A Harp Plays In Santa Fina, a stravaganza fanfic

A Harp Plays In Santa Fina

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Stravaganza

The summer sunlight glanced off the worn grey cobblestones of the piazza, warming the face of a young man who sat by the fountain playing a harp. His long tanned fingers danced across the instrument; a sweep of long black hair fell into his face as he moved his head to the rhythm of his music. The notes rippled through the air like raindrops in a pond, touching the hearts of every listener; there was a sense of yearning, of dreams long cherished and hopes long kept secret, blooming to the surface of every soul.

~Cesare~

I hear the distant rumble of the drums in the parade, the clop-clop of Arcangelo's hooves as he surges forward beneath me, his mane streaming in the wind like a banner of victory. I hear the roar of a thousand voices cheering me on and the furious pounding of my own heart. I close my eyes and I can see them, waving red and yellow flags, tossing their hats into the air as the dust whirls above the track.

I hear the squeals and laughter of my little sisters, the gentle voice of my stepmother and my father's low baritone saying, We are proud of you.

~Luciano~

The sound of that harp reminds me of my mother playing the violin. I can almost see her, bending and swaying with the music, holding the instrument close to her cheek. She used to stand behind me and guide my hands, showing me how to hold the violin and bow. She smelled clean and warm, like soap; never perfume.

We used to play duets together while Dad listened, sitting cross-legged in the old brown armchair, smiling and shaking his head as if he couldn't believe that his prosaic self had ended up living with two musicians. We never could get him to criticize our performances properly; he always thought we were perfect.

The last time I saw my mother, she was wearing black for me. There was a grey streak in her hair I'd never seen before. There are no violins in Talia. Will I never hear her play again?

~Georgia~

His music makes me want to cry. It maks me think of white roses, five minutes of silence in the school auditorium, Tom Dee's voice cracking in the middle of his poem, the organ at the funeral blanketing the air with heavy throbbing notes like sobs. I cried at your funeral, Lucien, until my throat was raw and my eyes were caked with salt. How was I to know you weren't really dead?

Do you remember how you used to joke with me about Ms. Yates, our manic conductor at the youth orchestra? Do you remember the day we walked to your house together under one umbrella, arm in arm? When you died in my world and became Talian for good, did you think about me at all?

You don't even see me, Lucien - standing there with the sunlight turning your black curls silver, your brown eyes feathered with laughlines from squinting into the light. You're about as far away as the marble statues in the streets.

~Gaetano~

Dia, the man plays like an angel. I simply must find out his name. That melody – what does it remind me of? It has a certain sweetness, a certain melancholy...it must be a love song, if I only knew the words.

If Francesca were here, she'd laugh and tease me for being sentimental. Never mind that we promised to marry each other as children; we should have known that in this family, there would be no choice about it.

Where is she now? Did they really marry her off to some fat old councillor in Bellezza? What does she look like – the wild girl I remember, her white legs flashing as she ran through the gardens with her skirts picked up, her brown eyes shining like a deer's? I suppose they make her wear corsets now and pile her hair into a crown, just like any other young noblewoman. Undoubtedly the Duchessa will be very stylish; Bellezzan women always are, I'm told.

Arianna Rossi, girl-ruler of Bellezza. Who is she? Can she be half as beautiful as my memories of Francesca? How can I marry a girl I've never seen, paternal decrees to the contrary?

I wish we were free, Francesca. Free of this ridiculous, power-hungry clan of ours. But most of all, I simply wish you were here.

~Falco~

I have to pinch myself to remember I'm not dreaming. Here I am standing next to Geatano, my dearest brother, with the sweet taste of apricot and melon crystals in my mouth, for the first time in two years. Even the pain in my crippled leg seems to be fading in the charm of this magical day, the day Gaetano and I are finally friends again.

I do not blame you, Brother. It was not your fault that I stole your horse for a ride, tried to jump him over a fence, killed him and smashed my leg in the process. I have spent two years in hell since then, but the divine music of this harper offers me, for the first time, a glimpse of heaven.

~Enrico~

I'm not one of your music lovers. Never could afford it, if you take my meaning. When you've been knocked around by this harsh world until you'll literally kill for a handful of silver, you don't have time for mooning over a tinkly tune. But – and this is really quite embarrassing – this fellow's plucking strings does something inside of me.

The last time I listened to a street busker was with Giuliana. She was holding my arm and laughing, her hair blowing in my face with the wind from the sea. I danced her around on the curb, pretending to almost dip her into the canal, and she tossed a few coins to the old flute player 'for a beautiful moment', she said.

Was it the reward money for being the Duchessa's double, like she said? Or was she seeing some rich bugger back then already? Because I haven't seen hide nor hair of her since the day I bumped off the Duchessa. Could my Giuliana, the only human being I've ever cared for, really have jilted me for another man without even telling me?

Hell, I always thought she was honest. I thought she cared if nobody else did.

Otherwise how could she promise to marry me in spite of her father's temper? How could she cling to my arm the way she did, smile up at me with her eyes like open windows and laugh like a little girl?

She must have loved me once.

~Raffaella~

Sometimes Aurelio's otherworldliness annoys me. "My music is not for money," he declares loftily, without concerning himself over how we will put bread on the table. I have never told him about the collection I take up while he plays; perhaps he does not know. Although it would not surprise very much if he did; why should he not hear the shuffle of my boots among the crowd and the jingle of coins falling into his velvet hat?

Sometimes he really does seem otherworldly - an angel or a spirit - even to me, though we have traveled side by side for so long. When I hear him weaving magic with his harp, I feel that the whole world should step softly around us; I want to halt the carts and horses, silence the barking dogs and chattering people, and make them stand and listen. This is a power Aurelio has, though he would never call it power.

Sometimes the thought of his blindness hurts me until my own eyes burn. Why should this beautiful, pure-hearted man be deprived of the sights of sunshine, the soaring towers of Santa Fina, the tear-wet faces of his audience? Oh my Goddess, if only those blue eyes of his could see, I would ask no other blessing in this world.

~Aurelio~

I can feel it. Threads of my listeners' hope and fear, love and hate, hope and longing interweaving in the air as I play. I play for the people standing around me, for their ambitions, their romances and sorrows. I play for the healing of souls and minds. I play for Raffaella's delight, and to remind her once more not to pity me – although I cannot see, I know the beauty of the world through my ears, my nose and every pore of my skin.

I play for the Goddess's companion warming my face with His beams, for the wind singing in my ears and the seagull calling above me. I play for the sake of playing. I play for love.