//------------------------------// // Act 2 - In Want of the Sun // Story: Notes in Service of a Love Story // by Seer //------------------------------// Enter 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.