"The Pianist"
~Prologue~
Once upon a time, there's a castle; surrounded by trees that bend into arches and rivers that bend and turn around it into circles. The castle itself is marvelous in its height as it towers it's neighboring forests and molehills. Awe-inspiring in the bright sun of dawn to the intimate glimmer of dusk. The walls are white marble, red and gold flags shimmy in the breeze. Oh, but the sky isn't a clear blue-at least not today. The clouds, grey as the bleakest night, invade these skies like hands; hands of beggars reaching for something they cannot get to. It isn't long until the first drop of rain falls.
A low, melancholy sound drifts from the west tower of the castle. Balcony doors opened, and curtains billowing. Tan fingers, long and skilled, fly gracefully over the keys of the small oak piano. A constrated look on the master's face, his tongue just overhanging his bottom lip.
High note to low note, a soft river of this melancholy tune surrounds him; his painted world surrounding him in various hues and colours. Like the real world is naught but a vague memory-
"Ahem." He stops abruptly, standing up quickly; nearly knocking over the vase of flowers that stand just on the top cover of the piano. His eyes are set in a tight, blank mask as he stares at the pathetic servant man standing at the door; the poor soul is fidgeting with a loose string on his tunic. The master clears his throat, clasping his hands behind his back and glaring at the fellow.
"What?!" He half yells, half orders. The servant man swallows fearfully, not making eye contact- the master detests eye contact from any body that is not his mother or father or any other family member.
"Uh..I-I...it's.."
"Speak up." He orders in a clipped tone, the servant looks up but his eyes fall to the left. His fingers gone from fidgeting with that loose string to knotting them together in anxious nerves.
"I-I...your parents call for you-"
"Blast it," the master mutters, running a hand through his hair; dark brown that is always in a ponytail just at the base of his neck, a blue tie tying it in place. His blue eyes hidden beneath dark, thick lashes. "Why didn't you come sooner if my parents have been calling for me?"
"Well-"
"Nevermind." He says cruelly, "Just go about your chores. Now. Go!" The servant man swallows more prominently, and turns quickly to leave the masters room. He pinches the bridge of his nose theatrically, tiredly, before he clears his throat and picks off the invisible lint that always seems to be on his shoulder and arms. He walks out of the double doors of the sitting room that is adjointed to his bedchamber. He sighs real quick, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his breeches and walking out of his bedchamber and to his parents chamber-wait, it's the middle of the day; perhaps they are in the library..most likely. His mother favours a good book over anything else after the noon meal.
The hall is marble and granite with streams of white gold, giving the illusion of one walking on glass. His heels clack on the ground, his mind drifting to the song he played on the piano before he was rudely interrupted. 'Stupid servant' he grumbles mentally, 'I'd have his head...but no, mother and father say 'no'.' He rolls his eyes, he is nearly 19 years; a man, he should make some rules around here...but alas, his parents treat him as if he's 9. 9!
Exiting the hall, he enters the foyer; entry of a large doublestair case that looms over it greatly; red and gold flags that wave proudly the emblem that was once spread all over the village before Evans took over. 'One day,' he thinks, 'We'll have our land back'- "Our land, our ruling, our-"
"Troy," he doesn't even jump at the voice, he knows who it is.
"Father." He says in the same clipped tone he used prior on his servant. "You and mother-"
"Have been meaning to speak with you." Does he turn around? No.
"What is it you want then? I'm here." A deep sigh, he can picture his father pinching the bridge of his nose and crossing his well-muscled arms over his chest and just before he speaks, his mother, Lorana, steps out from behind the double door of the library and takes a tentative step toward her only son and heir.
"Troy, we must talk about your behaviour...how-how you need to be more kind-"
"Kind." He scoffs, spitting the word on his tongue like he has just drank a vile of acid, he spins on his heel to face his parents. "Kind? Am I not?"
"No, you are not." David, former king David Bolton, sneers at his son, taking a dangerous step forward. "I doubt you know the meaning of the very word-you act like a spoiled child, expecting everything to be handed to you-"
"Cause it is!" Troy yells in a raised voice, "everything is handed to me! I ask, I receive! That's how I grew up!"
"But it's not how we raised you!" Lorana screams, it's the same with him. Always. Troy shakes his head, "if you've called me to have this conversation again then I'll be in my room for the rest of the day, and I'll see you both at supper."
"Fine." David says through gritted teeth, "might as well stay up there rest of the night then-"
"Don't punish me, father." Troy sneers, "you've tried that when I was a boy...it didn't work. I always get what I want, taking no prisoners." Slap! His head snaps to the right, Lorana's hand stings from the pressure she put behind the hit; she doesn't say anything after that, just stares into the blue eyes that matched his fathers. Troy doesn't flinch a finger, a palm or even a hand to place on his cheek. He holds her gaze.
"I love you Troy...but not when you are-are...are this beast." She whispers, turning around and walking down the left side of the double stairs; her dark brown hair flouncing its curls until she hit the landing. David grabs his son by the shoulders and forces him to see into his eyes.
"Behave." He hisses, "I am not afraid to take leather hide to your ass and beat it till it's read! Your mother and I love you a great deal-" Troy yanks himself from his father's grasp.
"If it's pity or guilt that your trying to bestow upon me-"
"No." David says, "I just want my son back. Me and your mother both do, you're not the same as the child that grew up here." Troy looks after his father, watching him walking down the same flight of stairs that Lorana had walked down; he heaves a great sigh and turns on his heel to walk back to his bedchamber. His fingers itching and twitching to the play that same, melancholy melody.
Hours have passed, the clock tolls the hour as eight thirty. Troy hasn't left his bedchamber, and he most certainly hasn't eaten anything yet; he suspects his parents have left, usually after fights- even ones as bad as this one -they'd come up and they all sit around while Troy plays the piano in a flawless flourish. But tonight? Nothing. His bedchamber doors remain closed and locked tight. His shoulders has an edge to them; the tenseness set by the argument that he had had with his parents earlier...but, somehow this tenseness seems...different. Stopping his flourish, he stands from his piano- his fingers running on the smooth surface. He looks at the door again, nothing.
His shoes click on the stone floor, his fingers curve around the handle and he swiftly pulls it open to an eerily quiet hallway. He takes a step out in the hall, feeling suddenly very anxious- like something is about to jump out at him. His breathing is shallow and his steps are cautious. "Mother?" He calls out, looking over his shoulder occasionally, "Father?" No response to both, he reaches the foyer; pausing at the top of the stairs to look over the large, white marble foyer. A smile forming his lips in a small curve. When the days that his family did rule, they'd host parties and balls; both of the most elegant and grandest form; the pleasantries that these memories make him feel...he almost sighs; and he would've, had he not heard a ratitat tapping noise on the door. He looks around for his servants, he is tempted to call out for them but resigns against the urge; he has two legs and feet right? Sneering at the thought, he walks down the stairs his parents walked down and to the huge, massive double door at the entrance.
"What is it?!" He barks, the door is open and he's staring at three faces; three identical faces. Their eyes are shrewd and taut in the meekest of squints, their hair; dark but with grey strands; clings to their faces with water droplets that had fallen- that are falling.
"Kind sir," the middle one says softly, her nose a giant hook hanging off her face and on the very tip is a mole the size of Troy's thumb nail. "It is cold and wet, as are my sisters and I, would you mind if we stay for the night to-"
"Yes, I would mind. Go away." He almost shuts the door, but one of the woman shouts in a withered, pleading voice, so he opens the door and crosses his arms over his chest; he loves to hear pleading when he has the mood for it. It...amuses him. "Shelter?" He asks, "that's what you seek?"
The three women nod anxiously, their wet hair flopping about their faces. He smirks, "then...what do you have for payment?" Their eyes slightly widen, but the one on the left looks at him under scrutiny.
"We ask you kindly for shelter from this storm and you ask for payment?"
"My castle-"
"It's a simple, generous gesture we ask for...we have naught but three pieces of bread in our pockets!" Troy rolls his eyes, leaning his hip against the door and sneering at the three of them.
"My castle; my parents and mine, really, we don't let just anyone in-"
"FOOL!" The one on the left yells, jabbing a crooked finger at his chest. "Your parents are kind-hearted people; to everyone and you! Yet you treat them like dogs! Like...filthy mongrels that sleep in dirt and eat dead carcasses! If you so feel that way about your own parents-"
"You dare speak to me in such a manner?!" He yells back, he waves a hand at them and shoves the third one back with a harsh roughness. "Away with all of you! You get no shelter!" The door slams shut, the three women stand there with bravado and link their hands together, their eyes shut and their lips trembling as they send prayers and whispers up to that tower window where Troy had stomped off too; heavy, loud, and deep piano notes drifting through the air to the three pairs of ears below.
His fingers fly over the keys of the piano with languid grace, his muscles tense and his eyes nearly closed as the angry passion flows out of him and into the music that pours from the ebony keys. His breath coming out in ragged puffs, his shoulders hunch over as he plays and plays...and then he abruptly stops when a strong wind comes - literally - from nowhere; he's picked up and thrashed against the wall. A shrill scream enters both his ears and rattles his head; his arms seem to be pinned at his sides, he can only kick his legs.
Then there's the voices; whispering and yelling and hissing inside his head, he thrashes his chin from side to side as he kicks his legs on the wall. Blast! Where's his mother and father? What's happening?
"Fool!" A voice hisses in his ear, at the same sudden moment when he's thrown onto the piano edge, he sucks in a breath of pain when the base of his spine hits the hard oak.
"Who are you?!" He yells over the strong wind; this is not a natural wind...natural wind does not pick up a person like it has two hands. "Answer me!-oof!" his head snaps to the side, he falls to ground where his he catches his fall with his palms.
"You have a soul that's as ugly as the ugliest face one can imagine; the ugliest that a man can be born with!" The wind surrounds him, he can barely lift his head to see that the wind has colour...and is falling to mesh together to form a person; a being. When it's finished blending and meshing, he's in awe of what's in front of him.
A woman, with long black hair to the floor and a gown of red and black and white gossamer and satin. Her eyes are blank but with a kindness, her skin is smooth dark chocolate; her teeth are shimmering white as she opens her mouth to speak. Her voice is...something that Troy hasn't heard before; but he's heard them before. Yes, 'them'...the woman-this ONE woman- spoke with the three conjoined voices of the woman he turned away at the door moments prior to this.
He hasn't felt more terrified. "Who are-"
"You treat your mother and father like mongrels...like dirt that's beneath you." He swallows, "What do you want-"
"Hush!" She shushes, waving her hand and from the bodice of her gown she pulls out a stick with knots in the fine wood, at the tip is a fine point and a glowing diamond. "You cannot treat your parents like the humans they are; like the man and woman who gave you life and brought you into this world! Like dogs you treat them, so dogs they shall become!" She waves the stick, in a sweeping motion that ends in a grand circle. "And you..." she points a perfect, slender finger at him and he feels his eyes widen slightly.
"Please..." he whispers, he won't beg. He doesn't beg. "What do you wan-"
With her three voices, she spoke, "when you saw us at the door...you turned us away. Because we are different? Because we aren't like you."
"No-"
"Yes!" The three voices from one throat yell, jabbing the finger at him again. "With your eyes you don't- and you refuse -to see anything that is good in life! Therefore your punishment shall be-"
"No!" He yells,managing to stand on his shaking legs. "What have I done to deserve-"
"You know what you've done!" The three voices yell, "and it is not just you being punished! Your parents! Your servants! Everyone in this castle residing shall be punished!"
"I've done nothing!" Troy yells, trying shove passed the woman but she grabs at his neck and tosses him upon the wall; holding him tight by the shoulder and her wand waving in front of his eyes. Her eyes are dark and flat; void of any sort of emotion as her three voices speak with the same benevolent tone.
"You refuse to see good with your eyes, there for you must learn to see with your heart. Your gift of music the only beautiful thing we're leaving with you...the only beautiful thing that may be able to salvage what's left of your soul, Troy Bolton." He closes his eyes, turning his face away from her but he hears her murmur and whisper and it's not long before he feels himself being dropped on the hard marble of his floor; his hands not catching his fall, his shoulder cracking slightly under the pressure. He just lies there, his eyes still closed and his breathing harsh and erratic.
And then he opens them...he see's nothing. Blackness.
He waves a hand in front of his face, he cannot see his action being performed.
He screams.
New story! For the New Year! :) I am obsessed with plot lines that happen in the 16-1700s. Even the 1800s I'm obsessed with! I'm so born in the wrong century! Anyway, tell me what you think of the prologue in a review!
I want to try something new. Troy is going to start off being spoiled; a spoiled, selfish cur. You'll see more in later chapters on how he'll change how he is. Anyway, yeah...
The first official chapter will be posted on Dec. 31st; New Years Eve people! :D
~Elena
