To one who would have me take a vow of poverty,
Horror, you know not what you ask. Revoke the tax? Tis denial of my nature—agony to bear. How can one claim rulership o'er her demesne if she does not partake of it? If men would live within my sight, they and their fortunes shall be mine to pluck. I am no taxman or petty criminal. I am the devouring inferno—the gaping maw of ruin. Upon my brow rests a thorny crown unmovable. Civilization is my orchard. In leaving its bounty to ripen and decay, rivals and scavengers may be drawn to the stench. By your advice, I should be condemned to madness by the swollen fruit of forbidden gardens. Yet, I am that wretched soul cursed to guard them. Surely, there is some course less hideous.
Regardless, I am loath to let this piddling disagreement come between us. Your second suggestion is quite appealing. The townsfolk have ne'er witnessed the true measure of my strength, employed to their benefit. A demonstration is overdue; they shall finally behold the glorious might of their benefactor. Already, the mind teems with such delicious possibilities. My gratitude for the spark from which they sprung.
In reading your dream of the Ketze Sonata, I am also led to entertain another, nigh outlandish, thought. Dreams are slippery, ephemeral imps, but, if you are able, pray further describe the elf with wild, windswept hair. How was he clothed? What of his features—the curve of his nose and the cleft of his chin? Had he scars or pockmarks? I recall a narrative quite similar to this vision—the performance, the embrace, the parties involved. It could well be coincidence, but I should like to make certain.
Tis, additionally, gratifying that you recognize the stupendous value of my instruments, formerly Ludall Toveht's. Even my tasteless sister would salivate at the prospect of obtaining them, yet she cannot appreciate the nuanced flavour of true profundity. Nay, she envisions only gold, readily bled by men who grasp at the gleaming debris of the ages. Your enthusiasm is sincere—the fervid blossom of reverence. In this same vein, I sought the quartet, estranged by bitter circumstance. At last, my tenacity and meticulous action were rewarded. At last, the instruments were reunited.
Their recovery was no simple task, for time had flung them far and wide amid the murk of thievery and forgery. Twas known that each bore the composer's seal upon its neck and, beside, initials carved by his own hand. Like your Emberceuse, the first violin and cello hail from Waterdeep, produced by renowned luthier, Jan Garnerus. The viola is the handiwork of enigmatic and elusive Satyr, Vaelyse. The second violin—perhaps the finest of the four—emerged from the Neverwinter workshop of revered master, Nilua Amai. Passed from Prince Lichslayer to Ludall Tovhet, these were auctioned independently following his death. Resolute, I poured o'er thousands of records sourced to the composer, his contemporaries, and additional relevant individuals.
After myriad false leads, I succeeded in locating the viola. A young bard—foolhardy lad—had recently inherited it from his father. Twas a short-lived affair. At his campsite, the boy was discovered by a roving band of goblins who slaughtered him and looted his corpse—quite messily, I might add. Upon arrival, I found his boots by separate trees, feet still attached. The creeping hedgeborn knaves responsible mistook his instrument for firewood, laying it unceremoniously atop their mouldy stack. Two particularly creative little cockwarts had removed the pegs and inserted them into their nostrils. Appalled, I rescued the viola and thrust the goblins upon the fire in its stead.
Eleven years thereafter, I concluded that the Garnerus violin and cello had survived together, entombed beside an affluent Athkatlan collector. I could not see wherefore the eternal silence of a man should entail eternal silence for his strings. An instrument need not die so long as musicians live to play. Thus, I lifted them from dusty darkness that their voices might be liberated. I may have liberated a smattering of other trinkets as well.
The last did not reveal itself for many decades. Utterly lost, it appeared, but my persistence did not wane. I would have blown wide time's wizened shell for the merest glimpse. Eventually, it became apparent that the violin was housed by the Church of Eilistraee, just South of Daggerford along the Trade Way—an awkward situation indeed. The obstinate goodly gentleness of the Church is tiresome for its naivety. Still, their artistic excellence and dedication garner considerable respect. To plunder the temple would violate that beloved covenant of musicianship in which we are bound. Thus, I ventured forth to strike a bargain. For this violin, I might have made an offer worthy of fey lords.
Alas, I met no temple there, but the solemn shadow of destruction. Stark against the ashen sky, pale pillars rose, exposed, like the ribs of some sprawling beast, torn asunder. The air smelt of iron, chalk, and rot. There is a scent of despair, and it lingers in the voiceless draft where once was breath—the cloying perfume of death. Drow lie scattered like stringless marionnettes, their wooden joints alarmingly unhinged. Orcish chieftain, Brokk the Brazen, had descended upon them with his tribe. Outnumbered, the drow had succumbed and their temple with them.
Twas unlikely that a delicate work of wood and glue should emerge unscathed. Nonetheless, I examined the wreckage. To my amazement, there was a cadaver—half-crushed beneath a slab—cast perfectly o'er the violin. The bridge of her back and the covering of her cloak had protected it from the violence of the building's collapse and the harshness of the elements. A handkerchief, embroidered with purple hyssop, lay across the instrument's front. In her final moments, this lady of Elistraee had acted to preserve the last vestiges of radiance in her ravaged world.
For this, I honoured her. Cool and dark as slate, her hands were marked by distinctly calloused fingertips—violinist's hands. I burned those hands—her body and those of her comrades. I have seen and wrought much devastation, but rarely am I moved. That day, there stirred a strange choleric melancholy. I cannot say how Elistraee prefers her dead, but the flames of her slain danced with grace divine. As the pyre grew dim, I sallied forth to track Brokk the Brazen. The Dark Lady is not a vengeful goddess; she and her people are soft-hearted folk. I am not hers. When I found the orcs, they were camped along the clear, tranquil banks of the Mirar. By morning, the river ran red.
Many covet the blasted shards of centuries, but some forget their truth. They see in these artefacts only the promise of eminence and affluence. To this, I too aspire. Yet, these objects are also weighted with the joys and sufferings of lifetimes—of composers and bards, collectors and clerics. There are ghosts in these strings. When I play them, a spirit of beauty and anguish inhabits me, for, like your Emberceuse, all antique instruments have some quiet variation of memory. Perhaps the Amai violin had another name once, now consigned to ash and rubble. I name the instrument anew, Iothar—holy echo. At times, I take her up for the Tovhet Concerto in D Major. Amidst the lyricism of the second movement, this spirit shimmers. Hark, the highest floating flutterings, impossibly suspended. The whisper off a butterfly's wing would be as tempest and scatter, shatter the crystalline sonorities above.
At once, my fingers are lead and featherlight alike—those foreign hands, polymorphed that I might savour the strains of humanity. Since our correspondence began, I have taken novel interest in the human form. To assume this shape is a sacrifice that must be made for art. At the conclusion of practice, I promptly return to my natural state. After all, wherefore should one endure humanity for longer than necessary?
On this morn, however, I lingered in that body. What is it to be this creature, I wondered. You have such blunt features—teeth, nails, faces even. There is no ferocity in your aspect, for every point is tempered with curvature and, every salient line, bedecked with a dusting of gossamer hair. Human skin is sewn of lily petals. Unbearably tender, your fingertips prickle at the slightest sensation. Each touch is a bolt of Talos, and, with excessive use, they ache and bleed on the string.
I understand wherefore you cocoon yourself in endless layers. Tis not merely aesthetic. Concerts are held in warm halls and festivals, in flowering fields. I routinely practise in temperate, enclosed spaces for the sake of my instruments. This mountain air was laced with an unfamiliar sting. With each passing moment, I felt the fire of life dwindle in my breast.
As I stood there, bare to the wind, the emptiness of the world bore down upon me—this unnerving vastness which I could not occupy. When I was small, I imagined unfurling myself amid the starry expanse til my little body filled the firmament. I imagined consuming the universe through sheer existence. Today, I felt as if the breeze might drag me, screaming, into the sunrise. I imagined the universe consuming me without even trying. If this is humanity, then humanity is terrifying.
During my training with Lyros, I oft complained of this shape. Frail and unsightly, I called it. In truth, I do not consider you an ugly species—frail, perhaps, but not necessarily ugly. Your faces, for example, are exquisitely expressive. A few are even charming. Mayhaps I find the features of humans, elves, and the like so pleasant because they are suited to my treasured instruments. I envision their hands on keys and fingerboards—their lips on reeds and mouthpieces. Unlike my own, your kind has cultivated an inventory of beauty, tailored precisely to their anatomy. For all my brawn and prowess, tis your form which I am drawn to emulate.
Somehow, you are an anomaly, even amongst your own infinitely variable brethren. You continue to fraternise with me, despite our natures. I omit details from these letters so as to protect our agreed-upon anonymity. Even so, I have ne'er sought to deceive you, and shall endeavour always to remain an honest maneater. In response to your hunting query, I prefer the boar, if we are to speak in metaphor. Challenge and spoils galore; that is a proper hunt. Nonetheless, I confess to taking foxes in my time. Twas indefensibly cruel, but cruelty is its own sport. You are vindictive and fierce for one of your station, yet there is astonishingly little cruelty in you.
I know it is not your humanity, for human nature is vicious indeed. Only those deeply adamant and equally deluded may overcome such viciousness. Your years are polluted with the world's venom. Should you not also sprout fangs? Yea, you carry the lance of spite, yet hesitate to throw. This ceaseless inhibition, I cannot imagine. In sleep, I dream of swallowing the still-beating heart of my sister. I dream of pinning gods by their shoulders and watching the flesh melt from their cheeks. I dream of cracking open the sky—a billion blazing fragments of heaven, plunging down like daggers to pierce us bloody. I dream of calamity, for I have known calamity. You have known calamity. Do you not wish to punish the universe?
O queer, stubborn, marvellous creature, tis fortunate that we met upon the page rather than the field. I would not have you fear me. Of course, Lyros did not, though he was another breed of insanity. I am tempted to call him 'friend'—to believe that my fondness and confidence were reciprocated, independent of professional interests. He was the sole being welcome within my innermost sanctum. He kept my deadliest secret. Lyros was good to me, as you say a friend should be. In retrospect, I could have been better to him.
Likewise, I cannot think that Demik would forget you so easily. Recall that he regularly attempted to outscream a wyvern on your behalf. Were I your maestro, twould be both honour and pleasure. Such fervent devotion and discipline are scarce amongst the populous. Nay, unless he is dead or possessed, Demik would not forget you.
Vivek the Verdant shall certainly not forget my idiotic episode of goodwill—not as his minions extoll my name. Again, I fear you underestimate the peril that is friendship. Tis not weakness to guard one's heart. I should rather have a crimson fortress than a leaky coral cottage, door ajar to any passing sot or scoundrel. Trust and tenderness are dreadful words—lethal weapons. To wholly trust Vivek—a fiend who lives for scheming—would be as dangling tinder oe'r a cinder swarm. I have enjoyed the Verdant and, united in a common cause, we collaborate most effectively. Haunted by the same spectres, we have developed an uncommonly generous understanding. However, tis not improbable that ambition and avarice should someday set us at odds. Should this conflict of interests arise, twould be foolish to anticipate leniency. Tis not our way.
Mayhaps you and I are both anomalous. You call me healer and murderess upon the same page. I have indeed borne these mantles, perhaps longer than you suspect. This path was laid whilst the trio of my youth was yet intact. Cunning Vivek was cautious in battle. In some instances, he struck not a blow, preferring to orchestrate victory by guile alone. Conversely, my sister's temper wants for blood. In moments, she was, by a fog of rage, enshrouded—the claret of her own vein, recklessly outpoured.
My sister could describe ten thousand ways to dismember an opponent. Vivek could convince a man to amiably empty his coffers. To heal, however, was a proficiency which neither had acquired. Twas I who habitually tended our wounds, and their dependence on my knowledge was satisfying. Furthermore, I received a sort of methodical, mathematical pleasure in this learning and application—something vaguely reminiscent of practising a musical phrase into riverstone smoothness.
Unfortunately, tis not a skill held in high esteem amongst my people—the office of slaves and softer creatures, mother might say. Still, it has served me and my own. As Lyros began to undergo the pangs of age, I prolonged him as I was able. Woe, he was but a half-elf, and time cannot spare mercy for his ilk.
I am no cleric or apothecary, yet I have mended your Maron's wing and averted the Verdant's unseemly demise. You made mention of a scraped knee. How did this abrasion occur? In any case, I have sent an ointment of beeswax and castor to keep the wound from fouling. After the area is washed and the mixture, applied, cover it with a clean band of cloth. Twice daily, cleanse the injury, and reapply ointment and bandages til you are satisfied. Should you feel so inclined, I am not opposed to the occasional burnt offering either—Madame Margaret, perchance?
Does Maron frequently land in that loathsome harpy's garden? I cannot help but consider that she may have glanced at our intimate cargo. Seeing as discretion matters naught to her, wherefore should privacy hold sway? Without adequate context, tis not implausible that one might misconstrue the intention of our correspondence. Tis also not implausible that I might be presumed a devil. Preposterous as it may seem, perhaps she believes us to be sordidly entangled.
Speaking of entanglement, I too adore the mournful fugue that once blessed your dingy tavern—a tune by one Ilan Bettern. Every few years, the choir resurrects this song for their chamber program. Tis an elite ensemble, composed of their most accomplished virtuosi. To sing Weep o mine eyes is no great difficulty. Yet, to sing it well requires a purity of voice and unity of sound inaccessible to most. I should like for you to hear it performed without the inevitable ragged edge of inebriation.
The voice is a curious object—an instrument of flesh and bone, sinew and cartilage. I cannot collect it in the way I might a horn or viol, nor can it be long preserved. To covet the sung voice is to covet the singer, and, I indeed, harbour such desire. Twould not be an abnormal arrangement as my kind are concerned. Whilst Vivek inspires genuine loyalty in some—his personal entourage and most valued advisors—plenty of his contacts are debtors or victims of coercion via other means. Likewise, though there are certainly those who worship mother, many more remain at her side against their will. Conquered or abducted, she has made of them tools and amusements.
Be that as it may, I cannot bring myself to follow suit. In those lands South of the Shining Sea, one oft encounters performing monkeys on the street corners. Adorned with bells or pangi, they dance with timbrels, cymbals, and other hand percussion—miserable, desperate animals. Their upright, humanoid gait is induced by binding their forelimbs in youth, and, afterwards, enforced by whip and prod. A performing monkey, regardless of skill, is still without happiness or dignity. Their music is inanimate—passionless in captivity. To make musicians of monkeys is to strip them of some fundamental element of monkeyhood. Likewise, I cannot bear to make monkeys of musicians, lest I extinguish some fundamental element of musicianship.
Nay, I cannot retain a vocalist so concretely as I would another asset. Yet, unbeknownst to the choir, I do regard them as my own—the closest I have come to collecting voices. Their accomplishments instil pride, and I would eviscerate any who endangered them. I know the timbre and ability of each voice—the repertoire that might compliment them. A number of my own choral compositions were writ with this ensemble in mind. My favourite of such manuscripts, I once left on the maestro's stand ere departing. It calls for a soprano duet of utmost delicacy, and soft, steady organ. They have, thus far, performed it on five occasions, though my involvement remains a mystery. I fear they would not touch it if they knew.
Yea, they are mine, but I am not theirs. Though I desire, above all, to accompany them on keyboard, I would sing any part ere the organist retires. Your inference as to my voice type was not entirely inaccurate. I do favour the low alto and tenor for their comfortable mellow warmth, although these preferences are no restriction. In fact, I am possessed of a seven octave range. The high extremes are of scant musical use unless one intends to reproduce the shrill insectoid wailings of banshees. The lowest notes, however, may yield intriguing, nigh hypnotic vibrational effects.
I should like to hear your lyric mezzo as well, untrained though it may be. I too have pondered the physical and audible aspect of your being—more so now that I have taken further sample of the bodily human experience. I know that you are female, with calloused hands and short nails from violin practice and peasant drudgery. By your own description, I know that you are a maiden—perhaps in your prime—yet almost overripe in the eyes of harebrained human men seeking repository for their seed. I imagine that manual labour and traversing the pastureland have put a solid strength in your back and limbs. Otherwise, only the contour of your quill—the tapestrial 'countenance of your thoughts'—is discernible. With this, we must both be content. Gratitude for your well-wishes and, mayhaps overly optimistic, conviction. May Emberceuse yield her wondrous ghosts and Madame Margaret make for the choicest sacrificial fire.
Sincerely,
An anomalous, anonymous composer
*Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 61, Movement 2. Larghetto (Beethoven)
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