ph_logs | 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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The first time he looks up at her is after a stretch of silence, checking on what she’s doing and if she’s still looking at him. If she is, he quickly glances away.

He looks down at his hands again, which still, still have the smeared remnants of stage blood. Whatever they put in it is fantastically adept at not drying.

…

…

“I suppose it’s time I changed out of costume now,” he announces abruptly. He stands up, gathers his day clothes from a chair, and disappears into the bathroom.

What she's doing: leafing through discarded programs, not really reading them so much as giving her hands something to do. She glances up at the door, and at him, every few moments; if her glance coincides with his, she doesn't flinch when his own flicks away as though burned.

(Not visibly, anyway.)

She'll wait, for the moment, until he comes back out. Wishing she'd suggested sooner that he wash his hands.

There is the sound of shifting fabric as he changes clothes. A rag, as he wipes himself down. The water runs for some time.

As he's scrubbing, he tries to think. He has to figure out what to do, but to do that, he needs to figure out what she wants from him. She doesn't seem angry, and that's the worst part here. She could be honestly not angry or frustrated or cross with him, but he can't see a good reason why. The likelier thing to him is that she's concealing her confusion and frustration from him. Maybe she doesn't know how to approach expressing herself to someone clearly unstable, or, or she's just repressing in general out of a dedication to decorum, or... or he doesn't know. There is such fright in not knowing. It's dangerous.

So what does he do? Is there something he can say? Apologize again, perhaps, or something like would you perhaps be more comfortable in another room, or is there any way I can help you, or is there anything else you'd like to say to me now, or--no, no, none of these are good. No...

(By the sound of it, either he has been scrubbing down his hands and face for a long while, or he's wiping down more than just that.)

(If he's been scrubbing his hands and face longer than necessary, it would hardly be surprising. She could name the trope -- out loud, if they weren't in a theatre right now.)

Zivia waits, as patiently as she's able, until he emerges.

"Father Mulcahy," she says before he can speak, "I know this whole situation is kind of an emotional wringer, and there's something I can do that might help, for a little while. If it's something you'd want, after I explain how it works."

He’s stopped before he can take his first step to simply sitting back down where he was in silence. She’s using his last name again. And title. He can’t tell if that’s a good thing.

“Ah…” One hand carries clothes, the other fidgets anxiously at his side. “Well, alright… what is it?”

"In that nightmare," she says, "when I was too afraid and angry to think straight, I used it on myself. It's magic, that calms emotions without dulling the mind. I don't like to use it to help without asking first, so ... if you don't like the sound of it, I won't. But if you think it could help you feel better until we get out of here, then I'll give it a shot."

“… I…”

Long moments pass. He stares past her. It’s a swarm of locusts in his head, the way his thoughts fragment and fly about, buzzing and thudding against the skull. He can’t make anything out. It’s impossible to try and weigh risk and reason like this. All he can feel, at the idea of something touching his mind, is panic.

So he isn’t sure where it comes from when he cries, “Yes—alright—do it. Please.”

"All right."

She breathes in, closes one hand around the pendant at her chest, and murmurs "Shiviti v'domamti nafshi," and releases the spell.

The effect touches her as well, and it's like a headache lifting.

It’s more than that for Mulcahy, who has made a method of hiding within himself by locking up his heart so tightly that no thrash or flinch can make it to the surface, where it can be seen and exploited. (Not that he’s very good at it these days. He’s out of practice.)

Those mental chains burst, but the relief is tempered too. All that really happens is that Mulcahy gasps and hunches over, gripping the doorframe for support. Then he straightens. he keel evens.

Smoothing down his robe, he remarks, “My, I could have used that for confessional a few times.”

"Right?" she says, in a tone of agreement, and doesn't ask whether he means for his parishioners or for himself. Either would make sense.

"The effect's not gonna last all night, but it trails off gradually. I'm hoping by the time --"

She breaks off, frowning.

(What's that noise?)

He perks up, and it doesn’t take long to recognize the noise of conflict. It does take a little longer to recognize that it isn’t staged.

“… I think there’s trouble.” Already he’s shoving his costume to the side, somewhere it won’t get in the way. His whole demeanor has shifted. He’s focused in a very true sense, all of him oriented towards the single purpose of someone needs help, and it had taken no time at all.

“I’m going to go look—are you coming?”

"Right with you," she says, already on her feet. "Let's see what we can do."

MARCH SADNESS - A Symphony of Sorrow

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