III: Solo
"By seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos and low and high drums." - The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
She woke up slowly. Not, then, as what would be expected of an unconscious elf; she woke, glossy-eyed, grey-faced, still – stumbling – grasping at her scalp whilst she was whimpering, softly in some lost, forlorn pain, in a forgotten corner of a grey prison in Gi'lead –
No.
That did not happen.
She instead woke up in a bedroom. An exquisite bedroom. A bedroom draped with smooth satin sheets from Surda, adorned with with snow-kissed furs tossed on the mahogany floors, and lavished with intricate tapestries of gallant knights and splendid queens spun in spider's silk, lost in entangled summery dreams...and in the corner of her eye, she could see silver drapes twirling in the wind... fluttering...
She had been here before. She leapt from the bed, and treaded the floors, paced each side of the room, fingers shifting slowly, tangling themselves into knots. This... this couldn't be it? This couldn't be the room that she had stayed in, for the eternal night, the first night in Uru'baen, clutched away only Murtagh, stolen by Murtagh's arms – could it?
She hoped not. She hoped – oh how she hoped not – she shook, she shook. No, no, and no. She had not one scrap of evidence – but what use is evidence, Arya? Her stomach was boiling, stirring, stewing, concocting some vile remedy to her sickness – no, she would have none of it.
(She secretly hoped it was true so that she scream wildly and throw herself out of the window smashing into the pavement and breaking everything that was already broken – )
I'm having none of this. None.
(Or maybe – maybe Murtagh – yes – Murtagh would catch her, Murtagh would, he'd grasp her in his hands, dripping, her oozing body, lap her up in his arms and devour her and rip her to shreds bite by bite – )
Malena, what are you thinking?
She didn't know. Slowly, she slunk across the room. She pushed the drapes aside with fluttering fingers, and pushed open the stiff window that she was certain she had pushed before.
No, she was right. Or wrong. She was not in Uru'baen anymore.
It was far stranger than that.
Not that Arya would have known. The town below, she had not seen before. The winding yellow-brick buildings below, lined with pungent flowers, violets and thyme, that swept her upwards in their crystalline scents – meant nothing to her. The idyllic streets below her, alight in the twilight with paper lanterns, hung at each sturdy door frame that had stood for a thousand years yet – not a recollection. Yet there was something hauntingly, frightening familiar about the place. She could not move from where she was standing, fixed in the breeze. The smells, rich flavours, pigments of a painter's palette – she was mesmerised by it. She caught the waft crispy pastry and a fresh dollop of cream – she could taste it, it watered in her mouth. Sultry spices, leafy herbs, fine wines grown five miles away, a catch of the fresh mountain breeze, and beyond that, a mere lingering taste, of salt, of distant seas... each were tied in neat packages, and she could flavour them all.
It was ten minutes before she stirred from the view. She then wondered: where exactly was she? What was she here for?
And then, like clockwork, the music began.
Allegro.
Did she even want to know? She span around, to face the music: the door to her room was wide open. And without question, she left it – to follow the music. To follow the swaying bows, fiddling up and down, pulling her, towards them. She span down the stairs, to find herself in a starlit courtyard – of some regal manor house of some kind, a city estate.
She moved onwards. Servants recognised her at her passing, dropped immediately – curtsying, bowing for Ma'am: but unlike the wan courtesy of the frigid elves, they smiled as they did so. They smiled, so serenely, so graciously, so peacefully – no, she had never seen such peaceful smiles, in a world ravaged by eternal war and worry, the concept seemed daft. And she found, as she sauntered along, hungrily looking for the melody, she would smile back, absurdly.
Is that happiness?
She went on regardless, floating along gilded corridors, lined with wild and wistful scenes – through twirling arches, the gardens could be glimpsed. Here, surrounded by fickle thorns and ivy, lay the clutchings of Arcadian visions: that which blind artists of aspired to see, yet alone create, maestroso, crescendo, meastroso! – and petals, too, blowing softly in the wind, blue –
Arya?
There was a brief silence.
A wilting statue stood in the centre of a courtyard. It looked like it was crying.
Vivace con moto.
And suddenly she was pulled away, from wreath upon wreath of blue roses, into the straining music, the rigorous music, into the snarling brass and the hiss of the snares...
Arya!
The music lulled her up a marble staircase, her fingertips tracing the golden edges of the twirling banister, as she rised up and up and up...
"Arya!"
She stood at foot of two vast oak doors, heavy, thick, on the second floor. They were covered in scarred carvings of a language that she had never seen before; not of elegant, floating glyphs of the elves, but concrete and crude – older, certainly. It made her shiver.
But ... the music came from within – it must do, it was drawing her here... pulling her, relentlessly..
She entered without looking back.
The hero always survived. That was the rule. The hero would persevere until the story ended. Heroes survived. Heroes endured. And heroes won. Whether he (it was always a he – another rule) liked it or not – whether he had a choice, apart from a superficial illusion of one – that wasn't the question.
The healer stood at the exit to the empty room, watching. His steel fingers gripped the doorway. Hard.
A bloodcurdling scream.
The hero was lying in the middle of the floor. Unconscious. And yet somehow he was screaming in pain –
Where – where where where... where... where...
He was shaking, shaking his head – no no no no no no no – he could barely move except to shake, and – laughing. Laughing. laughing mechanically – broken laughing – a broken mechanism – was that him?
There's nothing remotely funny about this, muttered the healer, to his mind directly. I don't know how you survived that fall.
He did nothing.
W-w-where is... she? The thought quivered as it escaped his mind.
Not here –
Another scream.
You're going to have to block it out. Sorry.
Another scream.
This is the only way.
Another scream.
Block it out.
Another scream.
Block it out.
Another –
Block it –
The screaming stopped. The hero was still.
She entered during the second dance.
The first thing she noticed was the colours. The elves always wore green to their balls – forest green or emerald green. No exceptions; no deviations. But these dancers – they moved in a thousand glittering colours, in all hues and shades, from warm amber to brilliant vermillion, to a dusky brown... They slid across the gleaming floor, in coloured masks, precariously – not elegantly, not gracefully, but recklessly. They threw each other across the dais, spinning around helplessly, tumbling into each other's arms, like broken puppets – puppets desperate, rabid, for some frenzied glimpse of life.
Entranced, she took a step forwards –
And she shrieked in pain –
She stepped back. It – the floor – was excruciating. Burning like a wildfire, roaring across the forest, seething and hot and hard and horrific – no, she shook her head, she was imagining this all, as she usually did. Silly Malena. She scratched her left hand. It felt like it had been burnt, for some inexplicable reason – no, it must be nothing. She laughed uneasily, slinking away from the door, nearly stumbling –
Over a pair of slippers?
Glass slippers. How quaint, she thought amusedly – it was the sort of thing he would have remarked, wouldn't have he?They had been placed behind her. And she hadn't noticed. How stupid of her not to notice the fact that they were there all the time! She laughed feebly, as if she were truly stupid, whilst she clumsily tried to slip them on.
A perfect fit.
She swallowed nervously.
And so she took a step forward –
Nothing.
She exhaled, and moved into the wide, spacious ballroom.
The room was steady with a luxurious ease. Splendour flattered it, occasionally; its creamy velvet caressed the walls, now and again, with a scattering of diamond kisses. The heavy scent of dry wine, and long, idle chatter, permeated the air. Nobles floated from flock to flock, circling around the stage, with generous goblets twirled between their fingers.
Slowly, she began to move into the room, lingering on the edge.
" – So she said, but then again, since when – "
" – Pack hunting makes terrible sport, I have decided – "
" – I doubt that they are to be trusted – "
" – I can't believe you would be so common – "
" – Oh no, I couldn't possibly – "
" – his use of perspective is so rigorous, his form precise; he is infinitely more talented than the likes Lippi, Botticelli and Maurizio – "
" – The Master promises there will be an excellent showing – "
" – Drink needs more punch – "
She wasn't noticed at all. She stood still, and listened.
Pianissimo. Crescendo: poco a poco
"The second act is simply atrocious, don't you think?"
"Always so critical, Julius," snorted a second voice.
"Yes, Julius – I don't see why you cannot simply enjoy..." murmured a third.
Mezzo Piano.
"So what if I can't? – And Igor, methinks the playwright is finally beginning to crack as I predicted. There's artistic slack, there's slovenly characterisation, all disorganised and horrifically chaotic – it's so deliberate – it's simply crude."
"It's deliberately so – you said it yourself," noted the second, firmer voice. "He will surprise us. If he is being uncharacteristic, I believe that's wholly deliberate – never expect to expect with the Master, or you'll be lost before you know it. Besides, wasn't it you who once said beauty does bore the soul after far too much amazement?"
"I'm not so blasé – "
Mezzo Forte.
Arya stumbled forwards – with a clack –
Stupid slippers, she thought, absently.
The flock suddenly snapped their heads towards her. Their faces were broken with sneers and grimaces. They looked as if they had just spotted vermin.
"Julius – you didn't... hear that thing, did you?"
The shadows on their faces, cast by the upheld candles, seemed to twist, becoming more contorted –
"... no. You're imagining things, Caterina. You always do..."
Forte.
"Julius – "
"It sounded like it was whimpering –"
Fortissimo.
"Don't be so morbid –"
She bolted. She tore herself away and pushed and shoved and hurtled through the crowds – they stared at her, she was sure, they must be – shifting eyes and haugty tones – where was the exit? Where was the exit? Where was it –
... Ladies and Gentlemen, the third performance will begin in five minutes...
She was running – spinning – in circles – where was the exit? Had it disappeared? Where was it? Where –
... Ladies and Gentlemen...
" – They say that this will be his most definitive performance yet."
" Doubtful. How would he pull all of those convoluted plot elements together? All these loose ends? You're being overly optimistic again, Brom – "
Sforzando! Sforzando! Sforzando!
"ARYA!"
She ran. She ran. She ran.
"Besides, only a madman could pull this off – and even then – "
Again and again and again.
"Arya! Arya – oh god, Arya, answer me – please, please please –"
Rallentando...
"Shut up, Marty. You'll ruin the show."
The door slammed behind him.
Galbatorix, as he did most days – as he did, almost every day – was staring keenly outside the vaulted windows of his study, with a wistful expression trapped and squirming between his lips...
"Sire. I need to speak with you."
"Who dares enter the realm of King Galbatorix without permission?" he muttered darkly, staying still.
My, my, even by my standards – that was absolutely dreadful.
The intruder was unperturbed.
"I have a bone to pick with you sire. Forgive the cliché expression, but it's a matter of some urgency."
"You don't pick the bones here. No you don't. No, not at all. Ha ha! It is I who picks them, it is I who rips them - Irip them mercilessly from the throats of my enemies – "
Including myself.
A short silence reigned.
"Sire. Look." The man strode towards him, turning to stand directly opposing to the King. "I need to ask you something."
The door slammed behind her.
What was that madness?
The crisp night-time breeze didn't answer her question. It only howled.
She placed her fingertips on the balcony, staring absently upwards. The stars watched above steadily. Their silence made her feel distinctly nervous. She could still hear, just, a blurred echo of the vibrant noises of the ballroom, could still feel the heat of flashing colours and coiling mist, tilting, lost behind her...
Yet the enchanting melody that ran around her head, that music, had led her out here for some reason. Where the city was now cloaked by nightfall, and only her, alone, stood with the skies.
"The Starlight Symphony. His second work – airy, light, and frivolous."
The midday sun brushed through the leaf-topped windows, shading the floors grey. A dainty girl was sat correctly in satin and ribbons. Her hands were hovering above polished ivory keys of an instrument – quivering slightly. There was no sound.
"It is not precise enough."
The floor creaked as the instructor paced the floor, each deliberate footstep, by each deliberate footstep.
"The Starlight Symphony is not played by a thunder of drunken dragons. Arya –"
The girl stared vacantly at him.
"Refusing to practice will get you nowhere."
The breeze shook the trees, the leaves bristling... and she shook too, seventy years later, shivering in a damp nightdress in the damp wind...
...
"The elves were always rather fond of it, I believe," a voice murmured in her ear. She turned, startled.
A man was stood beside her, his arms draped lazily over the balcony, gazing out at the black, lifeless expanse beyond.
"Do you like it?"
The bluntness of this question threw her.
"I don't understand what you mean..." She bit her lip suddenly, cutting her words. "Sir," she squeaked.
He turned to face her; his eyes latched to hers. He wore costume of an accomplished actor: the hero, she could presume – or was it the villain? She could hardly tell. It was a sudden black; it merged into the sky. Sometimes the beaded edging would catch dewdrops of light, light which shimmered as the wind blew, to remind her that he was actually there. Even his hair, his smoke-coloured ringlets, seemed to melt into the shadows... Only his face seemed real, alight with a blazing gold mask, trimmed with proud feathers and streaks of fire... she tried to look away from it, and the strange, ubiquitous dark eyes that burned beneath...
"What's not to understand?" he chuckled, easily, a stray hand lifting up to pose a question. "Unless..." he paused, expression bemused. "You mean to tell me you've never heard of the piece?"
"No – no, I don't mean that at all." she stuttered, her fingers tracing awkward circles on the balcony edge. "It reminds me – "
"Reminds you of, perchance, of a time gone by?" he interjected, his thin lips grinning beneath the flames. "Of a graceful world, of world with mystery and wildness left, of a world now lost utterly in fantasy?"
"Where is this?"
Each word hung, like a thick, weighty book, bound in stale leather, on the cramped bookshelves of the study.
A clock ticked.
Murtagh peered over from the corner of his book. The elf was sat cross-legged on the floor gazing intently at a painting hanging half-crooked on the wall.
"Illirea."
The answer was efficient and prompt. In the same manner, he resumed reading.
She gave him a look.
"All right then," he said, knowingly, with a smirk. His eyes hadn't even left the page when he replied.
"I just – I don't remember it looking like this..." she muttered, wistfully.
He jumped up from his desk and sat down next to her, his clunkier frame copying her exact pose – that of a lost little girl – except looking somewhat ridiculous.
"You lived there?"
"Oh... no. I haven't. I was born during the Fall."
"That must have been difficult, for an elf."
It wasn't a question, so she didn't answer it. It answered itself.
"You know, many often talk about how after Galbatorix started the Great Industrialisation, and how Uru'baen was never beautiful as it once was in 'the good old days'. Its the price one pays for economic progress. Whether it's a price too great..." he shrugged. "I couldn't say. But having read enough from the period, I know people said the exact things about Uru'baen a hundred years ago. And a hundred years before that. And a hundred years before that, too."
He gazed intently at the painting for a moment. Choking smog that swallowed the grey, ash-specked paint. It was clogged with tinned-roof slums and whirling mills.
"Alagaesia used to be covered by raging wilderness and vast forests – but that was thousands of years ago. They've all been cut down now... so much so, that we look at rolling hills and valleys, at pleasant pastures green, and call it natural."
"Do you like it?"
He scoffed. "What do you think?"
"You hate it." Why did she even need to ask the question?
His eyes widened – and he tried to smile. He failed. His face – strained – it looked like he was in pain.
"I hate it."
A silence.
"Maybe..." he muttered to himself, considering, "Yes," he said, sure of himself – he turned towards her. "Maybe I can show you the North some day. It's inhabitable – and wild – and – beautiful."
Arya looked directly at Murtagh.
Arya looked directly at the stranger.
"Yes. It is familiar," she said, slowly. "The melody, especially, is startlingly familiar, actually." She glanced up at him. "Maddeningly familiar."
"Madness isn't a synonym for like, Drottingu," he muttered, grinning coyly.
"What about love?"
The words sprung off her tongue – leapt off it, diving into distant seas before she could plunge after them.
"What would you know about love?" he said with a snort. He stood up – slowly though, leisurely rising to his natural position. Standing up directly, he loomed over her. He was tall for a human.
"I don't..." she shook her head fiercely. She felt her ice-cold cheeks burn with fire. Why were they hot? Why was her pulse hurtling forwards, pounding in her throat? Her fingers tightened into fierce little balls. This is ridiculous.
"Nothing," she eventually finished, her teeth gritting together, the word spat.
"I am glad I invited you this evening, Drottingu."
He smiled – he always seemed to be smiling, in some way, completely the opposite... she shook her head.
"You invited me?"
"Naturallement! Of course I did. Who else do you think would? Don't tell me – Galbatorix?" he spat the last word, and broke into laughter. "There are darker, greater – older – villains out there. Ancient foes from across the seas. You'll see – eventually. But I am in no mood to talk of that now. No, I am the culprit of this. This is all my handiwork, I'm afraid."
"You brought me here?"
"Did you think it was a hallucination? A dream? No, this is no mere illusion. This is far better. Welcome to the Summer Palace, Arya Drottingu; I sincerely hope you do enjoy your time here."
He twirled his hand, as matter of mock-courtesy, in the way the elves did. She resisted the urge to slap him.
(Because part of her knew she wouldn't win... no, not against him...)
"If you stay a bit longer, you'll have time to witness the Midnight Masque – the grand finale, the highlight of the night. It is truly divine. You'll want to watch that – I assure you."
Arya stared at him.
"Who are you?"
"Wrong question, Malena," he said, chuckling. "Besides, I'm just an actor."
She didn't know whether he was lying or not.
A/N: Sorry for the long break. This chapter... took a long time to come together. I dabbled with several different openings before settling on this one. The tone was hard to pin down, and some of the descriptions... urgh, I'm getting bored with luxurious settings. Why didn't I set this story in the slums? I also wanted a chapter long enough to encompass the meeting of the masked stranger, hence the length. He's not my favourite character in the world either - but necessary. I also spent a day reading Inheritance - I don't want to spoil it, but I feel like I've given Nasuada a bit of an unfair role considering what happened to her... honestly, probably some of the best scenes CP's written. You know why. I hated the rest of it, though - boring and unnecessary and the emotion/pacing was... urgh. Prosaic.
So many reviews! *makes heart sign with fingers*. I'm going to answer them all for once.
Beta: A kindred spirit, I see. They are delightful to write - I think most people have a drop of madness in them, though, which is probably why I enjoy writing so much. Murtagh's a case of that - he's probably the most normal on the outside of everyone I've written about.
Saviikins: It took me a moment, but I guessed. You are so totally awesome for actually reading this, by the way. Better than a certain ex-boyfriend I've been bugging for months to have a look at this ._.
Owltalon: Glad you're still with me, and thanks for understanding.
RB0027: Ah, this review made my day. I think when I finish it, this will end up rubbish, but once I give it a huge polish, it could be good - it's sad I can't publish this though. I hope to be on the shelves one day - although I don't want to spend all of my life writing, I want to publish something, even if it's just once. So maybe you'll see my name somewhere, although it'll be a few years yet.
EminemBitches: Thanks :)
Restrained Freedom: You have it exactly. That's exactly what happened. Although the blond boy didn't give her the scar necessarily... that's a more complicated one.
