(Y/N) POV:

The curtains part, a single spotlight that follows the hauntingly alone figure that slowly moves across the stage, fluttering wings of black bent and broken, limbs weary and exhausted as they move. As if each step takes monumental effort, as if each spin and glide is with weights anchoring her feet to the ground, to the depths of the dark waters, threatening and trying to drag her under.

The scars on her back are pronounced, harsh jagged red lines that scour skin when she twists, body seeming to writhe and arch with pain, back seeming to weep tears of blood where the gashes stretch with the curve of her body, moving across as the music winds around her and demands her to move, to respond.

There's something painfully familiar about looking at her dance, it almost feels as if my mind is disconnected from my body, it's as if I'm simultaneously sitting in the audience, eyes fixated on the stage and at the same time as if I'm watching myself move across stage; flickering in and out of the dance. Something about each elegant cut and twist and spin that made me feel as if it was me twisting and moving across the stage, finally reaching for the second figure, finally seeing that I wasn't alone. That I was seeing not a vision, not an illusion but rather a person slowly and gracefully moving; each inch of his body controlled and precise in its movements. There was a honed grace in the lines of his face.

And I saw the couple move, a sweet deadly duet as their bodies came together, intertwining and leaning and depending on each other...seeing them from my seat, body tilted forward as if tugged by the music. Her wings flutter, a weak tremble as she tries to fly, body arched, arms stretched upwards, body suspended in air, supported by strong arms gripping her waist. And I yet what I see is Minnie reaching for me, skin visible through the sheer black fabric, collarbones sharp and neck arched as he tilted his head with mine, searching and looking for something only my gaze could only see. Holding me as he helped broken wings flutter and splay wide, helping me as he became a new pair of wings instead.

The music is a sweet lilting piece, an orchestral piece that lifts and soars, a loud crescendo that's the crashing of waves, a low constant thrum of string instruments that and the thudding boom of the echoing drum that resonates in my ears; a heartbeat that quickens with each shred of trust and hope and love. A peak that the music reaches as the intertwined couple's bodies sink together, curved against each other, heads intertwined like swans do. 

Swans mate for life.

And in the trust and love that clings onto the dancers I see such a vow in their hold and in their gaze, I feel it in the soft trill as the song comes to soften, comes to settle around them, blanketing them with its tender touch.

And when they still, the spotlight falls on her back, softens the harsh gaping wounds of her scars; the light smoothens the edges, makes them fade.

And when it fades, engulfing the stage in darkness, the silhouette of them remains, burned across my mind.

A tale that began with pain.

And ended with healing, ended with wounds closing.

I hear the sound of applause as something numbed, blocked away slightly, filtering through to my ears as if I'm underwater and hearing the sound try to penetrate the waters.

Find that my feet stagger when I push myself upright, body struggling to cooperate and listen to me, the world tilts only momentarily before there's a hand curling around my waist and steadying me, a soft whispered murmur in my ear as Jinnie holds me. Smiling softly at me and achingly tender as he thumbs under my eyes to catch the few tears that have fallen. Droplets glistening where they pearl on the pad of his thumb.

"You okay (Y/N)?" he whispers.

I nod. Eyes drifting to the stage once more, smiling even as tears slip down as I bring my hands together to begin clapping.

To applaud the dancers for doing justice to the original. And yet for taking the story and melding it to them, moulding it to their own style of dance and personalities.

And yet though it isn't the same. Even if it's not like the piece I performed all those decades ago, soul spilled out across the stage and heart twisting with each dance move, it's their own tale.

It's the rebirth of the black swan, reborn every time someone decides to dance to the piece, reborn every time a dancer steps on stage to tell their story, reborn every time the music plays out; hauntingly familiar and the same...and yet belonging not just to me but to every soul who'd heard the lament and who'd shared their own.

And across the small distance, a hand laces together with mine and squeezes tightly; grounds and anchors me to him, to the other half of our swan song, to the one who'd helped me begin to learn that it was okay to learn to love once more.

And as my eyes fix on the stage, watching the dancers slip off, I see the empty stage and see flickers of memories blur and merge as they stream in front of my eyes.

See myself familiarising myself with it, acquainting myself to every corner of the stage, remember running my fingers over the heavy drapes and remember hiding behind them when the voices in my head got too loud; when the ghosts of my past swarmed up, not ready to let go of me no matter how much I wanted to be free of them.

I see a slip of a girl, body of a woman, soul of a siren and heart of an aching girl who'd been forced to grow up before her time, who had to cry tears of blood and sweat and work tirelessly to even begin her dream. Remember searching for two faces in the audience, the only two faces that mattered. And remembered being connected by the pride in love their eyes glowed with.

"Do you want to get closer?" Minnie asks, voice hushed and trembling with awe.

I nod, focus on the hand that tugs me up close, past the front row we'd been seated at, close that if my fingers dared reach out they'd graze across the edge of it.

The lights begin to dim as the theatre empties, lines of audience milling out, thrum of excitement palpable, amazement and wonder colouring their voices.

Distantly I recognise that some leave through one entrance, the line much smaller and the mass moves out another. Leaving the theatre and emptying it.

Slowly my hand reaches out, knuckles brushing across the edge, the touch tender and intimate as if grazing a lover's cheek. Gentle and reverent.

Small steps that I take forward, hand splaying out across the stage floor.

"This is my biggest dream come true. I never thought I'd see the stage up so close, that I'd see my favourite duet performed in front of my eyes and that I'd be here with someone I trust with every bit of me. As a dancer and as me." Jiminie says softly.

Side brushing against mine as he moves close, gaze fixed on the stage too. Drinking in the sight of the low glow that the overhead lights cast on it.

"Want to dance up there?" a voice asks, curling around my nape as lips press a soft peck there.

A hand that rests on the base of my back and when I twist my head, turning my gaze to Hobi, he stares at me with something earnest and sincere and excited in his eyes.

"I can't. I'm not a dancer for the..." I begin, words quietening when I see his eyes flare with giddiness, a grin tugging at his lips. Unsubtle in his excitement.

I'm not a dancer here.

I haven't been since I vanished. I haven't been since the dance seasons ended and there was only so many identities I could return with.

I haven't been here for decades.

And yet it feels like I never even left.

"You're a dancer until the day comes where you decide you don't want to be anymore. But even then...inside that part of you will stay." Hobi says softly.

Tilting his head towards the stage.

"Dance love. You're allowed to." He encourages.

There's a dimpled tender smile on Joon's face when he steps up behind him, nodding enthusiastically.

"It's hard to get stage time. But Hobi's planned this through. You've got the stage to yourself to do whatever...that is until we have to go." He says.

My eyes drift back.

Longing and yearning.

Dance. Dance.

And when I take a step forward, body turning to the stairs to clamber up, Tae's there, dipping his head in a gesture of chivalry as he walks me up.

Nudges me forward.

"I'll cheer you on from the side-lines. Can't miss our swan girl's dance can we?" he says, waving his phone with a smile.

And yet though their presences remain, soothing encouraging balms, they fade slightly; pulsing and hovering on the edge of my awareness as I take steps forward, bending down to slide my shoes off.

The stage is cool to the touch against the tips of my toes and when I step to the centre, the world melts away.

Nothing remains but me.

Time fades. Decades rewinding until it's just me again.

Practicing over and over, body thrumming and burning with adrenaline, sweat cooling on my skin and heat prickling from where the leotard began to cling uncomfortably.

"Cherub come on~ you can't dance yourself out before the big show." Habaek oppa calls, looking tousled and rumpled, waistcoat unbuttoned and shirt untucked. Breeches dirty from where he'd been kneeling behind the stage, drawing the drapes back and securing them.

He still hadn't dusted them off.

Uncaring as he grinned at me.

"One more run through. A final one. Then we'll go." I promise.

Another run-through. And this time I dance for him. Dance for the man in front of me. The person who I'd seen grow into himself, for the man who'd taken a look at my shivering sobbing form all those lifetimes ago and had tugged his sopping jacket, wringed it out and covered my torn clothes with it. I dance for the person who with grief and horrors drowning his own eyes had held his hand out, kneeling down and simply chosen to wind them around me instead, his own hot tears trickling against my skin. Silent in his grief whilst I screamed in mine.

Holding me even if he was hurting too.

I dance, eyes fixed on the sight of the boyish grin and delighted eyes as he watches me spin closer to the edge of the stage, arm spinning out, hand tilting down to brush against his, body bending to cup his cheek in a caress before I'm turning away, soul soaring and heart giddy.

I dance for him and when it's over, when the song fades away but continues to pulse in my veins, I look at him breathless and panting and grin.

Grin even as tears cascade down my cheeks, mingling with the sweat clinging to skin. Grin as he unhesitant as he clambers onto stage to tackle me into a hug, dirtying his clothes and yet pressing himself close, a hand cradling my head even as he sprawls over me, lying on stage together.

"That's my girl. That's (Y/N)." he'd whispered into my hair.

And I'd turned my head from where I tucked it into his shoulder, tears turning into laughter as he peppered kisses across my cheeks, taking the taste of salt with him.

And now as the memory fades away, slips back and recedes, sinking back, the image of Habaek oppa vanishes and instead another face replaces it.

A wide toothy grin and nose scrunch, wide doe eyes sparkling with delight as he scoops me up and twirls me around, gathering me to him as he kisses me. The touch soft and gentle and sweet, finger brushing against my ear, catching at the earring as he cradles my face to his.

"I'm already so in love with you. And yet every time you dance I fall in love all over again." He murmurs between pecks, drawing me back to him over and over.

My hands cradle his face, leaning in for a final kiss, lips unhurried against his own.

"I love you all so much. And yet you do these things...that make me wonder just what I did to deserve you." I breathe, eyes meeting his.

And suddenly the lights above cut, swallowing us whole in the bare glow of the large theatre. Snapping the connection that's between us. A breathless giggle slips out of me, Kookie's hands dropping to hold my waist.

"And that's time up. We've got to get going." Yoongi says. And though it's hard to see his face, I don't miss the curve of his lips as he smiles.

"Where to?" I ask, carefully stepping off the stage and smiling when Namjoon appears, hand held out for me and a quick peck to my cheek when I slide mine into his.

"The exhibition." Hobi answers nonchalantly from ahead where he's leading the rest of us. To the same exit I'd seen only a few of the audience turn to.

Exhibition.

"Look at the back of your ticket darling." Joon whispers.

My hand fumbles for the ticket, turning it and drawing it closer to my eyes to peer at it.

Allows access to private exhibition. 

What exhibition?

But that question's answered when we step through and my eyes fall onto the wide gallery.

Breath catching and stilling in my throat.

An exhibition.

Marking and celebrating the very original Black Swan.

A sudden chill ghosts along my body.

Surely there isn't.

Surely nothing's survived from that time.

Nothing to reveal me.

Nothing to unfold.

Surely not.

My heart clenches, thudding as it begins to quicken, heartbeat a loud damning booming sound that echoes in my ears, free hand curling and uncurling by my side, clammy as I fist it into my skirt.

Surely not.

Please no.

This can't be the way it unfolds. This can't be the way everything comes crashing down.

It can't be like this. It can't be at the moment when it feels like my life dangles precariously, clinging to a frayed thread.

It can't be now that it plummets.

Please no.

--------

Maybe benevolence exists. Maybe there's some force that counters the brutality of the Ocean's control. Something to balance everything I've gone through.

Because the exhibition focuses on written records, old journals and accounts of watching the performance. Because the boys steer me, curiosity alight in their eyes, to exhibits of the music, old, preserved manuscripts and song sheets.

I feel a gaze fix on me, burning and intrigued, when we come across a set of music sheets for the original orchestra. Feel Yoongi's eyes as he steps close, peering intently at the pages, recognition flashing in his eyes.

"Love isn't that the sheets you have too? They're originals?" he questions, amazement and bewilderment in his eyes as he turns, meeting my gaze.

My fingers tremble and I hide the feeling by curling them into a fist.

Drag my lips up into an upwards tilt.

"I did tell you I'd have to pay lots if they got damaged." I say, voice sounding slightly weak.

He straightens.

"You let me casually handle relics? I thought they were copies or at least a slightly less old version." He asks, panic colouring his tone at the thought of indeed spilling coffee on them.

I nod.

Confident in answering this at least.

"I've seen the way you handle everything at the Magic Shop, the papers were more than safe." I insist.

Ducking away before he can ask how it happens to be that I've got an original manuscript, treasured and preserved and protected by me through every era and decade I've lived.

And luckily Tae's there, excited as he tugs me close, matching stride with me as he chats happily about the reel he's just seen. Of Black Swan performed through the ages. Voice coloured with excitement and admiration for the filming quality considering it had already existed long before cameras and videography came about.

He's thrilled as he leads me over to where Kookie's focusing on sketches.

Fingers brushing against glass as he leans forward and peers intently at them.

"The lines and curves of the dancer have been captured so well. She's in the middle of a spin in this isn't she? And yet look...the artist's captured their face really well as well as their body mid-transition." Kookie says. Finger pointing to the arch of her back, tilted back and head facing away, the line of the legs strong and steady.

I remember the sketch. Remember receiving them, carefully kept between clean untouched sheets of parchment. I hadn't seen them for a while but I was sure that Mi-sun unnie and Habaek oppa had kept them, stored them away somewhere. Knew it was alongside the mask I'd worn to perform. To hide my identity.

The black feathered mask that curled across my face and hid me from sight. Even as I danced under spotlight.

Sometimes the best place to hide...was in plain sight.

"No hyung...look! I've seen this somewhere. I'm not seeing things am I?" Joon questions from across, peering at another set of sketches with Jin.

And when they look up, their gazes still. Stilling on me.

Their eyes flash back to the exhibit and to me. Up and down.

Joon's eyes narrow. A careful scrutiny as he looks back and forth. Teeth worrying at his bottom lip. And he silently tugs me over to him.

"I'm not seeing this because I've seen you dance to the song am I? Is it just me who thinks that the dancer looks a whole lot like you?" he asks, pointing to the sketch in front.

My lungs constrict, air crushed out of them as I follow his line of sight.

Despite the mask curling across my face, black feathers that band across my eyes and drape across my cheek, there's something about it that starkly looks like me. Something about it that's raw and vulnerable in the stillness that the sketch captures. I see myself in the wide tilt of my lips and the arch of my throat. I see me in the lines and curves of my body outlined so delicately.

I see me straight away.

So how do I tell them they're seeing wrong?

How do I get out of this?

I shake my head dumbly.

Words stolen from me as I shake my head, a quick fervent shake.

My breathing sounds loud and harsh in my own ears, shuddery rattles as they try to draw in air, lungs constricting and caving, my accelerating pulse felt in every line of my body.

"It can't be! You're just smitten! Anyways...can't it be that (Y/N)'s got a famous ancestor we don't know about?" Jin says, elbowing Namjoon lightly.

I nod weakly.

"Maybe...funny...I never knew either." I manage to rasp out, throat feeling like it's tightening in on me. Suffocating.

But then Jin's smile freezes, an etched expression on his face that falls, melts away and is replaced with confusion and bewilderment.

Rubs his eyes and stoops down, crouching in front of the exhibit as he peers intently at something.

"My eyes are tricking me. There's no way that says original Black Swan Miss (Y/N) does it?" he questions.

My stomach plummets, churning viciously as the ground under my feet rocks unsteadily. A wave of nausea and vertigo slams into me, makes my body tremble; feeling all at once scorching hot even as my skin chills. Numbs.

But his voice is loud enough that it draws Kookie and Jiminie from the other end to crowd behind him, drags Namjoon down into a similar crouch as he peers at it.

I see their eyes trail to me with confusion.

Bit by bit I can feel the air leaving my lungs, can feel that clawing panic rise and body tingling; thrumming nervously.

No. No.

Not like this. Never like this.

I never wanted to be found. Never wanted to have to explain. And the thought of telling them, of verbalising that part of me; that clings like a parasite, that exists to take lives as my own remains immortally suspended in time, the thought of their faces shuttering with horror and disgust and fear has me shrinking back.

Breathing getting heavier even if there's nothing like that on their faces.

I see alarm flash across their faces, see Jin rising, see concern in all their gazes.

See him move forward and unconsciously stagger back.

Arms curling around myself, caging me in as my hands dig into my waist.

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to steel myself for the contempt that'll come, for the inevitable end, for them to flinch away from me. When they touch me and realise how much blood stains every inch of skin, when they touch and realise how many centuries lie under it.

"You won't believe what I just found out! Did you guys know that Habaek is a patron for this theatre? Apparently he has been for years? It's passed on in the family." Hobi exclaims loudly.

The voice comes from behind me, loud and excited and then the other three appear. Walking past me to stop in the middle, awed and surprised; Yoongi nods and Tae waves his phone again.

This time the screen's lit up with a photo confirming the truth.

The final nail driven into my body, hammered in.

A spark of pain that fuels the agony that makes my body burn.

"(Y/N).... (Y/N) this can't be you can it? It's another (Y/N)." Kookie says, voice uncertain and pleading.

Waiting for me to confirm his words.

But what's unspoken remains.

It's another (Y/N), who just happens to look like you right? And Habaek's tie to this is all coincidence.

But I can't get the words out, can't move, can't laugh or wave it off.

I can't get anything past the tightness steadily curling around me and shutting everything else off.

Jiminie's face, soft and vulnerable looks at me.

"It doesn't make sense...it can't be you. You're right here." He says, voice dropping low. A whisper that's heard even over everything else. Over the way my ears begin to ring.

But I am. I really am.

And it seems like the truth in the end finally came out.

I stumble back, flinching away from them.

Away from Jin's tender concern and their wide imploring expressions. Away from the giddiness that's slowly begun to slip off their faces.

This is how it always end.

And I was the fool for thinking I had a chance.

"(Y/N) what...?" Tae begins as he reaches for me.

I step back. And then another.

Clenching my eyes shut because I can't bear to see their expressions shift and falter.

And turn, turn as I take staggering steps away. Moving in a blind panic as I rush out of the exhibition hall, down winding corridors long since deserted and unvisited. Move away, further and further, tears stinging at my eyes, nerves frazzled as I duck down under to get through to one of the abandoned rooms, a hidden nook in the theatre. One I'd called my own a century ago.

The sight of the familiar wooden panelling and scattered knick knacks sends the tears spilling down, hand scrabbling for my phone from my pocket.

I curl into the corner, arms wound around me as my fingers fumble to open my phone, tapping onto the call icon.

Two rings.

Two rings and it's picked up.

"Cherub! How's the date going? Is everything okay?" the ever present concern in his voice has a broken sound slipping out.

It has alarm colouring his words.

"(Y/N)...what's wrong? Where are you?" he demands.

"Habaek...oppa it's all gone wrong. It's all over. They know." 

And it's a truth, a realisation, a conversation I know that centuries more could never prepare me for.

Nothing could.

(AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! IT'S OUT, CAT'S OUT THE BAG! THEY KNOW SHE'S THE ORIGINAL DANCER EVEN IF THINGS AREN'T QUITE ADDING UP AND YOU CAN BET THERE'S GONNA BE A HELLA OF A CONVERSATION NEXT CHAPTER HAPPENING!! GAHHHHHHH! I'M SO TERRIFIED AND EXCITED AND PANICKING FOR BABY SIREN!! WHO KNOWS WHAT COULD HAPPEN?? WHO KNOWS WHAT TWIST WILL HAPPEN NEXT? THEORIES? IDEAS? REACTIONS?? DID I DO HER POV JUSTICE?? THIS FELT LIKE IT NEEDED TO BE JUST HER...JUST HER PERSPECTIVE AND SO!! GOD KNOWS WHAT THE BOYS ARE THINKING!! AND WHAT IT'LL LEAD TO? AND I AM PERMANENTLY SOFT FOR HABAEK!! MUST PROTECT THE SIX FOOT ANGEL!! CAN'T WAIT TO WRITE THE NEXT CHAPTER! I HOPE YOU ENJOYED!! TAKE CARE AND STAY SAFE LOVES!)

QUESTION...guess the reactions of the boys? ONE reaction and who's it'd be!

Mine is... *mumbles* not TELLING but anyone who caught on shhh don't let the secret out. 😉

Borahae! 💜💜💜

PurpleQueenie <3