~Michael's songs are inspired from: Philip Wesley
Song 1: Dark Night of the Soul
Song 2: Racing Against the Sunset
Look up and listen to follow along!~
Michael pulls his cloak closed, angling himself so none of the passing guards or servants can see his soiled pants, the vomit. There is no hiding his face though.
A ribbon of marigold lines the horizon, marking the approach of dawn by the time he returns to the castle. No one seemed to be alert or concerned, so news of the "random wildfire" either hasn't reached, or they don't see it as a heavy concern.
He barely says anything to anyone as he slips away from the stables, up into his rooms, dropping the cloak and mask by the door, and into his bathing chamber for a bath. He strips off his clothes and steps into the porcelain tub, his legs nearly collapsing.
He doesn't stir for hours, and no one comes to check on him.
He doesn't care. He doesn't feel like talking with anyone despite the flood of emotions threatening to drown him.
Normally he would've just ran it off – ran until his body screamed at him to stop. Would've just gone to the courtyard to spar with whatever, whomever until he collapsed, or until the world made sense again. It had always been his output, his way of puzzling out the world. Not because of a volatile temper, but because he didn't know how to express it any other way.
There was never another kind of release that didn't involve blades or fighting or hammering at a forge. Even when he was part of a select few of elite soldiers, able to learn more talents that appealed to the higher class, his lessons were always monitored, always so strict – never allowing any freedom.
A soldier has better use swinging a blade than painting a canvas, or needlepointing, or writing poetry.
Because he was able to rise up the ranks, excelling in any mission or raid or battle, he was hand picked into the elites. His missions becoming more devious, expertly toeing that line of humanity and savagery; missions that some would deem him as an assassin.
Lifting his hand up, water sliding down his forearm, he looks at the callus, at the scars – remembering each way the blood had stained his skin.
The Reaper
Molten eyes and
a smile made for war
Avoid the shadows of The Reaper,
for he brings death to your door
He doesn't know where the little poem had started, where it even came from or who started it. Initially, there was praise for the piece – praise that the rebels were beginning to have a reputation, beginning to be feared and talked about – now, with the kingdom freed and the members dispersed, it haunts him. It whispers at the back of his mind, bringing with it memories of curdling screams and bloodied daggers.
There is one way he can escape the labyrinth of his mind.
It won't be the same as sparring, but it will do.
After a quick towel dry and a change of clothes – opting for a loose tunic and pants, since the cotton nightshirts don't really suit him – Michael pads his way down the carpeted halls on silent feet, hair still dripping.
At this point in his stay he's managed to map the entirety of the castle, able to locate main rooms – noting what others flanked it, using furniture or hall decorations as markings. The first time he passed by the music room, he had sighed, and was taken aback by the beautiful display of instruments; some looking familiar, others foreign to Arendelle.
He passes under the archway and into the open chamber with high vaulted ceilings. Michael's breath leaves him as he enters the quiet oakwood space.
The wide gold-and-red chamber lies stretched before them. Thick velvet draperies spilled from tall windows, like motionless crimson waterfalls. More hang suspended from the vaulted ceilings. A warm fire crackling in the grand fireplace. A tired crystal chandelier hangs, sparkling above. The hardwood flooring pokes at his feet with cold fingers.
Instruments from all around the world are here, each a proud representation of their country, built in wood or metal. From grand pianos and harpsichords, to lutes and lyres, flutes and oboes and clarinets, and trumpets and horns. All together they are gathered in this grand music room of the castle, mixed with Arendelle's stringed instruments of violins, violas and massive cellos.
The ones mounted on the wall aren't for playing, but merely observation, but that doesn't stop Michael from walking over to a lovely harp and tracing his fingers along its strings. The instrument thrums to life, then quietly fades.
He looks to the walls and begins to saunter along, observing and almost memorizing where each instrument is from.
Michael eyes the pianoforte. He used to play — he actually loved to play, loved music, the way music could break and heal and make everything seem possible and heroic.
When he was recruited into the elite groups of the rebels, he had originally been forced to play, needing to appeal to the higher classes, he was ordered. For easier infiltration – no one would ever suspect a ballroom piano player.
To his own surprise, he enjoyed it – far more than anyone had anticipated. He had been good once—perhaps better than good.
But there was something about having the skill and knowledge to create beauty with his hands . . . to be able to use them and have them do something good, and damn near magical in its own sense. Sometimes he'd be so enthralled in playing at the parties he'd almost forget his mission. When not at a party, he would play on his own time, passing it off as practice.
No one ever really bothered him unless it was approaching a certain number of hours, or a time of day.
Carefully, as if approaching a sleeping person, Michael walks to the large instrument. He pulls out the wooden bench, wincing at the loud scraping sound it makes. Folding back the heavy lid, he pushed his feet on the pedals, testing them. He eyes the smooth ivory keys, and then the black keys, which were like the gaps between teeth.
Gingerly, with one hand, he taps out a simple, slow melody on the higher keys. Echoes—shreds of memories arising out of the void of his mind. The music room is so silent that the music seems obtrusive. He moves his right hand, playing upon the flats and sharps.
The notes drawl from his fingers, staggering at first, but then more confidently as the emotion in the music takes over. It is a mournful piece, but it makes him into something clean and new. He is surprised that his hands have not forgotten, that somewhere in his mind, after years of darkness and hardened silence, music is still alive and breathing. That somewhere, between the notes, was the boy who once dreamed of a future; the boy who was content living in a simple cabin in the countryside; the boy who had parents who loved him with every fiber of their being. So strong that he can still feel the echoes of it now.
Michael trails his fingers along the keys, from the lowest to the highest spectrum, his foot on the pedal, the notes echoing throughout the empty chamber. The song ending too soon, but somehow leaving the room more fulfilled.
Popping his fingers and wriggling his toes, he begins another piece, one of his favorites.
He starts with a clang of organized notes, trailing down octaves before trickling back up the higher spectrum. As the tinkle of piano notes seep through the room, he forgets about time as he drifts between the melodies, the harmonies, voicing the unspeakable, opening old wounds, playing and playing as the sound forgives and saves him.
With his hands trailing back and forth over the keys, he plays a warbling of piano notes. The music picks up, the pattern of dripping notes matching his movements. His hands seemed to float over the piano keys. And the way he moves, jerky and quick between smooth slow-motion moments.
An interlude of high notes trickles forth in a complicated pattern, accented by a few well-placed chords from the instrument's lower spectrum. Michael lets his imagination control his hands as they dance across the white and black key. Pictures and images flash through his mind. He let his emotions fuel the notes, the song as he lets the music sweep him in a world of Oblivion.
The unrelenting pleasure he feels, the pain, the freedom. He lets it course through his body, his veins as he closes his eyes for and loses himself within its cradling fingers.
Leaning against the doorway, Elsa stands, utterly transfixed. He's been playing for some time with his back to her. She wonders when he'll notice her, or if he'll ever stop at all. She wouldn't mind listening forever. She had come here with the intention of apologizing and checking up on him, and has instead found a young man pouring his secrets into a pianoforte.
She had stopped by his rooms first, only to find them vacant. Worry was just beginning to creep over her mind when she heard the most beautiful music she's ever heard played in the castle.
Elsa listens, hypnotized, as the piano carries on. Then the music fades off, ending in a sharp clang of keys as though something about the song's execution had frustrated the composer. Michael opened his eyes and finds his hands slightly shaking as his fingers gently brace themselves on the ivory keys. For all his observant experience, he doesn't notice her.
The room has gone needle drop silent once more.
Elsa can only stare as his back as he sits. Even with the loose-fitting shirt, she can still make out the definition of the muscle laying beneath. The way they imprint themselves whenever he breaths, or how his raven-black hair almost shines blue in the moonlight. Gods, he is so beautiful.
She is so preoccupied in her own thoughts that she jumps when the piano bench suddenly screeches against the floor, a loud, awful CLANK sounding as his fingers slap the piano keys, and he is halfway around the grand piano when she beholds him. She could have sworn his eyes were damp. "What are you doing here?" He glances to the door.
"I – I apologize if I interrupted." She wonders at his discomfort as he turns red. It seems far too human an emotion from what she's seen from him so far. "But you were playing so beautifully that I—"
"It's fine." He mumbles, running his hand through his hair.
"You like to play?" she asks.
"I do," He is still red. She made him that uncomfortable? She fights against her jackrabbit heart. Though she may have caught him in a moment of vulnerability – to which a piece of her still feels guilty – she attempts at a gentle smile. She begins to step closer to the piano. "How'd you like the books?"
"They were very nice," he says quietly. "They were wonderful, actually."
"I'm glad." Their eyes meet, and he retreats behind the back of the piano. If she didn't know better, she would have thought herself to be the assassin!
"Where did you learn to play like that?" she asks, now before the piano, adjacent to where he stands.
"With the rebels." Elsa isn't sure if it's the moonlight or a reflection of the piano's polished surface, but she could've sworn the blue of his eyes seemed to glow, like iridescent sapphires.
"Did everyone have to learn?"
"Only the most elite; talked it up as nothing more than a necessary skill to infiltrate parties and gatherings of the higher class."
"Is there anything you didn't learn from the rebels?" Elsa asks. Of course, it's a totally innocent question.
Michael shrugs, and she tries to not read too far into the gesture. "They became a foundation for me, especially after losing my parents."
Foundation, not family. Because from what he's told her, they could never replace his family. Not that they ever tried, and not that he ever wanted them to. No family would ever do that to each other. Her mind flashes to the scar on his right hand. "He gave me the choice of either letting him break my hand, or I do it myself."
They never cared about any of them, not in the way that mattered; that would've made much more of a difference.
"I went to our blacksmith's shop, took one of his heaviest hammers, and smashed my hand on the anvil."
She couldn't help it; her eyes wandered to the scarred hand draped loosely at his side. It was shaking, ever so slightly – unbeknownst to even. From what, she can't tell.
No, all they cared about was how orphaned many men and women, and children, they could train and use; exploit their weaknesses and mold them into killing machines. Even if his long-abandoned kingdom is better off now, even if their cause had been true, those leaders . . . they were a lie.
Elsa slowly sits on the piano bench, still warm from him. She wipes her sweaty palms on the skirt of her magenta nightgown. She says softly. "You love music."
It is more of a statement than a question. She looks to him, her fingers hovering ever so slightly over the white keys. The unnerving stillness in his eyes abated, at least.
"Yes."
"Even if it was something forced upon you?"
"Not one of the worst things."
Elsa tries to ignore the pinch in her chest at his words. "From your playing, it seems a great deal more than that."
"What do you mean?"
"Well," she says, trying not to get lost in his strange, lovely eyes, "I don't think anyone who plays like that just likes music. It seems like you have a soul when you play." she dares to tease.
"Of course I have a soul. Everyone has a soul." He bites his lip for heartbeat. "I dare say I love it more than love itself."
Elsa doesn't want to know why it hurts her heart when he says that. When he doesn't say more, she clears her throat and asks as casually as she can: "On a different note, how are you and Anna getting along?"
Despite being trapped by that royal asshole prince – who, before Michael's interjection, believed he was entitled to put his hands all over her body – she hadn't missed how him and her sister were having a decent, if not pleasant conversation, if Anna's smile was any indication.
Michael inches around the piano, coming closer to her, and her heart jumps a beat. "Fine. It's nice to see she doesn't hate me anymore."
"I promise you, I don't think she hated you at all. It was just fear."
"Sometimes fear cannot be trusted."
"Do you wish it were otherwise?"
He runs his hand along the rim of the piano as he takes another step closer, coming up on her right. Whether by practiced etiquette or because the space between them feels so intimate already, Elsa slides herself down the bench. "Well, who wants to be hated? Though I'd rather be hated than invisible. But it makes no difference."
He isn't convincing.
"You're lonely?" She says it before she can stop herself.
"Lonely?" He shakes his head and finally, after all that coaxing, sits down on the bench next to her. Elsa fights against the urge to reach across the space between them to see if his hair was as silky as it looks. "I can survive well enough on my own — if given proper reading material. Though I won't deny, it is nice to have some companionship."
She looks to the piano keys, trying not to think about where he'd been only weeks before — and what that kind of loneliness might have felt like.
"And what was that piece you were playing so masterfully? It was so sad."
He folds his hands in his lap. "It was a piece I learned on my own, in my own time whenever I could spare."
Elsa blinks before casting her gaze down to the ivory keys, her fingers trickling a simple scale. Then her skin suddenly shivers when he purrs, "You weren't nearly this chatty compared to this evening."
Now it is her turn to blush as she snaps her gaze to him. She swallows as she finds his eyes narrowed in a mischievous expression that has warmth blooming in her cheeks, and . . . somewhere else . . .
"Well," she clears her throat, "pardon me, but some drastic things did happen only a few hours ago. And I only wanted to make sure you were alright." Elsa snaps with a pout. "Which, you seem to be. Thankfully."
"Barely." Michael mutters.
When some of the light vanishes from his eyes, she couldn't stop herself from reaching through the inches of space between them to brush her fingertips along his cheek. She almost sighs from how warm it feels against her fingertips, like the sun's light on a fresh, spring afternoon.
He doesn't pull from her touch, not even as she curls her fingers under his chin where she can feel the scratch of growing hair despite being freshly shaved. When he closes his eyes and leans into that touch, the feeling of his lips against her palm . . . Elsa was relieved the piano bench didn't crack under the pressure of her magic.
When he looks to her, those stunning eyes rattle her breath.
His lips are so full . . .
Elsa didn't know what to think as Michael leans in, further closing the distance between them –
Only to have his hand grab her own and peel it away from his face.
She didn't realize how cold she was until his warmth was gone. How much she yearns to touch his face, to feel his warmth –
It only worsens when he clears his throat and gets up from the piano bench. Her heart starts to hammer, another apology ready to burst from her lips.
No, he can't walk away, not like this.
"Um," he runs his hand through his silky hair again, stuffing the other hand in the pocket of his pants. "I should, get to bed. It's been a long day."
She doesn't know what to say, her mouth can only open slightly, her lips near quivering for a touch of their own against his skin. His shoulders are so broad . . .
"Michael," she manages to croak.
But he only answers with, "I'll see you tomorrow."
He then walks towards the doorway to the music room. He doesn't look back once, not even as he turns left and out of sight.
The silence of the music room feels like she's drowning.