There is a scene in this chapter with some blood and such. Nothing too graphic, but just a warning for those who aren't too fond of it.

The Madness Between The Notes

Chapter 4 : A Console To Torment

"Art is to console those who are broken by life." — Vincent Van Gogh ~ ◆

The next day the carriage came for Roderich when dawn was barely peeking over the top of buildings. Francis greeted a friendly hello in his native tongue while the carriage slowly creaked along cobblestone streets slightly gaining speed with distance. It didn't take long to reach the cathedral and upon seeing it Roderich felt a small twinge of relief within the deep ocean of his soul. Cathedrals always gave him such a feeling, whether it was the presence of a higher power seeping into his skin, or if it was the sheer beauty of buildings such as these themselves, Roderich couldn't conclude. After little thought on the subject, he concluded that it was both that mixed together in such a wondrous manner that it calmed a soul as troubled as his.

When he entered the cathedral, the musician took a deep breath in and heard the voice of his Frenchman friend. "Lovely, isn't it?" Francis smiled. "I'd say this one may as well be the finest in France."

"Seems like it could be so." Roderich walked further into the cathedral and took a seat in one of the pews, looking above him to see a ceiling so high he wondered if anyone could be heard from the top of it. Francis took a seat beside him and neither of them said a word as the mass began. Roderich got lost in it and felt completely disconnected from everything other than his calmness, and by the end, he felt refreshed. After the mass, he followed Francis outside and listened as he spoke with people he knew, greeting them and wishing them good day. Roderich was quite surprised at the amount of people Francis acquainted himself with, but with his aristocratic nature it wasn't out of the ordinary.

"Oh, Francis! Lovely day, isn't it?" An older woman greeted in a friendly manner.

"Why, yes, Mrs. Lewis, it is!" Francis responded with a smile.

"Haven't you heard?" The old woman with the gray hair and a face worn down with the passage of time asked.

"Heard what? I hear much, not a lot that's important, but much indeed!" Francis chuckled to himself and placed his hands in his trouser pockets.

"Mrs. Clark has died within the last few days. It was a shame, she was the mother of a few children."

Roderich wasn't particularly paying attention to Francis and his conversations until this point. Upon hearing the words "died" and "mother" within the same string of breath, he turned attention to the two as nonchalantly as he could, not that they seemed to notice.

"That is quite a shame. Do you know why? She was such a pleasure always!" Francis looked sorrowful, but not completely devastated, which led Roderich to the conclusion that she was just an acquaintance or he was just really skilled in hiding pain.

"Well, she was feeling ill and told her son. The son got the doctor and she was soon bled so she could spill all that toxic blood, but not long after, she simply died!"

"A shame! The spilling of those toxins should have saved her!" Francis looked fairly shocked, as though the loss of toxic blood should have cured the illness, whatever it may have been.

At this point Roderich's eyes had widened beyond what was normal for him and his heart raced more than it should. He could feel years of suppressed emotion weltering through his subconscious, and in that moment he quickly and abruptly excused himself to the carriage and practically ran to it.

No one was in the carriage when he arrived, not even a driver, much to his relief. He sat on the leather seats and anxiously ran his hands through his hair. His emotions towards his mother returned, the guilt, the anger, the sorrow, all of it. Musical pieces that he tried to burn came screeching back into his mind like a severely untuned instrument. Just as he was about to relive his torment just as it happened so long ago, Francis opened the door to the carriage.

"Are you alright, Roderich?" He asked with more anxiousness and concern than he did with the old woman.

"Yes-"

"Don't lie to me. Something back there sparked emotion inside of you. Whether it was something said, or just your own thoughts I know not. Whatever it was sent you running for the hills!"

"Well, it's a long story.." Roderich broke eye contact with Francis and looked down at his hands that clutched the fabric of his pants.

"All the more reason to tell me." Francis smiled gently and showed an expression full of support, for what he wasn't sure of just yet.

"Why do you want to know? All you did was hire me to work for you."

"We both know we're closer than that, don't be silly. Three months of travel, we've gotten to know each other pretty well."

Roderich sighed. Francis was right, they had spent a lot of time together, the most time he'd ever spent within someone who was commissioning him. Francis had helped him through more than he'd like to admit, and they were closer than he thought they'd ever be.

"I know, I'm sorry...It's just I…" Roderich paused for a moment searching through an endless sea of racing thoughts and musical pieces that seemed to play themselves to find what to say. "I am just filled with some unsorted emotions in regards to something that happened long ago. My mother, you see, died after she was bled."

"I see. You have my apologies." Francis softly put his hand on Roderich's shoulder for the sake of sympathetic comfort, but after a moment drew away.

"I feel guilt because out of all the years and all the symphonies and scores, I didn't even write my mother a proper requiem for her funeral. Just a few pieces, after which I burned."

"Perhaps the one you'll write here will bring you closure?"

"Perhaps. But it isn't for my mother, it's for yours."

"Dedicate it to your mother. Every artist owns their work to some extent, there is always a piece of themselves within it. Dedicate to piece to your mother, and I will dedicate it to mine." Francis smiled to Roderich and Roderich did the same, a small amount of guilt left his soul. Another piece of torment that broke away from it's creator, and for that, the musician was relieved.

Later that evening Roderich went to lie down running through ideas in his head. A half note here, maybe a rest here, a time signature of this or that. These were all things he wanted for a requiem, but the notes that presented themselves just didn't fit. He tried scribbling them down on a piece of paper, jabbing at keys on a piano, nothing really worked. His mind was elsewhere, and he just didn't have the concentration that he should. All his thoughts reverted themselves back to his mother. The talk with Francis had helped his conscious, but it just could not erase all the ash that filled his mind and suffocated it slowly. He told Francis the truth, he couldn't lie about what had happened. However, he didn't tell the whole story, for he was too ashamed if it.

Roderich's mother did indeed die shortly after she was bled. She had a high fever and was on bedrest, too weak and fragile she was, and there wasn't a thing the woman could do to help herself.

"Mother, I think we should call a doctor." Roderich stated, looking at his mother with concern and anxiousness sprinkled across his delicate features.

"Ah, if you think it would help, my son. I don't know what he can do for me." She answered in a weak and watered down voice, one that had said so much over the course of time, worn down by life itself.

"He'll bleed you I'm sure." Roderich sighed, hating that methods like that had to be done. If only something less painful and gruesome was an option, oh how he'd barter for it, perhaps even give up his own soul.

Roderich contacted the doctor for an emergency appointment, but he didn't come. By this time, the state of his mother had grown worse. She had fallen into slumber and wouldn't wake up, not even with pinch of the skin or the sound of the rain clashing with the windowsill to form a pitter-patter. Roderich got anxious, wondering if his mother would simply slip away into eternity without giving the doctor a chance to help her stay grounded. He knew somewhere within himself that he should take some sort of action to help her. He had already done most of what he could, but seldom is that enough. Then, he thought to himself, it shouldn't be too difficult, bleeding someone. I could do myself, take the vein, cut careful and clean. The doctor's not here, I have to do what I can.

In that moment Roderich had decided something that would torment him for all the seasons to come. To cut his own mother's veins, so that all the poisons that were slowly seeping into her and suffocating her insides would run free upon old and whitened skin. Roderich did indeed gather himself and his courage, in pieces, to do what he thought was right. However, it didn't work as intended, if it had it would be one less thing that tormented his soul. He cut the vein in the arm, like he'd seen a doctor do so many times, even on himself once or twice. Something he did wasn't right, or so he thought, for he couldn't stop the bleeding, even after he thought it to be enough. After many tries at tying a proper tourniquet, none of which worked to any benefit, Roderich slumped to the floor with bloodied hands weeping without a sound. Unbeknownst to him, his mother did die shortly after while he lie in an abyss of his own failure.

Only when someone woke him did he come to realization of the events that had taken place, but he wasn't until someone had tried to tell him first.

"Sir, don't you know?" They asked.

"Know what?" He asked in return.

"Sir, has no one told you she's not breathing? She has passed."

"Wha-"

"I am so sorry."

Soon after his mother's death Roderich entered a state of denial as psychological instincts had told him to. He swore to the highest of the heavens that they were wrong, mistakes were made. He denied the fact within himself that it was a possibility that he had cut his mother's life short and let her slip away droplet by droplet. He denied even trying to do so when anyone asked, he lied and said it was someone else, this person or that. No one questioned, and this was something Roderich was relieved and puzzled by.

Next, after time passed and things changed course, Roderich became angry, at himself mostly. He wracked his own mind, questioning why he did what he did. This phase lasted a short while, but passed to led to something more long lasting. The next step in his grief was depression. Throughout his life, Roderich had sadness lingering and swimming about his consciousness, but never to the severity it was at this point. He felt hopeless and alone, his thoughts his only company, oh how he longed for someone to share in his misery. Years and years delving deeper into a garden of darkness. His only console his music, something he bled all his misery and torment into, something that expressed his innermost thoughts in the rawest manner possible. The last stage in his grief was acceptance, which came little by little, accompanying his depression but never curing him of it. Roderich accepted that his mother had died and ascended, but he would never accept how she did so. Roderich also accepted the fact he was sure he would descend rather than ascend.

This is why Roderich composed, even before his mother's death, the reasoning was always the same. It was to console a life of misery. This was the purest reason for all the symphonies and compositions, the short ones, the long ones. Looking back, Roderich realized throughout all his years, his music was seldom played in a happy and joyful tone. It was deep, it was sorrowful, it was full of pain. People still adorned him and begged him for more, they craved it, they admired it, the let their ears soak in it. But, they never did know, and most never would. They never would know that the music performed was the product of someone else's pain. They didn't know such a genius could wallow in such pain, they didn't know that most times greatness and madness go hand-in-hand. What is the difference between greatness and madness? There is seldom a difference.

The first reason as to why Roderich Edelstein was The Plagued Pianist : He was plagued with guilt.

Author's Note:

Hey there! Sorry this chapter took a few weeks. I felt like this chapter had a lot to it, but perhaps that's just me. xD I wanted to write more in regards to the mass scene, but decided to skip off on it due to me not really knowing how to describe one. I am not Catholic, and never have attended a mass of any sort, but my characters are so I wanted to incorporate into the story at some point.

As for the mentions of bleeding, the method that was used is historically called Blood-letting. It was used for around 2,000 years and didn't really fade out in Europe until the late 18th century. It was basically the belief that withdrawal of small quantities of blood would cure someone. Most times it just made things worse, but in some cases helped relieve high blood pressure.

I also referred to Roderich's grief as occuring in phases, which I drew from the Kübler-Ross model which is also know as the five stages of grief. The five stages of grief according to this model go in the order of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I skipped over bargaining and went straight to depression because I couldn't really find a good way to incorporate it into the story.

And just to warn, I think this story's just gonna get darker from here on out, sorry if that's not your thing.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. :)

-Yuripee