74-Kit
The crowd erupts.
Screams, sobs, chants of Judas, Somnium, and thousands of stomps shake the floor. Slowly, the cheering dies out.
A massive screen begins to descend from the rafters. The crowd quiets further, a hush rippling outward like a single breath held by twenty thousand people. I step just off stage, heart pounding down to my fingertips.
The screen flickers, and dot by dot, the arena illuminates with viridian, turning the seats into a patterned assemblage. Thousands of wristbands blink in perfect sync, casting the entire arena in an emerald haze.
Faces, hundreds of them, fans from all over, fill the giant display. Their voices overlap, declarations of love layered like a choir.
I inhale deeply; the air laced with anticipation.
This is the part I saw earlier in rehearsal, where my masked face appears, my voice distorted as I narrate the opening of the documentary by describing the meaning behind Somnium’s name.
I brace myself, but instead of Judas, the screen flashes with hundreds of tiny squares. Fans holding up pieces of paper, each one handwritten:
YOU SAVED ME.
One after another, they fill the screen until the squares merge into a mosaic, forming our symbol.
The crowd cheers.
I turn from the screen, overwhelmed, only to have the same message reflected back at me from the stands. Thousands of people holding up matching signs, illuminated by their wristbands.
The glare of the stage lights mixes with the sting of tears I can’t blink away. My breath catches, suspended in the green glow.
A piano begins as the instrumental version of one of the first songs we ever recorded plays. The notes echo through the arena, warm and aching, vibrating through the soles of my boots.
“I am a meagre drop in the sea of people who have been irrevocably connected through your music,” a voice says, ringing through the speakers.
Although it’s distorted, I know that cadence. The accent.
Zach. Her voice hits me harder than any spotlight ever could.
“You once said that you don't believe you have the capacity to save anyone, yet here I am, living another day because of you.
“I do not say that to make you presume that I am only alive because of you.
I mean it in the sense that in a moment when I was not strong enough to get myself up on my own, your music was a metaphorical hand to lift me to my feet.
I say this as a means to remind you that the ability to determine the power—the capacity you have over people is not within your control.
Despite how it is perceived, power is not something you gain. It is given.
“Selflessly. Foolishly. Blindly. Carefully. Hastily. Passionately. Devotedly. Passively.
“The thing about power is this: it is only as real as people believe it to be. The only power of gods, of religion, of holy figures, is the power each person chooses to give it. Right now, you hold power, a lot of power, and I can imagine that scares you.”
A lump forms in my throat, thick and immovable.
“Are you deserving? If so, how do you continue to be? Do you even want it? I cannot answer any of your questions, only pose another one, the only one I think matters in the end.
“What are you going to do with it?
“I understand your hesitation to assume such a role as saviour; but regardless of whether you acknowledge or wield it consciously, the power remains.
“Such power can be found in the smallest, the most mundane, the righteous, most arrogant, but more often this power hides in the broken; those who do not see themselves worthy of it.
“It does not come from the music, nor the mask, and not even from the suffering.
The power comes from the ability, the strength, the will to fight for the want, to want, to live.
We share our suffering, yes, but more so, we share our strength.
And it is that strength that has led you here, right now, in this life.
“So, I suppose this is a request for you to take a moment, close your eyes, and feel. Feel every person, every soul, every moment that your words, your story, your life, has given strength to. The strength to find the want, to want, to live.
“Because, at the end of it all, I think the point of life is really that simple: to live.
“You saved me. In a moment. In a lyric. In a melody. In your vulnerability. So, from one of millions, forever, thank you.”
It goes silent. Utterly still. Listening to her request, I close my eyes and feel. For the first time, I don’t resist what rises to meet me.
Love and grief. The crowd’s gratitude for connection.
The last note of the piano fades into silence, dissolving into the rafters like smoke. I stare out at the sea of faces, glowing green, holding signs, crying, and cheering. Thousands of people, all with a story that somehow intersects mine.
I’ve become the very thing that brought me here.
Not a god. Not the myth I painted onto my skin. But a vessel of connection; a thread in a tapestry of millions. The power isn’t mine or Endymion’s. It never was. It’s theirs.
Given and shared freely through the music.
A whisper brushes my mind, soft as feathers, “You have walked every shadow I laid before you, and still you rise. Enlightenment was never mine to give. It has always belonged to you. Now, go on and live, Christopher. You finally know how to.”
A steady breath fills my lungs, the first in a decade that feels wholly mine.