Concerto for Madness and Heartstrings (in the Key of A Major) - by Harukami
/~Allegro~/
Ildon studies the papers for a moment, face impassive, before pushing them back, a fine line between his brows. Old before his time, we would have said when we were human.
"You can't do that," Ildon says.
It dawns on me that he may not be able to read music. It certainly would not have been included in his human education, and I do not recall teaching it to him myself. Many other things, man to man, but not music. I cannot remember his other tutors. "Listen, then," I say, and sing it.
He's shaking his head, harder, almost frantic. "Rastaban, you can't /do/ that."
"Sing?" I ask. My voice isn't great, perhaps, a bit low for a tenor, a bit high for a bass, but I know these notes. They are myself.
"No, you damn fool. Write music. You can't do that!"
That startles me. Orlouge is given to some odd commands at times, but as far as I knew, he'd never had a problem with music. "It has been forbidden?"
Ildon is looking profoundly disturbed. A third arm would probably have bothered him less. "No. I just... you don't... Mystics don't write music."
So absurd. I'm laughing, offending him, laughing anyway. "I must not be a Mystic then."
"We cannot create," he murmurs. "Creation and change is a role for humans. We are unchanging. Have no creation."
So young, so fragile. His world rests on its glass pedestal. His cheek is soft under my gloved fingertips as I touch him, leaning down so my hair showers around him. He does not look up, and soon my fingers are pressing dimples into those cheeks, trying to get them to turn.
"Who made you?" I ask, then rise, walk away, and he jerks to stare after me.
We were all human once.
***
/~Adagio~/
Sexuality like dance, like moving underwater.
Ildon allows himself to be made love to. He does not participate. At least, I do not call it participation. He drowns, though, time and time again, in a sea of blue.
Thin blue, pale tatters.
His lips are not on my throat, though they were moments earlier. I bleed nevertheless, flesh ragged in my throat, breath more torn than my flesh. I am moving. He barely is. His eyes are mostly closed as my blood spatters down on his face.
A tongue moves lazily to the corner of his lips, finds blood there, and he drowns once more, eyes clouded.
Move. Move. Move damn you, move.
***
/~Rondo~/
He practices, sword shimmering in his hand, body moving in lazy, practiced patterns. He is a master swordsman. He knows all the patterns appropriate to a sword master, his feet move in predetermined motions. Were he being judged, he could not get less than perfect. He has style in his motions, makes his steps look simple.
I am the better swordsman. I would fail any judgement.
I follow him in his pattern. Not by mimicing his motions, simply walking behind him when he steps forward, turning when he turns, stopping when he stops. He is less than thoroughly accurate today; I am a fatal distraction.
I like that.
Finally he turns, nearly slices me open with his sword as he does so. "What are you doing?" He is angry. I love it when he's angry.
"Composing," I say, smiling. "My grande opus. Great decisions, Ildon, images of thought, music running through my head troppo non troppo. A flurry of notes, patterns, predetermined note arrangements, chords, harmony, inverse properties, a flare. Always the possibility of chance, I cannot start without my cadenza. Who will be my soloist? It doesn't matter yet, the piece can be composed before the improvisation is made. I am patterned on feet and movement of hips. My pen will fly, half, quarter, eighth, sixteenth, thirty-second. A flurry of sudden movement, I do not know how it will end."
Does he understand what I'm saying?
"You're insane," Ildon says finally, staring at me. He does not understand. At least he no longer is trying to tell me what I can or cannot do. Though I do not know whether this is a good or a bad thing.
Where is my soloist? Surely an appropriate soloist must show up soon. It has been centuries.
"I am not insane," I tell Ildon. Some day it may be enough, some day he may hear me.
He shakes his head, raises his sword again, trying to find his lost movement. "I'm not sure why you bother telling me these things, Rastaban. Music makes no sense to me. I'm not sure why you even bother composing. Nobody else here does."
No, they don't compose. Perhaps this is where the rumour that Mystics cannot create came from. None of us do.
Except me, apparently.
Ildon has lost his concentration, makes a silly error. Bleeds a little. His face does not change: impassive, except for that one line between his brows.
Composition is foreign, apparently. Not what we are supposed to know. I have to judge by what we see.
I am not expected to compose. I am expected to decompose.
/~Allegro~/
Ildon studies the papers for a moment, face impassive, before pushing them back, a fine line between his brows. Old before his time, we would have said when we were human.
"You can't do that," Ildon says.
It dawns on me that he may not be able to read music. It certainly would not have been included in his human education, and I do not recall teaching it to him myself. Many other things, man to man, but not music. I cannot remember his other tutors. "Listen, then," I say, and sing it.
He's shaking his head, harder, almost frantic. "Rastaban, you can't /do/ that."
"Sing?" I ask. My voice isn't great, perhaps, a bit low for a tenor, a bit high for a bass, but I know these notes. They are myself.
"No, you damn fool. Write music. You can't do that!"
That startles me. Orlouge is given to some odd commands at times, but as far as I knew, he'd never had a problem with music. "It has been forbidden?"
Ildon is looking profoundly disturbed. A third arm would probably have bothered him less. "No. I just... you don't... Mystics don't write music."
So absurd. I'm laughing, offending him, laughing anyway. "I must not be a Mystic then."
"We cannot create," he murmurs. "Creation and change is a role for humans. We are unchanging. Have no creation."
So young, so fragile. His world rests on its glass pedestal. His cheek is soft under my gloved fingertips as I touch him, leaning down so my hair showers around him. He does not look up, and soon my fingers are pressing dimples into those cheeks, trying to get them to turn.
"Who made you?" I ask, then rise, walk away, and he jerks to stare after me.
We were all human once.
***
/~Adagio~/
Sexuality like dance, like moving underwater.
Ildon allows himself to be made love to. He does not participate. At least, I do not call it participation. He drowns, though, time and time again, in a sea of blue.
Thin blue, pale tatters.
His lips are not on my throat, though they were moments earlier. I bleed nevertheless, flesh ragged in my throat, breath more torn than my flesh. I am moving. He barely is. His eyes are mostly closed as my blood spatters down on his face.
A tongue moves lazily to the corner of his lips, finds blood there, and he drowns once more, eyes clouded.
Move. Move. Move damn you, move.
***
/~Rondo~/
He practices, sword shimmering in his hand, body moving in lazy, practiced patterns. He is a master swordsman. He knows all the patterns appropriate to a sword master, his feet move in predetermined motions. Were he being judged, he could not get less than perfect. He has style in his motions, makes his steps look simple.
I am the better swordsman. I would fail any judgement.
I follow him in his pattern. Not by mimicing his motions, simply walking behind him when he steps forward, turning when he turns, stopping when he stops. He is less than thoroughly accurate today; I am a fatal distraction.
I like that.
Finally he turns, nearly slices me open with his sword as he does so. "What are you doing?" He is angry. I love it when he's angry.
"Composing," I say, smiling. "My grande opus. Great decisions, Ildon, images of thought, music running through my head troppo non troppo. A flurry of notes, patterns, predetermined note arrangements, chords, harmony, inverse properties, a flare. Always the possibility of chance, I cannot start without my cadenza. Who will be my soloist? It doesn't matter yet, the piece can be composed before the improvisation is made. I am patterned on feet and movement of hips. My pen will fly, half, quarter, eighth, sixteenth, thirty-second. A flurry of sudden movement, I do not know how it will end."
Does he understand what I'm saying?
"You're insane," Ildon says finally, staring at me. He does not understand. At least he no longer is trying to tell me what I can or cannot do. Though I do not know whether this is a good or a bad thing.
Where is my soloist? Surely an appropriate soloist must show up soon. It has been centuries.
"I am not insane," I tell Ildon. Some day it may be enough, some day he may hear me.
He shakes his head, raises his sword again, trying to find his lost movement. "I'm not sure why you bother telling me these things, Rastaban. Music makes no sense to me. I'm not sure why you even bother composing. Nobody else here does."
No, they don't compose. Perhaps this is where the rumour that Mystics cannot create came from. None of us do.
Except me, apparently.
Ildon has lost his concentration, makes a silly error. Bleeds a little. His face does not change: impassive, except for that one line between his brows.
Composition is foreign, apparently. Not what we are supposed to know. I have to judge by what we see.
I am not expected to compose. I am expected to decompose.