Last Changed: 08.06.09
Η τέχνη της αγάπης
The Art Of Love
By: Hyournihime
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Let's let our spirits soar and fly
With wings of heaven, made of sky
Let's touch the stars of pale star-fyre
Of angle's fate and mortal's desire
The essence of our hopes and dreams
Shall bind in flight and give us wyngs.
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My Masterpiece; The poem I put on every first chapter.
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This chapter is dedicated to sora094. My buddy writer!
GAxSCxPoT CROSS!
Four very different girls are thrust together by fate, to discover the one thing greater than art; magic. But will this writer, ice-dancer, painter, and composer discover the one thing that transcends even magic...love?
Disclaimer: Haha. Ahahaha. Hehe. Hoho. Ehehehe. Hawhawhaw. You're killing me! Me own Gakuen Alice, Shugo Chara, or Prince of Tennis? I'll die of laughter before that! Hahaha. haha. *chuckles*
Notes: Sorry to say, but...I don't have much to say! lol. Um. hope you enjoy this. I guess. Leave me a review, okay? I live on reviews, and I really mean that!
Oh, and all greek translations are listed as footnots or, as in the titles, beneath them. But in the story itself, they're footnotes. Thanks to Babylon8, wonderful greek-translator-website-thingamagbob. ;) I think that the magic I used in this is a pretty cool idea ^-^ Tell me if you like it, okay?
Luvs to you, reviews to me!
^,~ hime-chan
First Fate String: Η τέχνη του σύμπτωση
"The Art Of Coincidence"
She typed a couple more words, the letters appearing one by one on the computer screen, her fingers flying at an alarming speed. She smiled as she typed, the look in her eyes far away. She was in her own world now.
"...slowly they danced, one by one, in an eternal waltz, falling from the sky. As they would dance again and again, until the end of time, swept by the gentle winter breeze and made by winter's breath.
She couldn't help but watch them, letting her eyes trail the paths of the snowflakes, the silver moonlight reflected off of her golden orbs. The snow reminded her of a night not long ago. A night of promises, of the first snow, of hope, of destiny, perhaps. A night of love. And crimson eyes..."
Her fingers seemed to fall slower and slower on the keyes. She looked at her hands, brunette hair falling around her shoulders. They felt ... powerful. Strong enough to shape the story of many lives. Strong enough to conjure romance and magic. They felt ... so full of potential.
She glanced back at her computer screen, at the seven books that lay beside her. Two tragedies, one comedy, one action novel, one vampire tale, and two of the best romance novels. Her research books; her favorite authors. And every story, in its own way, was better than her own life. Oh, how she wished she could live in her world, a land of magic and happiness, where nothing was boring, and everything was all right. Because it always was, in stories.
But reality just ... caught up sometimes.
Only fourteen, and already alone. Never experienced love. Never been loved. And lived in a world of fantasy and magic. It was no wonder her classmates thought her crazy. Heck, she was even trying to write a novel!
But whenever she typed a chapter, she'd look back on it the next day and it would seem inadequate. She'd re-type it and re-type it, to the point when she couldn't even stand the storyline anymore. Then she'd start afresh.
She looked at the books, and at the thin sheet of paper that lay beside it. An intricate world of twists and swirls fluctuated on the paper, snowflakes dancing down from a moonlit sky. A girl cupped her hands to perfectly shaped lips and a heart-like face. In her fingers, she held a single, black rose.
Beneath her, amongst the swirls, was a name. The letters were engraved in gold, the same gold as the title. The beautiful calligraphy swirled and seemed to disappear into the swirls of snow.
It was her name, on this would-be cover. It would appear on her first book..if there ever was one. It was her hope; her dream. She had always wanted to be an author.
Someday, she swore, this cover would appear on her debut novel.
Someday, this dream would come true.
She turned to the computer and deleted the story. Her mind began to sketch out the details of another. But before that...
Once more, she stroked the letters reverently, fingering the laminated paper, gazing contentedly at the name -- her name...
Mikan Sakura
She let beads of bright red soak into the canvas, let them stray across the snow like bloodred tears. They sank into the white, slowing becoming a part of the wintry landscape.
She could see it all in her mind, so clearly, like an image engraved into her heart. The girl, lying, just so, slightly out of the shadows, her eyes still open, that little bit of light pleading, hoping for love. And the snow, no longer white, but crimson, like blood. A knife. A love. A death.
She sighed, and thought of something else.
White snow. So beautiful, so pure. As if in a trance, she covered up the canvas and stretched out a new one. She dipped her brush in the colors, so beautiful, so pure. She set the brush to the paper, as her brunette hair hung about her head in two loose braids.
There. Black all around, but then, into the black, shadowy images strayed. Pouring from her heart, her soul. White mixed with black to create grey. Grey ran from her brush in minute details... Wings, great, feathery, white angel wings stretched out across the page. Then there was a face, portrait-style, eyes gazing into dark blackness. A girl, with long, dark hair and deep, soulful eyes.
There was something in those eyes that called her.
Her hand seemed to have a life of its own. SHe sketched another person in dark grey. She could see it, there, a line, here. Dark hair, a firm jawline. The cheekbones just...so. Half in light, half in shadow. And behind him, jagged wings, rough and untamed. Darkness seeping into the light of the girl. Feathers flying, red, red, red. A smirk across his face. Fingers stroking the cheeks of the angel...
It frightened her somehow, this painting.
Her mind was a jumble when she turned around and looked at it. But she didn't dare stare long. She turned and painted something else. A meadow of flowers, a girl standing in the middle, laughing, dancing.
Only hours later could she turn around again and look at the painting. The colors contrasting, longing, sinister. And somehow, it drew her in, like nothing else.
Oh, how she wished she weren't so alone. How she wished the people in her paintings could come out and be with her, understand her pitiful fifteen-year-old self. How she wished they could bring to her the happiness and feeling in their worlds.
Later, she'd burn this painting. It was awful. A waste of time and resources.
She picked up a brush, with precious gold paint on it. Shimmering slightly, it curled on her her beauteous signature.
There, in the bottom right-hand corner of her painting, a hint of light. Her name.
As she set it into the flames, she watched the edges curl, dissolving into grey ash. Bit by bit, the crimson light ate up the darkness, until there was only a little bit left. A little patch of darkness, with two words written in gold.
In curling, beautiful letters, the name shriveled up in the fire, dissolving into the light as stars dissolve into the daytime...
Ryuzaki Sakuno.
She lifted her leg up, touching her knee to her nose. her toes pointed straight up. "Higher!" her trainer barked, and she did as bid to do. Someday...
But that was no matter. She went through her stretches slowly, until her muscles felt like they were burning and her eyes had watered up. But she held still. And then, in the utter silence, she laced up her skates so tight they hurt. She saw the expanse of pure ice before here, and knew what she had to do.
The music came on.
And all of a sudden, she was whirling, twirling at impossible speeds. She could feel the hardness of the floor beneath her, cold and unfeeling, as her heart had become, So that no matter how hard you struck the surface, in only scratched a little.
A triple-jump. She skated in twirls backwards. The bangles on her arms shook to the beat. Her defiantly pink hair trailed behind her as she speeded to the center. And a leap.
It was a move she'd never seen anyone else do, an incorporation of ballet into ice-dancing. She arched her back back...and back...till she'd touched the toe of her shoe with her fingertips. Her other leg stretched out in front of her, and soon, she was coming back down. She landed awfully, her leg all twisted up. She straightened.
The music stopped.
She went back to the center. She would try again.
And in the music, in the notes, there was like a story. A fairytale, even. Of love. Of hope. Of peace.
She started again, sliding out of a graceful pose, fairly flying around the rink. She could see how it would be. The people, all of them cheering for her. And she'd nod graciously and smile at them. They would be clapping, shouting her name, holding great posters that spelled it out. She would be gracious, like a queen.
She made the jump.
And they woul be cheering for her, shouting her name.
She missed the next jump.
Falling... She propped herself up and said, "again." The music started again, and she slid out of her graceful starting pose into a world where there was only her, the ice, and the music.
She could almost hear them... her name...
Hinamori Amu!
She let her hand slide across the page, the ink twitching madly between her fingers. The melody sounded in her head. Yes, like that -- it was beautiful that way. Note after note, a blot of ink with a thin line sticking out of it, notations and symbols that would be transformed into something beautiful.
Music is the poetry of the air.
She guided the pen across the paper, filling in the lines with endless notations. Subito. Crescendo. Decrescendo. Ritardo. Ped. They seemed to meld into the wazy whiteness, becoming a part of the collage in front of her. Breathlessly, she hummed the tune along with her quick work, jotting and noting the memory down.
Quickly, she turned her computer on. An update popped up, and she hit the 'X' furiously. "Hurry, hurry, hurry!" She muttered under her breath. She clicked the mouse so hard she thought it might break.
FinaleNote7 *
Working quickly, she copied the music into the computer. She watched the program process the information, and saw it start up. A RealTime window appeared in her bottom right screen. She clicked on it. There it was, her work. What it would sound like.
She felt a thrill at the sight of it. Reaching for the phone, she dialed a number. He picked up on the third ring.
"Hello?"
"Nii-san. I want you to listen to this. Tell me if it's good." Trembling slightly, she pressed the play button.
She was instantly enthralled by her own music. Deep and thought-evoking, it was beatiful beyond comprehension. Even on the computer-created file, it had a deeper meaning to it, an underlaying darkness.
She had poured her heart and soul into the music. The notes were like raindrops, falling as heaven's dew from the sky. Each one was unique, and had its own, distinctive sound. And in the middle of the pitter-patter of dewdrops, there was a melody. It was a beautiful melody, long and slow, hopeful and longing, yet filled with sorrow at the same time.
Like a spring day in the middle of winter. A snowfall in the embrace of summer's heat. A miracle where no miracle should happen.
As the final chords died down, she turned to the phone expectantly. "Well, how was it?" She asked, impatiently.
"Good..." She could hear the 'no' in his voice.
"What's wrong?"
"It was just..." there was reluctance in his voice. "You can't publish it yet."
"Why not?!" She could hear the anger in her own voice. She calmed down, "whyever not, nii-san?"
"The tune is too mature," she heard him explain, "and people will think you're a freak. Wait a couple of years. Write some happier songs. If a bad thing comes along in your life, by all means, publish it. All I am saying is..." he paused. "You're too young. People will sabotage your work. It could be copied by an older person."
"And nobody would trust you. Don't start with a song so good. Debut with something lighter, happier. Let this be your career hit." He stopped. There was silence for a while.
"If anybody were to take your work, they could easily convince the public it was theirs. How does a fifteen-year-old write a piece like this? Why would they trust you? They've never even heard of you!"
She couldn't take it anymore, so she hung up.
But that night, as she signed her name on the piece, she heaved a sigh. Her brother was right. Better to let it sit.
So she lifted up the lid of the heavy chest right beside her oakwood desk. She unlocked the lock and opened it. She slid the papers into the darkness, along with the RealTime disc. She watched as the notes faded into the darkness, until there was only a name. Her name.
Imai Hotaru. **
It had been little over a year since these happenings. But a lot can change in a year.
Mikan Sakura completed her debut novel in seven months. The young author was given a lot of publicity in the news, and "Η τέχνη του δόλου :: The Art Of Deceit" sold out quickly, over the period of four hours. Twenty million copies, out in five hours.
The book was on first love, true friendship, and elemental magic.
Within a period of half to one month, the book was translated into ten different languages. Every time one was printed, it literally walked off the shelf before it ever existed. Soon, it was in twenty, then twenty-five different languages. It was truly a miracle.
Ryuzaki Sakuno painted a series of artwork, entitled: "μαγεία", or 'magic'. A series on the 'elementals' of fire, water, earth, wind, light, and dark, the series consisted of twenty-seven paintings, each focused on the theme of one of four girls playing with magic.
The young painter soon became internationally recognized as one of the best painters of her age. Her paintings were sold for more than ten million dollars each, and many were placed in internationally recognized art museums.
She was recognized as a prodigy, her art a miracle.
Hinamori Amu became a wrold-known ice-dancer. She competed in all of the competitions and gave performances to many high-positioned people. She was especially well known for her unprecedented -- and perfectly executed -- quadriple jump.
There was also the fact that she could skate up to speeds of fourty miles per hour. She could even skate backwards up to speeds of thirty-two miles per hour.
One of the biggest set-apart things, however, was the way she skated pictures and words on the ice. Pictures of flowers, of water, of fire, or windy hurricanes. Words, names, her name... She became a model for many ice-skating and ice-dancing sellers. She was rich, famous, and beautiful. A far cry from what she was a year ago. A miracle.
Imai Hotaru debuted on one of the best-composed, non-classical pieces in the history of, well, non-classical-ness ***. She became something of a household name, her song played even by those who loved rock, not nearly-classical music. The melody of her happy, cheerful debut was often hummed by people.
Soon, her songs were used as backdrops to movies, the melodies loaned -- for a lot of money -- to singers. But the highest point, so far, of her career, was the moment she released her most well-known song, a sad, haunting tune of regrets and promises.
The like had never been heard before, except in the work of the classical and baroque greats. It was a miracle, as they say.
They also say that fate works in mysterious ways.
And that, it does.
The decade-ly Artists of the World Convention was held in Japan that year. The four top guests, of course, were the four great prodigies. It was the largest summit of nearly two decades, swarmed by media and artists, even non-artists pretending to be artists.
It was there that these four first met.
They really had nothing in common, except age, talent, money, fame, and...art. But they had much more in common than that.
And soon, all of their lives would be thrown into relative chaos -- even if it can't be called chaos already. Into danger, fear, hope, happiness, magic, and the supernatural, they would go.
And maybe even love, too.
Yes, these four girl who had always yearned for true love...would they find it?
And how? In this crowded, busy summit?
But as they say, fate works in mysterious ways. This time, it just decided to become Agatha Christie in its mysteries.
And even though you might think you know how it will turn out... Even though you might think you know what is best...
...Only fate knows what is best, in this game of deceit, love, and destiny.
Yes, only fate...
To Be Continued...
Footnotes:
* Actually, this is a real program. Finale, that is. It's an actual composing-on-the-computer thing. ^-^ Thought you might want to know.
** I don't believe anybody else has ever tried making Hotaru a composer. Or Mikan a writer (actually, I think I've seen one of a writer Mikan). Or Amu an ice-skater. (then again, I don't read much Shugo Chara fics.) Or Ryuzaki a painter. (mostly, tennis.) Or a GAxSCxPoT fic. How very original of me...
***I don't think that's a word. Oh well...
A/N:
Yes, I know, I should be focusing on my 'Untouchable', or 'Tears Falling On Shattered Glass' story. I know you like that best. But this idea has been haunting me for ages! So please, please, keep reading.
And while you're at it, leave me a review? Pretty, pretty please?
REVIEW~
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