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MARCH SADNESS - A Symphony of Sorrow

SYMPHONY OF SORROW

If the Audience Would Please Take Their Seats

You find yourself at the theatre.

You may be asking how you got here, why you are here, when did you arrive. But none of that matters, does it? Nothing matters. Whether you are shocked at yourself for thinking so or whether you have known that nothing matters for years on end does not matter either. Whatever meaning there was to be had in any of this escapes you now. Who you were and what you wanted, what you valued and stood for, it all seems now like such a hazy dream. Out of reach.

There is a ticket in your hand. It tells you where to go. You follow it dutifully. Ticket stubs are exchanged for playbills. A schedule of performances. Whatever. You numbly proceed to where you belong. Performers and stage crew to their places, orchestra to the pit, workers to their positions. All with the knowledge that there can be only pain.

A four-armed conductor in moth-eaten robes raises his baton, and there is music.

You deserve this.

You deserve this.

You deserve this.

Observer’s Overture

First Movement in E Minor

adagio, con dolore
PP

Lights down on the chorus, who sits in the stands. They are playing the role of the audience. Ad lib spoken word between chorus members seated near one another. Soft music begins to swell eerily.

Lights up on the stage. A performance begins, apparently in media res, where the chorus is meant to observe.

vacillante, improvvisato
cresc. P

The performers on stage play out their acts, appearing fearful. The chorus ad libs quiet uncertainty from the stands. Some of them will look down at their playbill and find their own name on the schedule of acts to come. There is a brief description on the page of the act that is scheduled for them. It is clear by the state of the ones already on stage that this isn’t something they have a choice in.

Chorus members attempt to rise from their seats, but cannot. Not yet. Foreshadowing to a later movement. For now, they must endure the overture.

Opera Infernale

Second Movement in Various Keys
( A medley of vignettes, performed in various styles)

chorale concerto a tutti, con affetto

F

Various chorus members rise between songs and make their way to the green room, where they are costumed. They have some time to talk with other incoming acts. They will find themselves and their loved ones being prepared for their acts.

segue

Those who performed before stop in the green room again. They look drained. A fate which awaits the incoming acts.

segue

On the stage, each act is a musical recreation of trauma. A worst fear, a most painful moment, an act of cruelty, a time of hardship. The styles will vary accordingly. If the other players in a given tale are present, they will receive their role without question. If a cast member has no fellow performers from their own world present, an understudy will be chosen to play any other roles from those that they are close to. Everyone is off book. Vocal quality is adjusted to match the conductor’s standards. Staff ensures there are no interruptions. The show must go on.

CODA: Für Nimona
A Coda in A Minor

There is a stranger in the green room, unmoving. Pale glowing eyes peer out from an ungulate-shaped void perched atop a high end suit. Antlers leer overhead. He is waiting for someone. Staff take no notice of him.

Ensemble's Lament

Third Movement in G Minor

bocca chiusa
PPP

There are other places to be besides the stage. Other roles to play.

pesante

Behind the stage, the stage crew toil under Baritone, the stage manager and the Viscount of Suffering. There is a pipe organ built into the man’s chest, and the bell of a horn where his heart ought to be. It shows. He is as cruel as he is miserable. He runs a tight ship.

declamando, letando

There are others in the pit, if they have the musical skill for it. And while this part of the performance is managed by a kinder sort, the Contessa of False Comforts is not so named for no reason.

The opera is long. There are no intermissions. The orchestra plays until their lungs ache and their fingers bleed, while Sonata assures them that it will all be over soon. Surely she cannot be lying. Surely there must be an end…

freddo, pietoso

Just outside the auditorium, there is work for the chorus serving food and drinks, taking ticket stubs for the endless stream of audience members, cleaning messes, or all other manner of soulless work. Perhaps these ensemble members simply did not interest the Conductor. Or it could be that they were made more miserable elsewhere.

Reprise - Observer’s Overture

Fourth Movement in E Major

impetuoso
FF It would seem that once a chorus member’s concerto is complete, they are free to move about the premises. At least until they are scheduled in a supporting role for another soloist. This means a chance to explore--- or escape.

presto repente, bellicoso
cresc.

Those attempting to escape will be met with resistance, however. Guarding the doors are shades, creations of the Conductor who can wear the faces of those held dear by those that look upon them. Escape, more likely, will come from within.

Members of the chorus who attempt to do battle with the Conductor, however, will find themselves up against something far more dangerous. Figures of glass, in all different shapes. Some abstract and solid, some hollow and human-like, and everywhere in between. Perhaps some chorus members will find one to be familiar.

The Hero will need an ensemble of her own to make it through and strike at the Conductor. Perhaps a resistance can be formed in a hidden location near the green room.

Homeward Aria

Fifth and Final Movement in C Major

tiempo di fanfara, vittorioso
F

When a dagger of Aster is driven into the heart of Prince Efrain of Sorrow’s Song, at last, the illusion fades. The members of the chorus relinquish their roles and find themselves on the summit of Crane’s Ridge.

It will be an arduous journey home, but it can be done with the solace that there is one less Demon Prince to trouble Pumpkin Hollow. Music in a joyful major key swells, then decrescendos.

enfatico, mancando poco a poco

| CONTENT WARNINGS: altered states of consciousness, entrapment, grief, depression, mood control, loss of bodily autonomy |

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"It made me useless, anyway," Pyotr admits easily. But he didn't pull out all of his emotions, just his fury and grief and horror at what he'd done. As he studies Fever's face, real concern blooms in his heart and he gently lays a hand over hers.

"It's not permanent, Fever. Time is hard to judge in this place, but on Marrow Island the effect only lasted for a day at most. I'll be back to normal soon enough." And then he'll have to begin all over again. It's just as well; the pauses give Farkhad's memorial time to settle into its new materials.

"Would you like to see for yourself? I can do it to other people as well."

"No."

She wants to dash the basin to the ground, rip the cloth away from the figure, break it apart. He's been doing this on the isle? For how long - had her grief around Angel blinded her to his changes? Had she been so wrapped up in her own matters she had been neglecting others? Gods, and she'd thought she'd been doing well enough in taking care of them so that they wouldn't slip out of her hands again.

"No, this is mine - I fought too hard to feel it. How long have you been doing this? Extracting this from yourself?"

And why, why would Efrain give him this?

"Since Merrymeet." His words are quiet and blunt; he knows better than to lie to her, and in his current state he has no motivation to do so. "I made sculptures from the extracts and then hid them in out of the way locations around the island. I hoped no one would find them; my first attempts were quite ugly, and I suspected you'd be less than pleased."

He tries to gently draw her away from the dressing room table and its burden of emotions, to sit with him on the small and uncomfortable couch near the door. "I know that it's a weakness in me, to choose numbness over facing my emotions. But like this I can work, I can speak to others, I can even bear up under the truth of what I've done. Isn't that an improvement?"

She lets herself be led, but the scowl engraved on her features isn't budging.

"An improvement for whom, Pyotr?"

Answer that. Look her in her eyes and try to convince her it's a better option for them all.

"From where I sit, it's as much an improvement in your circumstances as me slitting your throat would be."

"For me, obviously. I'm better like this -- although clearly not perfect, if I'm struggling this much to explain it to you."

As for the death threat, he only sighs. "I don't see what good turning me into a ghost would do. I wouldn't even be conscious, then. You'd have to wait to continue this conversation."

"It wouldn't be good for you. It would be good for me."

She won't try and scare him. Instead, the look on her face grows distant, pensive, a little dreamy. Recalling something beautiful, a true vision in her life, something that for all the growth and removal in her still aches in phantom pains. It would still be everything. It always will be.

"It would bring me bliss the type of which few people are privileged to know. Finally, finally being satiated after so very long. I know it still, I feel its ghost in my mind. I recall its sweet scent, the way everything just makes sense in its embrace." One short exhale. "I would be able to endure this trial and refuse to give our host what he wants. But it's not to be. I refuse, even knowing all this."

Edited 2025-04-07 19:56 (UTC)

He cannot feel sadness as he is now, a fact that in this moment seems almost...regrettable. He can't answer Fever's need with feelings of his own, not in the way she deserves. He hangs his head for a moment in silence.

"If you did choose to hurt me, I wouldn't stop you," he reminds her quietly. "But you know your own needs best. You're welcome to stay here while I work." He groans, pushing himself to his feet. "But if you don't mind, I should get back to it. I only have so much time before the substance starts to harden."

"What are you using it for?"

She's still infuriated with Pyotr, and will be until she has something to kill or Efrain is ripped to shreds. But what has been so worth restraining himself for? What's the product of muting himself so? What has been missed, enough to force quicksilver from his flesh?

"It's a memorial." He beckons Fever closer, his own eyes brightening again with a feverish intensity. "Come see, Farkhad lives again in the beating of my heart. He would find this a more fitting tribute than the stone cenotaph Andrey and I erected for him in Town-on-Gorkhon, I'm certain of it."

The Farkhad-sculpture hasn't yet come to life. It hangs in pieces from its armature, here part of a frowning face, there the arc of a shoulder, here the entwined tangle of hair. Pyotr uncovers the bowl of quicksilver and begins to work it like clay, the substance growing firmer and turning from liquid into something that can hold its own shape in his hands.

Her fingertips twitch as she draws nearer - there's an urge in her to touch, to reach out and wonder what shaped grief would feel like under her fingertips, to wonder what the mix of pain and devotion would weigh. The Farkhad-sculpture is fragments, will be the patchwork of uncounted time, days and days layered upon it. Something to remember by.

And what will he feel, when he finishes his tribute and beholds it, shining with all of his agony for his companion? This thing that if he keeps it, will render him unable to forget (the man/his words/his fate).

(Names on a list. A song hummed in winter.)

Is it worth all of this, though?

Did you bury him with your own hands?

Fever watches him work, silent - beholding.

For a time, Pyotr seems near to forgetting Fever is there. As he works the quicksilver in his hands, it begins to turn acquire both color and translucency, turning a deep shade of red shot with gold. He begins by applying this substance like putty to the edge of one of the extant pieces of glass, slowly building it outward to the next wire.

"It feels like a viscous liquid when it's coming out of me," he quietly begins to speak. "Somewhat thicker than blood, not so thick as semen. After I've handled it for a few minutes, it takes on a consistency more like clay. If I leave it alone it quickly hardens -- but also turns brittle, like glass. I'm not sure what the colors signify...maybe I'm subconsciously controlling them as I pull the emotion out? At any rate I haven't had any trouble securing red materials for this project."

"Maybe the colors respond to what you need based on how you handle it. If you exposed it to different temperatures, it could change - or if you did something like run lightning through it."

Like she has with glass, to make it fuse together for her little experiments. When one overcomes the distaste that rises to think that he's fiddling with his very emotions like this, it's actually fascinating.

"That would make an interesting experiment," he acknowledges. "Perhaps, once I've finished the memorial...although, as a final touch...hm. No, I shouldn't get distracted. Erect the skeleton first, then we can talk about the flesh."

There's not an ounce of hesitation in his hands as he sculpts the curve of Farkhad's shoulder. He knew this man, for all that it's been ten years he can still see him with perfect clarity in his mind's eye.

"...What did you think of him?" he quietly asks, still focused on his work. "Farkhad, that is."

The ghost that sits in the room with them, his physical body lacking enough pieces to possess but enough to start giving form to his shadow. Does she need to say aloud that he must have been dear, dear, if all of this is the result?

"I thought he was a man of great potential. A visionary that matched you."

A pause. What hurts more, his death or hers? Whose blood clings more to your hands today?

"He made you stand up straighter."

"It'd been so long since I'd met someone who tried to understand my vision, not because they wished to gain from it, because they appreciated its beauty. The Kains gathered visionaries because they dreamed of living forever, of extending their reach over the earth and gathering the stars into the palm of their hand. We didn't mind using their resources for our work, but when Farkhad and I shared our thoughts with each other...we inspired each other. Not as a muse does, but as a fellow craftsmen. When we clasped hands, our calluses perfectly interlocked."

A poetic phrasing -- Pyotr's hands are soft, with only a few small calluses where he holds his paintbrush.

"Andrey was fiercely jealous of him," he adds with subdued amusement. "He couldn't stand to see me grow so close to one of our 'business rivals.'"

"Did he want his voice to be the only one in your ears? What foolishness on his part."

How she still longs to sink her nails into that one's flesh.

"It is a rare thing to find someone who you resonate like that with. To meet with you on your equal level and be willing to see through your eyes, instead of going and placing theirs in your skull." A beat. "What would he think now, to know you live a world away?"

"It would be more accurate to say he wanted me to wholly dedicate myself to being the voice whispering in his ears alone," he corrects her quietly. "Andrey dropped out of medical school to be my protector, but as our fame grew...he started to see himself as an extension of me. The hands I use to execute my will on the world...I never asked him for that."

It used to make him so angry. Furious and terrified, knowing that he did need Andrey for that, knowing that it was necessary and also a complete fiction, a story Andrey had made up to stroke his own ego. Knowing that someday, sometime, if neither of them managed to die first, Andrey would eventually get sick of him and leave. It was inevitable.

They were, after all, two very different people.

"Farkhad? I suppose he'd want to say he told me so, or wonder why I got a second life and he did not. Unless he's out there somewhere too...I hope he's still building, wherever he is."

"He might be. There's no evidence that says he isn't. That he got a different deal and chose not to return to your world afterwards."

There is too much unknown to say Farkhad only resides in the earth, dead and lifeless, soul gone from his one chance at existence.

"He might be somewhere that he's building to his heart's content."

Maybe it's a child's story of hope, but after all they have seen, all they have experienced? After all she's encountered? Dismissing the possibility entirely is for someone that wants to hurt him. And she has said, again and again, she doesn't want to.

"And your brother will have to reconsider himself in your absence. Either he learns to live as his own man, or he doesn't."

Does Fever particularly care to know the fate of Andrey Stamatin? She does not. His suffering will all be self imposed, the results of crafting himself into a parasitic existence, from all she can tell.

"I can hardly blame him for that. I don't want to return to that world either."

Perhaps that's why, having already strayed so close to it in his own thoughts, he flinches in spite of his numbed state, when Fever brings up his brother once again. "Ah," he says quietly. "That's going to hurt later. I've been working so hard to convince myself that he'll be happier without me...I really am an idiot."

"You're not an idiot, Pyotr. You just forgot to look in the mirror and see your own face."

If she could take him, shed blood and paint it over his eyes, grant him borrowed clarity and let him see what she sees. If the visionary could but turn the gaze inwards. But that isn't part of their being, is it?

"You've been reading the text backwards. You're the one that'll be happier without him."

"Do you think so? I'm not sure I remember how."

He considers that further as he continues to work, now bringing out the particular features specific to Farkhad's face. He was from the west and south, one of the little countries that sprang from the broken hearts of the Ottomans. He had a narrow jaw, a strong, hooked nose, and deeply hooded eyes. They used to sparkle, when Pyotr looked into them...he wonders how he might recapture that.

"I think you overestimate my strength. My brother became my hands and voice because I had no strength with which to defend my own unorthodox ideas. He had noble intentions in the beginning...and I was grateful to him." He sighs. "If I learn to be happy in this world, it will be because I've given up on ever creating anything truly unique ever again. I'll be a simple eccentric artist, like any other."

"I think you underestimate yourself. Strength can be gained, if it is not innate."

A different world, one that plays by different rules. She knows her words will scourge him like the end of a whip later - he's already been flayed open by the stage, and she's taking advantage to cut a little more. Cruel, yes, but she did tell him, this is the sort of person she is. Forming a guess at the situation from shadows, because to have the full situation in her hands to judge is an unfamiliar circumstance. There are always gaps, always shadows, temporary solutions that one reaches for. Always having to take a chance on the outcome.

She's always been making it up as she goes along, after all.

"It'll be spring when we get back. The season of new life, where everything grows. Everything getting stronger. Waking up after such a long time asleep."

"And you think there's enough left in me to rekindle." He smiles in blunted amusement at the thought. "And I suppose even if I were to try leaving myself to rot, you and Erik would insist on dragging me out into the sunlight regardless. My lot is life whether I want it or not."

Under ordinary circumstances, that thought might make him depressed or annoyed or possible even furious, depending on how desperate he was to escape himself at that exact moment. But right now...it makes him feel sort of wistful instead.

"I suppose it will be interesting to see whether your efforts make a difference or not."

"My friend, we are the living dead. I should know, with how much of me is muck and mire inside. Fetid and foul - and yet, rot makes for some of the best seedbeds, so the gardeners say."

(A ghost, a wisp of Understanding that passes out of mortal knowledge and hides in the amber of blood long since dissipated through the body. And a genuine core, tender as new green shoots, slowly breaking through soil imbued with bone ash.)

"Tell you what. If you still despise existence when death turns again as it should, we can plan your demise. I'll execute you personally, preside over your funeral, bury you with my own hands. But if you have gotten in the habit of living by then...then whatever we plan will be up to you."

Edited 2025-04-27 00:16 (UTC)

With the normal thick shroud of despair, the emotion of shock is as an electrifying experience as its name would imply. He actually jolts, turning to stare at Fever with wide eyes.

"Would it not hurt you, to end me in that manner?" he demands of her. "I don't want you to suffer in my place, Fever."

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