Inspired by Anais Mitchell - Of A Friday Night.
O.G.
Again, the man appeared, on the third stroke that told the small town of Sigtuna that it was 11 o'clock, far past the bedtime of the small Nordic town. The old bell dulled by age that seemed even more present at this time. It's echo falling on only a few ears.
And yet, the man, as he did everyday for the past five years, checked his pocket watch with black gloved hand, the other gripping the handle of a worn leather case. The pocket watch in his hand, if one were to look closer, did not match the rest of the towns local stranger. He was unique, mysterious, clothed in the finest black suites and softest leather shoes, cloak nearly engulfing his spindly form in shadow, the only light his fiery eyes lurking behind a deep black mask. The pocket watch on the other hand was mundane, plane with nothing at all special about it say for the age, the one commonality with its owner. It bore no cover, no decoration say for the scratches formed over the years. It's glass was cracked, almost to the point one could not make out the time behind it. Almost.
Upon its forth toll the man wound the watch, his figure stiff, unyielding. Though, if one, one person would look closer at this shadow, they would note in his eyes, on that forth toll, there was for a that instant, a slight softening, a breath of something he claimed to have long ago given up on. To whom he claimed this to, even he was not sure. For a long time now, he was not sure of anything.
By the seventh toll he would have replaced the watch in his pocket, eyes back to their impassable fires. The only heat in the cold night. The few who dared peaked their heads out to see him, often claimed he was a spectral, haunting the entrance to an old tavern that had burnt down many years ago. The fewer still who lived close to the old tavern that did in fact look, however could not deny he was flesh, as his breath would always appear as a faint cloud in the frozen air around him, signifying some form of life. For many this was the only indication he was something of this Earth, as his presence always seemed to be one of another world, a world long past.
The 9th toll. On the 10th day of the 10th month, the rain picked up. Battering his clothes, mask, and hat which pooled water and caused a slight waterfall over its tilted brim. But as always, this caused no change in him whatsoever, further giving the sense he did not belong with those who would shake and freeze, giving into mortal please of safety in warmth above all else. However he did acknowledge the rain in one way.
Instead of placing his clack case on the ground directly at his feet, facing the old Church, he opted to place it behind him, in the shelter of the ruins withering awning. Here he stepped back slightly, just enough to where his left side was covered.
By the eleventh stroke, he opened the case to reveal a warm maple violin. He lifted it, as he did every night, as one would when picking up their child for the first time. Somehow, despite the changes from a warmed home to the cold air, it remained in tune, as he never touched the pegs at the top. He simply placed the delicate instrument under his chin, the veil of his mask the thinnest separation between his touch and the instruments.
And with one swift movement of his right hand, wielding the bow, he began to play.
It was, as it had been for many years now, a cry. A raw, desperate plea of emotion that both captivated and wounded all who hears. It's pain and longing so real, so tangible, was somehow woven into beauty a small town such as this did not deserve. It could not possibly be coming from a man of flesh and conflict, and yet here it was, music of a sorrow far too great to rectify by mear condolences.
On he played, telling the story of deep melancholy so few could understand but all were mesmerized. Then finally the hour chimed, it's echo responding on, amplifying the last note. The toll that marked the end of the funeral.
Silence, one so strong and expectant that the raging storm seemed to be in hushed anticipation. All waited.
No one came.
The man studied the street for seconds more before moving to pack up. The spell broken the wind howled it's displeasure.
And that was when there was a change in the small town.
A figure cautiously emerged from the alley next to him. He froze in his movement, no one had ever dared to interrupt his mourning. Yet she herself was oddly fitting in the song that had just been played. Covered head to toe in solid black. A mourning dress that was normally worn early on but this one looked old. Well loved and worn. In his subconscious it reminded him of a friend from years ago who wore a similar dress that was less cumbersome than the attire before him. However she was too small to be that long lost friend. Very frail and fragile, judging by the way her sleeves clung to her skin. There was a slight, constant, tremor there that did not go unnoticed by Erik.
The hat she wore had a veil around it, entirely blocking her face. Water pooled on it and trailed down it's silk much like it did Erik's veil on the bottom half of his mask. It was slightly eerie, he realized, not being able to see the others face or expression. Though he, the eternal mask user, would never acknowledge such a thing to anyone.
For a while they stood there, staring at one another. He did not care speak first, wishing to answer her accusations and be done. But he was rather curious to what she had to say all the same. Slowly, she spoke in a voice that, had perhaps at once, sounded beautiful. It was high, but now either with age or smoking- he could not tell- it was like sharp gravel, a dying woman in her last days of hospice. He could tell she was hesitant and he had no doubt it was partially from shame for her voice, so utterly ruined, but still he listened, gold eyes alert as she asked "Are you cold sir? Seems like an awfully chilly night f-for a concert."
He blinked in surprise for a moment, rather taken aback by her question. Then what was almost a smile formed on his severe, thin, lips. This thin little thing was asking him, a man well over two meters, why he played in the cold. He was about to continue when she added hurriedly "A-and I… Why do you play? Even on nights like this?"
He cocked his head in thought. "Am I cold? Yes. Do I care? No. Why do I play? Because I made a promise… And why are you out on a cold night like this? I have been doing this for a while now. Why have you only now asked?"
She looked down and Erik could bet money she blushed. "I-I… Was unwell at first. When I first. I was unwell at first when I first came here. Then my employment kept me away at this time… Now I work somewhere else and can actually hear you… I am out because I-I" She had to pause and Eriks brow knitted as she seemed confused. Then she continued "Now I work somewhere else and can actually hear you… What um… What um was your other question? I… get confused sometimes."
Slowly he nodded. Erik had seen it in Persia on occasion. Memory issues. Most likely from trauma. Thankfully he knew how to deal with this and took it in stride. "That was all I asked… Do you have any more questions?"
She seemed to be lost in thought. Then she turned her head and asked in as soft of a voice as she could manage "What do you call that piece you were playing?"
He studied her for a moment. In a way she reminded her of himself. The potential to be more but something far out of their control stunting them. Perhaps that was why his response was purposefully smoother. Soothing. "Does everything need a name?"
She thought about it for a minute and he supposed she sounded almost happier as she said "I suppose not… But it is nice to know the names of people. I'm Rose… Just Rose. You sir? You sir? You sir? Do you have a name? You sir do you have a name?"
From experience he could tell she was getting flustered and the rain was not helping. So he answered rather quickly, moving to make sure all he needed was in place. "Erik… Rose, come here. Under my cloak… Would you allow me to walk you home miss Rose? I fear the storm might start flooding soon."
She 'looked' at him with what he could guess was shyness before stepping forward. She paused. For a brief second, as if something was bothering her. But then it soon passed and she was under his cloak.
Then walked in silence for a minute before she asked, her voice a bit clearer than before "Who were you playing for?"
That stumped him for a minute as she continued to lead them down the cold cobble streets. Who was he playing for really? His past? Hopes that had faded? Mourning the loss of a life? A memory? It was only when they stopped at her door that he finally said, more to himself now, as he was almost positive she had forgotten her question,"Ghosts… I am playing for what I am and was… I am playing for ghosts…"
O.G.
I don't want to spoil too much but this one is definitely a change of pace of me, and has been longer in my docs that i care to admit. Please review! I am excited for where this one is going!