A/N: Take one creative writing prompt, plus an eleven hour transatlantic flight, minus six hours of sleep that I will never get back, times one original character and four years of undergraduate religious studies classes, and...you kind of get this odd little fluff-fest of an AkuRoku fic.
Here's the prompt I was working from: Write about a tangible, reach-out-and-touch-it muse. It can be written from the muse's perspective or the perspective of the person using the muse.
My main inspiration: What happens when an angelic being, created entirely for one purpose at which he's currently failing, encounters humanity, with all its glorious emotional dramas, and finds himself inadvertently sucked into one human's recent, life-shattering tragedy?
The music was beautiful, unearthly in the most literal sense of the word.
And wrong. Absolutely, entirely all wrong.
"Stop, stop," Conductor yelled over the melody of song, wings fluttering in clear agitation. Her conducting stick lowered, and with it so did the volume of the music, until it petered out completely only a moment later.
Hands on her hips, Conductor addressed her orchestra.
"Not right," she shouted, her voice ringing in piercing ways across the heavens. "You think this is ready for El? You think you can get away with a mediocre performance in front of the Holy of Holies? You're mistaken! He will not be impressed."
A fine layer of gold dust burst forth from her wings as each sentence was punctuated with increasing irritation. Near the back of the orchestra, one young angel noted how some of it landed in Conductor's two oddly spiked tresses of hair, giving her the appearance of having long glowing ears. He tried to look sufficiently contrite, while swallowing a quiet giggle.
"Time…so little time until Peter's next arrivals. Not enough time until El's address. And you're giving me this to work with?" Conductor ranted on, although it was obvious several angels were no longer listening to her.
She paused in her tyrannical lecture, regarding her angelic orchestra with an air of expectation. When no one moved to do anything, her hands glided to her hips, wings bristling tightly behind her back.
"Well! Don't just sit there gawking. Go practice! Return tomorrow with something actually worth listening to."
It was their cue to disperse, and disperse they did, as quickly as possible. Conductor wasn't quite finished however.
"Fourteenth Viola and Thirteenth Harp," Conductor barked. "Remain behind. I want to speak to you both."
Surprised, the young angel's head shot up as his large string instrument faded in front of him. What did that mean, stay behind? What had he done?
Harp was nothing if not obedient though and, once done packing up, he approached Conductor. Originally known as Twelfth Cello herself, Conductor hadn't started off in her illustrious career in much more impressive of a place than Harp had now, if he remembered a conversation he'd once overhead between the sitars correctly. But she had found favor with the last conductor, and over eons had eventually been trained in several instruments, was later taught to instruct as she was still doing now. Harp doubted he'd ever possess skill enough even to advance among the harps at the rate he was going.
He was met by a dark-haired angel not much shorter than Harp himself. This was presumably Fourteenth Viola. She looked just about as miserable as Harp felt, her powder blue wings drooping dejectedly as they trailed behind her. At least Harp had had the presence of mind to keep his own wings rigidly at attention behind his shoulders.
They didn't speak to one another as they drew ever nearer to Conductor. There was nothing really to say, no way commiserating would make either of them feel any better.
Afterward, Harp would remember key words and exasperated expressions with clarity, despite attempts to block out the whole encounter. Unacceptable. Disappointing. Not good enough.
There was also the threat. His pastel yellow wings wrapped themselves protectively around himself whenever he became lost in thought about that particular subject. Inadequate musicians were of no use in Heaven. Musicians who didn't live up to expectations were expelled. Where, Harp didn't know and had no wish to guess. He simply didn't want it to happen.
But his practices didn't improve. The harder he tried, the more he seemed to lose focus, to make silly mistakes even when he knew the pieces inside and out. Overall though, it was the feel of his music that was displeasing Conductor. And that he had no idea how to fix.
~ o ~ o ~
The heavens were raining the day Harp was approached by Ninth Sitar. In Heaven, rain was felt underfoot, rather than from above. Whenever it rained, Harp preferred to rise slightly above the ground, expending just enough effort with his wings to keep his feet above the cloud coverings. He'd always preferred the warmth of light over the icy chill of rain. At least the sun didn't dampen his robes.
Ninth Sitar was just the opposite, seeming almost to relish the puddles that pooled in cloud dips beneath his feet. On this particularly rainy day, Sitar was looking quite pleased and cheery, which was more than Harp could say about his own mood.
"Thirteenth Harp, am I right?" Sitar addressed him in passing after one particularly horrible practice.
An angel with whom he didn't often converse, Sitar was older than Harp, more experienced in his chosen instrument by four chairs, and quite popular among the other musicians, from what little Harp had observed of their interactions before and after practice. Sitar had an easygoing demeanor about him, and despite Harp's current mood, he couldn't help but feel slightly uplifted by the unexpected attention.
Harp nodded, his expression respectful. "Yes," he confirmed.
Sitar grinned and beckoned Harp to follow. "Walk with me a bit, will you?"
Harp didn't have to be asked twice. Being created as a musician in Heaven could be a lonely existence if one was still relatively as new as he was. He was quick to comply, fluttering his smaller wings over to the location where Sitar was waiting for him.
Noting the boy's chosen method of transportation, Sitar raised an eyebrow good-naturedly. "Or fly if you like, but you're missing out on a lovely mid-summer storm right now."
For a moment, Harp felt uncertain. Should he drop into the clouds like Sitar instead of fluttering above him? Was this considered rude? "I don't…it's just," Harp tripped over his own words, much like he'd done over several of the more complicated chords during practice today. "I mean, rain isn't my favorite," he said, his voice an apology.
Sitar laughed, shaking his head a little. "That's obvious. Seems your strongest element is light," he said, nodding toward Harp's wings.
In comparison, Sitar's wings were a deep almost navy blue that stood in stark contrast to his dirty blond hair. Harp had never made the connection between wing coloring and preferred elements. He found himself lagging behind as he considered the notion.
"Anyway, keep up," Sitar said, not in an unfriendly manner. "I've got something I want to talk to you about."
There it was again. Harp felt himself immediately tense. Talks, in his experience, were never positive things. He only really got talked to when he'd done something wrong or played a song inadequately.
"And drop the 'woe is me' expression," Sitar almost sang. "You're acting like you're about to get crucified or something."
Unable to help himself, Harp giggled. Even he knew that joke. It'd been going around Heaven for millennia now. From what he heard, even the human it'd been instigated by found humor in it, after getting over the shock of his own death and subsequent promotion to messiah among some groups of humans. Yeshua was his name, if Harp remembered correctly. Death always seemed to take them awhile to come to terms with, from what little Harp knew. He'd never technically been born, would never actually die, so it was difficult to relate. Although the way things were going in orchestra practice lately, expulsion might be a viable option sooner than he'd like, he thought darkly.
"I hear you're having difficulties in practice," Sitar continued, as though reading Harp's mind. They stopped on a gentle incline, a place that offered Sitar the rain under underfoot that he seemed to so cherish and also a smaller, dry cloud ledge for Harp to perch on if he liked. He felt a bit babyish sitting in a traditional cherub position, but Harp was grateful to rest his wings and settled in nicely after a moment. He just wished he could avoid Sitar's comment as much as he could the rain-soaked cloud walkways underfoot.
"Conductor is unhappy with me," he admitted freely.
Sitar said nothing, simply waiting for him to continue.
"There are the chord mistakes sometimes, but I'm getting better at those," Harp said in a hopeful tone. "It's the feel of my performance that she doesn't like."
"Ah, sure," Sitar nodded, expression full of understanding.
"But I don't even know what she means, to feel the music the way she wants. I thought I was feeling the music just fine," Harp burst out. "Sometimes I close my eyes and everything." He'd seen plenty of nines and tens, and sometimes even eights, closing their eyes during practices from his vantage point. He couldn't see much higher up in ranks than that, but there was nothing to say the higher-ups didn't act similarly during performances.
This time when Sitar laughed, Harp felt like the butt of a joke he didn't even understand. Unconsciously, his wings drew closer to his body, giving him an even smaller appearance than he already had.
"Closing your eyes has nothing to do with anything unless you've begun to feel it first," Sitar said, making an attempt to calm his own laughter, his gently rippling wings and upturned lips betraying him nonetheless.
"Then what does?" Harp felt nearly desperate now. Why didn't he understand? Sitar seemed to be having no difficulty.
Sitar didn't answer for a moment, turning instead to look out onto Earth below them. Harp noted the dreamy expression in his eyes, but he could interpret it about as much as he could Conductor's instructions about feeling the music he was playing.
"A muse."
At first, Harp thought he might have misheard. At least he'd heard at all. Sitar's words had been nearly a whisper.
When Sitar didn't initially answer, Harp spoke again. "A what?"
The question seemed to return Sitar to the clouds, eyes refocusing and settling on the younger angel again. "A muse," he repeated. "You know…"
When Harp's blank expression remained, Sitar's wings ruffled a little, perhaps in surprise. Maybe in exasperation.
"Well, that's your problem," he said. "You don't know what a muse is, let alone have one. Not that Conductor improves of all the types of things we find for the purpose, but, well, she doesn't really need to know, does she?"
Harp sat up a little straighter, wings extending in a cat-like stretch eagerly above him. "Then tell me."
Sitar seemed only too happy to comply. Possibly a little amused too, if his expression was any indication. "A muse is like a stimulus for your creative work," he explained. "It can be anything, but it has to be personal to you exclusively. For some angels, El his glorious self can be enough. Others — perhaps you — need to find something more."
Harp said nothing, pondering the idea a little. It was entirely unique to him, to use a physical object for inspiration. He'd always just read the music as it was given to him, and practiced diligently. Shouldn't that have been enough? The young angel unquestioningly glorified El in his mind, but never having met Creator himself, perhaps Sitar was on to something.
A thought occurred to him. "What's your muse, Sitar?" he asked, curiosity clear in his youthful tone.
Much to Harp's surprise, the older angel's cheeks colored in response. He'd never seen anything like it before outside of cherubs and their naturally rosy expressions.
"I'm sorry. Is it a problem?" He truly hadn't meant to cause Sitar negative emotions of any sort, if that's what he'd done.
Sitar just shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "Not a problem." His voice was wistful, filled with patent longing.
"It's a human…"