A PlaybillView OnlineNotes in Service of a Love StoryA PlaybillNotes in Service of a Love Story Cast: The Angel: A yellow mare, pink of mane, pegasine. the sinner: A mortal mare.
Act 1 - PurgatorioView OnlineNotes in Service of a Love StoryAct 1 - PurgatorioIn some sense, the stage itself is another character in a play. It defines the borders of unreality with which the audience can flirt. The castle walls upon which disbelief breaks. Like all other characters, it needs an appropriate costume. In The Angel’s paradise, all is white, faultless. Paradise is, and should be, overwhelming. Paradise should not be comfortable, that is the realm of the pedestrian. A being of paradise, who embodies the perfection as she does, coat to stun in sunbeam yellow and hair to enchant in the sweetest pastel pink, should not be comfortable to behold. The Angel should stun, her beauty tantamount to something actively appalling, something overwhelming. Contrary to this, the audience now beholds purgatory, an endless expanse of dull grey stretching beyond the limits of imagination. It too is overwhelming, but only in how it underwhelms. It is not like the paradise of absence we saw before, it is rather perfection of absence. Absolute absence, and its inhabitant should impress upon the audience the same feelings. Enter the sinner, stage left. She is a simple mare. Her coat and mane are dull, earth tones. The audience would forget her, were she not the only pony on the stage. When she looks out to them, broaching that wall of disbelief, the audience are not struck as they were by The Angel. On the contrary, they fidget, they look at their hooves, at each other. They look at anything other than the sinner, because she is simple and nervous, she has none of the impossible power of poise or grace or kindness, sheer station that The Angel does. The crowd look anywhere other than that stage. But their suspense is not cruelly drawn out, because very soon they are drawn back to the grey expanse. Enter The Angel, drop from above. She hits the ground and radiates like the sun itself, and it is all the sinner and the audience can do but to not come apart at the seams. “Hello,” she says simply, and the audience note how her tone has gone from archaic and cosmic to simple and personable, with a reservation wholly irreconcilable with her sheer sense of presence. the sinner cowers, huddling and shivering, hiding from whatever residual light that paradise has left in The Angel. “Are you afraid?” she continues, and the audience are drawn in again by her voice, by the warmth it makes them feel. She treads lightly towards centre stage, closing the distance between her and the sinner. Both The Angel and the audience need no answer to the question, it was not a question for which an answer was desired. Instead, by the tone of her voice the audience can see that The Angel aimed to reassure by making the entire concept of fear seem ridiculous. What being as she, with beautiful coat and delicate hoofsteps, immaculate wings and kind smile, could be feared? “Are you asking me whether I fear you?” the sinner replies, shakily, “Or whether I fear where I am? What I know must have gotten me here? I think only a fool wouldn’t fear such things.” the sinner manages to clamber to her hooves, uncertainly, and wrenches her gaze from The Angel. She takes her first steps, her first proper ones since entering the stage. It puts the audience in mind of a baby deer fresh from the womb. “I know I must be dead. I don’t know how I know, but it might be one of the only things I really do know. Everything else seems lost to me. I don’t remember how I died, I don’t remember my name.” “That’s how everyone comes through this place,” The Angel replies, “In many ways, it’s like a second birth. We all come blind, blank, coat dulled and memories scoured. The only certainty, as you say, is the knowledge of what brought us here.” “Except you.” the sinner states flatly, and some in the audience gasp. There is something obscene about disagreeing with The Angel, it feels like an aberration. For her part, The Angel simply tilts her head and smiles. “And why do you think I never felt this way too? I am here also, am I not?” the sinner doesn’t answer. Rather, she walks off, towards the audience. She reaches the edge, the stage’s very precipice, but it is unlike The Angel. The audience could see in The Angel’s eyes that she knew what was out there, that only a boundary as tangible as dreams, weaker than cobwebs, separated her from the world of mortals. But the sinner seems to see nothing at all, her eyes tell the audience that, to her, the expanse is nothing more than more grey. They will her forward, knowing that if she could just step further and breach the wall, she’d be back in the mortal world and be released from her fear. Maybe then they’d see how wonderful, or indeed how vile, she may have been in life. There is a near imperceptible twitch of her eyes, a hitch in her breath, it is a performance that could rival that of The Angel, yet the suspense precludes any notion of applause. For a second, the audience believe she may do it, but the moment is quickly lost when The Angel appears behind, touching a hoof to the sinner’s cheek. “All the world’s a stage,” She says, and her smile could scarcely be sadder. “What happens to all the ponies who aren’t as lucky as I am? Who don’t get an Angel to greet them?” the sinner asks, her voice trembling. “And what makes you think that everyone doesn’t get an Angel?” The Angel asks, ignoring the question the audience wants answered, denying them the quick satisfaction of laying bare how the sinner knew that she was an Angel. But to many, the answer is already clear. Because they were never told either. “I don’t, but something tells me that is the case. Maybe it is how beautiful you are. It doesn’t feel like there’s enough beauty in this world to create enough Angels to shepherd every dying soul, God’s know there wasn’t nearly enough in my world.” “You’re right, that not everyone is greeted by one such as me.” The Angel replies, before turning heel and walking into the grey, and once again leaving both the sinner’s and the audience’s unspoken questions unanswered. “Where are you going?” the sinner calls after her. “Where are we going,” The Angel calls back, “Our journey will be long. Now is as good a time as any to begin in.” And the sinner simply falls into step, because why wouldn’t she? “Is there something other than Angel that I can call you?” The Angel turns to her, and regards her for a second. If she sees what the audience sees, then she likely sees the mare desperate for something linking her to the life she can’t remember anymore. Paradise lost, never known to be as such until its absence, perfect absence, has left her cold and frightened and so very, very grey. But then, maybe the audience sees something more than the audience could ever hope. Maybe she doesn’t see anything because the tribulations of one single mortal mare are nothing to one such as her. But then, were that the case, why would she be leading a sinner through the wasteland of nothing at all? Maybe the motivations of Angels are too great for their grasp, and attempts for the stage to contain them are like knitting with fog. All the world’s a stage, that much is true. The question, of course, is which world the assertion refers to? The Angel waits just long enough to reply to leave the audience humbled by these questions, and just before they disappear from view, she can be heard to reply. “You can call me Fluttershy.” Exit The Angel and the sinner, stage left. The house lights remain on for a time, past the point at which the audience would comfortably expect them to drop. The moment drags, but none dare make a sound in case the scene is over. They instead stare into grey, wondering how many further souls roam the expanse. But, with no further the dialogue, the theatre is soon plunged into darkness once more.
Act 2 - In Want of the SunView OnlineNotes in Service of a Love StoryAct 2 - In Want of the SunEnter The Angel and the sinner, unknown where from, unknown when, house lights remain dimmed. “How is it that you know where we are heading, Fluttershy? I could spin in place, walk off in a totally new direction, and yet everything would still look the same.” “Then why do you follow me?” “Where else am I to go? I am so small, so dim compared to your light. Only a fool wouldn’t follow you.” “Who were you? On the other side of death, I mean?” “You know I don’t remember.” “I know that you say you don’t remember. Yet you talk about the other world as if you recall it clearly. How it had so much more colour than this one, how it was warmer, how-” “How there was nothing like you in it?” “And you mean to tell me you don’t remember?” “I remember… flashes. I remember that I was never much good, I lived my life in the background. I was content to drift, I don’t think I shall be remembered. I think that’s why I’m here, honestly, and not where you come from. Is a life bereft of both virtue and evil not simply a life of evil? I never think I used to think such things, but clearly someone greater than I thinks this.” “And this is why you asked me if other souls are guided by Angels. You don’t feel worthy of this?” “I’m not worthy of this.” “And you don’t think that Angels would be able to judge who’s worthy?” “I’m saying that maybe Angels can be wrong.” “Oh yes, Angels can very much be wrong.” Dialogue recedes for a time, reflecting the passing of time, house lights remain dimmed. “I knew I’d miss the sun, but I was wrong about why. Though it is always light, without the sun I cannot track the time. Truly, I don’t know how long we’ve been scouring the waste, caught in this endless journey of ours. Do you know? Surely you must. Will you tell me, Fluttershy?” “And how would I tell you? There are not days here, nor hours, nor minutes.” “My only touchstone here is you, how can other souls make it through without Angels? How could anyone scour this waste as we have?” “They all find their way.” “But you’re still yet to tell me why you’re here with me? What could I have done, life as dull and inconsequential as mine, to deserve such shepherding by one as beautiful as you?” “I don’t think I’d call myself beautiful.” “But you are, the point can’t be argued. You are poised, you are sleek and slender. Your wings are faultless, not a feather out of place. It mirrors your coat, perfection given form, every hair in alignment in a field of spun gold. You are as close to the sun as I could hope for here, something high and untouchable, perfect and bright.” Fluttershy doesn’t respond, but her humming, her stopping and starting tell the audience that this is no new thematic device to show time. Rather the sinner seems to have genuinely stumped The Angel. “I can’t pretend to know the minds of Angels, but the fact remains you have shown me kindness in a world that seems to be defined by being bereft of it. Can you not just tell me why? And if it turns out that my mind cannot comprehend then I will accept, and put the matter to rest.” “Can you not tell me that you did one thing good, in your whole life?” “I told you already, I never did anything worth commending.” “And I’m telling you that I don’t believe you. I’m telling you that I know you would have loved and laughed and been kind to others. You may be a sinner, but sinners are still worthy of kindness.” “But… but why me?” “...come on, we still have further to go.” Another silence, another gap for the audience to meditate, another stretch of time denoted, maybe days or hours or maybe a whole eternity. “Are there other Angels, Fluttershy? In all the time we have roamed, I don’t think I’ve ever seen one.” “There are others.” “You sound almost bitter. The tone seems strange, ill-fitted for one such as you.” “There are others, I just don’t think there’ll be others here.” “How many of us get guided by Angels, Fluttershy?” “Not nearly enough, but I will keep doing this until my last.” “Your last? I didn’t think Angels could ever leave this place, where would they even leave to? You’ve already been here forever, after all.” “Back when we first met, you said I had never experienced what you had, and I asked back why you thought that. Because am I not also here, am I not a pony like you.” “You are nothing like me. Only a fool would call you and I the same.” “I have not always been here. I used to dance on the brighter side of life, on the brighter side of death. I don’t remember much of it, only fleeting memories, flashes, scarce images. I remember that I knew ponies that I loved more than anything, so much more than myself. I don’t know what I would find if I ever left this place, but maybe it would be better. Purgatory is dull, and lifeless. I’m afraid that paradise, without love for those I share it with, is much the same affair.” “But… but the fact remains, surely you can’t ever leave this place? You are eternal, everlasting, I feel myself grow weary, but you have not faltered once in all the time we have roamed, surely nothing could-” The audience hears someone fall, and splutter. The sound of their coughs is rough and guttural, there is a wetness that suggests blood. And soon, as the coughs continue, the audience starts to discern the sinner’s panicked wails. It becomes clear to them that The Angel is the one making these sounds, and soon a cold feeling descends upon the theatre as they are left to steep in the question. What could bring a being like that so low? Soon the sounds recede, and The Angel can be heard to shakily clamber back to her hooves. “Come… there’s not much longer now.” The two can be heard to walk gently off stage.
Act 3 - I Can’t Give Everything AwayView OnlineNotes in Service of a Love StoryAct 3 - I Can’t Give Everything AwayEnter The Angel and the sinner, stage left. The audience finally sees an end to the grey expanse. Over to stage left, there is an enormous forest of pale trees. They’re like a wall, a great expanse that simply starts where previously there was nothing but grey wastes. They glow, soft blue lights that seem to never penetrate the desert in which The Angel and the sinner stand. “Is there where we are heading next?” the sinner asks, and the trepidation in her voice is clear for all to hear. “No, this is where you are heading next. I’m afraid our journey is at an end.” The Angel replies. She is still beautiful, still looks perfect, but the audience can tell by the slight rasp of her breath and hunch of her shoulders that something isn’t right. “I… I don’t think I want to go,” the sinner replies, and her voice nearly cracks. “I know you are afraid to move on, little one,” The Angel replies serenely, “But this is a better place. You can rest here.” “No, no I don’t fear leaving this place.” the sinner says. “Then what?” asks The Angel, and her eyelid twitches in what looks like a twist of pain. “You have been kind to me Fluttershy, Angel. You have been my only source of warmth and light. How could I leave you now? I wish…” the sinner trails off. She walks out towards centre stage, once again moving as far as she can to the audience. She looks out desperately, and for a moment the audience wonders if she can see them too. “I wish there was a way we could move back, you and I. To go where life is vibrant and colourful, where ponies are always close enough to touch. I wish that more than anything, and I know that only a fool would try to bring back the dead… but still.” “If there was someway we could move together to a place that isn’t grey, that isn’t an expanse of trees. That isn’t the blank, empty paradise you’ve told me about. If there was someway we could reach real paradise together, Fluttershy. That you and I could get to heaven.” “I have walked through heaven, dear sinner,.” The Angel replies, following her to the stage’s edge. Her glance out beyond the confines is all together more sad, more knowing, “Believe me that even a grey wasteland can be the sweetest paradise on earth, if only you can walk it with someone you care about. I think I’ve come to care for you quite deeply.” “But I don’t want a grey wasteland,” the sinner bites back, tears falling from her eyes, “I want to run with you in Elysian fields because I care for you too. Is there truly no way we can get there?” the sinner reaches out, her hoof finally breaching the barrier. The audience gasps, for the first time the wall is truly shown to be nothing, to be solely a construction of minds, who’s integrity can only live as long as they believe it to be true. But soon, it becomes clear that there is no such reciprocal epiphany, and the sinner simply remains looking tortured. “All the world’s a stage,” says The Angel gently. “If I am to go, if I truly have to leave you then at least tell me why. In all the countless eternities we’ve roamed, Fluttershy, you’ve still never once told me. Why me? What could I have possibly done to deserve you?” “Everything, nothing. I came because I saw you from up there, arriving naked and afraid, and I wanted to help. It’s the only way I can help anyone these days. I don’t choose ponies by some divine machination, I simply see those I can help, and I try to help them. Because everyone deserves some kindness.” Before she can continue, The Angel falls to the ground and is once again wracked by a series of spluttering coughs. Dark ichor drips and sprays from her maw with each expulsion of air. the sinner looks pained, but not shocked. The audience can only wonder how many times she must have seen this before. She reaches down, and pulls back the Angel’s cloak. The audience recoil, horrified by what they see. She is emaciated, her ribs can be seen clearly through sheer, near-translucent skin, stretched as taut as possible. Black veins spiderweb her abdomen, her joints are inflamed, her cutie mark has long since faded into nothing at all. “It’s killing you, isn’t it? That’s why you told me you’d do this until your last. Roaming these wastes, you’re not just shepherding souls like me, you’re burning parts of yourself. This is madness, Fluttershy.” “Until my last breath leaves me, I will make sure I show kindness to those who need it,” she rasps, “Not a single instant of your happiness is worth anything less. Now please move on, sinner. You can finally rest.” the sinner chews her lip, looking agonised. She turns to the trees. She turns to the grey wastes. She turns to the audience. She turns to the Angel. The house lights drop. The audience mutters among themselves. They wonder what she might have done, they wonder whether they will ever know for sure. That is, until their eyes are drawn to the stage once more. A single spotlight flicks on above centre stage, illuminating The Angel and the sinner. The angel lies, her breathing weak. She tries over and over to get the sinner to move on, to make her way into the trees where she can rest. But the sinner remains there with her. And the audience remain silent as the sinner lies down with The Angel, sliding their necks together, embracing. The Angel goes quiet, shaking now with only quiet sobs while the sinner comforts her. Some in the audience finally begin to see that her wounds seem to be healing. Her chest fills out, black veins recede, the taught skin regains its vibrant yellow coat, pink butterflies dance once again on her flank. And the whole time, the sinner becomes lesser. Her own ribs show, she becomes emaciated, her already dull coat and mane become dry and lifeless. And when it is done, and The Angel stands, horrified. “What have you done?!” she gasps. “I’m not quite sure,” the sinner replies, her strained voice attempting something that might have once been a laugh, “I don’t think I could put it into words. Only, it felt quite right.” The Angel tries to pull her, presumably to the trees that the audience can no longer make out, but she seems rooted to the spot. “But… if you don’t… how will you rest? Only a fool would give up her rest for one like me, who has already walked through heaven.” The Angel asks, her own voice giving way now to sobs. “If this is what it means to be a fool, I don't wish to be anything else. I will rest in the knowledge and memory that I did try to make myself worth it. Knowing that I was able to give something back will be warmth enough. I will rest just fine, lady Angel.” The Angel stands, looking around frantically for something, someone who might be able to help. And for a moment, it seems like she might try to rush out into the audience itself, until a thin voice from behind stalls her. “All the world’s a stage,” the sinner pipes up, before her chuckles give way to coughs mirroring those which The Anges was so recently ailed by. The Angel, Fluttershy, hangs her head, and does nothing for a moment. The audience ponder what might be running through her head, and this time less of them think that the machinations of an Angel are something too big to be contained by a simple theatre. Maybe they are more simple than any of us would ever really expect. In this case, the audience realise that Fluttershy’s desire is nothing more than to continue to comfort. And though there are likely many more souls on which she can spend that new gift of life, she doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to move on. Instead, Fluttershy turns back towards the sinner, and goes to sit with her once more. “Please, Fluttershy, waste no further time on me,” the sinner pleads, but Fluttershy gently shushes her. “On the contrary, my lady, I can imagine no greater way to spend my time than in your company.” “Even in a grey wasteland?” the sinner breathes. “Even a grey wasteland can be the sweetest paradise on earth, if only you can walk it with someone you care about.” Fluttershy replies, and swaddles the lowly, mortal, decayed sinner with her bright, immaculate wings. And the audience remain there, watching them. Nothing further happens. Five minutes, then ten, then fifteen, time seems to lose all meaning as it is spent watching the two mares simply lying under the sole spotlight, showing no more of paradise or wasteland or trees. And then, after all that time passes, the audience begins to applaud.
Prologue - ParadisoView OnlineNotes in Service of a Love StoryPrologue - ParadisoEnter The Angel, stage right. The world is bright. The world is opaque. This is not the paradise of books, nor of art, be it classic or contemporary. This is the paradise of absence, absence of evil, of sin, of pain, of impurity. The world the audience perceives is immaculate, near overwhelming in the uniform white in all direction, near blinding in its light. At once, the audience notes that she is angelic, there is little need for her introduction as such. The way she carries herself, her motion, her voice, the soft down of her wings that splay, poised and proud, before lilting against the wind resistance encountered as she walks forward, stunning them. Her cloak is perfect white. There isn’t anything like her existing in the mortal realm. “Non possum dare omnia,” she announces to the audience, and further stuns them. Her voice weeps, fitting of a celestial being. They understand her, even those who don’t know her words. They don’t need to know her words. Her eyes tell a story written in a million shades of cyan, God’s finest oil painting, that words are useless to even attempt at. She peers to the back of the theatre, out from the world of paradise and into the audience’s mortal world. Her eyes mist, as she spots something unseen to anyone but her, though she smiles still. If anything, the audience note, her smile grows even larger, though the effect is subtle and may be lost to some. Doubtless, those who note it will ponder why her eyes and lips betray each other, they shall wonder why her form livens even as tears fall in earnest. They shall wonder why her body must drag her body forward, as if she has two minds each pulling against her. From the subtlety of her performance one, who pays attention, can note the hesitance, quickly smothered as her wings once again splay. And, with a final glance beyond the audience, the angel takes flight, hooves leaving the purchase of paradise.
Afterword - Get To HeavenView OnlineNotes in Service of a Love StoryAfterword - Get To HeavenThe audience has long since filtered out, leaving only two mares alone in a vast theatre. Without anyone to watch, the space seems endless. Maybe it always was. In that space, time stretches unchecked and unmarked. And after time stretches, and then stretches once more, and then eternity passes eternally, infinity moving an infinite amount of times, the sinner finally begins to fill out again. Flesh thickens her form, her coat returns, except it doesn’t stop at the dull earth tones she once was. Rather it keeps going until she is deep and black, majestic, imperious, godly. Wings erupt from her back and she throws her head back in rapture. The whole time, The Angel watches, until eventually The Sinner stands of her own accord, as stunning and terrifying and beautiful and perfect as her very own shepherd. And the two of them share no words, a look conveys all necessary meaning. The two of them gently embrace, smiling, teary, finally catharsis in a world defined as being bereft of it. And then, their wings begin to gently beat, lifting them skyward. From above, the spotlight that they are ascending towards starts to get stronger and stronger, until the whole world is once again too bright to even comprehend.
