Theory of Relativity
Beauty was relative.
To some, beauty was a grassy hill at dusk, overlooking the distant bustling mass of machinery and people that represented Life. To some, beauty was the clockwork mechanics of the mind and heart, the turning of infinite human memory, the simulation of those things in robotics, or the cold sound of dishonest gold. To some, beauty was impossible, taken from the cold and slime ridden corners of alleyways by the rich and the privileged, taken from the poor and less fortunate without seeking any sort of permission.
To him, though, beauty had been this faraway idea, unobtainable to him though so his friend around him seemed to be able to reach it. It was just who he was, and he had come to terms with it many years previous, choosing instead to surround himself with the things he knew best:
Music boxes.
There was a simplicity about them that enchanted him, enraptured his imagination and sent him to a sweet world of clockwork mechanics and grease. And yet, they were so complex in their own right, in the timing, and in the miniature figures that danced inside, telling tales of magic and dragons, of love and evil.
And there he was happy.
He was happy among the scrap heaps and the forges, nestled between the chemist and the robot maker, looking through bins in search of old gears and screws, quietly making his way with a new load of treasures, creating the worlds in his mind with his hands through the tiny moving figures that danced across a tiny brass plane under a tiny glass dome, telling the stories he simply couldn't.
He sold these creations, these clockwork miracles under glass. He sold them to the rich and the poor, the scholars and the students, the politicians and the migrants. At their looks of amazed wonderment, he would smile to himself, a warm feeling flooding his heart as he watched the politician's stone hard expression melt into amusement, the children's faces split into wide grins more often than not missing a few teeth.
But mostly, he kept to himself. He gave a few words of thanks as the good changed hands, and fell silent, pushing forward with his small, rickety cart filed with magic. He would not press himself on others.
But she pressed herself on his mind.
A normal morning, it began. He woke, he ate, he smiled, he walked. He was just one among all the people on the streets, another nameless face that would only revisit a man in his dreams, pushing his cart along until he came to an empty spot among the roadside, facing the hustle and bustle of horse buggies and people and machines. A few children, a young couple, and an old cyborg were the only ones who bought a music box from him. The sun was hot, and he sank into the shadow of his cart, his legs stretched out in front of him beyond the reach of the shade, holding a piece of gold and contemplating whether or not he should use it to buy a meal and water.
A shadow crossed his legs.
"Is this your stand?" He looked up to see a young woman. She wore no day dress and hat like most normal women, but trousers and heeled boots, and a billowy linen tunic. A pair of brad Hughes hung from her neck. But it wasn't so much her dress that surprised him as her appearance. She held herself high, but not so high as the noble ladies in buggies, there was an undeniable whiff of cynical intelligence in her expression.
And her eyes... They were empty. Black. Like oil, or the night sky, or an empty, yawning void.
"Is this your stand?" the young woman reiterated.
"Er, yes." He stood and slid the gold back into his pocket, brushing off his own trousers. He was much taller than her. "Is there anything in particular you're looking for?"
"No, I was just wondering. Did you build all of these?"
"Yes."
"They're all so beautiful." He smiled at her as she picked up one of the music boxes. "I've never seen any music box like this. How does it work?"
He took the small clockwork masterpiece from her hands. "Same as a normal music box. There's a key that you wind underneath."
He handed it back to the young woman, who did as he said, turning the key to the right so that it clicked. The little brass figures began to move about, turning in their predetermined dances.
"Guennivere," said the woman in surprise as she watched the music box's story unfold. "And Lancelot!"
"Is that the one that tells that?"
"That's what it looks like."
They stood in silence for a few moments broken only by the bustle of the street behind them and the tiny musical instrument inside its box.
"Excuse me miss, but I don't think I ever caught your name."
"I didn't throw it." The blank eyes flicked upwards into his, narrowing suspiciously. His own eyes widened.
"I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to be rude, it's just..."
"It's no problem," shrugged the woman, holding out a hand and setting the box down. "I'm sorry. My name's Tamara."
"Edd."
They clasped hands briefly and let go.
"Well then, Miss Tamara, I hope you don't mind my forwardness, but do you fancy grabbing a bite to eat with me?" he said, taking his gold coin out and flipping it in the air and catching it again. "I was just planning on getting something."
Tamara shrugged. "I don't see why not, so long as you're paying."
"Lunch with a stranger," Edd laughed, dropping the coin back into his pocket. "Living on the wild side."
"Honestly," Tamara snorted. "I must be drunker than I thought." Edd offered her his arm, in the courteous, proper fashion of the time, and she took it before they began making their way down the street.
Several hours later, after many conversations, after a plate of small sandwiches and water, after the screwdrivers and the garbage bins and the hammers and forceps, Edd was already starting to change.
His definition was changing.
And it continued to change, for days after that first meeting, alongside the constant visits, the practical jokes, the lessons and the debates.
Beauty wasn't the tick tick of a clock anymore. Mystery wasn't the inner workings under a sheet of metal for a music box.
Beauty was the tiny brown hairs glowing gold in the sunlight as they feel loose from her ponytail. Mystery was trying to see the thoughts behind her blank, empty eyes, turning like an infinite wheel.
His mother always told him he'd know beauty when he met her. And the phrase always confused him. But now he was older. And now he understood, discovered, what his beauty was.
A/N Wow wot an awkward chapter. It's so sad looking. But I hadn't been writing for a long... Long time. And I felt like writing something very figurative and full of descriptive language. But it's been on my AO3 for a long while now (I update more on there than here now because I can add external links). But hey, I did a thing. And I updated. So I hope you enjoy, I guess. Please leave a request, and realize that it doesn't just have to be the normal EW world, it can be an AU too! (this is steampunk influenced, in case you didn't know). Go watch and sub to my YouTube channel, guys! File 13. I do... Animations, rn. But I will be doing speed draws and animated storytelling sometime, I guess. Lots of fun :) Also go check out my Tumblr, also File 13. I've got art work for the chapters here, and I'm going to be starting and Ask Blog real soon Currently listening to: Have fun, comment, and wear your seatbelt :)
All-American Girl - Carrie Underwood