watch?v=P3zZszdvOGY
It was the way the instrument moved in his hands, he thought.
Or so it seemed.
The feeling of his fingers dancing across the keys, his right hand gripping the bow gently but firmly, and the bow caressing the strings. The confidence of the instrument in his lap, the immaculate condition of its wood, the one small nick on the bottom edge where he had carelessly tapped it against a wall.
It was a small joy, he was certain, but a joy nonetheless—and one he revelled in. It came alive when he touched it, it breathed when he played it. It was as if he lent a spark of life to the instrument—and in return, he received some of the most captivating music ever heard.
And the Swede smiled slightly to himself.
The lull of the melodic nyckelharpa was one of the things that could make Berwald smile without fail. These things were few and far between, the others being family, friends, the wilderness and national pride. It wasn't that he was an unhappy person; quite the opposite, in fact. It was just that he had a habit of disguising his feelings as a blanket emotion, a single expression that was commonly misinterpreted.
His fingers explored the dips in the keys along the side of the neck, testing the notes as the bow drew tentatively across. The sound grew louder as the bow stroke grew more certain, and he closed his eyes to let his inner thoughts spill out in the form of something audible.
The music painted colours for him, something of which many were unawares. As soon as he heard the sounds, certain images and hues would spring forth from within the depths of his mind. There was beauty not only in what could be heard, but in what could be seen. And for Berwald, each was as valuable as the other—an inseparable duo he had known all his life.
He was well aware of the fact that he was the only one who would experience the music in quite the way he did, but it was all right. It made him unique, different. He did not speak about this often, for fear of coming across as slightly insane. For fear of being labelled as odd. But every once in a while, he might happen upon somebody else who shared a similar experience. It was never exactly the same as his, but he would gladly discuss it for hours on end, and compare the various effects the music produced on each of them. Something of a rarity, it was, but a wonderful rarity. The most splendid things were always rarities.
From within him flowed the emotions, transpiring into sound waves that traversed the warm air around him. The lively music morphed into rich hues, and his fingers leapt deftly from key to key. It was midsummer, and he sat alone on the patio at the edge of his backyard. He played mainly for himself, but he sensed the uplifting atmosphere it created for others—be they flora or fauna, or even a passerby. His eyes were still closed, but he was well aware of his surroundings.
And his own little world splashed itself with colour to draw itself out from the darkness.
Synaesthesia: 1. a condition in which some of the five senses are blended together due to the involuntary firing of signals between neurons pertaining to different senses in the brain. 2. a literary term used to refer to a term or phrase that involves description of more than one sense.
I used the neurological term. Just a quick little upload that came to mind... And a random headcanon I had for Sweden. Hope you enjoyed!