What can I say? Other than, well, White Owl has always been my favorite in Godchild, really, ever since his mysterious figure was shown (crazy, I know). This is a short ficlet... about his childhood. Like I imagine it would have been.

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Play, his father commands, and he plays.

He plays with his tiny, still soft child's hands, right holding the bow, his grip firm but looking so light, graceful even, left on the neck of the violin, fingers placed on the strings, pressing the horsehair to the wood, moving quickly and with ease from string to string, changing the sound of the instrument, creating a beautiful melody that brings tears to the eyes of the listener.

He plays, plays until his fingers bleed and arm feels like it's on fire for moving back and forth contiuously, his neck sore for being craned so for such a long time, the strings of the instrument at a snapping point and the bow almost ruined. And he knows he shall be scolded, scolded by the man he is to call "father", for staining his violin, for breaking it, because he clearly doesn't understand how much it cost and how important it is for a musician to take care of his instrument and love it, and how he always gets his fingers like that and he shall not be given any bandages for them, because it's his fault it happens because he can't play.

And he will put away his violin and wash his hands, grimace at the stinging pain it causes, watch the beautiful red liquid disappear and then inspect the wounds on his fingers, decide it's nothing, he can take it (for his fingers have numerous scars gotten exactly the same way). And he will inspect his violin, wash away the bloodstains, fix the broken strings and bow to the best of his ability, then carefully put the violin (his dear violin) back in it's case and close it tight and take it with him as he leaves.

And on the next day he plays, just as his father commands him, ignoring the pain on the sensitive, already broken flesh of his fingers, and practice, practice, practice more, so he can play at weddings, funerals, memorials, teaparties, hold his own little concerts as the genius violinist, a true boy prodigy, and give his father tons of money he can waste on things he doesn't even need, give him a chance to get intoxicated of the wealth his son earns him, so he can command him to play more and get this wonderful goose to lay him golden eggs.

Oh, how he hates that. Hates the man who is his father.

But then he has no need to hate anymore, not that man: it is taken away from him, as he watches the beautiful, red rose to blossom on his father's chest, his face a mixture of shock and horror and his gaze is pleading, mouth forming words (help me, Owl--) bu he doesn't hear, he doesn't understand, doesn't want to understand. And he watches him fall flat on his back, onto the ground, can nearly see life escaping him, hear it: it's music to his ears, a beautiful symphony- no, a requiem. Requiem for his dear father that he never loved. Requiem that he, the White Owl, genius boy violinist, composed for his late father.

And there is a man, a man he has never seen before, a man that is the one who shot the beautiful rose of blood to his father's chest, the man he now owes much more than his life – he owes him his music, his freedom, his whole existence.

And as the man watches, waits for his reaction, he slowly lifts the violin to his chin, places his scarred fingers on the neck and the bow on the strings, starting a melody unlike no other he has ever played, a melody that gets a river of salty water flow from his eyes down his cheeks, into his smiling mouth, to his chin, drip on the violin in his hands.

He plays, and for the first time, he plays from his own free will.