Title: "Alone"
Author: Green Owl
Word Count: 481
Pairing: Rogue
Timeline: Unknown
Rating: G
Summary: "At about three years old, Momma guided my hands for the first time along the smooth, cool keys of one of your sisters, her Model 130 upright."
Disclaimer: I do not buy, sell, or process this mind!crack, I just abuse the hell out of it.
My favorite room in the mansion?
The music room, of course. Where else could I have found you, a perfectly tuned 9-foot, 6-inch Bösendorfer Imperial?
Sweet Jesus, you are possibly the most beautiful instrument ever made…sleek and supple, capable of producing nine sub-bass notes so I can play Bach, Ravel and my dark love, Debussy, as they were meant to be heard.
You stood alone in that huge house, perfectly in tune, but lonely because no one but the Professor was there to play with you.
I found you that first day. Sat down and ran my hand along your keyboard cover. It's how I introduced myself. You didn't bite or cringe. You seemed to sort of…you know, sigh. One of those soft, elegant purrs of contentment, a magnificent sleeping cat being rubbed just the right way.
I felt brave enough to lift the cover and play the opening notes of "Pathetique."
From the first moment I set my fingers to your bones, you became "Fantasia." I touched you and I was the Childlike Empress, young again, born again, through sheet music and memories.
Don't you worry, your Marie will always be here to sing with you.
You said you wanted to know my favorite memory?
At about three years old, Momma guided my hands for the first time along the smooth, cool keys of one of your sisters, her Model 130 upright.
Her hair was falling around us like a soft cloud of blackberry satin, brushing against my shoulders. The smell of lavender and baby powder was drifting from her clothes, merging with the aroma of lemon furniture polish and the faint scent of fabric softener. The notes blended seamlessly as she hummed in tune, little droplets of singing water, sliding along the strands of a spider's web.
Soft and gentle, the melody comes back to me no matter how many years have passed.
First sound the tonic of A major, then ascend softly to the mediant…oh, you are glorious, sugar.
There are others that come a close second.
Her face, the last thing I saw before I went to bed at night. Her lips, cool and soft against my forehead. Her hands, tucking the sheet and blanket around me.
"Sweet dreams, sweetheart…"
Rocking me when I skinned my knee. Kissing the "ouch" to make it better. Blowing gently on the cut after she applied the hydrogen peroxide.
"My brave little girl…"
Holding me tight through the nightmares. Brushing my hair from my face. Drying my tears with the soft cotton handkerchief she always carried.
"It's all right, baby. I'm here. No one's gonna hurt you…"
Just a handful of memories from the time before, but they're mine…maybe that's what makes them so precious.
And some days I can even forgive God, because he could never really take her from me.
Not when I have you to help me remember.
Author Notes:
I wrote this in the summer of 2003.
I came into this fiction with an image: Marie sits in the cavernous music room in the mansion, playing a piano, just as her mother did in one of the opening scenes of X-Men. Wouldn't Marie have had piano lessons, too? The damn bunny affixed itself to my bum and then began chewing (demanding that I create a story to go around it).
The time Marie spends with the piano is her time with her mother, who she cannot be close to except by telephone and letter; there is no comfort for her in her mother's touch, only death. But when she plays, the piano comes alive under her hands and rejoices that someone can finally appreciate her. For so long she'd been surrounded by children who hadn't the faintest idea how to treat such a great lady as a Bösendorfer Imperial.
Speaking of the Boze Imps, you ever seen one of those? They're huge. We're talking 9 feet, 6 inches, accommodates the slinkiest chanteuse. A man sits down to one of those things and you just know he's over-compensating, but a woman who plays an Imp has some serious chutzpah. They're the empresses of all pianos, handcrafted over a seven-year period from wood that has to be taken at just the right time in January, when the sap is especially low.
It gives me a thrill to imagine even touching one. Please visit Bardstown Audio, a Kentucky-based recording studio, that features a "sampled piano" program and has mp3s of the Imperial reproduced in a digital format. Delicious!
Another mon pauvre Marie (MPM) fic, this one was inspired by Jennifer Garner, my mother, and the aforementioned Bösendorfer Imperial, this was the first song by Evanescence that I paid attention to. Oh, I heard "Bring Me to Life", but "My Immortal" was something that reached out beyond the "Gee, that's cool" reaction to touch something deep inside.
I spent quite a bit of time in front of the computer battling some serious eye leakage over this. My own recollections of my mother are numerous, many of them not the happiest because as we all know, childhood is rough no matter what the circumstances. But the earliest memories that I have of my mother are all tinged with a sense of warmth, safety, and touch.
And that's what I wanted to bring to this story. Marie can play and be transported to that idyllic time when her mother first introduced her to the piano. There is warmth and tenderness once again.
Evanescence's Ben Moody wrote "My Immortal" when he was fifteen years old. Lead singer Amy Lee gave its simple lyrics an emotional complexity and depth which underscored Jennifer Garner's mood in the funeral scene in Daredevil. It is, without a doubt, a haunting and beautiful piece of music.