So Far

Hot, foul, and dark. How did indoor theater become so fashionable? Well enough in spring rain or winter, but not in the thick, dead afternoon of high summer. And though Rito and Imita looks very fine, shining with electric moonslight in the enclosed gloom, you're much more aware of being crammed in neck-by-neck with your sweaty fellow citizens.

Damn the crowd, in truth: your mood was hot, foul, and dark when you sat down. Aessa was supposed to meet you here. She's made excuses before, and you don't think about what it might mean. Try not to think, rather. Just watch the story. One of your favorites. But it's miserably hot, and you just aren't caught up in the play...

Lower Theater (on the bench) If nothing else, you have a good seat. The stage is only a few rows to the north. People are jammed on benches in every direction; you think the aisle is somewhere to the west.

The play is into the final act. Rito has finally found out about Imita's affair, and he stalks the stage, whipping voice and hands about himself. A footfall behind him; he turns, and sees Imita. She backs a step at the force of his gaze.

The players continue....

Rito: How come you, harlot? Dare you come this way, your skin yet dark with Tato's shadow's stain?

Imita: Young lord, I will not kneel. And shadowed dark, or white with rays of moon or sun or moon, my flesh is mine. Or nearly so; I find --

Rito: Say on! What more has hated Tato done?

You shake your head, trying to net your straying thoughts, and catch a flash of copper hair. A few rows back, by the aisle -- Aessa couldn't have shown up and not seen you, could she? She wouldn't be avoiding you.

Imita: Oh, do not hate. For dazzled though she was, Imita's put him by; he's naught and gone -- But nearly, for she carries Tato's son.

Rito: She -- you -- you say -- aah!

(He rushes from the stage.)

Imita turns and pleads her dilemma to the audience: "What scourge, what scourge I bear, from what red star / So near to happiness, and yet so far?" She is in despair; but this whispered soliloquy is soon interrupted by voices rising in the wings. Rito, in a fury, backs Tato onto the stage.

You can no longer see Aessa, if you did at all. Irritable mutters rise behind you as you crane your neck.

Rito (icily): Stench of the grave on the day of your birth Shadows the shape first your eyes ever saw Curdled with gall was the milk on your lips Foul luck...

Imita: Enough!

Rito: It is blood I will have, Good red to flood the black ebb of your luck.

Tato (drawing his sword): I did not look to draw this moment here; Imita's choice has whipped my tongue and soul; I would withdraw. But if my mistress' word Would leash me, yet the wolfish howl will stir The blood of any hound. Attend thy sword!

Imita: Cease you this play --

Tato: In the poisonous marl And the tangling thorn fell the step you first took...

(Rito draws as well, and Tato begins circling him, still intoning the ritual.)

Ting! The pure tone of steel against steel. It comes again, and again faster; and then Rito and Tato rush at each other in a fury of chimes, in harmony. The sounds come from off-stage, of course, not from the swords. That's the way it's done. Melody weaves into the ringing, counterpoint to the flow of the fight -- falter, recover, the upper hand lost and gained -- and two men and two swords flicker in electric light.

Rito gains enough breath between attacks to declaim an insult or three. "War-rat, peace-pup / Love's-fool / Bright-tongue, limp slug..." Tato leaps for him again, another bell-jangle of motion. Dancing, even yet, Rito falls back.

Tato (shouting): Love's-fool? You think I'd spare my heart To she whose glance you melt to see? I touched her but to touch your throat, Your softer foot that I could sting --

Rito cannot even speak; the pain and horror are all in his eyes. And then they are in Tato's eyes too, and the spear that jerks in Tato's back is barely an afterthought. He jolts forward a step, tries to catch himself on Rito's wrapped velvets. But Rito backs, still silent, and Tato lands on his knees; reaches again; and falls.

Imita, spear-hand still outflung, is on her knees as well.

Rito moves forward, slowly, around the shape that lies before him. He draws Imita to her feet. She gazes at his face, with not a flicker at the dark wet that stains his velvets. (And you don't even wonder at the players'-craft that makes it so. The stage is gone; their faces are the moment.)

Imita (simply): Ah, my love. Can you forgive me?

Rito: How can I deny you? There is nothing to forgive.

The audience sighs, released. The rest of the play is accomplished with commendable speed: wedding flowers, declarations of passion, bells and drums. Tato's corpse is carried reverently away; and the procession follows.

As the stage empties, someone behind you begins to clap.

manpages/SoFar.play.md