A/N This is based off of Silmarwen Vanimedle's Bandopia fanfic, but if you haven't read it, well, you'll catch on quick, it's like marching band/fantasy crossover. Like, as if marching band were life (wait, it isn't just life? Nevermind then.). It'll be a fair bit different than my usual style, because it's written like hers.
Disclaimer: I do not own the idea of Bandopia or her characters that are in here. Just the main ones that I made up. )
(Bond)
It was the day that to-be marchers dreamed of- the Day of Choosing. The day when the instruments bonded with their marchers, and they became inseparable. The day when the notes were clear, and drumming steady, the low notes thrumming with precision. The day when the flag rested in the glove of the guard member and sang to it, or the day a vet finally took grip of that sabre and it hummed in their fingers.
The Day of Choosing.
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Blayde and Bolt were twins, and although they differed in genders, their looks could hardly be different. With raspberry-kissed blond hair and fair skin, completed with clear-sky eyes, they eagerly ran from their meadow dell to their parents, calling to them, "Today! Today!" whilst humming a bit.
Their parents, Slyde and Caeytch, watched them greet their other friends getting ready to head towards the long journey to the marching fields. Mostly girls with scattered boys, the guard children skipped, hopped, and laughed, filled with the joyous wonder of what could be.
Nigh 14, they were the perfect age to begin marching, and thrived in the wide-open meadows that allowed dancing, throwing, spinning, and other activities the guard often engaged in.
At last, it was time to go, and the children, along with assorted parents, began the walk to the marching fields. They did not use wagons or other modes of transportation- instead, they practiced their sashays, sautés, and other dance moves, whether it be showing off or just having fun.
"You seem so excited," said Caeytch, smiling at her husband as she did a leap in place. Her long auburn hair spun out behind her, catching the light.
"Well, I haven't seen any other trombones in… well, years," admitted Slyde. "I mean…"
"That's alright," she said, and pulled him along. "Come on! We're losing Bolt and Blayde." With that, they ran off to catch up their wayward children.
"Can you believe it?" asked Bolt, whipping around in the air, pulling on her brother's hand. "We're going!"
"It's great, isn't it?" murmured Blayde, the quiet one, with a half-smile on his face. He was always the water to her fire, the ice to her lava. Nothing was done without the other, and to join the Marching Band Guard together- that was a dream.
Another one of the guard children, Gawntlet, came up. "I heard some rumors," she giggled, always the gossip.
"What, what?" clamored the others, gathering around but still moving with jumps and twists. They were almost never stagnant- it just wasn't in their blood, just like harshness in the music wasn't in a flute's blood, or a heartbeat not in a drummer's taps.
"That there were going to be taking on first-season rifle and sabres!" cried Gawntlet, unable to keep it in. "Just think of it! You could be a rifle or sabre- by the end of today!"
Bolt squeezed her brother's hand tighter, joy surging in her chest. "Oh Sousa!"
Inside, Blayde was screaming with joy, but remained calm on the outside. However, a shimmer of ecstasy showed in his face. "A sabre…" he whispered, a flash of performance light in his eyes.
They continued on- they were almost there. The sun was bright, cloudless sky, cool but not too breezy, the perfect day.
The Day of Choosing.
As they crested the hill that led to the marching field, a fascinating sight met their eyes. The guard children stopped and stared in awe, while the parents fondly smiled- these were the days they remembered, the hours spent, the emotions swarming their souls, the music, everything.
Brass instruments glinted gold and silver in the sun, proudly displaying themselves. The woodwinds were glinting in pride, and the drums lay on the grass, their silent heartbeats waiting to be heard. The pit instruments shone like gems, the mallet fuzz swaying slightly in the breeze. Somewhere, a metronome clicked, and the general air was of happiness and glad hearts. Hundreds of people milled about, chatting, playing, spinning, everything involved in marching band, was going on.
"Slyde!" cried a voice from below the hill, and the man looked down to see his old marching friend, Flatt, was waving. "Great Sousa! Is that you?"
The two friends greeted each other, each waving towards their children, who were still staring in amazement.
"It's… better than I imagined," whispered Gawntlet. "It's like…" she trailed off. There were no words.
"Kids! Come meet Taen," said their father, motioning towards a dark-skinned girl, her hair tied back in ponytail, and in her hands was clasped a trombone- new, shiny, and begging to be played. "She'll be marching with you this year."
"I'm Bolt- this is Blayde," said Bolt, jumping to Taen.
"Doing guard? The section leader's over there," Taen said, pointing. "It's so amazing here!"
They agreed, and ran off to the group of girls who were tossing flags in the air, and then putting them down, trying out others.
One particular girl stalked around, her eyes alight with a fever. "Who's that?" asked Bolt to a taller girl casually spinning a rifle.
The girl followed the pre-teen's direction of focus. "That's Sabe. She's the captain this year. I'm Rifely. Interested in spinning?" she asked, then saw the thrumming excitement in Bolt's body. "Hm, you'll do. Pick up and spin- see if it's for you."
Bolt was about to pick up a red-silked flag when she saw her brother fingering a sabre, and Sabe intently watching him. Feeling a sense of protection aroused by her brother, she started heading his way when Sabe said, "Boy!"
Blayde didn't listen. He twisted the sabre in his hand, and then began to spin it, out of nowhere. And it flipped around in his hand- hilt, tip, hilt, tip, hilt-
"Boy!" she said again, and he started, dropping it. He quickly whipped around and said, "I'm so sorry, it just-"
"Spoke to you, hummed in your hand, told you- yes, yes, I know," cut off the girl, and she picked it up. "Interesting. Ever spun a blade before, boy? I need your name too."
"Blayde, and no, I'm sorry-" he said, but she held up a gloved hand.
"You've got something- Blayde? Hm, your parents are prophets. Your mother, Caeytch? She was a sabre as well. Good one, too, before she left with that trombone player." A trace of bitterness traced her words- Sabe was not fond of the other sections, rather closed off from the rest of the band. "You!" she said, and Bolt jumped a bit, but her alarm turned it irritation- who was she to boss around her brother and herself?
"Yeah?"
"Name."
"Bolt."
The words zinged back and forth, and Blayde watched nervously. He knew his sister was a lit firecracker at times like this- meeting a new, bossy person did not always go over well.
"Spin that flag. Just do it how you think it works, and I'll tell you're right." With that, Bolt picked up the red-silked flag, but then spotted a rifle nearby. It was newly taped, the whiteness bright in the light. The black plastic was glinting, and the tip was smooth and round. Something about it-
"I'd rather spin that." With those four words, she walked over, picked it up, gauged the weight, and started with her right hand at the small. Up, down, up, down, it went, just like her mother used to do at home, around it went, faster and faster, singing with thumping drums in the back in her mind, triumphant tones and brassy cries-
"Blayde, Bolt! What-" demanded Caeytch, rushing over. "You shouldn't be-"
"Let them," said Sabe, her eyes looking over to the twins absorbed in their equipment. A bit awkward- the blade was tilted, spinning at the 45 degree angle, and the rifle was uneven at best, but there was potential.
She looked at the Great Ones, atop their tower, and then scanned her gaze across the playing instruments, people tuning, drummer beating out heartbeats for the band, the pit adding the range of lows to highs to the band, and finally, her part- the twins spinning for the first time, absorbed- just like every other marching band person. "You remember what it's like."
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It was the day that to-be marchers dreamed of- the Day of Choosing. The day when the instruments bonded with their marchers, and they became inseparable. The day when the notes were clear, and drumming steady, the low notes thrumming with precision. The day when the flag rested in the glove of the guard member and sang to it, or the day a vet finally took grip of that sabre and it hummed in their fingers.
The Day of Choosing.
(End Story)
A/N And later I'll do different sections:D So, the first reviewer say their section and I'll write a chapter about a person getting their first trumpet, bass drum, flute, etc.