked into his waistband, the other, his slender, pale hand, gripping the microphone. His mismatched eyes scanned the crowd; one blue, seeing his flock, and the other a result of a fight he had when he was a teenager, over a girl, giving him anisocoria. The illusion of heterochromia. The illusion of love. The illusion of deception.
He takes a sharp breath.
His voice, smooth, sings softly.
“The return of the Thin White Duke. Throwing darts in lover’s eyes.”
“Here are we, one magical moment. Such is the stuff, from where dreams are woven
“Lost in my circle. Here am I, flashing no colour.”
His voice haunts the stage, portraying no sympathy or remorse for his lyrics. The band picks up, and he starts to move in small notions. He turns; a finger pointed at the audience.
He paces the stage, pointing out, as if he’s accusing the air around them.
Each beat builds—the light bathes in stark relief, white flesh living in a black and noir film.
The song midway shifted and the tempo changed as the groove kicks in, The Duke still now transforms. He moves, hips snapping and shoulders rolling. He breaks the Duke’s energy to portray the Duke’s need. Not Ziggy Stardust's chaos, not Halloween Jack’s sneer, but something controlled yet entrancing. He dances with the mic stand, twirls it, and balances it on his shoulders. His face comes alive, his eyes flashing with hints of dry ice masquerading as fire.
“Once there were mountains on mountain. And once there were sun birds to soar with
And once I could never be down.”
“It's not the side-effects of the cocaine. I'm thinking that it must be love.”
He belts it with open arms, like a preacher giving his final sermon. When the final note rings out, he throws his head back, sweat tracing down his cheekbones. The crowd explodes.
He did not smile. He glanced at the crowd.
The Thin white Duke stands backlit by the white light, one arm outstretched—a fallen angel of cabaret.
Phoenix initiated.
He emerged from the shadows of the stage like a phantom kissed by starlight, shoulders sharp, black waistcoat tailored like a blade, white shirt glowing against his pale skin. The Thin White Duke, once thought searching for an emotion equivalent to love, discarding lovers left and right. who would connect him with love?
There was light behind his eyes. Something he remembered. Something human.
The crowd bellowed and roared, the opening chords of ‘Suffragette City’ began, tight, fast. Instead of the usual mechanical walk or stillness, the Duke’s movements were loose, feral. He grinned widely and toothily, red lips curling mischievously as he worked the mic like an old friend. He strutted and twisted like a cobra, pointing dramatically to the crowd on every ‘Hey man!’ with his signature moves. His hips jerked forward on beat, sharp pelvic jabs that carried the seduction of his Ziggy years; he wasn’t singing the song, he was expelling it.
He danced—really danced. During ‘I’m waiting for the man’, he leaned back like he was falling into the music, his long legs kicking out as his black trousers flared, moves he learnt from Mick Jagger and Lindsay Kemp. He rolled his shoulders, pivoted on his heel, threw a mock-kick into the air and laughed. That pure—Bowie laugh. Half spiteful, half-glorious.
‘Word on the Wing.’ The crowd fell into hushes as the lights dropped soft indigos and silvers. The Duke stood still, mismatched eyes closing, gripping the microphone with both slender hands like it was the last lifeline left. The band played it slow, reverent. His voice trembled. He looked up at the ceiling like he was singing to a metaphor of God, brow furrowed, a man pleading and philosophical. Every word was delivered with deep emotional gravitas. When he whispered, “Lord, I kneel and offer you my word on a wing.” His slender hands opened toward the crowd in a gesture of surrender. There was no irony in the performance, and the Duke allowed, for only a beat, Bowie to bleed through; the audience crumbled in hope. Seeing a second Ziggy, a second Rock God, a messiah to their life, a king of the music industry. A man who was strung up on creativity.
The audience, the women in the front row, shed tears, reaching out, seeing the Duke closely. As if they could touch him and he would grant a blessing, a miracle to save them.
The tempo surged back up with ‘stay’ and ‘TVC15.’ The Duke stalked the stage, lithe. He kicked highly, sliding across the floor like it was oil, spinning. His famous mimicry returned, a mime’s hand framing invisible walls, quick winks to the band, references to a Kabuki theatre’s performance. He exaggerated gasps to his own lyrics, even sitting down on the stage to allow the audience to touch him. His hand was pulled by the weight of the girls crying out, trying to get him into the audience.
‘Sister Midnight,’ he twisted his body slowly. He danced and dragged the mic cord behind him like a trail of ink, shoulders rolling like waves as he circled the edge of the stage. His voice dripped into a gritty lower register, spoken, reminiscent of Lou Reed, warmer than it should’ve been. The crowd moved with the rhythm.
The lights dimmed to blue and gold, for ‘Life on Mars?’ he walked to the centre stage and knelt slowly. The first piano note echoed, and Duke’s mismatched eyes closed, breathing. His mouth opened, his vocal phrasing. He climbed every melodic leap; his hands raised like a conductor's orchestra.
“Sailors fighting in the dance hall”, his mouth quirked on “Oh Man! Look at those cavemen go! It’s the freakiest show!” his eyes scanned the crowd, seeing. Knowing. His voice was deeper than when he first sang it in nineteen-seventy-one. “Is there life on Mars?”
‘Five Years’ tore through next. Duke’s eyes were wide, marching like a broken soldier. He threw his head back on every chorus line, screaming the final “FIVE YEARS! WHAT A SURPRISE!” It was powerful, tears pricked in the corners of his eyes, yet he didn’t allow the audience to see. His hands slapped his chest, then extended to the crowd as if daring them to feel too. The crowd cried, many shouting the words back like a gospel.
‘Panic in Detroit,’ the Duke was all hips and howls. He grabbed a tambourine and smashed it against his thigh like a war drum. He whipped off a glove and threw it into the pit. His shirt revealed a sweat-drenched, clinging body. He grinded with the mic stand like it was a woman. He yelled, “PANIC IN THE CITY!” The crowd roared.
‘Fame,’ he danced like a puppet with bent knees, arms twisting over his head. “Fame, makes a man take things over. Fame, lets him loose, hard to swallow. Fame, puts you there where things are hollow” He raises his arm, glancing at the audience dancing and bobbing their heads.
‘Changes,’ he softened, smiling more. He stuttered with his voice, “Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes”, with a wink, started spinning with the microphone, then lowered toward the audience. He pointed to different areas of the arena with each “Time may change me.” The audience shouts back, “Ch-Ch-Changes!”
‘The Jean Genie’ The Duke swaggered, looking over to the guitar man, pretending to strum an invisible guitar. He prowled around the stage. “Queen Bitch!” he posed like a drag queen, mouthing the guitar solos, turned his back to the audience, and shook his hips. His hands moved in rhythm.
‘Rebel, Rebel.’ The Duke shouted the first line, “You’ve got your mother in a whirl!”— “You’ve got your mother in a whirl!”—the entire audience sang back. He held the mic in front of the crowd, dancing along the edge, grabbing hands of his fans, trying to pull him in. One young fan came up and pressed her lips against the Duke, who smiled. She turned red, diving back into the crowd.
“Rebel Rebel, you've torn your dress. Rebel Rebel, your face is a mess. Rebel Rebel, how could they know? Hot tramp, I love you so. Don't ya? Doo doo doo-doo doo doo-doo doo”
The final encore, ‘Diamond Dogs’ exploded, shouting “(Will they come?) I'll keep a friend serene (Will they come?) Oh baby, come unto me (Will they come?)” his voice was wild. The Duke swayed with the rhythm, his arms rising up, clicking in time to the sound. “Oo-oo-ooh, call them the Diamond Dogs”, he brought the microphone closer.
The final chord of Diamond Dogs ended.
The Duke heavily breathed. Arms out. He heard the audience roar, a flicker of something crossing his mismatched eyes. A spotlight shone down, illuminating the only light that showed the most important man in the universe. The Duke raised the microphone to his red lips, and he muttered. “Thank you—thank you, have a good night.” he turned and left.
The crowd roared and applauded, screaming his name. It echoed against the coliseum walls. The stage went dark. Roadies swarmed, coiling cables and carrying off instruments. The scent of sweat and smoke clung to the guitars. Backstage, it was much cooler. Carlos Alomar, the lead guitarist, walked laughing with a towel around his shoulders. He slapped hands with George Murray, making his way to the dressing rooms. Stacey Heydon peeled off his jacket, hair damp, smoking a drag. Tony Kaye, ever serious, gave a slight nod to the techs, murmuring about the next live show.
Miarka stood, leaning on the far wall, trying to blend in. Her brown hair dangled past her temple; her arms were folded. She wore the outfit from yesterday, but she had no makeup and no time to brush her hair. In a way, she missed her trench coat. She hid herself better, the heavy fabric protected her from the weather. People.
The Thin White Duke moved tonight, physically, something he hadn’t done since his days in nineteen-seventy-four and three. The Duke stepped out behind the curtain, into the low backstage. His white shirt clung to his chest, unbuttoned halfway down, his high cheekbones haloed by sweat. A cigarette was already in hand, unlit, fingers long and pale against the matchbox. He pulled out the match, swiping it against the box, the flame sparking. The flame reflecting in his eyes, made it seem golden.
He held it up to the cig’s filter. He let out a sigh, smoke pouring out like a dragon's breath. His body loosened.
Then he saw her.
He didn’t speak. He turned to face her.
His gaze held.
Miarka didn’t flinch; her sharp blue eyes observed him. Something in them was sharp, like a needle. He wasn’t bothered by her staring. The match burnt out, cigarette tip glowing.
He approached, slowly.
Carlos and George laughed in the distance about a blown chord, and Dennis was humming ‘Stay’ to himself, pulling on a fresh shirt. No one noticed The Duke walking toward Miarka, steps soundless, cigarette trailing a thread of smoke behind him.
Miarka still didn’t move.
Her heartbeat was light.
When he reached her, she expected him to utter some insulting nonsense. He stopped a few inches away, close enough that she could smell the tobacco, Creed’s cologne, and stage sweat. Miarka’s eyelids narrowed.
Then. In a beat. The Duke brushed past her. A slight, subtle movement slipped past Miarka’s hand. His slender fingers brushed along her wrist. Miarka froze. She couldn’t tell if it was deliberate or accidental. It wasn’t vulgar, but it wasn’t natural either. Her brows furrowed together, staring at him as if she’d seen the boogie man in real life. The Duke continued to walk, as if nothing had happened. He exhaled smoke in the corridor, back to her. He passed the dressing room, and Stacey tossed him a bottle of Perrier. He caught it without turning, nodding. Miarka stayed in her position. The touch lingered, not just on her skin but in her chest. Confusion stirred beneath her ribs. She wasn’t used to being touched like that. Not by him. It felt like he’d reached through something. Often when he touches her, it is for control or tease. She looked toward Carlos, needing a distraction, but he was deep in a story about Berlin with Dennis.
She pressed her fingers to her wrist, where he’d touched.
The crew snapped her out of thought, moving things around on and off stage. They were moving crates, laughing and wiping down instruments.
She clasped her hands behind her back and began to walk outside. The chill of the night air outside was a relief, still warm, hotter than what Miarka was used to. The limo rolled up and parked by the sidewalk. Miarka stepped out, trying to keep an eye out for the Duke. She thought it might be best if he were alone; maybe he would go to an after-party. Perhaps he’s forgotten about her. Miarka let out a sharp sigh through her nostrils. She walked toward the limo’s door, when halfway—
“Miarka.”
She heard a low voice from behind, commanding, cutting through the room of laughter and joy.
Miarka turned on her heel.
The Duke stood with precision. He was in his long black coat, cigarette finished, his mismatched eyes half lidded, unreadable beneath the low glow of the night. The collar of his coat was turned up, amber-blonde, tinged hair slicked back and slightly damp at the nape. He looked like he stepped out from a dream half-remembered, aristocratic, cabaret, present, an emotionless Aryan zombie.
He didn’t blink.
“Hold my hand. Miarka.” He whispered.
There was no charm in his voice, no smile—just a thin demand in his voice like it came from a script she wasn’t expecting.
Miarka stared at him, her eyes slightly half-lidded. ‘Was this some kind of fucking joke?’ she thought, ‘A sick theatrical performance, to see if she would give in so he could give up?’ That was the Duke, wasn’t it? He tries to connect with people so he can then give up on them if they can’t provide. The concept was—how it should be—how he needs to feel—to connect and give in to the idea of love. It’s too late to be grateful. The European Cavalry is here.
“Why? Why should I?” she said in a low accent.
He didn’t answer. He extended his hand, palm up, steady. There was no seduction in his gesture. He wasn’t pulling her in like a man chasing affection. He was commanding it. It wasn’t in his nature, typically, which baffled Miarka.
His slender fingers moved on their own accord, reluctant, as though the gravity of the moment was confusing. Miarka’s hand hesitated; she didn’t look, her pale hand intertwined delicately. She felt him move.
He walked, leading her toward the limo, their hands joined as if it were the most awkward thing in the world. Her pulse hammered in her ears. She was stunned. She didn’t pull away. She kept glancing sideways, trying to read his face. He remained inscrutable. His eyes didn’t glance. Miarka looked down. She tried to let her hand slip, but he kept a firm grip. Refusing to let go. He didn’t care if her hands were sweating.
The driver opened the back door. Without letting go of her hand, the Duke climbed in and gently pulled her beside him. He didn’t speak. Miarka sat beside the Thin White Duke in silence, her hand still in his, unsure of how she should be. She tried to look cold, defiant or challenging. He didn’t care. The driver shut the door with a ‘clunk’, heading toward the front, and then ignited the engine. The limo pulled away, taking a turn as thousands of fans tried to jump the gate. The girls at the front pushed past the guards and banged on the window, trying to get the Duke’s attention. Oh, how they sobbed. How they begged. The Duke wouldn’t give them the time of day; he glanced at them and dismissed them. Ziggy would’ve rolled the window down; he would’ve given them a taste. The Duke wouldn’t even bother to; he might sleep with some; ignoring them.
Once they passed the stadium. The Duke spoke in a low tone: Posh.
“You ever notice, how the fuckin’ night feels longer in Arizona than in Britain? Like the sky’s been scaped out with a spoon. Eh? Nothin’s left up there. Just. God’s ashtray.”
Miarka glancing out the window. “You always this cheerful after a standing ovation?”
“Darlin’, I’m always cheerful. Y’know. Just not sentimental. Dismantled yeah?”
The Duke lights another cigarette, and he takes a long drag as his mismatched eyes narrow. “I was thinkin’ about Kyoto. The gardens. The way they put the stones, so they look accidental, but they're not. Let’s see, I remember walking into a shrine, fuckin’ uh, middle of winter, snow fallin’ in slow motion. Felt like I was trespassing on some ancient whisper.”
“Japan? Do you like Japan?”
The Duke’s lips curled into a smirk, fond. “Course’ darlin’ always have. The Kabuki theatre, the culture. Brilliant innit, all of it, mm, always loved Japan I did.”
“I thought you loved Berlin?”
“I have a life outside of Berlin, you know. Just don’t tell, jealousy ain’t a pretty thing. You see, the Western view is very narrow when it comes to art and volume. Los Angeles, ain’t all that, it’s a shit ole’ Miarka, I’d rather be anywhere else.’”
The Duke grabs a bottle of fresh Vodka from the small minibar in the limo. It was a small bottle, enough for a shot. He downs the shot and wipes his red lips with the back of his sleeve.
“You ever read that Bacon/Sylvester book yet? Interviews with Francis Bacon?”
“No. Not yet. We were in a hotel, not your house. Half their books were Yves Saint Laurent magazines with models that looked over it.”
“It’s bloody filthy, is what is it. Glorious. Fantastic. He talks about how he wants the real thing. Not a representation. Not a sketch of a scream. It’s almost a manifesto on how to survive as an artist. I go back to it all the time. Paint it like you’ve pinned a body to a fuckin wall—” he let out a genuine chuckle.
“That’s art Miarka, it’s not supposed to be flatterin’, it’s supposed to drag your insides out like a magician pullin’ scarves from a corpse. Come from dreams and interpretations to spread the word. Art’s me. I am the definition of art, yeah?”
“You include those in your songs? There’s something twisted under your pale, thin-wired skin.”
“Oh, absolutely! You think I chose that? You think I wrote that? No, no, love. You don’t write ‘Five Years’ by sittin’ at a fuckin’ piano and mashin’ the keys.” He gestured, wriggling his fingers. “You go into a fugue. You stop breathin’ and hope somethin’ holy or deranged climbs into your mouth. Most of the time, when I was writin’, high off me tits. No food. Just Coke and milk with a tape machine.”
Miarka listened, but she couldn’t help but think how deranged he sounded. “And that worked?”
“Yes! It was mechanically impossible in the Western ear, because the chords were movin’ in slabs, not progessions. E-minor to C-sharp over D-drone. But emotionally? It felt like, falling into a trip you didn’t know you’d built.”
His hands reach into the front pocket of his coat, pulling out a folded napkin with scribbled notes. “I’d start with texture. Not rhythm. Not melody. Just colour. A prophet-5 fed through tape loops. That old EMS Synthia. I’d press a chord and—just—listen. For the thing beneath it. The little animal movin’ under the leaves.”
“So—you just—mashed noises and lyrics together and that’s what would come out?”
“Not always. Sometimes the lyric would interrupt. I remember when I worked on ‘The Man Who Sold the World. It started with that riff—Mick Ronson had this descending figure in E minor, circling like it was chasing its own tail. It felt like, it was right, y’know, it hit right. We were rehearsin’ in Tony Visconti’s basement, nothing polish, but that gave it a bit of an edge. I wasn’t tryina write a ‘song’ at first, I was just followin’ along. Mick played the line over and over, and I let it settle. It had this—slight paranoid pulse. Alienation, yeah? Like you’ve stepped outside yourself.”
He continued, taking another shot of Vodka. “The progression moves from E minor to D, C, then back again. That’s it—Em—D—C—D—Em. It just spins, I loved that. I didn’t want anything tidy. Lyrically, it came out in one go. One of those songs where you just open the notebook and you’re already halfway down the page. The first line—‘we passed upon the stair’—felt like a twin you forgot. And then the chorus—‘Oh no, not me, I never lost control’—which is precisely the sort of thing you’d say when you have. We finished recording it at Trident. I did the vocals waiting for the track. Once I heard the playback, I knew we had something unplaceable. A miniature fuckin’ theatre piece.”
The Duke stood up and pointed. “You know how I got the chord sequence for ‘Life on Mars?’ Fuckin’ accidental that was. I was stealin from ‘My Way,’ got bored, inverted the progression. Dropped a C# where it didn’t belong and boom: like fallin’ through the looking glass, right into this surreal scene—a girl crying in front of a television, the world spinning out of control. The chords are deceptively simple—F major, A minor, D minor and G major. When you twist them like I did, they become something unexpected, cinematic innit. A musical bloody kaleidoscope that is. The lyrics? They poured out in a rush. It wasn’t tellin’ a story, it was capturing the absurdity and heartbreak of modern life. The teenager in the blue coat, the absurd movie she’s watchin’, it felt like a dream script I hadn’t written. Musically, it was a puzzle. The piano carried the whole thin’, like an old-fashioned ballet. Mick’s strings added a touch of grandeur, like a Hollywood score. It’s a song about wantin’ escape, about being caught between the mundane and the magical.”
“And that’s the question! Innit! Is there life on Mars, or just the mess we made here?”
Miarka’s lips slightly parted; she was, dare say, impressed. “I must say, I am intrigued by your ability to conjure such rhythm, song, chords, like Sergei Rachmaninoff and his Piano Concerto No. 2 in C minor, Op. 18, with extra style and steps.”
“Because it is, darlin’. It is,” he leaned forward. “The notes aren’t just notes. It’s the frequencies of dreams, conjured to tell something, to create art. You hit the right F minor at the right BPM through a WEM amp, and it unlocks some long-dead priest in your chest. And once you’ve heard that, created a song that’s meaningful and hits the labels, you’re never quite—human.”
The Thin White Duke took a deep drag, his accent curling like it’s sipping port from a crystal skull. “You ever hear a chord and know it shouldn’t exist, but you play it anyway, and it shags your soul sideways?”
He snorts. “That’s where it started. Bright. Stupid. Too American. Then this F. A semitone up. Like smashing your knuckles into a piano because God didn’t answer.”
The Duke started to half-sing. “The return of the Thin White Duke, throwin’ darts in lover’s eyes. Wrote that high as a fuckin’ astronaut.”
“But—of its structure—of its meaning, art. How the hell does it work?” Miarka asked curiously.
The Duke replied, tapping on the seat as if it were a grand piano. “Listen. I was in a strange place, love. Teetering on the edge between who I’d been and who I was becoming. The music had to reflect that liminal space, between soul and funk, Krautrock and the occult. The opening riff is in F# minor; the progression is minimal but hypnotic: F#m moving to E and D, with subtle changes. It’s a cold, relentless engine pushing forward. Mick and I laid down a riff that repeats, like a train hurtling through fog—a mantra with an undercurrent. The train was recorded, that wasn’t a real train, we didn’t lug in field recordings or tape decks. It was done in the Cherokee studios purely from control noise—guitar feedback, flanger, delay effects—all manipulated to sound like a locomotive pullin’ into your head.”
“A train?” Miarka asked.
“Mm. I turned to Earl and said ‘Give a train. He fed back through amps, and you let it bleed and swirl, panned right to left, then faded into feedback. It disappears, like it’s a tunnel. It’s a reference to Kraftwerk—Autobahn—ours it darker, colder and spiritual. It’s not transport. It’s the engine pulling you between stations of meaning: movement from one identity to another. And I thought—” he paused. “What if you put a human heart inside that engine? Dennis and George locked in this groove, very tight, very forward movin. Earl came in with those guitar stabs, like someone throwin’ knives into the dark. And Roy on piano—brilliant—fuckin, bloody, brilliant, like Vaudeville gone mad. It gave the illusion of joy, of momentum, desperation in motion.”
Miarka listened to every word. He truly was a stupidly creative man.
The Duke continued. “And that’s where the lyrics came ‘It's not the side effects of the cocaine—I’m thinking that it must be love.’ That’s not a confession. That’s a distraction. The kind you make when you’re spiralling and need to pretend, you’re still in control. People hear that section and say ‘Oh, the Duke is happily dancin’ now.’ But no—he’s running and he’s not looking back. I was hallucinating angels in the sink. I had a crucifix made from tinfoil. I thought Jimmy Page was casting spells on me through a B-side.”
“And the switch—the shift in the middle,” Miarka muttered, tilting her head.
“Ah. The turn. All the bile and beauty curls into something ecstatic. Feels like salvation, don’t it? It’s false light. Suddenly, we’re marching toward the sun, drunk and smiling. It’s the cocaine gospel, Miarka. It’s Jesus on a comedown.”
The Duke, tapping on the seat, taps one last note—a high, strange G Major.
“Inside Station to Station, I encoded astrological transits, Hebraic numerology, and alchemical stages. Where is ‘The Thin White Duke returning from?’ it’s a summoning. ‘Here we are, one magical movement from Kether to Malkuth’ that’s not a metaphor. That’s the literal Tree of Life mysticism. From the Godhead to the body. From crown to kingdom. I wasn’t writing pop. I was mapping a metaphysical descent from spirit into meat.”
Miarka glanced down, realising their hands were still interlocked. She attempted to slip her fingers through his grasp. He paused, his slender fingers tightened, his sharp jaw clenched slightly. He turned to meet her face, unblinking, red lips uttering out words. “Don’t”, he said firmly. Miarka’s blue eyes narrowed, her eyebrow lifted. “We don’t have to—”
“No. Just. Don’t,” he said.
Miarka let out a sigh. There was a glint of something in his mismatched eyes. As though he couldn’t let go, something was eating within. Guilt. Paranoia. His eyes scanned around them. “Miarka. I can’t let them. Find out. It’s not baptised, the witches, they’ll—”
Miarka recalled the night before, how scared he was, how frightened he was of…nothing. He spoke of these powerful delusions that would make anyone raise an eyebrow. The scary part was that he believed it. It was real. These witches were out to get him—the men in black. His mismatched eyes flickered left to right, keeping his voice low. Miarka gently muttered. Her other hand gripped the top. “I’m—not, I’m not going to let go, I’m not going anywhere.”
The Duke glanced at her, beads of sweat trailing down like small droplets. He then curled into a smile. “Course you’re not, I’m the only excitin’ thing in your life.”
Miarka nodded gently. She looked out the window, watching the Duke lean back in the seat and loosen his grip, letting out a sigh. He closed his eyes, not sleeping, but meditating. “I still hate fuckin’ sleeping.”
Miarka didn’t say much; she glanced out the window. Watching the desert pass by with vegetation turning to blurs. The Duke quietly mumbled, “Miarka, may I—uh?”
She turned to him. “What, don’t tell me you need to piss?”
“Mm, not quite, darling. Do you think—” he clears his throat, a flicker of charm trying to cover the crack. “Would it be terribly inappropriate if I leaned into your shoulder—just until we get back to my place, yeah?”
“Why?” Miarka asked.
“There was a time—nineteen-seventy-three, another city, another version of me—someone let me rest my head like that. And I remembered what it was like to feel warm. To feel something other than…fear. I hate sleep, but I feel so damn tired. Of this tour, the cocaine, the—fuckin’ paranoia, divorce, fuckin’ all of it.”
Miarka’s eyes softened. “I suppose. You don’t need to think right now; the thoughts will stay, but you can silence them. Listen only to your heartbeat, that’s the only real part of you.”
The Duke pressed his head against her shoulder, his arms wrapping around her thin waist. A long exhale escaped him. His amber-blonde hair was draping over her neck. His nose was buried in the crook of his neck, his eyes closed. Miarka placed her hand on his head, gently running her fingers through his hair. The patterns of amber turning to gold, the sun rising. She closed her eyes. “Don’t stop. Don’t leave. Please. Miarka.”
Miarka mumbled, “I won’t.”
She gently breathed, something coming back, something she recalled.
France. Rue de Rivoli. Paris. May 5th, 1974.
The old chateau hadn’t aged gracefully, ivy coiled up its stone walls like veins, and the wrought-iron balconies sagged ever so slightly with rust. The Sigel of a Gallic rooster with its wings spreading like a falcon, on its chest, the word ‘Puissant’. The estate perched on the edge of the street, towering over other buildings, like a king overlooking his lords. Inside, the ballroom, everything gleamed, polished oak floors, golden sconces, the chandeliers flickered like candlelight, wired to the mains. Gentlemen and Ladies, spread far and wide, dancing and giggling as if it were Queen Antoinette's Venetian masquerade ball, sealing their identities in secret so they may not regret the morning rise on the morrow.
Miarka sat at the dining tables of the grand soiree. Her eyes were still, unmoving, iced to a stare. She wore an iced lace collar with long bishop sleeves and a high neckline, a trimmed cut at the knees, covered in black stockings. A velvet dark dress over the top. Her hair grew into a long, straight, muddy stream, cascading to her shoulders. A small, silk ribbon tied in the middle of her hair, and a white beaded necklace shimmering like pearls, draping down her neck like a waterfall. She watched the men and women dance around in circles like a rotating machine, spinning in a wheel of fantasy, protecting themselves from reality. Miarka fiddled with her necklace. She didn’t want to be here; she closed her eyes, envisioning a world where artistic visions surrounded her. A field of poppies, with the summer breeze. If only—she could be there. But reality, needed to set in.
Heels clicked from behind, interrupting her dream: Jerime, a woman who had aged beyond living in her years of fame at fifty years. Her hair was the same colour as Miarka’s, done up in a curling bun, swirling like Crème Glacée au Chocolat Noir—a sleek, polished updo. She held herself highly, like a French cabaret singer—a red, sleek gown draping to the floor, straight and loosely fit. She held a long, thin black holder up to her bright, painted red lips. Smoke poured out of her lips like a Ryūjin emitting mist. Her blue eyes fell to Miarka; she clicked her tongue, running a hand over Miarka’s dark hair.
Miarka could smell the citrus-enriched scent of Chanel No. 5, Coco perfume.
“Cher enfant… oh, comme tu ressembles à la mort lors de ses propres funérailles” (Dear child, oh, how you resemble death at a funeral). Her accent was deep, slightly Parisian, with a provincial, elegant edge. “Tu étais bien plus belle quand tu étais plus jeune. Tu ressemblais à ta mère” (You used to look much more beautiful when you were younger. You resembled your mother.)
Miarka didn’t answer. She turned her head. Staring off into the reflection of the chandelier’s handle. Stern, light blue eyes glared back at her with a pale face—the sound of smooth Jazz playing throughout the room. “Les filles sont comme des graines, Miarka. Dès qu’elles savent marcher, le monde les voit comme des femmes, attiré par leur jeunesse et leur innocence. Chaque regard est une attente. Et alors tu réalises… tu n’es plus seulement une fille. Tu es un objet de désir et de jugement. La liberté ? Il n’y en a pas. La vie offre des choix, mais ces choix changent avec l’âge. Avec le temps, les attentes évoluent ; on te voit autrement. Et seulement alors… seulement alors, tu gagnes une certaine liberté. Car en vérité… tu n’es pas… pleinement atteignable une fois devenue adulte.” (Girls are like seeds, Miarka. They quickly learn that with their youth and innocence, the world sees them as women, the moment they're able to walk. Every glance, there’s an expectation, and then you realise, you're no longer a girl. You’re an object of desire and judgment. There is no freedom; you have choices that change in life. Once you grow with age, expectations change, and you're seen as different. It’s only then that you have more freedom. Because in truth, you're not…achievable when you're older.)
Miarka, without turning, spoke in a deep Russian accent. “Je sais—je sais, parce que je me suis réveillée avant les autres, j’ai vu combien le monde peut être cruel. Il n’attend pas. Il ne se soucie pas de ton innocence. Il prend ce qu’il peut, et si tu n’es pas déjà éveillée, il te dévorera. Comme l’a écrit Bulgakov : ‘Les manuscrits ne br ûlent pas. ’ Les gens peuvent tenter de te d éfinir, de te d éformer ou de t ’utiliser —mais la v érit é de ce que tu es survit, si tu es assez intelligente pour la prot éger.” (I know—I know, because I’ve woken up before the rest, I’ve seen how cruel it can be. They don’t wait. They don’t care for your innocence. It takes what it can, and if you’re not already awake, it’ll devour you. As Bulgakov wrote, ‘Manuscripts don’t burn.’ People can try to define you, distort you, or use you—but the truth of what you are survives, if you’re clever enough to protect it.)
Miarka walked toward the crowd chatting by the bar. Men in flared slick tuxedos and women in metallic, Shick dresses or feathered shawls, sipping red wine, Dubonnet and Champagne. Her eyes stopped at a tall man—balding, perhaps mid-fifties, sixties, with a too-smooth smile and a drink he had barely touched. He wore a flared-out velvet tuxedo with an open collar showing off his hairy chest, with pants too tight for his stature. He noticed her, his dark eyes focused on her. He nodded in her direction.
Miarka scrunched her nose and lips; she furrowed her brows. She turned away.
Jerime leaned in Miarka’s direction, whispering. “"Il s’intéresse, tu sais, à notre héritage. Il possède une fortune énorme, suffisante pour te soutenir. Le baron de Saumur, Francis Laurent Benoît. Il n’a pas de femme. Je l’ai persuadé de te rencontrer en personne et… il est impressionné. Tu es sa Reine du bal. Tu me remercieras un jour ; il va te proposer sa main après la soirée.” (He’s interested you know, in our heritage. He has enormous wealth, enough to sustain you. The baron of Saumur, Francis Laurent Benoît. He doesn’t have a wife. I persuaded him to meet you personally and—he’s impressed. You are his Reine du bal. you’ll thank me eventually; he’s going to offer his hand after the soiree.)
Miarka coldly spat, “L’idée de l’épouser me donne envie de me crever les yeux avec une foutue cuillère. C’est comme un personnage de Bulgakov qu’on aurait castré, récitant des absurdités et se comportant comme s’il avait inventé la pensée. Même Flaubert l’aurait utilisé pour illustrer toutes les formes de la stupidité humaine. Je préférerais baiser la peste et apprendre à valsez à reculons à travers la Critique de la raison pure de Kant plutôt que de jamais ramper dans le lit de ce tas ambulant de diarrhée intellectuelle.” (The idea of marrying him makes me want to gouge my own eyes out with a damn teaspoon. He’s like a Bulgakov character who’s been neutered, quoting nonsense and acting as if he invented thought. Even Flaubert would’ve used him to illustrate every form of human stupidity. I’d rather fuck the plague and learn how to waltz through Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason backward than ever crawl into bed with that walking pile of intellectual diarrhea.)
Jerime clicked her tongue, tsking at Miarka. “Miarka! Tu sais que tu ne devrais pas jurer—du moins pas ici. Ton esprit est élevé, mais ta réalité doit redescendre. Essaie de ne pas agir comme si c’était des funérailles, enfant. C’est une opportunité; tu as besoin de stabilité. C’est le chemin.” (Miarka! You know you shouldn't swear—at least not here. Your mind is high, but your reality needs to come down. Try not to act like this is a funeral, child. This is an opportunity; you need sustainability. This is the way.)
Miarka let out a short, sharp sigh. She shoved the chair away from the table. She walked away, through the crowd, ignoring her aunt’s words. She wasn’t a lady; she was a survivor—a survivor of reality, the brutality of the Cold War. What happens when you're trained eight hours a day to be perfect, to sacrifice emotion, innocence and normality to become the ultimate prize. The scars still stayed, Miarka’s ankles barred them, and her lips barred the lie of a girl who was her humanity. Miarka’s mind was deep in thought; women and men passed in a blur. She was curious, theorising the different motives of the other dancers. The country, the documents she stole, she doesn’t let go Scott free. There were always eyes, eyes everywhere. They were after Miarka; she couldn’t sleep on occasion. She knew certain people would be out to get her, kill her, betray her to obtain a prize. She wasn’t supposed to leave; she was supposed to stay. They’ll find a way to bring her back, and when they do, she’ll be forced to stay.
Miarka’s heartbeat lightly thumped, passing by every light, colour. She swiftly weaved her way through the crowd like a snake. Her vision changed the scenery to a rather macabre room, torn and worn, the walls grey compared to the golden world before—the dancers bending on the barres, doing Pliés. Their faces blurred from the years of omitting names. The госпожа, gospozha, A vivid black garment draped around her, with her appearance, a dark void. She carried a cane, occasionally swiping at any dancer who didn’t bend. Miarka’s eyes landed on a young thirteen-year-old devoid of any emotion. The gospozha’s voice distorted, swiped at her, the thirteen-year-old didn’t flinch. The gospozha backed away, confused; the distorted voices of all her sentences in Russian came out in dark, frequent, nonsensical words. The thirteen-year-old stood over the gospozha. She took her cane and swung it down hard over her face. Hitting, repeatedly. Harder than the last. The young girl screamed. “Я не хочу быть идеальной!” (I don’t want to be perfect!)
“Я не хочу быть идеальной!”
“Я не хочу быть идеальной!”
“Я не хочу быть идеальной!”
“Иди на хуй, я не идеальная!” (Fuck you, I’m not perfect!)
The black void on the gospozha coming out in dark scribbles held her arms up. She groaned in defeat. Tears spilled from her face, appearing as black lines. The thirteen-year-old backed down, her face narrowing. She looked up, seeing a yellow light, familial, with dark fingers coming out to reach the young girl’s pale palm. Her voice was very familiar. “I know, it hurts, you shouldn’t let the pain burden you with guilt. Accept your pain, let it settle with you; it’s a part of you. Give it water, show it the kinder side, only then, like a tree. It’ll grow with you into a much stronger person, reaching acceptance in time.”
In the young girl’s pale palm, she unfurled her fingers. Revealing a small seed, a red poppy swaying gently. The young girl looked over, and she tenderly gifted the gospozha a seedling. She looked up, taking the seed. Her hand curled. The young girl wrapped her arms around the gospozha. An aura of yellow and orange hues illuminated.
Miarka opened her eyes, seeing her palms touching her chest. She let out a short, sharp breath.
When.
“Miarka—”
Miarka’s eyes widened, and she turned so fast that it was instinctual. She spotted a familiar young woman. Miarka’s lips parted. Alina. Her honey blonde hair done up perfectly, coiffed, matching the gold in the room. She wore a luxurious fur coat suitable for someone of high nobility, featuring a light rosy hue and a trim that reached down to reveal a bit of her leg. She also wore stockings that showcased the fairness of her legs. She took a drag of her cigarette, looking at Miarka with a subtle cunningness.
“Qu’est-ce que tu fous ici ? ” (What the hell are you doing here?) Miarka said in a low tone.
“ Mm, je ne pouvais pas laisser passer l’occasion de refuser une invitation, ce ne serait pas très “ladylike” maintenant, n’est-ce pas, Miarka?” (Mm, couldn’t pass up the opportunity to not accept an invitation, that wouldn’t be ladylike now, would it, Miarka?) She said in a velvet, silky voice.
“La dernière fois, tu as fait défection en Autriche ; tu n’étais qu’un pion dans un jeu dangereux. Un appât pour cet Américain. Et crois-moi, il était stupide” (You defected to Austria last time; you were a pawn in a dangerous game. Bait for that American. Mind you, he was stupid.)
Alina glanced at her, smoke escaping her breath. “Oh? Eh bien, ce n’était qu’une question de temps avant que Gaspar Noé ne remarque mes… attraits. Je suis devenue son actrice. Nous sommes mariés maintenant.” (Oh? Well, it was only a matter of time before Gaspar Noé took notice of my—looks. I became his actress. We’re married now.)
“Oh, va te faire foutre, tu te fous complètement de ce salaud. C’est une stratégie, n’est-ce pas ? Épouser un réalisateur français te donne accès au cœur de la culture occidentale, pour répandre les idées de propagande auprès des Américains et des Européens. Cartographier leurs esprits, leurs peurs, leurs appétits, tout ça pour que la Russie puisse en profiter dans une “soi-disant guerre” menée par la stupidité du communisme contre le capitalisme. Tu es là uniquement pour leurs cercles d’élite, rencontrer des hommes puissants pour apprendre leurs secrets et les exploiter.” (Oh fuck off, you couldn't care less about the bastard. This is strategy, isn’t it? Marrying a French director gives you access to the heart of Western culture, to spread the ideas of propaganda to Americans and Europeans. Mapping out their minds, their fears, their appetites, all so Russia could exploit them in a ‘so-called war’ fought with the stupidity over communism versus capitalism. You're only in it for their elite circles, meeting powerful men to learn their secrets and exploit them.)
Alina clicked her tongue “Oh, Miarka, toujours à supposer que je prépare quelque chose—” (Oh, Miarka, always under the assumption I’m up to something—)
“Я знаю твою чушь” (I know your bullshit.) Miarka glared.
“ Fais attention, je ne parlerais pas cette langue à ta place ; certains pourraient écouter” (Careful, I wouldn’t speak in that tongue if I were you; some might be listening.)
Miarka stayed silent. She was right; it wouldn’t be a smart move to speak in a language she could get in trouble for. Miarka clenched her fist, her eyes narrowed.
Alina stood from her seat, putting out the drag in her own ashtray. She came close to Miarka. “Tu te souviens de la dernière fois qu’on a dansé” (Do you remember the last time we danced?) A finger trailed down Miarka’s pale, soft arm.
“Tu m’as tenu un couteau sous la gorge en mille neuf cent soixante-douze, tu as dit : ‘Un jour, Miarka… toi aussi tu mentiras. Tu seras juste meilleure pour y croire” (You held a knife to my throat in nineteen-seventy-two, you said, ‘One day, Miarka... you’ll lie too. You’ll just be better at believing it.)
Alina’s fingers landed in Miarka’s hand, and she pulled up her waist. The two led to the dance floor. Their eyes met—one of white and the other of black. Alina raised her right leg in an arabesque, keeping her left leg on the ground. Miarka followed suit, sweeping her leg across, maintaining grip. Miarka raised her left leg in a Penché. The two landed their legs. Alina raised Miarka’s hand higher. The two girls entered a waltz, gliding across the floor. Miarka turned in a sharp Fouettés, Alina following suit. Miarka tried to drop her hand, yet Alina didn’t let go. The two got faster with each spin. Their hips brushed in a dangerous tease, and their hands grazed over their skin. Miarka broke free, spinning in a flawless pirouette around the room. Alina flapped her arms in motion, Port de Bras, as her feet moved in Demi-Pointe Turns. She spun, catching up to Miarka, pulling her close to Miarka’s chest. The two girls lifted their legs in sync and circled like clockwork. The tango grew faster, Alina spinning Miarka in a series of fouettés, the whip of her leg counting each spin. Alina twisted with each arch, countering strength. Their legs intertwined, sweeping into a pas de bourrée, each pivots a conversation of challenge, envy and obsession.
Alina pressed her palms to Miarka’s shoulders, trying to get a reaction. Miarka’s lips thinned, turning on a grand Pirouette; Alina smiled. Alina let go of Miarka as she gained momentum into a grand jeté. Miarka moved swiftly, catching Alina’s waist, breathing heavily. Alina gently slid down from Miarka’s grasp. She gripped Miarka’s wrist and spun her.
“ Miarka, tu te rappelles la danse qu’on a faite quand tu avais huit ans? (Miarka, do you remember the dance we performed when you were eight?)
“Évidemment. Le Lac des cygnes.” (Obviously. Swan Lake.)
Alina smirked. “Dis-moi, connais-tu l’histoire?” (Tell me, do you know the story?) She spun in a slow circle.
“ Je ne m’en suis jamais vraiment soucié, mais il y avait une fois une fille maudite pour devenir un cygne ; elle est tombée amoureuse et a vécu heureuse pour toujours.” (I never really cared for it, but there was once a girl who was cursed to be a swan; she fell in love and lived happily ever after.) Miarka calmly spoke.
Alina stepped close, the music surrounding them like a winding serpent. “Non, pas exactement. C’est l’illusion qu’ils veulent raconter à Miarka.” (No, not quite. That’s the illusion they want to tell Miarka.)
“Laisse-moi te raconter la vraie histoire, veux-tu ? Elle commence avec une fille qu’un homme méchant a maudite ; elle est prisonnière, non pas parce qu’elle est mauvaise ou bonne, mais parce qu’on l’a vue. Elle est belle. Trop belle pour être laissée seule. Un prince la trouve, lui promet son amour, mais il est trompé. Il ne peut pas distinguer Odette d’Odile. Le blanc du noir. L’innocence de l’allure.” (Let me tell you the true story, shall I? It begins with a girl who a wicked man cursed; she’s trapped not because she’s evil or good, but because she’s seen. She’s beautiful. Too beautiful to be left alone. A prince finds her, promises her love, but he’s tricked. He can’t tell Odette from Odile. White from black. Innocence from allure.)
Miarka arched her eyebrow. “Alors, c’est moi le piège ?” (So, I’m the trick?)
“Non” (No), Alina laughed. “ Tu es l’épreuve—la vérité. Tu lui montres sa cécité. Tu es le cygne noir, non pas parce que tu es mauvaise, mais parce que tu es intelligente” (You’re the test—the truth. You show him his blindness. You are the black swan not because you’re wicked, but because you're smart.)
“Et toi?” (And you?)
“Je suis l’illusion qu’il veut croire—le rêve fragile. La ‘Pureté.’ La ‘pure héroïne’ que les petites filles admirent quand elles veulent fuir leur réalité. Mais ma chère Miarka, la Pureté n’est qu’un autre mot pour désigner les vierges qui ne se défendent pas.” (I’m the illusion he wants to believe—the fragile dream. The ‘Purity.’ The ‘pure heroine’ little girls look up to when they want to escape their reality. But my dear Miarka, Purity is just another word for virgins who don’t fight back.)
Alina pulled Miarka in so close that she whispered into Miarka’s ear. “The real version is darker—lust and power, blood and betrayal. The black swan isn’t the villain. The white swan became something better than pure.”
“ Tu sais ce qui arrive à la fin de certaines versions?” (Do you know what happens at the end of some versions?) Alina asked. The music picked up.
“Odette se jette dans le lac. Elle préfère mourir que vivre maudite. Le prince la suit. Ils se noient. La rédemption par la mort”. (Odette throws herself into the lake. She’d rather die than live cursed. The prince follows her. They drown. Redemption through death.)
Miarka said, “Comme c’est poétique.” (How poetic.)
“Mais si l’on changeait l’histoire ? Et si Odette voyait enfin la vérité : le prince ne l’avait jamais vraiment connue, et la malédiction n’était pas la magie, mais le rôle qu’on l’avait forcée à jouer.” (But what if they changed the story? What if Odette saw the truth, the prince never really knew her, and the curse wasn’t the magic, but the role she was forced into?)
Miarka didn’t speak. Just listened.
“Alors, Odette les chassa. Le prince d’abord : elle utilisa ses griffes pour le déchiqueter, chair après chair, membre après membre, jusqu’à ce qu’il ne reste de lui que soie ensanglantée et promesses brisées. La cour ? Elle les vida de leur vie, laissant autour du lac des cadavres disposés comme des marionnettes macabres. Et Odile ? Ah, Odile — les griffes d’Odette la trouvèrent ; le cygne noir hurla tandis que son corps se tordait et se brisait, os rompus, plumes arrachées, et le sang s’étalant comme de l’encre noire sur le lac gelé. Odette la dévora. À la fin, aucune d’elles n’était un cygne. Pas de malédictions. Pas de fins magiques. Rien que deux humaines dans un monde de faim éternelle.” (So, Odette hunted them. The prince first, she used her claws to tear him apart, flesh by flesh, limb by limb, until he was nothing but bloodied silk and shattered promises. The court? She drained them of their life, leaving corpses arranged like macabre puppets around the lake. And Odile? Oh Odile—Odette's claws found her, the black swan screamed as her body was twisted and broken, bones snapped, feathers torn, and blood pooling like black ink across the frozen lake. Odette devoured her. By the end, neither of them was a swan. No curses. No magic endings. Only two humans in a world of eternal hunger.)
Miarka’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Et, l’autre volée?” (And, the other flock?)
“Ils ont survécu, nous avons observé et appris. Nous avons porté leur honneur. Ils n’étaient que le public assistant à un spectacle. Et en nous, Miarka, nous sommes tous égoïstes, même les innocents. Si tu n’y prends garde, tu entendras le battement d’ailes sombres, et tu sauras qu’Odette est revenue.” (They survived, we watched and learned. We carried their honour. They were simply the audience watching a display. And in us, Miarka, we are all selfish, even the innocent ones. If you’re not careful, you’ll hear the flapping of dark wings and you’ll know Odette has returned.)
Miarka said, “Alors, tu fais tout ça seulement pour te venger de moi? (So, you're only doing this to get back at me.)
“C’est toi qui as toujours été plus intelligent.” (You’re the one who’s always been smarter.) Alina whispered. “Mais en vérité, tu as dansé avec les dents. Tu refuses de te laisser apaiser. C’est pour cela qu’ils te haïssent. Pas parce que tu les as trompés, mais parce que tu as survécu à l’histoire.” (But in truth, you’ve danced with teeth. You refuse to be settled. That’s why they hate you. Not because you tricked them, but because you survived the story.)
She continued. “Crois-le ou non, Miarka, toi et moi sommes pareilles.” (Believe it or not, Miarka, you and I are the same.)
The music quickened. Alina dipped Miarka, one leg extended and the other bent, arms intertwined like vines. Miarka arched her back. In a stunning lift, Alina swept Miarka off the ground. Miarka's limbs extended in mid-air. Miarka landed perfectly with poise, bending her knees.
Alina curtsied; she blew a kiss toward Miarka, who remained unfazed. “Jusqu’à ce que nous nous retrouvions, Miarka.” (Until we meet again, Miarka.)
She turned and slipped through the crowd, disappearing without a trace. Miarka didn’t follow; she watched. Miarka turned her heel, heading toward the exit, wanting to head back home. The man from earlier, who had revolted Miarka, attempted to clear his throat to get her attention. Miarka brushed past him, not in the mood for a conversation. He tried once more. Miarka snapped at him lowly, “Si tu crois qu’en te raclant la gorge je vais t’ouvrir les jambes, tu es un putain d’idiot. Même Dostoïevski savait que le désir naît dans l’esprit, pas dans le bruit des poumons.” (If you think clearing your throat will make me spread my legs, you’re a fucking idiot. Even Dostoevsky knew that desire is born in the mind, not in noise from the lungs.)
She turned as the man choked on his olive from the fancy whiskey he was given.
Miarka got into a taxi, heading a few streets down. She paid the driver, taking her leave. Entering a house that she can, for now, call home. She trailed up the stairs into her small room. A simple bed by the window, a mirror with a sturdy wooden desk and cluttered notebooks filled with neat handwriting. A worn armchair bore the imprint of countless hours spent reading and writing late at night. Her suitcase, well-worn, lay tucked beneath the floor of the iron-framed bed, draped heavily with wool blankets. The deep colour red, in contrast to the white walls. On the bedside table, a collection of pens and half-empty perfume lay spread. Something was off.
Miarka smelt the faint perfume of something sweet, a scent familiar. Miarka’s eyes widened, and she quickly dove toward her suitcase, finding the soldier's trench coat. She tried to reach into the pocket within. They were gone. The documents she stole were gone. That was no mere intelligence; they held vital information about nuclear weapons testing—listing of every detonation, misfires, but more alarmingly, missing radioactive material. Even more dangerously, America’s plans, each higher up, and the details of Uranium, Oppenheimer’s Manhattan Project, and sensitive atomic research. If the soviets learned of her theft, Alina knew the secret police would move with ruthless efficiency, hunting anyone linked to her, and Miarka would become the perfect pawn.
Every hidden file, every coded she possessed now could summon a shadow of army operatives, tailing her, intercepting messages, waiting for the slightest misstep to pull the trigger. Alina’s advantage was simple: she could orchestrate Miarka’s movements, plant trails, and manipulate contacts. Miarka would be dead. Alina wielded this knowledge like a scalpel, turning the threat of the Soviet state into a weapon to bend Miarka to her will—a lethal hand of her own country.
Miarka picked up her perfume bottle and threw it at the wall. She heavily breathed as she watched the shattered glass bleed into the flooring. Miarka had to act fast; she was in grave danger.
She called out, “Tante!” (Aunt!) but there was no answer. Miarka peeked her head out of the doorway. She looked down to see the windowsill, a figure with her knees pulled to her chest sitting on the arch. There, the frame displayed her silhouette, draped in a dressing gown, exposing nearly her chest. A cigarette glowed faintly between her slender fingers. The faint haze curled around her like a veil.
Miarka paused, watching the woman who had always spoken of pride and equal measure. Was quiet. The robe hung loosely off her shoulders.
“Miarka”, she said softly. “Il y a des vérités qui pèsent plus lourd que l’orgueil. Les gens — les gens voudront toujours te plier, te réduire à moins que ce que tu espères devenir” (There are truths that weigh heavier than pride. People—people will always want to bend you, to make you less than what you hope to be.)
She took a drag. “Je n’ai jamais fait de choses dont j’étais fier, non pas par manque de talent, mais parce que j’ai appris très tôt que survivre, c’est savoir faire des compromise.” (I never did things I was proud of, not because I lacked talent, but because I learned early on that survival is about compromise.)
Her fingers trembled against the edge of the window. Then crushed the cigarette stub against the white surface hard. “Ce rêve… je voulais y croire, en notre époque. Notre gloire. En quelque chose de plus grand. Mais ton père… Viktor a tout ruiné. Je le déteste pour ça. Pour avoir volé ma sœur. Ta mère… il me l’a prise.” (That dream, I wanted to believe in our time. Our fame. In something bigger. But, your father. Viktor ruined it all. I fucking hate him for it. For stealing my sister away. Your mother. He took her from me.)
The word. Hate. Hung heavy.
“Je ne sais pas s’il l’a tuée — peut-être qu’il l’a fait. Peut-être pas. Mais je veux croire qu’il l’a fait. Je dois le croire.” (I don’t know if he killed her—maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. But I want to believe he did. I must.)
Miarka stepped closer, the weight of Jerime’s confession settling over her like a dark cloud. “Tu détestes mon père?” (You hate my father?)
“Il y a deux sortes de personnes dans ce monde, Miarka.” (There are two kinds of people in this world, Miarka.) She said with distant eyes. “Ceux qui vivent pour l’argent, pour survivre, ou pour un amour creux — ils essaient juste de tenir bon. Et puis certains en veulent plus. Quelque chose en quoi croire.” (Those who live for money, for survival, or a hollow kind of love—they’re just trying to hold on. And then some want more. Something to believe in.)
Jerime’s gaze locked onto hers. “J’étais de ceux qui en voulaient plus. J’étais amoureux de l’idée de notre temps ensemble, de la célébrité, de la gloire, de l’avenir dont nous rêvions.” (I was one of those who wanted more. I was in love with the idea of our time together, the fame, the glory, the future we dreamed of.)
She continued. “C’est un homme qui manie le pouvoir comme une arme. Strict, impitoyable, un Coréen russe à l’esprit acéré. Il ne commande pas le respect ; il fait disparaître les gens d’un simple claquement de doigts. Il connaît les vrais acteurs, ceux qui tirent les ficelles à huis clos. On ne survit pas dans son monde, sauf si l’on est soit à sa merci, soit sous son emprise.” (He’s a man who wields power like a weapon. Strict, ruthless, a Russian Korean with a sharp mind. He doesn’t command respect; he makes people disappear with a snap of his fingers. He knows the real players, the ones who pull strings behind closed doors. You don’t survive in his world unless you’re either at his mercy or under his thumb.)
Miarka felt a chill. She hadn’t seen her father in years.
“Il t’a forcé à te couper les cheveux?” (He forced you to cut your hair,) Jerime said quietly. “Parce que ta mère détestait son propre reflet. Elle haïssait ce qu’elle voyait en elle-même, et peut-être ce qu’elle voyait en toi. La femme qui t’a portée m’a dit quelque chose, une fois” (Because your mother hated her own reflection. She hated what she saw in herself, and maybe what she saw in you. The woman who carried you, said something to me once.)
Jerime’s eyes glistened with unshed tears “Si seulement elle n’était pas née.” (If only she weren’t born.)
Miarka’s breath hitched. Her eyes remained cold.
“C’était ta mère.” (That was your mother,) Jerime said, her voice a mix of disbelief and illusion. “Elle te regardait, non pas comme sa fille, mais comme un rappel de tout ce qu’elle avait perdu et de ce qu’elle ne pourrait jamais être. Et Viktor, ton père, t’a forcée à obéir. T’a fait changer, à te couper des parts de toi-même qui lui rappelaient ses propres échecs.” (She looked at you, not as her daughter. But as a reminder of everything she lost and never could be. And Viktor, your father, made you obey. Made you change, cut away the parts of yourself that reminded her of her own failures.)
Jerime’s arms opened, inviting. Miarka hesitated. She then fell into the embrace clutching her aunt like a lifeline. “Il y a des gens comme Viktor. Mais toi… tu n’es pas comme lui. Tu es celle qui rêve encore. Qui veut quelque chose de vrai. Et moi, je suis là. (There are people like Viktor. But you’re…not like him. You’re the one who still dreams. Who want something real. And I’m here.)
Jerime held Miarka tighter, her breath shaky, the weight of years crushing down on her chest. After a long moment, she pulled back.
“C’est une putain de blague. La façon dont elle faisait semblant d’aimer le monde, faisait tomber les hommes à ses pieds avec ce sourire, cette voix. Pendant ce temps, j’ai exhibé ma chatte devant plus d’hommes que tu ne pourrais compter, des hommes puissants, des hommes faibles, des hommes désespérés qui pensaient pouvoir me posséder. Mais aucune de ces conneries ne m’a jamais donné ce que j’ai avec to.” (It’s a fucking joke. The way she pretended to love the world, made men fall at her feet with that smile, that voice. Meanwhile I’ve flaunted my cunt in front of more men then you can count, powerful men, weak men, desperate men who thought they could own me. But none of that bullshit ever gave me what I have with you.)
Her hands trembled as she wiped a tear. “Dieu nous préserve qu’elle t’ait jamais montré de l’amour. Mais je ne peux pas te négliger parce que tu es son sang. L’enfant de ma sœur. Et peu importe combien je déteste le chaos dans lequel nous sommes, je t’aime. Je t’ai toujours aimée.” (God forbid she ever showed you love. But I can’t neglect you because you’re her blood. My sister’s child. And no matter how much I hate the mess we’re in, I love you. I always have.)
Jerime allowed tears to fall down her cheeks, the armour shattering as she let out a sob. Miarka’s glance softened, she reached up, brushing away the wet tracks from Jerime’s face.
Miarka changed her tone of voice to sound more French, she thought. At least Jerime could pretend to talk to her sister in illusion. “Tu es la sœur que je n’ai jamais eue. Je veux revivre ces souvenirs, nous sommes liées par le sang, et nous sommes liées par tout ce que nous ressentons dans cette famille de merde.” (You’re the sister I never had. I want to relive the memories, we’re bound by blood, and we’re bound by everything we feel in this fucked-up family.)
Miarka wrapped her hands around her aunt's head.
“Alors ne me laisse jamais partir.” (Then don’t ever let me go,) Jerime whispered back.
Later that night, Miarka sat in front of a bronze, ornate mirror. The woodwork is carved with French tales woven into the illustrations of faces and figures. Miarka’s blue eyes reflected in the mirror, a memory of when she last cut her hair. It’s grown back, running down like a muddy river to her shoulders. Miarka wondered, would she be disappointed? If she saw her now? The seed lay in Delphine’s dark, smooth palm. It’s been a year since they last saw each other. She closed her eyes, envisioning a silhouette, covered with a wool blanket, holding a red poppy in her hand. “I’m here like the tide.”
Miarka reached out, her fingers pressed against the mirror’s smooth surface. She sighed, feeling the guilt creep up on her. Her forehead leaned against the mirror. Delphine could never hate her; she was full of life and forgiveness. She was the prime example of what humanity could offer. The only kindness Miarka experienced.
She picked up her hairbrush, running it through her brown hair.
She placed the brush aside, heading toward bed, and she closed her eyes, dreaming of nothing. Five hours passed. She groggily flickered her eyes awake; she had school in the next four hours or so. Maybe three. She’d been enrolled at least since the start of this year; she wasn’t exactly always excited, most subjects bored her, and the teachers fumbled with books they relied on. The students barely cared. They were more into dating or looking for the latest fashion trend.
Miarka made it down the hallway, steam curling around like breath from a wound. She pressed her hand against the bathroom door, locked. Miarka knocked, noticing the light. “Jerime?”
No answer.
Her stomach dropped. That cold dread crawling up her spine, she pushed the door open. The bathtub was full. Jerime lay back, arm resting over the porcelain lip. Her body floated like a ghost, soaked and exposing her bony chest. Her head lolled to the side, wet hair clinging to her cheek. Her cigarette was still burning in the sink—the smell of stale smoke.
Miarka rushed forward, heart slamming in her chest. “Jerime!”
She grabbed her aunt’s wrist, trying to find a pulse.
“Non, non, non — putain!” (No, no, no—fuck,) Miarka breathed.
She dropped to her knees beside the tub. Her eyes were wide, locked on Jerime’s pale face. Her lips were slightly parted, as if caught mid-confession. As if still speaking from beyond the veil.
“Tu n’étais pas censée partir.” (You weren’t supposed to leave) Miarka whispered. “Tu es encore là, je peux encore te sentir. Tu n’es pas partie. Tu n’es juste pas réveillée.” (You’re still here, I can still feel you. You’re not gone. You’re just not awake.)
She didn’t cry. Not yet. Instead, she stared at Jerime as if looking at a ghost. “Tu peux me hanter si tu veux. Mais ne me quitte pas. S’il te plaît, je te parlerai comme si tu étais encore là. Je serai ta sœur.” (You can haunt me if you want. Just don’t leave me. Please, I’ll talk to you like you’re still here. I’ll be your sister.)
A long beat. The only sound was the water dripping down the sliding porcelain. Miarka didn’t move. She sat there beside the bathtub, her knees pulled to her chest, watching over Jerime like a vigil. She pushed herself up; she needed to find out who did this and why.
Miarka will find the answers she needs.
She stirred in her sleep, her eyes flickering, reminiscing over memories like discarded fragment webs—her aunt’s pale skin—Alina’s cunning blue eyes—the faded, fragile Soviet papers—the dance of Swan Lake—the man’s rancid appearance. Miarka turned her head. From her point of view, she wandered toward the white, pristine bathtub, filled with cold water. Her slender, pale hand touched the curtain.
She pulled it back.
In a flash!
Jerime’s naked body floated, her face turned toward the ceiling. Her blue eyes turned to face Miarka, staring with a twist and a snap.
Miarka jumped back to life, searching for air. She looked around, seeing the moving scenery, feeling the plush seat beneath her. She felt the heavy weight from the nightmare she endured. Her chest was tight. She ran a cold sweat. She couldn’t remember the last time she experienced a nightmare. Miarka placed a hand to her forehead, wiping away the tiny droplets of sweat. She calmed herself, feeling a heavy weight on her shoulder. Looking over, tresses of amber hair tickling her neck—a pale face in slumber. The Duke’s hand loosely hung by the seat. Miarka had never seen him sleep before; it was nice in a way. The Duke gently breathed; he was still as a Victorian corpse. She brushed a few loose amber strands from his eyes. He turned, mumbling something incoherent.
Miarka spoke in a hush, her slender fingers feathered across his cheek. “My family—”
She looked at him, whether he was listening or drifting off, her voice would be white noise to him anyway. She took a deep breath. Someone might as well hear.
“My family, by many standards, we are perceived as what ‘fear’ should be. In Russia, in the nineteen-sixties, fifties. When the USSR came to power, my father was not simply seen as a man; he was seen as a leader. He was, what many would see, as the CEO of a Russian conglomerate. He was a man who moved between Moscow, Berlin, and Havana, shaking hands with dangerous people: dictators, spies, and politicians—many who were seen as formidable. He knew Khrushchev. He met Brezhnev before he wore the General Secretary’s crown. He drank vodka with Andropov, head of the KGB. Fidel Castro discussed sugar shipments and weaponry that were never documented in any trade records. He sat with Che Guevara once, before Bolivia claimed him, and witnessed the idealism that would ultimately turn to bloodshed. He shook hands with Ceaușescu in Romania. And Honecker in East Berlin, all while trading favours behind closed doors.”
She peeked over to see if the Duke was listening, but she continued regardless. “And the spies, Oleg Penkovsky, he passed nuclear secrets to the West. My father spoke of him with contempt, a fool who believed in ideology. He mentioned Kim Philby once, the infamous British defector. He understood men like him—”
“He knew all officials would fall, which agents would double, which ministers were in power and who were weak. Those who crossed his plans disappeared. He signed contracts that upped our economy and the power of the ‘Kovoscavich’ name. My father thrived in silence; it wasn’t about votes or control; it was ambition that won our name.”
The Duke’s red lip twitched. His eyes flickered beneath those pale eyelids; he was like a face cast frozen. Miarka trailed her finger down to his eyelid as though she was silencing the devil from his nightmares. Who knew, even the Devil got nightmares.
“My mother was the opposite of my father—a beauty, they called her, le vin rouge de France, The Red Wine of France. She was an enigma, making men drop at the sound of her voice, at the smile of her red lips. They say, ‘her brown hair fell around her like waves in a waterfall.’ She had an otherworldly voice, a deep melody that played again in your mind. She worked with famous musicians, Edith Piaf, Johnny Hallyday, and Dalida. A few to count based on what my aunt told me.”
Miarka glanced out the window, crossing one leg over the other. Her chin rested on her palm. “When I would see her, my father would make me cut my hair. Fuck if I know why, but—It was presumed so, she couldn’t look in the mirror and see what she could’ve been—free.”
“I recall one time, when we visited my grandfather in Pskov, with my grandmother from Seoul, I was made to wear men’s clothes. A daughter would not equate to a successor. My bloodline—the Kovoscavich name—was a weapon, used in ambition and intelligence. My father told me: It is not the kings that hold the name nor the empire of legends of written memoirs. It is those who carry the succession that make the empire turn.”
A whisper in a husk emerged in a groggy British hush. “Makes family gatherin’s sound like a right faff in the park innit?”
Miarka glanced over. She saw the Duke’s half-lidded eyes gander at her spiel. “So, you were listening…”
“I’ll admit, I wasn’t really sleepin a wink, but I was listening like a bloody monk, meditating, you really expect me to sit here like a polite little choir boy eh? Call it enlightenment if you like, me sittin’ here in la la land while you bleed your fuckin’ heart out.”
He sat up straight “There’s a difference between me and monk’s love.” He pressed a finger on Miarka’s nose “Monks find God, I just find how delicious people’s fucked up sins are.”
Miarka narrowed her eyes into slits. “I—”
His finger pressed her lips. “I must say, I could use your sob story as lyrics for me’ new song, Hard-Luck Blues and a Cheap Fuck Too. Chords’ll be C F Ab Bb9 F7 Ab7, and then I’ll fuckin hate it later like that god-awful ‘the laughing gnome’”
Miarka crossed her arms, looking like a displeased child who wasn’t allowed a toy.
“That’s the most I’ve heard you yap all day. Beautiful voice, might I add, now it’s my turn to tell you my Champagne Tears & Cum-Stained Fears.” He let go of Miarka’s lip, crossing his leg over.
He poured a glass of champagne and took a sip. “When I was a kid, back in Brixton, no one really knew what to do with me. Me mum was cold, practical, she’d rather sweep it all under the rug, Dad was gentle enough you could say, but baffled by the strange lad who wanted to paint his nails and play Little Richard records till the cows came home. They didn’t see me. Not really. But my brother, he saw me. He’d take me on the bus up to Soho, drop jazz records into my lap, and drag me to smoky clubs. Coltrane, Mingus, Kerouac, that whole shebang. He said, ‘Davey, this is it. This is freedom’ and I damn well believed him. For a while, it was my saviour.”
The Duke’s jaw clenched, showing a faint sign of strain in his expression tone. “But he couldn’t hold on, you see. The illness he had—Schizophrenia. He slipped further and further, and every bloody day, I thought, ‘What if I slip too?’” he glanced at Miarka, holding his champagne up like a king with a chalice.
“Every time me head got too noisy, every time I lost myself, I couldn’t switch it off. I thought ‘Christ, I’m next.’”
He jumped to life, like Frankenstein’s monster being zapped by lightning. He posed as if he were on stage, talking to his audience. “But you what I bloody did? I made a fuckin’ racket. Picked up me guitar, banged at it like a lunatic. S’pose the voices were going to come. I’m damn well going to drown them out. That’s where the songs started. Noise turned into music. Madness turned into melody. Half the time, the fuck if I knew what I was doing. Just pinched a few chords from Chuck Berry, bashed about, sang like I meant it. I changed myself, earning me the nickname ‘The Chameleon.’ Sure, it didn’t pay rent, but it kept my mind at bay, put my thoughts to sleep.”
The Duke’s palm brushed over his eyes, admitting something he hadn’t told anyone. “I’ll admit, Miarka, pet, I’m downright scared I am. Scared of losing myself, the way me brother did. Of waking fuckin’ up one day and not knowing ‘who I am.’ Of my own brain turning against me, pulling me apart. You start off fine, tired, and restless, then the thoughts start creepin’ in, everything familiar into something alien. And all the music might not be enough. What if one day, it isn’t?”
“It terrifies the shit outta me, it does, but I must go on, that’s what rockstars and singers bloody do. Perform and act, and hope the audience sees the art. That’s what I thrive on. Art.”
Miarka’s expression softens, her eyes become too tired to argue. She muttered. “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
The Duke’s eyes slightly widened, and then, a snort, laughter. “Haven’t heard that one? Is that one of Bulgakov’s?”
“нет. Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina.”
The Duke perked up excitedly. “Miarka, since we’re on the subject, have you ever read Goodbye to Berlin!”
Miarka’s eyebrow arched. “What the hell is that?”
“Oh Miarka! Christopher Isherwood is a fuckin’ brilliant author! A brilliant man! I adore his work. Let me explain—it’s a semi-autobiography that captures Berlin before the Nazi’s rise to power. During the early nineteen-thirties, it’s set in not just a city but a state I know well. The Kit Kat Klub, the dim lights, the music, for instance, it’s all a reflection of ruin and life as I’ve lived. Sally Bowles, a young cabaret singer, becomes involved with Christopher. She’s alive in a way that’s loud and thrilling. The novel taught me to observe it through another’s eyes. Isherwood wrote, my favourite line, ‘I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking. Recording the man shaving at the window opposite and the woman in the kimono washing her hair. Someday, all this will have to be developed, carefully printed, fixed.’—A beauty in itself. The loneliness behind her laughter and terror.”
Miarka nodded slowly. “I see—”
“That resonates with me…I’ve always been fascinated with the rot beneath the glitter. Reading it, I saw myself—the alienation, the obsession, and the isolation. Berlin wasn’t just a city; it was a confession. And I saw the mechanics of my own life. I want to move to Berlin someday, I want to escape this shit ole’ and live, I deserve it, Miarka, I do.”
“Why Berlin? Why are you so obsessed with ideology at the cost of millions of lives?” Miarka asked lowly.
The Duke dismissively said, “I don’t worship the idea. Oh no. I love the aesthetic—Weimar’s Berlin. I wander through that place for its culture. I flirt rather with the idea of it. That’s where I come alive, cold and heartless, a nineteen-thirties aristocrat.”
Miarka leaned in. “You feel it pulse; you drink, snort it, and call it alive. The streets were slick with vomit and urine. Children clawed at your boots for bread while men had to fight for food. You still don’t understand how dangerous it is to believe in such—if not the ideology—a part of history that put many lives in the soil. All for art.”
The Duke glanced at Miarka. He was confused. “Come again? How do you mean? I’m not actually into the idea of war, Miarka, it’s just an act, a performance. Why can’t you see that I’m—”
“I’m not—” He should be in control.
“For fuck sake, Miarka, I wasn’t trying to put your knickers in a twist.”
“Art. For the lives of millions, starved, burned, shot and forgotten. And you wear their ashes on your skin every time you speak of purity. You mention this foolish ideology and say things with no understanding; or meaning. Do you not feel them? Duke? The weight of every word you speak of; their hands clawing at you. Their eyes are on you. That’s the fairness you receive when you say such things.”
“No. Obviously, I wasn’t there. I didn’t do it. I don’t worship the whole fascist shit—”
“But you dream of it, your mouth their words. That makes their ghosts yours. Every time you fondly speak of it, you bury them again. And they know your name.”
“Stop it. Don’t do this again. Fuck, we were having a nice evenin’ and now you're ruining it. Miarka, for the last time, I swear. I. Do. Not. Worship. The war. Nor what Germany did. Only the aesthetic of—”
“Yet, you do. And the weird spiritual side of it.”
“No, no, fuck’s sake, for fuck sssake—” He mumbled incoherently. The Duke reached into his pocket, and he fumbled around his coat. He pulled out a substance, a small baggie filled with white powder. He taps it onto the back of his hand and snorts it hard. He gasps; both pupils widened. “There, see bloody there, I’m not their executioner! I’m the one who will fix it, now you can’t say shit to me that will kill the vibe darlin’”
“mmm, need some fuckin’ milk, oi you!” he taps on the limo driver’s window.
“yes sir!” the driver lowered the window.
Miarka said, “Stop it, you need to stop—”
“No, fuck off Miarka, I need to find the—oh, where’s the bloody thing, the milk?”
“I don’t have any, sir! Just beverages.” The driver replied.
“Useless you are. Should've contacted your agency and had you fired.”
Miarka holds his hand. “Duke. Enough. You're not thinking straight.”
“Oh come off it, Miarka! This is your fault! If you didn’t mention this shit, then I wouldn’t have done what I did. Do you think I asked for this, to be high off my tits, to be in this state?”
Miarka coldly said. “No powder can hide what you did. They live and breathe. Waiting.”
“Shut up! Shut up, I’m not their butcher. I wasn’t there, I wasn’t—God, why, why, why do you always do this to me.” His slender hands pressed against his eyes. “Why…”
“I only wanted to make fuckin art. I. no. I’m not dealing with this again. Miarka. I need to be alone.”
The limo driver pulled up to the driveway through the wrought iron gates. The engine stopped, and the Duke, feeling overwhelmed, didn’t even thank the driver. He pulled up to the side of the house in Bel-Air. The Duke opened the door himself, leaving no opportunity for the driver to assist. He stormed out, throwing his coat to the ground, pulling out a drag and lighting it. Miarka crawled out, watching him walk away. She clenched her fist, lowering her head, letting out an elongated sigh. “Чёрт побери!”
The Driver took out a drag, arching an eyebrow. “Celebs, always cocky, aren’t they?”
Miarka didn’t talk. She didn’t speak. The words replayed in her mind. She felt a familial ache in her chest. Every heartbeat is a drum, a reminder of her carelessness, of how quickly her words could wound the delicate structure and trust. She had not meant to ruin their moment. He was vulnerable. He was in a terrible state. The other night, he poured his heart out to her, and she held him, the only anchor to ground him. He was alone. It was written in his music: isolation, a common theme. Miarka walked up to the door in silence; she had never felt anything like this since Delphine. He mentioned things about the tours, the divorce, and his desperate attempt to keep going. Had anyone else known, listened to his delusions? When she remembered the lines, he sang out, Station to Station. In a way, it was a cry for help.
Miarka twisted the knob, entering the familiar lounge way. The Egyptian décor, with koh masks hanging, greeted their return. Golden Vinyls hanging like a trophy or a torment of the past. And art works, Giacometti, Francis Bacon and Egon Schiele hanging as his last resort of inspiration.
Her blue eyes landed on the Duke, now in a creased white collard shirt showing his exposed bony chest, with his black trousers clinging to his frame. He didn’t even bother with the shoes; he tossed them to the side as he took a smoke. He leaned against the wall by the window, not meeting her gaze. He was fragile, so fragile that memories could splinter him like porcelain. “Duke,” she whispered. “I, I’m sorry, from before, I know you’re—not in the right state. I should’ve listened. I’m terrible with that kind of thing. I can never listen, only jump to conclusions.”
He didn’t look at her. His eyes traced over somewhere distant. A place she could not see. “I was thoughtless, I didn’t see how it would affect you.”
“Mm,” he managed. It was better than nothing.
“The book you spoke of, is it here?” Miarka asked. Her eyes were darting around to find it.
He shrugged, his arms crossed. “Fuck if I know,” he muttered.
Miarka nodded, “I’ll go find it.”
She made her way around the room, swivelling like a snake. She first tried the chair, shoving piles of books out of the way. City Of Night by John Rechy, Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert, In Bluebeard’s Castle by George Steiner and As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner. “God, how much does this man read?” Miarka said to herself. She tried the lounge, the bedroom, the bathroom and the kitchen. He had so many books and pages everywhere that he might as well be a librarian. She searched high and low, all over the places he would’ve been. She had no luck; nowhere could she find the book he mentioned. She made her way back to the main living room. The Duke had vanished, no trace. Miarka looked over the shelves. She sat down where she had first slept—the Egyptian couch.
She ran her fingers over the outline, looking out toward the city. She sat down and—a bump—a hard cover beneath her. She sat up, looking at the cause. Lo and behold—the book titled ‘Goodbye Berlin. Author: Christopher Isherwood.’
Miarka picked it up, lying on the couch with her hair sprawled, flicking the pages.
From the boarding house owned by Fräulein Schröder, with other tenants telling their stories. To the introduction of Sally Bowles, a young, inspiring actress who becomes Christopher’s roommate, a cabaret singer, he learns a great deal about her sex life and her many lovers. Christopher meets the Lauder family, who own a department store. The rise of the Nazis destroyed everything and potentially killed Natalie's cousin Bernhard. Christopher was forced to leave Berlin and fears that many of his acquaintances may be dead. There was no heavy gore nor any explicit details, just the assumption. Miarka found herself reading through the scenarios aloud in her mind, imagining the detailed descriptions.
‘No. Even now, I can’t altogether believe that any of this has really happened. March 1939’
Miarka closed the book. She repeated to herself, “I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking...”
She held the book close to her, recalling the lines: a man who wears a defensive mask far from home, protecting his vulnerable personality from the fear of isolation in a world he doesn’t know. Miarka thought of the Duke, of his state, his appearance, his world, and her’s collided—a Cold War survivor and an English singer. Sally and Christopher are from separate places. Miarka understood well now.
She left the couch to search for the Thin White Duke. She heard a piano, playing faintly, the chords F| G| A| Bm| in a slow verse. Miarka followed the sound. She entered the music room to find the Thin White Duke with his eyes closed, playing as if he were conducting a prayer. His slender fingers glided along the piano like spiders weaving a web. She didn’t speak, holding the book close to her chest. She stepped forward. “Duke,” she said softly.
The Duke’s fingers trailed up the piano.
Miarka repeated his name.
He hit the |Bm| chord, playing into the chorus. Humming the verse “Once there were mountains…”
Miarka let out a sharp sigh. He wasn’t listening.
She glanced down, and she opened the pages to the very end. She read out loud, “I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking. Recording the man shaving at the window opposite and the woman in the kimono washing her hair. Someday, all this will have to be developed, carefully printed, fixed.”
Miarka’s finger followed along the line. “I understand now why you love this book; the words speak of you. You're simply Christopher Isherwood, escaping from England to another society to escape isolation—only, it never goes away. And in the end, you're hiding your persona from your vulnerability.”
“In truth, I—” she took a breath. “I had no idea. I was always selfish-minded, and I barely paid attention to those around me. And the one I did is buried beneath soil. I should listen to others just as you should listen to yourself.”
Miarka stood beside where he sat. “Fear. You feel fear. And supposedly, when you admit you can’t, you do. I didn’t listen when you said it. I figured it out. You fear losing the part of you that’s real. You fear losing yourself to mental illness—and—I'll be honest—Thin White Duke. I’m scared shitless, too. I’m afraid of the ocean’s depths. I’m terrified of failing, being obsolete. And, I know most have this too—even you. Of the audience, failing to succeed as they dismiss, laugh at your art. I can’t make those voices disappear.”
Miarka’s hand grasped the Duke’s gaunt shoulder. “I’ll listen. I’ll listen to every word, fear or joy. Everything. I’ll applaud it. Why? Because I want to stay. I’m not some superficial singer, royal, or actress. But I’m enough. And you're enough, too. I don’t want to be special; I want to…be real.”
She whispers, “And you're real; you’re a human being.”
The Duke stops playing, his fingers hover over the keys. His gaze turned, meeting Miarka’s eyes. His lips parted. Trying to find the words. “Miarka.”
“I’m—I’m terrified of you. Afraid because you see me. Not the mask, not this cabaret fuckin’ mask. You see every filthy, shitty flaw in me.”
The Duke’s fingers brush against hers, intertwined. Two pieces of string interwoven into a knot. “When I mentioned I hated you, loud and clear. Fuck me, I didn’t. I don’t hate you. I needed someone in truth, when I fall apart, someone who won’t flinch when I bleed out me soul for them. Thank you—for not running—for letting me be this.”
He let out a loud shiver with his words. “I miss me brother, I miss the good times. The reckless, stupid laughter, the nights we thought nothing could break us. I miss my son, that little spark of light that makes me feel like maybe – I’m not a total fuck-up. And I miss the audience, the roar of them screaming for my succession. Christ, I didn’t realise how much I’d fucking miss it until it was gone.”
He laughed lowly, “Stay with me, Miarka, fuck, stay with me. Let’s both be fucked up ghosts and let the world burn.”
A glistening tear formed from the corner of his darker eye, sliding down his sharp cheek to his jaw. He leaned back slightly, swishing it away with his thumb. “Fuckin’, ok, that’s enough gloomy shite for a day innit.”
He rose from the piano, walking across the room with a determined glance. He pulled out a guitar case and opened it wide. Inside, a Hagström H33 12-string acoustic guitar, its slim neck with the edges in black, as the middle was like a golden sunset. He picked it up carefully, holding on with two hands. He took out a plectrum, a light grey one, holding it lightly between his thumb and index finger. Sitting on the piano stool, he looked at Miarka, cradling it like an old friend.
He strummed the first chord |Fmaj7|.
| Fmaj7 | Em | Fmaj7 | Em |
C Em C Em
Ground control to Major Tom… Ground control to Major Tom…
His voice had a perfect melody, deep and ethereal, a reminder of his soulful lyrics as he sang.
Am Am/G D7/F#
Take your protein pills and put your helmet on
The sound of the radio being played as he rode along his bike, racing through the Brixton streets. He imagines himself flying through space, the wind through his hair.
C Em
Ground control to Major Tom
Spending hours drawing, reading comics, and listening to his mum’s record player. The Beatles, Little Richard, and Elvis Presley were his rock gods.
C Em
Commencing countdown engines on
A punch in his left eye in a school fight left him with a permanently dilated pupil. Making him feel out of this world, like an alien.
Am Am/G D7/F#
Check ignition and may God's love be with you
He listens to American R&B records on the radio, studying phrasing from Charles Ray and Little Richard. He received his first saxophone from his mum, igniting his love for music.
C E7
This is ground control to Major Tom
He started his first band, playing in the Konrads, covering local hits at dances. He switched to guitar and vocals, releasing his first single, Liza Jane.
F
You've really made the grade
He was obsessed with fashion, and he raided London thrift stores, adopting sharp Mod suits and dyed jackets. Having extravagant hairstyles.
Fm C F
And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear
He changed his stage name from David Jones to David Bowie, inspired by Jim Bowie’s knife.’
Fm C F
Now it's time to leave the capsule if you dare
Falling in love with a girl called Hermione Farthingale, forming the folk trio, Feathers. Along with John Hutchinson. Laughing, sharing ideas and losing himself in the music, performing in London coffee houses.
C E7
This is Major Tom to ground control
His first heartbreak, the moment Hermione left him. He spent hours writing lyrics a letter, describing his thoughts.
F
I'm stepping through the door
Studying the art of miming, the art of the Kabuki theatre, and avant-garde under the teachings of Lindsay Kemp.
Fm C F
And I'm floating in a most peculiar way
Sitting in front of the TV, watching Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey and the Apollo 11 moon landing. He couldn’t take his gaze away, dreaming of space, isolation and beyond the usual familiarity. He created, Major Tom.
Fm C F
And the stars look very different today
His half-brother introduced him to beat and jazz during the time they spent together.
Fmaj7 Em
For here am I sitting in a tin can
Wearing a gender bending ‘man’s dress’, posing on the UK album's cover. Shocking audiences and causing uproar over gender identity.
Fmaj7 Em
Far above the world
Marrying Angela Barnett, encouraging his androgynous ideas. Embracing the unconventional and unfamiliar. The moment when David first held their first son, Zowie Jones.
Bb Am G F
Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do
Finding a band with Mick Ronson, Trevor Bolder, and Woody Woodmansey, the Spiders from Mars. Creating a persona, Ziggy Stardust, inspired by Iggy Pop and Kabuki theatre. The audience roared in applause.
C E7
Though I'm past one hundred thousand miles
He was inspired by Orwell’s 1984, beginning to shed from Ziggy and leaving the Spiders from Mars.
F
I'm feeling very still
Immersing himself in America, particularly in Philadelphia's soul and funk, and working with Luther Vandross. Creating Young Americans, a ‘plastic soul’ record.
Fm C F
And I think my spaceship knows which way to go
Taking fascination in Krautrock bands like Kraftwerk and Neu.
Fm C F
Tell my wife I love her very much she knows
Miarka listens, really listens. She watches him glide his fingers along the guitar.
G E7 Am C/G
Ground control to Major Tom, your circuit's dead, there's something wrong
D7/F#
Can you hear me Major Tom?
From the moment their eyes first met.
C
Can you hear me Major Tom?
From the moment she spoke to him. She challenged him. Questioned him.
G
Can you hear me Major Tom?
Standing in front of space, holding her hand out, reaching to grip his. Looking at planet Earth from space.
Can you...
Hearing the words, a voice, laughter, crying, loss. “I’m here like the tide—silent, constant, and aching toward you.” Reaching out toward not earth, but the stars, searching for something.
Something.
More.
Human.
Miarka grips the book harder; a small sound escapes her lips—the voice of someone not perfect, not flawless, not flawed. A deep, low voice.
Fmaj7 Em
Here am I floating 'round my tin can
Fmaj7 Em
Far above the Moon
Bb Am G F
Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do
The Duke glances at Miarka, his voice growing stronger, smiling. Their two voices combining into something of silver and rust, silk and wire, ice and snow.
C E7
Though I'm past one hundred thousand miles
Miarka’s voice echoed into the abyss of space, isolated from Earth, born to be human and made to be perfect.
F
I'm feeling very still
She reaches out, seeing a bright star that shone more brightly than the rest.
Fm C F
And I think my spaceship knows which way to go
A space man with smoke curling around floated with no meaning.
Fm C F
Tell my wife I love her very much
She sees him, she sees herself.
she knows
She reached out, bouncing from the star, aching toward him.
G E7 Am C/G
Ground control to Major Tom, your circuit's dead, there's something wrong
Could he hear her? ‘Can you hear me?’
D7/F#
Can you hear me Major Tom?
C
Can you hear me Major Tom?
G
Can you hear me Major Tom?
Can you...
She holds his hand, bringing him closer.
Fmaj7 Em
Here am I floating 'round my tin can
‘You’re not alone.’
Fmaj7 Em
Far above the Moon
‘Do you hear me? You’re not alone.’
Bb Am G F
Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do
His eyes open. Floating forever in isolation.
|C F G A A || C F G A A || Fmaj7 | Em | A || C | D | E |
The Duke strums with a final |E| chord; he allows the tune to ring out. “Classic that one, wrote it back in sixty-nine. Can you imagine—me—like the rest o’ the world, waitin’ for the man to land on the moon. Just waiting for the moment to claim it with that little flag.”
The Duke cackled, “I gave them a poor bastard who's isolated in his own drug-fuelled tin can. People clapped along, to Major Tom, he was never a hero. He was an exile. He was really me, already untethering from the world, from love, from Brixton in England. And once he left the tin can, he never came back, never saw his wife again. I kept running into him again. Poor bastard, doomed to drift forever singin’ to no one.”
Miarka didn’t speak. She stood still. Her eyes widened. The Duke stared, confused, “What’s wrong, love. You look like you’ve read Naked Lunch, realising the state of madness.”
She gritted her teeth.
“Your voice ain’t that bad lo—”
Miarka’s eyes glistened, her shoulders shook as if the world pushed down hard on her. She couldn’t speak; she swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady.
“I lied, Duke—”
The Duke arched a brow “Lied, lied how?”
“I-I lied, about who I was, about my life, and now…now…” Miarka struggled, tears pricking at the corners.
“I lied to her…to Delphine…I lost her Duke…she’s dead.” Her hands covered her eyes, trying to hide herself. “I buried her, for hours—it took me hours—to put her body in the dirt. I lied to her, she fell for a lie, and now I’m stuck with the guilt.”
The Duke didn’t move; he stood there, smoke curling around lazily. His voice was sharp as he watched her, his brows furrowed. “I-I never knew you—felt like this…”
“I watched my own Aunt’s dead body drift in the tub, I didn’t bury her…she burdened the guilt on me. I was never meant to be born. I was made to be perfect.”
The Duke placed the guitar against the wall, and he stood in front of her. “When my boy—my Zowie—feels lost, when he’s hurt, I hug him. I hold him. And it feels…honest. Real. Miarka, you’re not some fuckin’ perfect robot, yeah? You're bloody human, and that’s a damn pain, innit?”
Miarka blinked, her lips trembling. She wanted to argue that no one should hear her, hold her; she was a ballerina made to strive. Though what she’d done, no one touched the guilt she carried. Buried it in her chest, until it burned.
“I’ve had my fair share of grief, holding friends, lovers, when the world chewed them up and spat them out,” his voice low, a shadow of his late nights in London, the jazz clubs, the empty hotel rooms, the long tours, the cigarettes and cocaine that never filled him. “You let them lean on you. You’re the one who told me you can’t fix things. You can’t. you——hold it together. Listen. When you said your hearin’ me, yeah, well, I’m hearin’ you.”
“I’ll listen to you and applaud you, I’ll fuckin’ stay if I must,” he gently touched her shoulders. “That’s the fun part of being human, my darling, we must put up with guilt, grief and pain; and if you let it, it’ll crush you. But, do you want to know the beautiful fucked up thing, Miarka? In this moment, I’ll hold you, I won’t hold any random bloke nor bird, because I’m the Thin White Duke. Except, fuck it, I’ll hold you, because that’s kindness innit.”
He pulls her into his thin frame. Miarka’s cheek pressed against his cadaverous chest. There's a faint rich cologne from the night before. She lifted her arms around his bony back, feeling his spine. She muffled herself in his collard shirt. Tears spilled from her eyes, her breath quietly hitched. Her cheeks grew puffy. She wanted to push him away, but instead she fell against him. “Fucken grief—is a bastard, and life is…lonelier than a twelve-string guitar in a hotel room at three a.m. I find that when someone holds you, it’s lighter. When they understand and have been through it, it feels lighter. Less hollow.”
There was a strange intensity between a man who had lost people, witnessed the weight of fame and fatherhood, and addiction. He wasn’t perfect. And Miarka, a young girl who escaped the Cold War, was portrayed as perfect, yet forced to pretend for someone’s happiness, was flawed. They both were. Sometimes holding someone meant letting the world feel like it might not kill them this one time.
Miarka stayed pressed against him, heaving, breathing, sobbing. For once, the Thin White Duke did not step back. He stayed. He held. He did not speak. He let the world burn around them.
And it felt less fucking lonely.
