Surrender to It
Arthur Hall rose to his feet—not out of obligation, but out of sheer awe. The figure standing under the spotlight on stage was unrecognizable. Renly Hall, his younger brother, was a stranger. Not because of the makeup, nor the costume, but because of the energy burning in his eyes—a force so raw, so unyielding, it was almost frightening.
Arthur had never watched Renly perform before. He had no interest in the films, no curiosity about Hollywood. But now, witnessing it firsthand, he felt the searing intensity Renly carried within him. The same passion that had driven Renly to leave home, to forge his own path across the Atlantic, to sever himself from the aristocratic mold that dictated their lives. Arthur had never understood it before. But in this moment, he did.
He recalled Edith's words: "I envy Renly. I admire him. Because I will never be him. He has something we've all lost."
When Renly surged across the stage, embodying Valjean's desperate flight with such reckless abandon that it seemed he might shatter himself against the floorboards, Arthur had felt his heart seize—a sensation foreign to the carefully cultivated numbness of high society. But then, as if pulled back by an invisible thread, Renly caught himself, channeling that raw energy into perfect control. The sheer mastery of it sent a shiver through Arthur's spine.
Without realizing it, Arthur was clapping—loudly, fervently. He couldn't remember the last time he had been so moved in a London theatre. Compared to this, every past performance seemed muted, insignificant.
Even as the applause continued to swell, years of aristocratic training tempered his actions. He turned his head toward the neighboring box, where the Dunlop and Dormer families sat. In the dim light, Eaton's silhouette was blurred, but Matthew was clearly visible at the front.
Matthew stood rigid, clapping with purpose. His eyes gleamed with an emotion Arthur recognized instantly—pride, admiration, and something else: longing. Arthur felt it too.
Then, his gaze shifted to the person beside him—Elf Hall.
Elf had risen to her feet, her demeanor impeccable: poised, refined, and eerily composed. But Arthur had known her all his life. Beneath that carefully curated exterior, he sensed the turmoil churning within her—the astonishment, the disquiet, the unwilling recognition of something undeniable.
Yet she played her role to perfection. Her applause was measured, her expression detached. No enthusiasm, no visible admiration. Just the cool elegance of an aristocrat upholding the dignity of the Hall name.
Arthur felt a pang of something—bitterness, sadness.
He knew that all eyes in the theatre were on them. To show too much admiration, to be swept up in the feverish applause, would be to admit defeat. It would be an acknowledgment that Renly had won. And after tonight, the Hall family would become a whispered joke among their peers.
Elf had no choice. Her performance, in its own way, was just as flawless as Renly's.
Arthur turned back to the stage. The light was dimming, Renly's figure fading into the shadows. And for the first time, Arthur wished—truly wished—that George and Elizabeth Hall had been here to see this.
In the neighboring box, Henry Dunlop nudged his brother. "Jesus Christ, has Renly always been this talented?"
Matthew turned, meeting Henry's wide-eyed gaze.
Among London's aristocracy, the Hall family's stance had been consistent: Renly had thrown away his privilege to chase frivolity in Hollywood. No talent, no real ability—just another pretty face in an industry built on illusion.
For the nobility, films were a passing amusement, not a subject of serious discussion. Despite Renly's numerous roles and accolades, most of them had never actually watched him perform.
Matthew's lips curved into the faintest smile before he replied, his voice unwavering, "He's a genius."
Henry exhaled, shaking his head in disbelief. "I believe it." And then, with newfound conviction, he redoubled his applause.
Tonight, the Almeida Theatre had become the epicenter of London's high society. Andre, Matthew, and Eaton had ensured that more than two-thirds of the city's aristocratic families had received invitations. Some had come out of social obligation. Others had come to witness a spectacle, to revel in the Hall family's supposed disgrace. But whatever their reasons, they had all found themselves caught in the same tidal wave of awe.
For the youngest son of the Hall family had taken the stage—and shaken the very foundations of the West End.
The applause showed no sign of stopping. Even though Renly had left the stage, the ovation roared on. One minute. Two minutes. Three.
It was only the end of the first act, and yet, they had already surrendered.
Backstage, Renly stepped off the stage to find the cast and crew waiting. Applauding. Smiling. Their eyes shimmering with an exhilaration that mirrored the audience's.
The energy was infectious.
Renly took it in, savoring it. He had thrown everything into that performance, poured every fiber of his being into Jean Valjean's journey. It had been years since he had felt such unrestrained creative freedom—even Detachment had not pushed him this far. Tonight, he had touched his own limits, felt the sharp edge of something transcendental.
He loved this. He lived for this. This was his purpose.
A crew member, still grinning, nudged him. "You should see the theatre right now."
Renly raised an eyebrow.
"The applause," they said, eyes alight with wonder. "It just won't stop."
Renly chuckled, shaking his head as he moved toward the dressing room. There was still another act to prepare for, another transformation to undertake. The play was far from over.
But out there, beyond the curtain, beyond the stage—
The world was surrendering to it.