Ode to Joy
You've always been a musician. For as long as you had any sort of coordination, you've banged things together to a beat. For as long as you could talk, you've sung. For as long as you could whistle, you've whistled a tune whenever you lose your train of thought. It only made sense that you would take private lessons on an instrument, if only to let the music flow. You never quite got the hang of proper piano hand position, though you always enjoyed the higher notes. Logically, your teacher one day brought a flute for you to try, and from that day forward you were a flautist.
That was when you were four.
When you were five, it was more common to see other trolls your age who played an instrument. Sometimes for fun, you would be put into a group with them to practice playing together and listening, or something. Of course, you never wanted to be the one to drag the ensemble down. So you practiced almost every night. It became such a habit that soon it stressed you out to have nights when you couldn't fit flute into the schedule. As your technique improved, the screeching notes of yestersweep transformed into sweet sounds that soothed you on a bad night.
When you were six, everything changed. Suddenly life as you knew it was over and you were stuck in a neverending game, in which every discovery made you lose hope. Yet, it was in your nature to research more, more, more. There had to be a way out.
But when there was none, whenever something led to a dead end, you turned to your flute to calm you down. For a little while, you could forget that scratching was looking to be the only option. For a little while, you felt like a normal troll again. For a little while, you were really alive.
You died at the age of nine.
However, instead of being erased from existence, you had an eternity to spend in bubbles created by barely-fathomable horrors.
Again, you turned to your flute not only to bring you to a calm state, but also to entertain yourself. Despite having knowledge and the ability to watch the new universe, millions of sweeps was still a long time. You even had time to learn other instruments. Only a few, of course. Learning violin, cello, all brass instruments, oboe, soprano saxophone, bass clarinet and a little piano(playing any of the gigues by Troll Mozart was a small feat, no really!) was unimpressive compared to all the time you had.
However, only playing flute made you feel a little less dead. Almost like you could open your eyes and the music would have started your body's heart and transported it to the post-scratch universe a moment before the bomb the Meenah had brought exploded.
At any rate, things changed again when your post-scratch ancestor(descendant? Dancestor?) died permanently. Like you, she was also a god when she died. Unlike you, she was never a musician. Though time spent with the doomed version of one of the aliens made her try.
Soon, you started to feel somewhat… inadequate when Vriska emulated Mindfang more than you ever could. Though you tried to play to soothe your nerves and purge these feelings, they only amplified. You could feel your heart beating, the blood rushing to your face in embarrassment, inadequacy, and a want…. A need to be better. You were genetically identical to Mindfang. Though one could argue Nature vs. Nurture, you still were closer to Mindfang than Vriska. And you were not a nobody.
Your change of wardrobe was only the first part in the New Aranea. Or should you say, Mindfang.
You had always liked the sound of it.
Tapping into your mental abilities only boldened you further. Vriska claimed that you were the one helping, but you were the one doing most of the work and you knew that. You played along while Vriska talked herself up and acted like her plan was for sure going to work.
You knew better of course. As a god, dead for millions of sweeps, you had an inconceivable intellectual advantage, along with being much more powerful and fully realized. It was only a matter of time until you came up with a far superior plan that wouldn't just stop Lord English. It would prevent him.
In fact, you ended up thinking of it before educating everyone on cherubs. It was during the interfishin you knew you were going to do it.
Because if playing flute made you feel this alive, then imagine what being alive again and relevant would feel like.
It was all within reach.
You put your flute down. You wouldn't need it where you were going. Its tenuous connection to life was nothing compared to what was coming.
Your name is Aranea Serket, and as your raise your hand to your forehead to focus your mind, you will soon no longer be a dead god.
You always felt more alive when you played flute. But it was time to put down such childish diversions.