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The sound of music is no longer distant, its players having finally entered into full view. They are piled high on a small cart, a hectic collection of instruments and secondhand clothes. Walking in front of them all is a man, broad in the shoulders and even broader in his smile, who extends his arms to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern as if greeting old friends.
“An audience!” he rejoices, the music from the players halting at a signal from his hand.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern have barely begun to look around – for surely he can’t mean just the two of them – when the Player halts in his tracks, frowning.
“Or, rather,” he says, looking around himself, hands on his hips “Maybe not.”
Rosencrantz frowns back at him, all disappointment. Guildenstern tries to follow the man’s gaze, growing frustrated when nothing presents itself to him.
“Well, are we an audience, or aren’t we?” Guildenstern finally asks.
“You mistake my meaning.” The Player smiles in a way that it both apologetic and its opposite. He gestures broadly to the cart, where his company is already busy securing the tools of their trade. Instruments are stuffed out of sight, theatre masks hanging loosely by the strings around their necks, exposing tired faces.
“We would – and often do – stoop to perform to an audience of one,” The Player smirks, as if repeating some private joke “Times being what they are, of course.”
“Well, there are two of us,” Rosencrantz helpfully supplies. The Player ignores him.
“It isn’t we who are lacking in audience tonight.” The Player gives one last look around, then nods. “Yes, I believe we shall move on until we are needed.”
Guildenstern does a full turn, frown deepening with anxiety. “Are we being observed?”
“Not at all,” The Player assures him, now perched high on the front of the cart. “Well, not anymore.”
“I’m still not sure I take your meaning.” Guildenstern insists, more urgently.
“Actors cannot perform without an audience,” The Player states plainly. “The whole production operates on the assumption that someone is watching. Otherwise, you’re just pouring everything into a bottomless well. It’s humiliating to even think about. It’s best we all wait for our cues.”
“But we are not actors.” Guildenstern gestures between himself and Rosencrantz. “We’re the audience. If you’d stoop to it, that is.”
“If you do not take my meaning,” The Player says, voice as calm as the still air around them. “Perhaps I will leave it here, for you to pick up yourself, at your leisure.”
The Player starts, as if struck by a sudden idea, and holds up a finger, begging patience. With his other hand, he delves into his pocket. When his hand reemerges, he has a single coin caught between two fingers.
“If a coin is flipped in the forest...” he says, tossing the coin as he speaks. It arcs through the air, landing on the ground between them. “... and no one is there to witness the outcome, does it still matter?”
“If no one is there to witness it, who is flipping the coin?” Guildenstern asks, at the same time as Rosencrantz shuffles over to peek at it.
“Heads!” Rosencrantz announces, no excitement lost through repetition.
The Player sighs, easing himself down from the cart, before walking over to look at the coin himself. “Well, fate may only be delayed for so long. The show must go on, eventually. Enjoy your reprieve while it lasts.”
Rosencrantz moves to pick up the coin on instinct, but the Player brings his boot down on top of it in an instant, catching his fingers. He yelps, jumping back.
“Apologies,” The Player offers, stooping to pick up the coin from under his sole before returning it to his own pocket. “Times being what they are, you understand.”
Rosencrantz grumbles around the index finger in his mouth, sucking at the forming bruise. He looks to his companion for some sympathy, but finds Guildenstern pacing beside him, unawares.
“A reprieve from what?” Guildenstern asks, more to the open air than anyone in particular. “We only just got here, we’re going –” He pauses.
“We were sent for,” Rosencrantez supplies, not taking the finger out of his mouth.
“– Yes, we were sent for,” Guildenstern says with more certainty, resuming his pace. “And we’re not there yet, but we must continue on because –”
“It’s a matter of extreme urgency.”
“– Yes, of extreme urgency! A royal summons!” Guildentern turns back to the Player. “It’s hardly the time to be waiting around.”
"As you like." The Player raises his hands in defeat, stepping back. “Spend your time however you wish.” He rests both his hands on the cart behind him, before lifting himself back up on it in one smooth motion. He gives the wood two firm smacks with his open palm, and it starts to move at the command. “I’ll be seeing you at showtime.”
Guildenstern moves to follow the retreating cart – trying to find the right question, this time – but is stopped by the sound of Rosencrantz behind him.
“Well, we were just waiting around before he showed up, anyway,” he admits, moving to sit down on the ground.
“That was different,” Guildenstern says with no conviction at all.
Rosencrantz still nods, allowing it. He crosses his legs beneath him.
“What did he mean, when he said no one was watching us?” Guildenstern asks after a moment. He begins to pace again. “Do you suppose he meant it in the theological sense?”
Rosencrantz perks up. “How do you mean?”
“Has God himself averted his gaze from us?”
“What would He do that for?”
“Have we done something wrong?”
Rosencrantz frowns, hesitating. “Are we playing questions?”
“What?” Guildenstern halts, turning to his companion on the ground. “No!”
“Ha!” Rosencrantz shouts gleefully. “Exclamation, one-love.”
“I said we weren’t playing!” Guildenstern steps towards his companion, cuffing him on the side of his head.
It’s only a playful smack, but Rosencrantz still yelps on instinct. He pats at the side of his head, more concerned with smoothing down his mussed hair than soothing any hurt from the blow.
Guildenstern sighs, lowering himself to the ground beside him. He jostles Rosencrantz’ shoulder a bit as he settles, crossing his legs to match.
“If we had done something wrong,” Rosencrantz starts. His finger’s back in his mouth, and he worries the nail between his teeth. “I suspect God would want to be watching. Taking notes, and all that.”
“For what?”
Rosencrantz shrugs. “For when we die, I suppose.”
“That’s a long ways off,” Guildenstern says. “So He must have to take notes. To remember.”
“I don’t remember doing anything wrong.”
A sigh. “Me neither.”
“But then again, I wasn’t taking notes.”
A beat of silence, then Rosencrantz speaks again. “Does it seem colder?”
“Colder than what?”
“Well, colder than before.”
Guildenstern frowns. “Than before what? We haven’t been here before.”
“It’s colder than I remember it being.” Rosencrantz says more firmly.
“Do you remember being here before?”
“No,” Rosencrantz says, as if completely unaware of the contradiction. “But it’s definitely colder. Like when you wake up in the morning and find that the fireplace went out while you were sleeping.”
“We’re outdoors.”
“Are we?” Rosencrantz hits the ground twice, firm and open-palmed. The sound is too hollow and loud for the tamped down earth of the road, for soft grass, even for any tangled roots that may have twisted their way underneath them.
“We can start a fire out here, I suppose.” Guildenstern says, ignoring the way the sound still echoes faintly in his ears, all wrong and unsettling.
Rosencrantz shakes his head. “We can just warm each other up. That way we don’t have to go anywhere.”
“No, somebody might come in.”
“I don’t think anyone will,” Rosencrantz says, certain. “Not for a good while, at least.”
A moment passes before Guildenstern relaxes, shoulders loosening as the tension leaves them. He wraps one arm around his companion, who goes readily into it, tucking his head into Guildenstern’s shoulder and slipping his own hand around his back to curl at Guildenstern’s waist.
With his hand against the fabric of his companion’s coat, Guildenstern notes for the first time how worn it is. Both of their clothes are, worn and tattered. They had only just left, had only just gotten here, had never –
Guildenstern shivers, as if the sudden awareness of the holes in his coat is what finally lets the cold in. He pulls Rosencrantz closer, chin resting on his head.
Some of Rosencrantz’ hair is still sticking up oddly, from earlier. Just a few light brown strands, defiant against the current of the rest.
Guildenstern hesitates for a moment longer before, suddenly certain for the first time in – well he doesn’t remember how long, but since the beginning of all this, he supposes – that he wasn’t being observed, he smooths down his companion’s hair with a firm press of his lips.
Together, they wait.