It's the dueling scene! Thank you again to everyone who has reviewed, and special thanks to toolazytologin for such thoughtful reviews- I had a huge smile on my face when I read your first one, and you've really inspired me to write more and better!
Toki stretched out his fingers once again before slipping into the one of the many hidden hallways of Versailles. It was the morning of the duel, and he had been playing deep into the night. It had been invigorating, playing so late: it had cleared his mind of all its doubts and in spite of only three hours of sleep, he felt refreshed, courageous even. He thought of his ancestors who had gone off to reckless battles, manning long ships and rending their enemies' flesh from bone. In spite of his natural optimism, he sometimes felt a distinct attraction toward gore and chaos. It was a feature he hid, that he huddled tightly to him as he had held Rockso as a child. Perhaps that was one of the many elements that separated him form his friends at Versailles- for all his love of beauty, there was a seed of brutality in him.
Now his fingers felt nimble, as though they were ready to take on life of their own, to harness the electricity of the elements and cast them forth into an unrelenting stream of music. He looked overhead at ceiling fresco, at the unending stream of cherubs and goddesses, spilling forth fruit and flowers, and in his mind they altered. They became demons with reptilian scales and maidens of death holding poisoned spears. But still there was that perpetual harmony, the gift of the age of baroque. There was death and there was life, and with a clear hand they would meld and form the essential song.
His thoughts were broken by the sound of shoes on the marble, and Skwigelf was walking by with his familiar stride, long and languid. At any other time it would have maddened him, this easy confidence, but at the moment he felt resolute and steady. Thunderhorse was slung over Skwigelf's shoulder in a case nearly as famous as the guitar. It had been a gift of the Ottoman sultan Abdülhamid, whom Skwigelf was said to count as a personal friend, and was embroidered with thousands of pearls, garnets, and rubies in an intricate circular design.
Skwigelf turned to Toki, and greeted him with a cold bow. Toki returned the gesture, but when they rose, he noticed that there was a certain ferocity, what could be termed a hunger, in Skwigelf's eyes. It seemed to Toki that he meant to swallow him alive, and the familiar insecurity returned.
They were silent- it was clear that they both wanted to mention the duel that afternoon. But it was too sacred of a ceremony to be broached in simple conversation, and they simply faced each other. Toki felt a powerful force emanating from Skwigelf- how was it possible? But the man had a fierce power- the prospect of the duel had also energized him, and his rival was several times as dangerous as before.
They went by carriage to the ancient chateau where the duel would take place. The weather was fair, and a long line of carriages traveled over the dusty road under the broad summer sky. Toki insisted on riding horseback. His senses were too riled to sit still in the carriage, but he glanced over and saw Skwigelf reclining in perfect ease in his carriage. A warm breeze ruffled the Swede's powdered hair, and he ran his long fingers, those agile fingers just made for the guitar, over his scalp.
And this was the man had dared to tell him that he had things easy. It Skwigelf who never seemed to suffer, Skwigelf who took things in his stride. He had told him, in a weak moment, that he was a bastard. But what did that matter when all the world seemed to fall in line before him? Toki was usually gentle with his horse, a dappled grey Lusitano mare he called Skjelve, but he dug his heels into her side. She was high strung, hence her name- Shiver-and she broke into a strong gallop, pulling him to the head of the parade of carriages and beyond. It was a relief to be alone, to feel the power of the horse beneath him, to smell the humid fragrance of summer, and to hear the call of hawks overhead.
He was the first to approach the gate of the fortress, a beautifully preserved Norman structure with high peaked red roofs. The gatekeeper studied him, and after careful deliberation, let him in.
The courtiers came soon after, though with their huge skirts and piled hair, it was an ordeal to get them out of the carriages undamaged. It was unusual for the entire court to attend an excursion, but everyone had insisted on coming. It would have been humiliating to admit to missing it- it would be akin to straight out stating that one was a nobody at court. There was a murmur as Marie stepped out in her finest court wear- she could not have been dressed more elaborately if she were going to her own coronation. Her dress was a glittering gold with long floral panels at the bust, and she wore a long cape. Usually such capes were held by the children of courtiers, and it was deemed to be a great honor. But no, Marie, with her usual blindness, had chosen the man who would be made the most unhappy by the duty- her manservant, Nathan. He was grimacing as usual, and her held her cape scrunched up in two powerful fists.
"Nathan!" she called. "Take care, you'll crumple it."
Nathan growled, and she laughed aloud. She found his ill humor delightful, and was certain he was devoted to her.
Cornichon scrambled out of the carriage behind her, and hopped onto the ground. The entire court was talking about the two of them. Though Marie had many intimate male friends, she really was taking it too far with him. He was a coarse outsider- a nobody, though his skills with the drum set were certainly in his favor. But the King was fond of Cornichon too: the drummer had given Louis XVI private lessons, and even had taught him to throw the sticks up in the air and catch them.
Marie Antoinette had insisted the concert be held outdoors though there was concern that it would not be loud enough. So the huge Amp De Triomphe had made its way in a cart of its own, with several servants to attend it. Toki studied it, and with a frown remembered his first encounter with Skwigelf. The memory made his blood boil, and that could only be to his advantage.
The Swede was leaning against a carriage, chatting with two eager young ladies who seemed to take any possible chance to touch him, whether it was stroking his arm while laughing at a joke, or leaning against him to whisper in his ear. Toki turned away in disgust, and ran his fingers over his guitar- the guitar with no pretentious name, and no exquisite case from an Turkish monarch. But it had served him well, and he was prepared.
There was a hush as the two men approached one another. It could have been a blood duel, with rapiers and wounds, for the sense of danger that permeated the crowd. They had all heard what Skwisgaar had said to Marie Antoinette.
I would not discount bloodshed. I don't think you have heard me play.
Now they all had, and they knew his power. But that had been in a small salon, with the intention of entertainment. Now it was a matter of honor, a duel. Who knew what he could be capable of in this arena?
Toki and Skwisgaar faced each other, and like the high-blooded mare Skjelve, they trembled with anticipation. For the first time, Toki realized that they were dressed with ludicrous similarity, with high curled hair and blue suits- his dark, Skwisgaar's light. He studied the features of the man before him, and it was as though he were viewing him for the first time. Toki could barely believe he had come to know him at all, this sharp, lithe, languid figure who walked the earth with perpetual irreverence. He was a worthy adversary, if Toki had been looking for one. He had to dig inside himself, and seek out the blood of his ancestors, the long hollow winters of his home, the shadowed darkness in his parents eyes- it took harsh memories to siphon from himself his animal instincts. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and took several steps back, as directed by Cornichon.
"Now we're gonna flip a coin- Count Wartooth is heads, Baron Skwigelf tails."
"I ams always heads," said Skwigelf with a haughty throw of his head.
"All right, does that work for you, Count Wartooth?" asked Cornichon.
"No! I ams heads." He clenched his teeth and looked directly at his adversary, who smirked and tuned his guitar.
"Well, no need to be Monsieur Sensitives," said Skwigelf. "Let our proud, nobles young Count haves his way."
Toki's face turned red, and he looked up at Skwisgaar with a snarl.
"Okaaay," said Cornichon. "Then Count Wartooth is heads, as I said."
He flipped the coin. Tails.
"Well, I suppose I goes first," said Skwisgaar, with easy confidence, letting his finger sweep up and down a single string. Now the crowd was huddled around them, a mass of towering hair, twitching fans, and diamond necklaces that glittered in the sun. It was a scene of opulence that never failed to dazzle Toki, and yet he could make out the ills of humanity among the courtiers- the missing teeth, the greed, the hunger for novelty that countered all reason. It was then he distanced himself from the mass of people and mentally forced himself within, away from France, away from Versailles, to the brutal turmoil in his gut that would guide him through the duel.
Cornichon counted down and with a gesture of his hand, he signaled the beginning. Skwisgaar smiled and leaning back, played a few simple notes, a child's arpeggio. Everyone glanced at one another- they had expected something more from him. There were whispers in the crowd. Had he gone simple?
It was then that the reckless fingers pounced on the strings, moving with breakneck speed up and down the frets, while the other hand tapped out a rapid and foreign melody, a fugue inspired by the greats of the era, with elements of a distant but approaching future.
Toki nearly fell in dismay, and he stumbled over himself as he struggled to catch up. He answered the call, digging within that primal self and breaking free of all constructs and time so that his hands could mimic the Swedish master and surpass him. The song slipped into a melancholic wail while retaining its epic speed.
Skwisgaar grinned, and holding himself upright, slipped easily into Toki's song, enhancing it with a higher tone like a banshee's cry, or the rapid unrelenting winds of the Nordic winter. It had become a pure element, shared between them, a question of heritage, of past and future. Toki's heart nearly gave way in his chest and he forced himself deeper into his psyche, into the deep hole where his parents had hidden him for days on end. He took over, and his song sunk lower and lower, as though he were descending down the rungs of a ceaseless ladder into that hole. It was then he thought of deliverance- of sprouting the wings of a hawk, of rising to the clouds and giving way, and the music burst forth, ecstatic and free, made only brighter by the crushing desolation before it.
Skwisgaar looked on him with utter surprise, and actual fear, but he quickly played to the tune, and it seemed to Toki he was rising through space and time as he picked out a rapid arpeggio that lifted the song to new heights. It moved in a steady, galloping pace, like a warhorse forcing its way through an enemy horde, a battle hymn of an early warrior.
It was violent, too violent, and Toki could feel a mounting pressure within his chest and throat. He had never heard guitar like this, and it was as though it was twisting around him, enchanting but ensnaring him. He struggled to breath but grew more frantic from fighting. Like a darting snake, he came back with new ferocity, a boiling in his blood he hadn't known he was capable of, and struck.
It was Skwisgaar now who was stunned, who, clearly having underestimated his rival, had to rally up new forces to combat him. He seemed to be digging deep within an untapped well, and as though releasing a valve, he burst forth is a geyser of sound, a potent, rising wail, with notes circling around each other in an unceasing spiral.
They played together, with moves like dance steps, and though there were no wounds, it was as though they had been drained of their lifeblood. But in its place a fierce electricity in potent shades of turquoise and violet burst through them, connecting them, and yet marking them as perpetual foes. Their execution was flawless, yet they were not moved by reason, but pure energy. They had given themselves away, and were in thrall to their own instruments. Choice had ceased to enter into it.
They moved higher and higher, and the cloud between them formed into a twisting helix. It didn't seem as though the music could go on but they forced it, beyond the realm of human understanding, they pushed it, to where it could not possible occur, and on one side it was all destroyed…
And Toki fell. Down the spiral, through the various hemispheres, he hid the earth like a comet, with a force that could only come from nearing the realm of the stars. He fell to his knees and felt a powerful ringing through his body- and Skwisgaar played on, pushing through the final notes that completed Toki's defeat.
There was a cry among the crowd, and at first they didn't notice what happened, only that they had been released from their trance. They too had plummeted with Count Wartooth, rescued only by the saving grace of Baron Skwigelf's triumphant lone finale. They cried out, and scurried about each other like ants, dying to share their experience, and yet not having the words or strength to speak.
Skwigelf stood firm and taller than ever, seeming at this moment to supersede all mere mortals. And there was Toki, on his knees with his guitar hanging loosely from his chest, and his hands now touching the earth. Skwisgaar, not sure what he was doing, took two steps forward. He reached out his hand and touched the Count's shoulder.
Toki stared at Skwisgaar, and his face was pale and contorted with agony. He rubbed his forehead, streaking it with dirt. To have risen so high, such a fall must crush him.
"Toki..." said Skwisgaar. He did not know why, but he was saying his name, his first name...
Toki leapt to his feet. In the chaos of the crowd, he marched towards Skjelve. He grabbed her reigns, and lapt onto her back. The mare sensed her master's tension and rose up on two legs with a whinny, but Toki held fast to the bridle. He looked behind him at the courtiers, who were finally coming to their own, and turning towards him in surprise. He saw Skwisgaar's figure, upright and tall, reaching out an arm toward him. Let him have his victory. Plunging through the gate, he made for the north road, away from the courtiers who had witnessed his humiliation, away from the great master Skwigelf who had engineered his ruin, to his country house in the depths of the woods.