MARCH SADNESS - A Symphony of Sorrow

[pumpkinhollow]

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 |

Comments

[abhorrently]

"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.

[stoneoftherose]

"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."

[abhorrently]

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."

[stoneoftherose]

"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.'"

[abhorrently]

"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?"

[stoneoftherose]

"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."

[abhorrently]

"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.

[stoneoftherose]

"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."

[abhorrently]

"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."

[stoneoftherose]

"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."

[abhorrently]

"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."

[stoneoftherose]

"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."

[abhorrently]

"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."

[stoneoftherose]

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."

[abhorrently]

What he gets back is a steady gaze, crimson and bright.

"It would hurt me more if you intended to die and hid it from me. If I was robbed of bidding you a true farewell, and instead simply had to find you - or worse, merely being told what had happened - then I would truly suffer. I would grieve either way, but if it was in my hands...you would not feel any pain."

And Fever would mourn, and she would carry his life with her, as she carries so many others. But with her, there would be no chance that things would go awry, that some doctor could bring him back. She would grant him something decisive. Something dignified.

(And yet, Fever knows - she will do her utmost to try and persuade him that life is to be lived. That existence, for all its agony and ugliness, is something so worth clawing towards, fighting for, waking up every day for.

One can detest theirself, lost in a sinking abyss from which no light escapes, clutching the whip one uses to flay their own back. The lash sinks in, over and over, wounds given up on healing, and it never ends, never stops hurting, but.

But. The world is so beautiful.)

"Death is one of the scant few things I'm good at."

[stoneoftherose]

"Is this to be your new tactic then?" he asks, crossing his arms. His fingertips leave rust-red streaks across his shirt that will likely set and stain before they're done here. "To convince that, as I cannot find a way to kill myself that wouldn't hurt you, I might as well live?"

He tilts his head, studying her cat-like and coldly. "You aren't worried that I might come to resent you for ensnaring me so?"

[abhorrently]

Whatever his eyes are looking for, he'll see something else instead - confusion, some tender spot he's found to dig into. Sincerity in its purest shades.

"I'm not trying to ensnare you. I'm only being honest. If I said it wouldn't hurt, that'd be a lie, because I'm selfish and want to keep you around for as long as possible. But what I want matters very little, when it's your life and thus your death. If you truly and steadfastly want the end, it isn't my place to heap shame upon you for it."

She's not so important that someone would keep living for her sake alone. Fever's not so conceited as to ever believe that.

"I would mourn you. But I would help you just the same."

[stoneoftherose]

He looks very carefully indeed for any sign that something might be hiding behind that sincerity -- although what it is he looks for, he doesn't know. Possessiveness? Selfishness? Desire for something he doesn't wish to give? It seems almost laughable in its impossibility. Fever might think herself selfish, but in reality all she done to Pyotr is give and give. He is the only selfish one here.

"Why?" he finally asks, slumping in place as his moment of pique passes away. "Why hurt yourself like that? Why let me hurt you like that? What could I possibly offer you that would make it worth the risk?"

[abhorrently]

"Do you not already know? Or do you truly not understand?"

Is it not abundantly clear? His time, his company, his companionship. Taking her seriously, but refusing to let her push him away. Letting her feel weak in his presence without shame. It is a lower bar than perhaps it should be for her to be willing to kill on someone's behalf, but it is a higher one for that willingness to extend that particular form of mercy.

"It is not what you can offer, but what you've already given. Your friendship, Pyotr. That's all I need for it to be worth it."

[stoneoftherose]

"How can you call yourself selfish when you talk like that? Your compassion for others far outstrips the care you have for yourself, Fever...it makes me worry for you."

Finally he sighs, lowering his gaze. "I can't. I'm sorry, my dear, but I just can't accept your bargain. Maybe when my emotions return, but...I'm sorry, Fever. I just can't see myself ever wanting you to be the one to kill me."

[abhorrently]

Compassion? He doesn't know how easily the word slides off of her, finery that rough and stained hands should never touch. Locked away in her heart - oh kindness, so much kindness that she cannot bear it - and this is how she straddles the line between accepting things she knows she doesn't deserve and denying it to their face. It would only sadden the others, to know. It would never meet with their approval, but she doesn't want to ruin their sentiment.

Reflexively, her hand comes up to the charm she still wears, toying with it instead of sinking her nails into the back of her other hand. Something to occupy herself with instead of thinking too closely at how this too is a form of pain.

(She keeps herself alive. Fed, healthy. She keeps herself clothed, housed, mentally occupied. This is enough care. This is enough to adhere to the promises she made. They said nothing about her keeping herself in check.)

And...he says no. And she has to accept that, as one takes a slap in the face without flinching, without batting an eye. Without letting a strange and bruised disappointment slip into her tone.

"I see. If that's your true wish, then I'll adhere to it."

Gods damn it all. Why couldn't she have said something more intelligent. She really could just strike herself or someone else, throw the whole force of her body into it so that it would leave marks. At least she's keeping her voice measured, hopes she's keeping everything from her expression.

"Can you at least promise you'll say goodbye, if you make the choice to die?"

[stoneoftherose]

It takes him a long moment to respond. To even decide what the truthful answer should be, because he made a promise to Fever not to lie to her...and as much as he's hurting her now, he knows well how deception once unmasked can hurt far more.

Finally he shrugs and says, "I can promise to try. I can promise that I won't leave without at least a word...and I won't try to trick you or go behind your back, like I did to my brother." He idly scratches the side of his neck.

"I know it's not much. I know you deserve more, but...it's the best I can do. I'm sorry." He smiles suddenly. "Of course you must realize that it'd be better if you left now and forgot all about me. I'd rather you didn't, but...it'd be better for you."

[abhorrently]

"Forget about you? Why in the Nine Hells do you think that'd be better?"

Without asking, she's stepped in close, into his personal space to make sure he's looking at her, that he sees everything in her expression. There's hurt, there's stress - but there's a steel resolve and something shaped similarly to anger there as well.

"Because you said no to me? Because one day, regardless of whatever we do, however long we hold it off, that death will part us? No, Pyotr, I refuse that. I refuse to forget."

[stoneoftherose]

He sees. Oh, how he sees, and it occurs to him now that if he wished to do his future self a mercy, he would look away, just as he advised Fever to turn away from him. But he doesn't do it; he looks, and he commits Fever's face to memory.

"I suppose that's the difference between us," he quietly explains. "You choose existence over oblivion, even when it hurts you. Whereas I..." He smiles painfully. "I've been letting oblivion whisper its blandishments in my ear for over ten years. I worry it may be too late to shut it out, even with your best efforts."

[abhorrently]

"We won't know if that's the case unless we try."

Cliche as it sounds, it's true. Maybe they'll fail. Maybe this companionship will end once death is within his grasp for real. Maybe there will be a proper farewell, a funeral and mourning in her near future.

Maybe the seasons will keep turning, and she'll witness lines form in his face as spring comes again and again. Maybe there will be houses where his art is held and treasured, but the occupants treasure their connection to the creator even more. Maybe she'll wear him down enough to get a birthday out of him, and mark it to celebrate.

No matter what kind of creature she is, existence still sings. And if it can call to her of all souls, maybe she can figure out what tune can paint stars across the empty expanse of oblivion, until the night sky hangs overhead.

Mother, let me try.

Gently, so he can reject it if he wants, she reaches to place her hand on his shoulder. An echo of her earlier action, but without the urgency, the demand. Contact for its own sake.