Interlude of Crystal
A Short Revolt One-Shot by Kal Ancalas
Author's Note: Okay, I lied.
This story is barely about Revolt, much less Maple at all. This is just something I felt like writing, because I could. (And because I didn't want to do the mountains of homework due in 12 hours.) For all intents and purposes, it's something I could (and should) have put on FictionPress instead, with a few minor changes. I just put it in this section on a whim.
As noted above, you won't understand this story at all if you haven't read a good part of Revolt, and maybe even if you have. At the very least, you need to have read enough to understand the pasts of the two characters in this story (who, by the way, aren't mentioned by name, so you'll have to do a little thinking to figure it out. Hey, nothing in life is easy. Live with it.)
In accordance with the above statement, there are a few subtle points that you probably won't get while reading this story. That's fine. I'm not trying to pull an Ernest Hemingway thing here, but just to let you know. If I get comments saying "well its a good story but theres no point in it", well, so be it. I'm not exactly in the best of moods, anyway.
It should be obvious that I got the inspiration from this story while playing the flute. (No, you geniuses, the piano.) If it sounds like I'm in a less-than-good mood, then I apologize- I'm not trying to offend anyone directly, but I'm just having one of those days.
One of the reasons I wrote this (and maybe why I'm feeling crappy at the moment) is because of an event in my personal life (yeah, I have one), and no, it has nothing to do with my crappy interim grades, though those certainly didn't help. Yep, you read right. I'm being angsty over a girl.
I don't want to and won't go into it, because I have reason to believe there are quite a few people reading this stuff that shouldn't be, and it would really suck if one of those people found out that this story was the result of hormones. However, just know that this story is ultimately not so much a rant about my crappy personal life than it is just a angst-ish romantic-ish scenario in Revolt that raises the "What if they..." question, though there certainly are parallels.
By the way, just in case you're wondering, I don't play the piano nearly half as well as described below. I don't know exactly what the proctors for my exam were thinking when they allowed me to go to Vienna, but it must have been some pretty strong crap.
In conclusion: Crappy emoish story about two Revolt characters which kind of mirrors my own life, read, review, and (don't) enjoy.
The clock strikes twelve at the very instant she awakes. She arises, scatters the slumber from her pearls of crimson. Raindrops of moonlight stream through the window shutters, leaving light where there was once dark.
For the most part, though, there is nothing; nothing except herself in the midst of night. It rushes and swirls around her, nearly drowning her in its wake. Darkness like water, perhaps, or blood- a sanguine wave of shadow that shrouds all in its path with unfeeling black.
She shakes her head, reaches down, and flicks on the bedside lamp. Light quickly banishes the darkness through the window as she blinks, adjusting her pupils to the glare.
All that remains of the former night rests on her finger, glimmering in crystal form.
Silently, she perches herself on the edge of the bed and remembers the reason why she woke in the first place.
The pain has returned.
It forces her back, drives her down into the mattress as hard as stone. It reduces her from person, from being, to a specter of shattered dreams.
She would gladly have paid for her memories with her soul, but they are long gone. Nothing stays, save for the one night that changed her forever; the night when fate had slain her world and let it bleed at her feet.
The ivory handle of her bow gleams at the side of her bed, perched upon the floor and gazing at her with all the authority that malachite and obsidian can gather.
She is about to reply when a sudden burst of physical and mental nausea punches her in the gut. She does not falter, but rather feels herself simply accepting it. It has become a part of her life as much as the breaths she takes with each passing moment.
It pains her to accept the fact more than experiencing it ever would.
Mechanically, she rises to her feet and strides across her room to the door. She opens it, her fingers cold on the metal handle.
Alone she wanders, searching for solace in the nightmare that has become her reality.
--
The clock strikes twelve at the very instant he sits down.
He lowers his head, as though beginning a duel, before straightening himself up once more.
The room is dark. Not pitch-dark, or even shadowed enough to hide his face, but dark enough. He allows himself to melt into it, almost tasting it.
It's almost bitter, yet it nearly has a sweet aftertaste.
It reminds him of the serum that flows through his veins, all that separates him between the planes of fragile life and immutable death.
He gently sets his fingertips on the keys, lets his hands run up and down the length of the board. The sensation is partly foreign to him; not out of unfamiliarity, but rather contemptuous fear.
That's the worst kind of fear you can have, he knows in the back of his mind. To be angry after you're afraid is the absolute worst form of cowardice.
He retaliates, in his own way, by playing a scale. The notes are awkward at first, piercing the silence. Relaxing his hands, he forces them into compliance, bending his fingers and the mechanisms within the instruments until the tones acquire an acceptable pitch.
Gradually, the scales blend into the silence until they have become a part of it.
Exercises come next. Routines from months and years long past slowly trickle into his demented mind, where they flow and ebb downwards before coming out through his fingertips. He isn't sure if he likes the feeling. He can't describe the sensation. It's hot and cold at once, rather.
Darkness melds into the notes until he can barely hear them. His fingers are moving, his eyes are closed, and in the midst of his mind, there's a small window, through which the beginnings of music filter into.
He ends the repetitive exercises with a flourish of his wrists, opening his eyes.
Everything has its own time. Notes have their beats, their lengths, as well as rests- something he's known for many years.
He closes his eyes once more, allows the darkness to settle in, and begins.
--
She isn't sure when she first hears the music.
It comes as part of the darkness, binding her as much as the invisible chains she knows she carries. However, it acts as a panacea for that which it accompanies. In a word, it's almost soothing.
Sound guides her movements as her footsteps echo down the hallway. Her hair trails behind her in a fluid motion as she walks with unhurried, yet swift strides.
The music becomes louder as she walks. She knows she is close, but knows not where it comes from.
She receives her answer when she turns the corner- into a room she never even knew existed- and sees him bowed behind the great piano.
At first, she isn't sure what to make of it. Of all the individuals in the world who she thought would be perched upon that rectangular bench, he certainly wasn't one of them.
The fact that he could play only served to heighten the fact that it was...beautiful.
Strange, indeed. She never thought she would find herself applying the word "beautiful" in any relation to him, and yet, as she watched him, heard him, she realized there was simply no other word to describe him.
His fingers glide over the keys, unseen in their work as a soft bridge of notes emanate outwards. They curve expertly, moving as ten individual beings instead of two conglomerate objects. She doubted she would be able to follow his movements even in clear daylight, but the presence of the night made it all but impossible to tell where his hands ended and the surrounding night begun.
Staccato tones pierce out from his vantage point as he brings his hands down with controlled force. The fingers place their targets expertly; though she sees them as individuals, they work innately as one.
He surges from melody into harmony, shifting arrangements as his hands work in tandem with the grace of wind itself. She finds it hard to believe that the same callused fingers that once plucked bowstrings, clutched knives, took life...could be capable of such skill. It seemed almost otherworldly in its context.
Rising upwards, he allows legato to conquer the piece, pressing down into the pedal as the notes transcend into one another. The tones blend into a melange of sounds, beautiful on their own and even more so together, before they coalesce into a final dissonant chord.
He sweeps up the discord, segueing into a downwards chromatic scale, and lets his fingers come to a rest unceremoniously upon the lower tiers of the keyboard. There is no glory in his finish, and yet it comprises the perfect ending.
For the first time, she pauses and realizes the pain has faded somewhat for the first time in years.
For the first time, he looks up and sees her standing in the doorway, having heard him, now watching him.
They can't see each other's facial expressions, but he knows she's been standing there the whole time.
She knows that he knows, as well.
He remains quiet, the darkness aiding his silence. He brings his left palm to rest on his knee as the right remains perched on the edge of the keys, teetering precariously.
She breaks the silence first.
"That was very nice."
He looks up. The bare outline of his face is visible in the dim light, now, and she can see a melange of emotions.
"I didn't know you played." she says, to shatter what remains of the quiet. "You never showed it."
"I didn't." he concurs, letting his right hand fall. It hits his knee with a soft noise.
"Where did you learn to play like that?"
"My mother taught me."
His face doesn't change, but she can almost sense a kind of bitter tenderness in his voice. She's never heard him use that tone before.
"She was, you know, a pretty good player herself." he admits, letting the words flow more freely now. "And, well, I guess she wanted to leave me and my sisters something besides being archers and all that, so she gave us lessons." He gives a small, caustic smile before continuing. "I don't remember ever enjoying them, if you want to know the truth."
He leans forward, his expression one of exhaustion.
"When'd you start playing?"
"Started at five, learned for seven years before-"
The sudden silence that fills the room is absolute, as the darkness carries his words away into his depths. There's nothing else he really needs to add; they both know what's supposed to come next, but don't mention it.
"Your mother would be proud." she says, quietly.
"No, she wouldn't." He brushes the air in front of him with a short swipe of his hand, leaning forward with elbows propped against the edge of the keyboard. "She never really thought I was any good. Always said that girls were naturally better, had smaller hands and more delicate touches, all that crap..." Slowly, he exhales, blowing pent-up breath through the air. "Not that I really cared, anyway."
"I thought it was beautiful." she says, in the same quiet tone. She's almost in disbelief at his response; he simply refuses to acknowledge the gift that he has. Could he honestly be that thick-headed? For the Goddess' sake, had he even heard himself just once in his entire lifetime?
"Beautiful, my-" He grits his teeth and chuckles crudely. "I could think of something much more beautiful than that."
"...Such as?" she asks quietly, staring into his eyes.
He doesn't reply, his smile fading. Slowly, he turns his gaze upwards, resolutely away from her. His pupils gleam darkly in the dim light, monochromes of white and black.
The silence hangs on for another uncomfortable half-minute before she breaks it once more. "I've got to go now." she makes excuse. "Catch some sleep, maybe..."
He gives a noncomittal grunt, still staring at the ceiling.
Resolutely, she turns around and leaves, her footsteps echoing across the empty hall as he fades from view. She doesn't remember his expression, but puts it out of her mind.
As she walks, she can hear his fingers at work once more in the dark night, playing their interlude of crystal.
-fin
Reviwe teh sappy crap lolx.