Everyone rushed upstairs. It was pitch black outside except for the streaks of moonlight that fell through the windows. "What's happening!?" Kanae rushed to Chopin who was tightly grasping something. He gently opened his arms, and kanae screamed. The others quickly joined her, apprehensive of what was happening. "Y-you no I can't believe this." Liszt laid unconscious and cold, with barely a pulse. "No she can't be you couldn't have." To think that Musik could kill? No, that was impossible, yes it might be dangerous but, her father couldn't have created a deadly force. Chopin couldn't speak, why had he given in to his stupid emotions, wasn't it hard enough already to live with the memories of heartbreak and now a guilty conscience? Yes, she was barely alive, but what if she didn't make it? motes arrived and said "why are you covering her you're going to make her hot" as he began to pull the blanket off, Schu slapped him. "You idiot she's hypothermic. We need more blankets get them from downstairs." Everyone brought their blankets to cover her, get her warm, and hopefully keep her alive. They waited apprehensively, waiting for some sign of consciousness, as Chopin isolated himself again in his room.
The bright lights of the concert hall almost blinded him. Each candle delicately placed and lit like hundreds of little stars. He walked onto the stage, scores of noblewomen shrieking as he fixed his dark hair behind his ear. He then looked at the front row of the audience, a lady in men's clothing sat there. He winked at her, yet this was not one of those looks he gave teasingly to the ladies of society to make them blush, this one truly had love. The lady smiled back at him, knowing that this glance was for her only, her own little treasure.
He sat down at the piano and the excited atmosphere of the concert hall stood still. Each finger was carefully placed on the notes, yes, two D sharps on each hand, use fingers 1 and 5 for both. He took a deep breath and began to play. The notes rang out like a bell, each pitch artistically placed in the great mosaic of the piece. Soon after, he began the rapid jumps of his right hand, making it sound like a child could play it, yet he knew the difficulty of this technique, he actually needed to change this piece because no one could play it. The melodies he had heard in Italy flowed from the piano, as a group of young women cried out in delight. He smiled at them, looking away from his hands, letting them work their magic. They screamed as he turned around, his soft dark hair covering that ever youthful face. He closed his eyes, truly feeling the music, as he let his hands work naturally, creating the elaborate work of the piece he named "La Campanella"
When he opened his eyes to keep playing, although he was still at the piano, this was a completely different place. He could hear whispers in English, yet the voices, this wasn't the voice of the nobles he had played for in London many years before, the accent was different. "Why am I here" he thought, still playing. A tall man in a top hat sat in one of the balconies, he seemed important yet the pianist couldn't put his finger on who this man was. The woman was gone too, replaced with another in a frilly dress and fan. They didn't scream when he looked over at them, smiling that devilish smile he had perfected. They laughed at random moments and clapped, some opened their programs and squinted at them in the candlelight. No, they weren't seeing him, they were here for some kind of play. Yet where were the actors? As he was about to finish he heard a disembodied voice cry out in Latin, "Sic Semper Tyranis!" and a gunshot. The tall man slumped over bleeding. He abruptly ended the piece with a small cadence, and tried to run off of the stage to find help. Yet no matter how much effort he put into reaching the balcony, the stairs leading up to it kept growing and growing. "No, this is impossible". As he exerted himself trying to find a doctor for the tall man, he heard a shrill pained cry. "Someone has shot president Lincoln"
Liszt woke up, feeling unusually weak and tired. What was that place she had visited in the dream, and what country was she in, the name Lincoln sounded familiar, but she could not remember who he was. As she slowly opened her eyes, escaping the concert hall and the eternal stairs, she found herself being surrounded by all the people of the mansion. "Why am I here", she turned her head over and saw Beet sigh in relief. "Are you ok Liszt, please tell me!" She looked around confused, wasn't she in the cold blizzard fighting against the Musik Chopin has created in his agony? Yet now it was warm, too warm in fact. She was covered from head to toe in blankets, even though it was the middle of the summer. "What's going on? Is Chopin okay?" "Worry about yourself first, you almost died out there." She laughed dryly "almost died? How long have I been out?" Beet sighed "luckily it's only been twelve hours. If Chopin hadn't stopped once you lost consciousness, you could have died from the cold. Yet if fate wills you to live, so be it. Rest here a little bit, I made some gyoza for you." She smiled, somehow each little package of dough and meat was filled with the love present in the mansion. Even the burnt failed experiments, no matter how bitter they were still carried the same sentiments in each bite. "Thank you so much." She smiled softly, trying to rest. As she began to pick up the first gyoza, the door hit her head. Chopin looked down on her, and apologized for hitting her. "I'm so so sorry. Are y- are you?" The words struggled to come out of his mouth, even though he knew she was alive, the way he had harmed her, the way he almost killed her stayed in his mind. Liszt had done so much for him, yet how did he have to repay her? She was the only one who came to try to comfort him, who braved the storm he had created without a second thought. He went back into his room, unable to see his best friend in such a condition. "Come back! I want to talk to you" Liszt looked over back at Chopin. "I know this is not your fault. You were mourning lost love, lost life. And I know, Musik can be hard to control when you're feeling really emotional, same thing happened with Wagner remember? I just need some rest, everyone has been taking good care of me. And while I was coming upstairs, I did feel the emotions you were trying to convey. How your illness stole George Sand from you. I know you were very in love with her, we sometimes talked back then about your passion, how you'd write pieces and share your deepest feelings with her." She held his hands. "And I do remember those little petty fights we got into all those years ago, how you hated how I elaborated your nocturnes when I played, yet you always came back to listen. Although that life is gone, somehow we still have a second chance, another life. It isn't the same as before, yet somehow, in this strange mansion we still manage to live. And your past self still lives in the pieces you wrote, and Sand's sickly prince. So don't mourn the loss of that life, for it still exists, but rather embrace the love that surrounds you right now." She smiled at him. Chopin looked straight back at those piercing yet loving green eyes, and sat down. "I...well last night, I dreamt of Sand actually, maybe I was walking in the streets of Paris or Warsaw or God knows where. Every step I took closer to her, I grew weaker, as if my breath were being sucked away from me. She never listened to my cries of help, she just kept walking towards some point in the distance. It was as if she has completely forgotten me." His voice trailed off, as his mind replayed the dream that triggered the storm. Liszt smiled, "You know, I had a dream sort of like that too while I was unconscious. I was playing "La Campanella" at a concert hall. It took place when I was a man" she laughed, "as I closed my eyes for a split second, I opened them and found myself in another concert hall, but the audience acted as if they were seeing some kind of play instead of a music recital. There was a tall man in a top hat sitting in the balcony, if I remember correctly, his name was l, Lincoln yeah I remember, an odd name. Whatever, I'll continue. Anyways, there was this voice, and it said something in Latin I forgot. But then someone shot Lincoln. I stopped playing and ran to find a doctor, but the stairs to the balcony just kept going and going, adding stairs so it was impossible for me to reach him. That incident brings some memories, although I don't think I was actually there, maybe I read it back then in a newspaper." Dovo was already in the house by the time Liszt woke up, and he heard the conversation that she had. "Pugi! Pugi!" He grunted. "He's saying", pad-kun translated, "that he remembers in his travels to America hearing about a president Lincoln who was shot while watching a play. This happened in the late 1860s, so you probably do remember reading about this." He then sarcastically added "and I can't believe you don't know this, I mean it's common knowledge at this point." Liszt frowned "save that sass for tool, I'm trying to rest here you see. Speaking of tool, where is my little kitten?" Pad-kun made a sighing noise "she's in school right now finishing club activities, but Beet just texted her that you're alive so she might be coming home soon" Liszt put the last gyoza in her mouth, "I'm going to be laying down here for a little while, please take care of my little kitten and tell her I'm ok." She smiled, and closed her eyes, but what could this strange dream mean?