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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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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."

"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?"

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."

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?"

"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."

"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."

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?"

Edited 2025-05-03 09:29 (UTC)

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."

"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."

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."

"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.

Edited (SORRY just realized something about the thread) 2025-05-06 05:11 (UTC)

"That's so." He lays his hand over hers, patting it gently. "It's been a long time since I worried about disappointing another person," he remarks.

Would it really be so terrible to live for her?

***

Of course, by the time morning rolls around the day after Efrain's death, he's not feeling very interested in living at all. Quite the opposite, honestly.

Doesn't mean he escapes being looked in on. There's a knock at the door, but if there's no answer, she's just coming in. Direct, taking up his couch without asking.

"You look wretched."

"I am wretched," Pyotr informs her. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy with lack of sleep, as well as a self-evident hangover. Yet instead of hiding under a pile of blankets or curling up in his bathtub to wait it out, he's sitting slouched over his drafting table, toying with some small object that he finally tosses Fever's way.

"I don't think it's going to come to life," he says quietly of the little glass gecko, about a length of a finger, made from swirls of pink and green glass. "There must have been a second part to the magic that only Efrain could perform."

She catches it on reflex, hand shooting up to grab it before it can reach some unfortunate end. Bringing it to her eyes, she delicately turns it over, mentally tracing the swirls inside.

"The ones before were probably being animated by an offshoot of his power. Which would explain why they were defending him, since you didn't intentionally create them to be bodyguards. Teaching you how to create the vessel is one type of spell, but animating any kind of construct is another field of magic altogether."

Her eyes slide back over to him. If he was passed out in his tub later, she wouldn't be surprised.

"What's this made out of?"

What did he have to tear out to create this?

"Self-pity, along with a bit of hatred for color. As you might imagine, I had a surplus of them both." But the statue is small -- tiny, even. And nothing about Pyotr's manner indicates that he uprooted anymore than that; even his beaten down, miserable, shamefaced appearance is worlds more animated than the nothingness he wore in Efrain's opera house. The emperor really does have new clothes now, and he's fallen to his knees under their weight.

"I didn't intend anything for them at all," he mutters, circling back to her earlier point. "Before the opera house, I used to throw them away in the woods, or toss them over a cliff. Farkhad was the first one I actually wanted to keep." He gestures over to the far corner of the room, where the pieces of the memorial statue lie on the floor in a heap. "I suppose he'll never be finished now."

"Sure you can finish him. It'll just take more time and he won't be leaping to answer a demon's whims."

The answer comes to her, easy and swift - he still has the pieces. He can still make what he wants from them, unless he gives up on it.

"You still remember his face. You can make it."

The look he gives her borders on bitter in its unamusement. "And you won't have any objections to me ripping out so many of my emotions again? I imagine it would take several days at least to make him look properly lifelike."

"Of course I have objections. But if you really want to do it, if it's critical to make it from you rather than filling in the rest with glass, I can't stop you and nor would I try."

He's not her child, not her charge. She knows her own limits, and won't force herself on him like that.

It's not the first time she's taken the wind out of Pyotr's sails with a sudden capitulation, but it is the first time he's been generally miserable enough that his fit of pique switches to that instead.

"I don't understand you!" he suddenly snaps, slapping his open palm down on his desk. "You call yourself my friend, you say you want me to live, and yet every change that's afforded you you refuse to stop me or persuade me otherwise! Why? Have you already given up on me? Or does my friendship simply mean that little to you after all?"

"Hush."

The word comes out from an instinctive place, a tone she's never used with him before. Sharp as a whip laid across flesh, a weight that demands obedience, the ghost of thunderheads across her features, and a look that-

Fever closes her eyes, and breathes. Her hand finds the charm around her throat, holding on, reminding herself where she is. Let it pass. Bring yourself back to a calmer place. He was not the one that cut her open in front of a crowd.

"Pyotr." Her voice is her own again, but her eyes stay shut for a moment. She's steadied herself, enough to merely toy with the necklace instead of holding it like her lifeline. "I haven't given up on you. But if I filled you with my thoughts and wishes, that wouldn't be friendship. If I enforced my will over your own, I wouldn't be your friend, but your puppeteer. I can't tell you what the correct way is to live, or how you should treat yourself - I barely fucking know how to treat myself, and I'm making it up every day. All I can do is be honest with you, even when I disagree with the shit you're doing."

Her eyes open, then, and the look is past. She's still Fever. Still here.

"I'm sorry that you were so deprived of companions that you think the only way you move forward is when you're being dragged by someone's leash."

What can he do but freeze when that voice demands it of him, his words freezing in his throat? He listens to everything she has to say, and finally groans at if pained, sinking back down into his chair.

"I'm sorry," he sighs, pressing his hands over his face. "Of course. Of course it all goes back to my brother. Of course it does. Has it really been that long..." Since he lived for himself? Yes, probably.

His eyes are very red when he looks up again. "If I were to die permanently," he says slowly, "How would you mourn me?"

She turns the question over in her mind for a moment before she answers, and as she does, it is surprisingly easy to think of. Things that she hadn't realized float up to the surface.

"After your body was handled how you wished, I would write your name in a book I have, where the absent and the dead reside. I would take time where I did not work, and did not speak unless I wished it to be so. I would hope Mother Mortanne treated you kindly, when she carried you away, and take an extra moment in Mourner's Night for it. I would weep, and I would let myself be injured and scarred in my soul, wanting the mark to remind me of your presence."

Something to ache in the early mornings, when the mists were chill.

"I would gather the others who knew you, and share our memories, and leave an extra chair at the table. I'd slip my way into your rooms, and choose something to keep - some physical reminder of your presence, something I could hold onto and say, this was Pyotr's, and it would travel with me wherever I went in the world. I would imagine, at times, what you would say to me in a situation, or how you might have reacted. And I would hold a lingering, everlasting regret that no matter how many times I would attempt to sketch your face, it would never be right. By the time I'd have honed my skills enough to do so, I would doubt my own memory enough to always be dissatisfied."

His breath quickens, chest aching in a way it never has before. Til now, it's always been his secret hope that those he cares for would simply forget him, once he was gone. It was an easy story to spin so long as he had the good sense not to discuss it with anyone; perhaps it may even still be true of Maria and Daniil, with their many and glorious plans. But now he has torn the veil from his eyes and asked Fever to speak him plainly, and he can always count on her to be honest. For her, forgetting him would be all of a piece with her grief.

"I could..." he begins to speak slowly. "Of it would help, I could...I could leave you a self-portrait. If that's something you'd want."

"...Yes."

A picture, so that her memory would stay intact. Something so that she wouldn't have to doubt, or find the information missing one day, years and years hence.

"Very much. I'd want to be able to look at it and remind myself." A heartbeat passes, then a second one. "Don't actually know what I'd do if something happened and I forgot it all again. I'd like to not lose more than I have to."

She'd just be back to where she was before - scared and in pain and knowing little but survival and her own name. And angry, so angry, so ready to make someone pay for it.

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cw: suicide ideation

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