Allo, peoples! This is the prologue to my new story, which I'm hoping will turn out to be as successful as my previous works.

Enjoy! - TheOtaku2


Prologue

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January, 1908. Eisenstadt, Austria.

The letter took its time to arrive at the Edelstein Manor, in Eisenstadt. But then again, Roderich mused as his mother handed him the envelope, in such a rural area post is delayed somewhat in transport.

He'd thought it would be just another letter from a relative, but upon glancing at the post-mark, he knew.

His heart began to race. He lowered himself gracefully into an armchair in his parents' drawing room, the fine fabric cushioning his slight figure. Thin, strong fingers tore open the paper - he would waste no time looking for a damned letter knife. From behind wireframes, deep amethyst eyes scrutinized the content.

Roderich's father, an ageing man of a stony personality, glanced to his son. "Well, Roderich? What was their reply?"

The young Austrian remained silent, his expression unreadable.

"Do tell us, dear," Urged Frau Edelstein.

Suddenly, he jumped up, straightening his upper-class attire and adjusted his glasses. He laid the letter on the table for all to see.

"It appears the Wien Mozart Orchester has higher standards than those I possess," He announced briskly as he swept from the room, struggling to keep his composure.

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He sat in his quarters, a great room large enough to accommodate his Grandfather's grand piano as well as his bed, wardrobe and en suite bathroom.

Anyone who stepped into such a place would immediately realise this was the chamber of a man raised with a silver spoon in his mouth. Roderich Edelstein, an only child, expected to achieve greatness from a young age, was now eighteen summers old.

He was naive, sharp-tongued, and in a state of ignosis about much of the world outside the manor grounds. Except for his passion: music. He was very well-informed on that subject. Beethoven, Mozart, and Chopin just to name a few, Roderich would spend hours at the piano every day, practising their compositions and sonnets until his fingers became sore.

So honestly, when he applied and auditioned to join the Vienna Mozart Orchestra in December 1907, he had high hopes of a famous career in music. Of course, having found out today that they would not have him, such a career was hurtling away from him.

Eighteen years and still no solid future prospects, he thought idly as a pale palm came up to support his drooping head. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut to stop the tears emerging.

Because he would not cry. Even though this was one of the last places he'd auditioned for, even though his last resort to success had failed, he would not -

"Damn," Muttered Roderich as he felt hot droplets of water fall onto his cheeks.

Such a proud person was he, that even the thought of a few tears threatened to humiliate him beyond belief, even if he was crying alone.

Simply choosing to pretend he was not blubbering like a child, Roderich made to sit at the stool of the grand piano, a brilliant ebony-and-ivory beast coated to a shine. But his fingers could not touch the keys; his mind could not think of the notes he should play.

If music were his energy, then Roderich felt completely drained in that moment. Until he spotted a nearby fountain pen - a newly designed writing tool affordable only by the wealthy - and his spare blank sheet music.

He picked up the pen, admiring how delicate the pointed tip looked, before touching it to the paper. Roderich had been drawing for years, but he never before had felt the burning passion for artwork that he did for classical music. Still, today he did not want to write music, did not want to be reminded of letting down himself and his parents.

He longed for a distraction, and so he focused on drawing something. Closing his eyes, he pictured the piano, saw the joints and reflections and shadows it would cast. He saw the gleam on the surface and the elegant, simple carvings on its sides.

Opening his eyes, he began to draw with a vengeance. He incorporated emotions into this picture, namely anger at not being able to achieve his dream, frustration at them not even appreciating the hours, the concentration, the effort he'd put into that performance-!

Finally, shoulders slumping, the Austrian sat back from his finished work. An exact, precisely captured drawing of the piano rested on the paper, its lines bold and black from the pen's ink. He knew he should have used an artist's pencil but he had been too desperate to draw something. The picture looked, well, menacing.

Somehow, using his unbridled anger and talent for putting mind to paper, he had managed to make a piano look aggressive. The thought made him scoff. I really do not understand art.

Later that day, at dinner, few words were spoken between the three Edelsteins. Roderich's parents always proved terrible at consoling people, and so decided not to mention the letter.

"Roderich, dear, you should try to eat more meat," Advised Frau Edelstein from across the fancy dining table, "you're dreadfully thin."

Said son prodded at the vegetables on his plate with his fork. "I am of a perfectly healthy weight, Mother. Do not worry."

With a sympathetic smile, his mother relented. Roderich secretly knew he was becoming unhealthy, what with his stressed lifestyle of perfecting the work of composers, the long waking hours, lack of sleep and vitamins...but he felt he was making a necessary sacrifice.

Now was Roderich's father's turn to speak. "Son, the maids were cleaning your bed quarters today and, well, one of them found this," He held aloft the sheet of music paper. "I hope you do not mind, she merely wanted to protect it from getting damaged."

Roderich frowned in confusion. It was his piano drawing. "Ah, no, I do not mind," He answered, "but that really is of no importance to me. It can be burned -"

"How could you say that?" Blurted his mother. Strange, she spoke that sentence in English. What with living in Austria, the family never needed to speak anything other than German. Still Roderich frowned. All this fuss over a bloody drawing?

"E-excuse me," She apologised, returning to German. "I only protest because it is a beautiful piece, Roderich."

"In fact, you have been kindling your art skills more than ever over these past few years, " Added his father, "the portraits you made of the Zwingli siblings were wonderfully painted."

"Thank you, Father, but-"

"You really do have a talent for the fine arts," Finished Frau Edelstein, once more interrupting him. For all he'd been taught, that interruption was rude, it seemed his parents were being very hypocritical right now.

Then he set his cutlery down. Fine arts. He recognised that phrase. And then it occurred to him what his parents were doing. He looked to them both. "No."

Both looked confused. "What do you mean, 'no'?" Queried his father.

Roderich wore a tight-lipped expression. "I will not consider a career as an artist. No."

The wool was lifted from his eyes, and his parents dropped the act. His mother again began,"You are so good at drawing, at painting, we just thought -"

"No." His father wore a pitied look. "Come now, Roderich, why not try it?"

"No."

Sighing, both older Austrians shared a glance. "I would urge you to reconsider," Herr Edelstein started, "you see, Roderich, we have…"

"Already looked into getting you a place at the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts," Finished Frau Edelstein, her greying hair falling untidily out of its bun. They sight of grey hairs reminded the young man that he was not getting any younger. And if he did have talent, as so many relatives had said… "But, I...I had hoped to be a composer. Or pianist."

"You are already an able pianist."

Another scowl. "I meant professionally, Mother."

"You of all people understand how hard it is to gain that calibre of career in a musical city such as Vienna, or in a country like Austria," Pointed out his father carefully, "and you have had success as a musician, just not to the level you were expecting."

"Father, it is the same for the art world. It is evolving in this era; there are up-and-coming new artists to Vienna every other day. I don't even understand the subject!"

"Lower your voice," Instructed Herr Edelstein.

"And just because you do not understand art has never prevented you from excelling at it," Amended Frau Edelstein, watching closely as the cogs spun in her son's mind.

Finally, after their dinner plates had been cleared, Roderich folded his arms. "...How can you expect me to go from a low-level artist to someone of, say, Gustav Klimt's standard at that Academy?"

"He works there, you know. He could teach you." Noted his father.

"Hm. So what would make me any different from the hundreds of other applicants?" The brunette asked doubtfully. I cannot believe I am even considering this.

"Oh, your way of painting will surely pay for your entry," Answered his frail mother, enthusiastic at the prospect. "The Academy would love your contribution." Shaking his head, brow furrowed, the younger man gave up. After all, it wasn't like his music career was going anywhere at the moment…

He stood, setting down his napkin and straightening his cravat. "Very well. I shall apply to the Vienna Academy of," He faltered, "Fine Arts. Excuse me." He left the room in a huff, preparing himself to begin sulking as soon as was possible.

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...Woo. Bis bald, Freunde~