Pitch paced agitatedly around his home with his hands folded behind his back and an unreadable expression on his face. Though his countenance was passive, it was obvious by his movements that he was in one of his restless moods in which very little could be done to satisfy him. Though it was usually unclear to him and just about anyone else what exactly brought these temperaments on, he did know of a few things that would help it pass. One of them was music. More specifically, the playing of it.
He stepped into his library and walked into far right corner where he kept his instruments. Stroking his chin thoughtfully, he stood there for a moment and eyed both the piano and the open violin case that sat propped on top of it. Just which of them would soothe his soul this time? While he loved the feeling of his fingers pulsing and moving over the keys of the piano, it didn't hold the sound that he felt the need to produce. No, the bittersweet notes he craved would be best produced from the violin.
His fingers delicately ghosted over the rich, mahogany wood that was worn and smoothed with age before he picked it up and removed it carefully from the case; his fingers running over it almost lovingly once he held it in his arms. Rather like it was a beloved child or something that was priceless and irreplaceable. And to him it was. He'd had this instrument for centuries and it had served him well. Though gentle care and skillful repair, he had kept it whole and the sound nearly as rich and pure as the day he gotten it. He didn't plan on having to get a new one anytime soon, though he knew the day where he'd have to would come soon enough. It was something he didn't exactly look forward to, as foolish as that seemed. It was much easier to become attached to an inanimate object than most thought, especially if that object has helped quell your sorrow more than any living person had throughout the years.
Picking up his bow, he lifted the instrument and placed it under his chin as he went to stand in front of the lit and blazing fireplace. He closed his eyes and hummed softly, quickly and efficiently testing then tuning each string to perfection in preparation for the piece he was going to play. He already knew what he wanted, and now all he had to do was let himself go and bring the song that had been playing in his head into the space around him.
Finally, he began to play; the first few notes slow and melancholy. Soon enough, the tempo began to speed up and travel up and down the scale. As both his fingers and bow moved fluidly, his face took on a wistful expression; his brow furrowing and smoothing in turns depending on how the notes struck him. As the music faded in and out, the notes rising and falling, it was easy to imagine that beyond his closed eyelids there was an audience. An audience that was sitting in rapt attention; caught by the spell that the bittersweet notes held. And so he performed for them, the audience he never had and never would have.
He was so caught up in the morose melody that he didn't even notice when one bow string broke.. then two.. then three. Soon more than five were snapped and dangling, but still he played. A thin sheen of sweat stood out on his forehead, but that he didn't notice that either. All he was aware of was the swift fluidity of the bow and his fingers as well as the notes that swirled around him in the darkness. After what seemed like a blissful eternity, the notes quieted and he slowed to a stop. He was done. He took a long breath, his eyes still closed. He could almost hear the cheers of the people he had conjured up in his imagination. He took a bow, then straightened. When he finally opened his eyes, his face lost its smile. There was no audience. Only him. And he was alone once again. Alone as he always was and always would be.