Story Reader / Interlude / Song of Flowers / Story
The Shepherd
>Dear Selena, what will you be doing when you receive this letter?
This is my first time writing you a letter... Fine. This is also my first time writing a letter.
I reckon this is the only way I can share my thoughts with you now.
I've been planning to write a story recently. A play.
Perhaps you'll be surprised when you read the script. Maybe you'll laugh.
I'm a novice when it comes to theater, after all, and the story is suitably amateurish.
But you'll get yourself involved after you're done laughing, won't you? You'll mentor me and offer suggestions.
Wouldn't that be great?
I have a photo with me as I'm writing this. An image of an opera house down there on the surface.
You said you had always wanted to visit it since you saw a photo of it when you were young.
Of course, you wouldn't just be there for the opera house. It's located near evacuation site 184 from the Great Evacuation.
There are so many remnants of great artwork that you want to see.
Now that I think about it, the opera house is probably abandoned without the resources and labor to maintain it,
and it is no longer as beautiful as its picture.
Still, I can't help but wonder... if you passed by it on your journey—if you were there right now—what would you do?
Tell me, Selena.
—If the Pantheon still existed today, it probably won't stand any more impressive than this.
A giant chandelier, beautiful and extravagant, hangs from the magnificent dome, illuminating the famous mural above with its refracted lights from multiple angles.
No one knows if there are any discrepancies between that and the original. No one cares whether the details match the records for that matter.
All it has to do is to be there, just like the pillars carved with detailed scenes, and contribute to the opulence and grandeur of the building.
Every inch of this place is indescribably ostentatious, and unfortunately, this is probably the last and dreamiest opera house left in the world.
An opera house of this caliber is right here, sitting in an old evacuation site from the Great Evacuation.
Right, that must be it!
A light breeze slips through a gap in the cracked ceiling, gently moving a curtain hung on a beam.
Sunlight sneaks in from a hole in the curtain, casting a spotlight on the stage, moving as the curtain shifts and sways until it lands on the girl who has been standing there for a while.
—Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
—Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Stepping out from the sunlight, she gently skips across the gaps on the stage, stopping at the apron before taking half a step back.
She slightly bends her knees and curtsies. The light from above illuminates the small letters embroidered on her dress: Flora.
Summer's lease hath all too short a date; sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimm'd; and every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, when in eternal lines to time thou growest.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, so long lives this and this gives life to thee.
—Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for watching our show.
The girl reads to an empty theater.
After a while, she frowns and takes a small step back.
Hmm... No, it should be more earnest.
—Thank you for coming to this performance, my most esteemed guests.
Right. That's more like it.
She spins, turning to face the audience again. With a small book in her hand, she raises it, looking solemn.
Before the curtain rises, allow me to tell you a story.
It's the story of a gentleman I knew. A Scavenger he was, and a soldier too.
Misery-bound, unlike the Babylonians. A ticket to Eden was not his fate.
But fortune smiled upon him. He fared better than most as a Scavenger taken in by a conservation area.
Dew from the sky garden blessed the arid land with shelters sprouted, warding the wandering wight.
Hmm... Well... That was what he concluded. I didn't really understand the meaning of it, but he was a lucky man regardless.
Noticing that she has forgotten to maintain her expression during her mumbles, she rubs her cheeks and picks up the script again.
His long time of roaming filled his ears with words of self-pity. The world owed him, he thought, and he thought how it only took from him and not those living in the sky. He'd live a life of more if only others had less.
Words of woe would not wither the warmth within him withal.
He met art, a burning sun, underneath which corps grew in the farms, grass thrived on the fields, and flowers flourished by the rivers.
The shadow of pity dissipated as the sun shone upon him, melting his cold, cruel heart. Midst of its light is a flower that radiated the brightest.
A story of a hero that flower told, about a man who sacrificed himself for his comrades. Contrite his soul not being, he blessed his parting friends on his dying breath.
The flower and the sun warmed the wanderer's heart. Fire begot fire, and the next sun our Scavenger vowed to be.
What a glorious Construct soldier he became.
A mere first step it was on the path to the flaming star. Seeds were planted on his way forward—his own story of the flower he saw, invigorated and retold by him.
The last battle, fierce and deadly it was, saw the inevitable sacrifice of our marching soldier.
Gone he may be, his tales of valor guide us still on the pilgrimage to art... and I stand among the pilgrims.
No... I'm sure I... was the first of them.
The girl chokes up lightly before holding up the script again.
A straightforward journey this has not been. Some were lost in sorrow from his passing.
His wife, for instance. Once passionate about the radiance of art with her husband and child, the lady of the house was no less talented, gifted with a voice that moves heaven. Blissful she looked in a duet with her love...
Pain and misery remained in the poor woman's eyes whenever she came across a script after her husband parted.
She spoke of his demise on the battlefield as harrowing and dreadful. The noble spirits in the stories paled in the face of death.
Whispering those words, she just looked... hurt.
I... I don't want to see Mom like that. It hurt me as well... just like Dad's death.
Flora stops speaking as the memories of losing a loved one hit her young and frail heart like lightning once again. The gentle and strong arms that could lift her in dance are no more, lost in gunpowder and smoke.
She thought it would hurt less if she told the story from someone else's perspective. Still, she cannot help but cry when the story reaches her father's end.
She craves the protection and warm hugs his arms once offered. There is no warmth in her tears.
M-Mom... I could hear weeping every night since Dad was gone... Those tears were mine.
Every night, you would hold me and comfort me... I do appreciate it.
But I still hear weeping every night... even when I've found a way to anchor my memories of him and learned to comfort others.
Mom... you were the one crying. You only cried when I fell asleep.
I... wanted to get Dad back, so you'll stop feeling so... hurt.
N-no... I've already found him. He's always beside us... in these plays he wrote...
Flora's fingers clutch the script in her hand.
That's why I'm here... in the center of the art capital.
Flora holds up her hands, showcasing the deserted theater to the darkness.
This was one of the many evacuation points during the Great Evacuation. This place also held on to many wonderous relics of past civilizations.
Bathed in their light, I will do my best to perform Dad's past deeds.
The heroic tales that moved him, the songs we sang to our neighbors, the small props we made ourselves... They are all parts of the soul Dad has left behind...
He said that sacrifices shouldn't just inflict pain. They should inspire bravery... and invoke hope of the calm after the storm.
If I can understand this hope, the spirit of his play... then... maybe you'll understand, Mom, that Dad never left us. We can move forward with the hope he gifted us.
With that, Flora curtsies once more.
Then, please enjoy this performance... which is also a rehearsal, of course.
The only response she gets is the breeze and the rattling rocks.
A gust of wind blows past her clothes, revealing her arm behind the sleeve. It shows signs of infection from the Punishing Virus.
