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justporo · 3 months

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Revelations

A Night of Fake Smiles and Hidden Lies: Chapter 10

As the joy and their love still echo through each other, Astarion sweeps up Tav for another dance - that makes them reminisce about all the things that might have been and be thankful for all the things that are.

Author's Note: Three months... It took me three months to get back to this - I am deeply sorry but life - you know. I have however this and four more chapters already drafted ready for you - and there's still more to come so I hope you're ready to jump back into this adventurous night with Astarion and Tav, start the night anew or maybe get lost in it for the first time? Anyways, I hope really hope you enjoy a chapter of a lot of emotions and banter - there's quite some more stuff to come!

Songs: Serenade for Strings in E Major - Antonín Dvořák (and also that's their second waltz)

Pairing: Astarion/Fem!Tav (You)

Warnings: none

CHAPTER LIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER |NEXT CHAPTER

~~~

You could have just stayed like this for the rest of your days: Astarion’s arms firmly holding you while the world blurred around you completely with your head thrown back and you dancing together until the world would fall down.

Your vampire being your single focal point, the one thing to always return to, the only thing you really ever needed – while the rush of the dance and the prickling sensation of having drunk just a tad too much gave you a feeling of pleasant light-headedness. Life could be so easy, so beautiful.

The waltz went on forever with you and Astarion beaming broadly, drunk on love, champagne and each other. And yet the dance ended all too quickly.

When an enormous crescendo began announcing the end of the waltz you lifted your head up again and grinned broadly at Astarion who was still rushing with you over the dancefloor as if he’d never done anything else in his life.

His red eyes were so open, the smile on his face as genuine as you had ever seen. A look that could almost make you believe that it had truly always been like that: no two hundred years of torture, just this perfect, gilded vision of a happy life.

You both knew it wasn’t true – but for this moment it was more than enough.

Horns in the orchestra rose up for a grand finale. Astarion turned you even more eagerly for these last couple of rounds, an almost feral grin splitting his face. Just the pure joy of the speed with which you were almost tossed around, made you throw your head back once more. A joyous, wild, almost feral laughter escaped from your lips – caused by the simple but deep delight of feeling so, so alive. You saw it on your vampire’s face too: a power so strong his undead self might’ve been more alive in this moment than others were in their whole existence.

Astarion’s hand let go of yours and joined his other at your waist and you leaned back even more to enjoy the dizzying rush, your hands quickly moving to cover your lover’s while you were sure you had never felt this free in your life. Flying couldn’t have felt any better than this.

And the vampire couldn’t rip his eyes from his beloved, the corners of his mouth curled up so far it made his face ache as he beheld his soulmate experiencing some of the rawest, purest joy, he’d ever seen in anyone. It seemed one of the divine entities he’d prayed to had eventually answered his pleas by putting you in his way after all. Finally blessing him with a piece of paradise.

But not a single god could have even competed with you in this very moment as Astarion could barely believe the beauty of the love of his life. His feeling of wonder and glee not second to yours in this moment that felt almost detached from anything – your surroundings, your past, your future.

Truly a night and a moment to never forget.

With a beat of the drum the orchestra ended on a high note. Couples all around you broke into cheering and clapping while the other guests joined in. The volume quickly rising levels over what the musicians had just ended with.

But Astarion and you didn’t join in. His hands were still on your hips and his eyes on your flushed face full of happiness. Your chest was heaving heavily. Who could have predicted that dancing could be just as exhausting as going into battle (or indulging in other physical activities). Your earlier assessment had been quite right you felt like. Although of course the aftermath felt much more delightful and much less dreadful.

It did nothing to bother you though because wild, unbound happiness was still flooding through you. And you saw it mirrored on Astarion’s face as well in the way his eyes sparkled like garnets and you felt his hands restlessly squeeze and tap on your hips, his vigour barely contained.

He opened his mouth wanting to say something while around you people were still in a frenzy. But before he could get a word out you stepped forward, dragged him down by his face and crushed his lips to yours in a way you had never kissed him before. The urge to show him how your heart was flowing over with love for him in this very moment was just too strong to resist. You needed an outlet for the overflowing in your chest – your whole body!

The vampire let it happen, arms raising almost helplessly before he wrapped them around you and pulled you in closer, kissing you back with just as much force and emotion. And when you released him, detangling from his arms, his crimson eyes were wide with surprise. He almost stumbled back being released from your passionate embrace.

Astarion was flustered and obviously speechless.

It must’ve been an illusion of the low lights, but it almost looked like a slither of pink blush crossed over his face up to the tips of his pointy ears. He blinked several times while his mouth was slightly agape, and his eyes were still on you: as if he had perceived a miracle right in front of his own eyes. And maybe that was exactly what you were to him.

Well, that surely was a first.

Your giggle felt almost a little hysterical as you rode off the last waves of this incredible emotional high and wrapped your arms around Astarion as your vampire was still staring off into space in surprised but delighted bliss. Meanwhile around you the dancefloor emptied slightly while the thundering applause had drizzled out already.

“We need to do this again some time, love, if that’s your reaction”, Astarion murmured as he regained his wits slowly and reciprocated the hug slowly. You buried your face at his chest, still grinning almost maniacally, not ready to let the moment pass.

Some of the guests passing around you, leaving the dancefloor threw the two of you glances. Everyone had seen your display of heartfelt affection and that seemingly had warmed up the crowd to you. One or two people went as far as touching your or Astarion’s shoulder as you kept standing there: the very illustration of a happy, young fairytale couple.

As that thought crossed your mind you almost started to giggle again – your little ironic roleplay had maybe become just a little tad too convincing.

You lifted your face off Astarion’s chest who had let his thumbs wander softly over your arms. “Now, my prince, are you ready to get your white stallion and steal me away for our first night of passion before we get married, and I have no other task in life than bear your children and raise them while you go off to some war from which you’ll never return?” you asked him, rambling on and on with the newly found energy and placed the back of your hand on your forehead in a dramatic gesture.

The vampire’s eyebrow in the meantime had arched higher and higher the more you added to the cliché imagery of your fairytale. He grinned at you, eyebrow still raised, giving him the expression of seriously questioning your sanity in this moment. “Darling, I honestly think you’re getting just a tad too much into this,” he whispered while the party, the drinking, the chatter rose up around you again.

“Also you do know my stance on horses, sweetheart.”

You laughed and pinched one of his cheeks. You were definitely still feeling high of everything and were in a silly mood. Thankfully Astarion didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he could barely contain his own laughter as he answered you.

“But at least you put the night of passion before the marriage, at least it’s not a prude tale,” he continued, his voice taking on a sultry note while he inclined his head to you.

“But scrap the terrible, stereotypical ending, my love, I’ll happily stay right here with you for as long as we both want to,” Astarion closed, his tone now a lot more genuine again. You could only answer with a big happy smile, placing your head against his chest again.

The orchestra in the meantime had taken a short break, some of the musicians allowing themselves to indulge in a singular glass of offered champagne before they continued playing for what would surely be a very long night still.

You pulled back from Astarion a little with a sigh: “You’re right, I guess this is all going straight to my head more even than the alcohol. I guess once we’re back home I will have to spend a week in the Lower City and get shit-faced every night at Maeve’s until they let me sleep under the big bench on the floor. You know to ground myself again.”

“Ah see, there’s my little feral street cat that I love so much again”, the Astarion replied in a haughty tone – with a tinge of disapproval and teasing disgust.

You kicked him – but only slightly as you stood too close to him to get him properly. “Be nice, you prick!”

The vampire only laughed and while holding onto your slim shoulders pressed a quick kiss to your lips. The orchestra was now getting ready to start playing again. The conductor tapping his baton against his stand again to gain everyone’s attention. Another waltz was announced while you tried to kick Astarion again for being a meanie.

“You could give me just one deeply romantic moment once in a while, you know that, Astarion? Without ruining it with your sass!”

“I didn’t bring up getting drunk at this piss poor establishment someone even dared to call a tavern,” Astarion replied. You simply tried to swat his arm but the rogue took a half step back, dodging just out of your reach

“Did you really get so drunk at this forlorn tavern that they let you sleep it off on the floor?” he asked with mock worry on his face

“I won’t answer this question right now, Astarion,” you replied and let go of him to take a step back yourself while pursing your lips.

“Well then, darling,” he said and grabbed hold of your wrist before you could step away from him further. “Allow me another question then: will you join me for another dance?” The low, golden light of the chandeliers sparkled in Astarion’s eyes as he said that with his head slightly bowed to you. He was all of a sudden on his best behaviour again as you heard the musicians in the orchestra readying themselves for another piece.

In this in between moment you took a second to take your partner in again. You had been with him all night. You had seen him get dressed even but with how he looked at you right now you were just wholly smitten by him again. He looked like sin in a suit – and you were so ready to indulge again. Forgotten was the short insolent quarrel. But how could you stay mad at him for long when the look on his face and wide red puppy eyes spoke of nothing but adoration and deep affection for you.

So, when his smile and his offered hand promised you another round of exhilarating joy should you accept his offer, you didn’t even think before agreeing and grabbing his hand.

His fingers wrapped around yours as Astarion smiled happily at you and swung you around once more while the strings softly began playing a new piece.

Your vampire made you take one – or two – extra turns before he pulled you back in, arm wrapping firmly around you once more and then starting to twirl around the room again. It was a slower waltz now that fit well with how the mood seemed to have shifted from electrifying frenzy to something a bit calmer now. The dancefloor had emptied quite a bit. Many of the guests, as you noticed while turning your head around while Astarion made you glide over the polished wooden floors, were back to drinking, chatting, showing off and gossiping. And another thing you noticed: if everything had been highly polished at first, just like the gold buttons on most everyone’s doublets or the silver of amulets around necks, there was a slight general disarray noticeable. Some cravats and scarfs had been loosened, buttons opened up, lipstick smeared, and headpieces started to slide dangerously off people’s heads. All which was going hand in hand with a general air of tipsiness and derailment. At this point in the night, it might’ve been impossible to find just about one person not slightly stumbling from maybe having had one or two glasses of champagne too many.

And you were pretty sure you even spotted at least one hysterically laughing tiefling lady sipping directly from a huge, heavy-looking bottle – having to use her other hand to even get it lifted. When another turn took you around again, you spotted her once more – and realised that it was the woman who’d been involved in the group from earlier. Apparently, she had dodged her cheating husband for a good bottle in hopes of something less treacherous – good for her.

Your gaze snapped back to Astarion, trying to find out if he had spotted her as well. And you knew he had when you saw his wicked, almost vicious smirk as he pulled you in a little closer with his hand on the small of your back. He sighed abruptly and dramatically while his face formed to a mocking expression mimicking disappointment and compassion: “Seems not everyone can be as lucky, loving and harmonious as the two of us, my love.”

Apparently just for the timing of the punchline did your feet choose this moment to make you stumble and almost fall onto Astarion. He hissed at you.

Only his roguish quick reflexes grabbing you by the shoulders and counterbalancing you stopped you both from toppling over. He lost not a moment before picking up the pace of the waltz again while you were still recovering from the shock.

Astarion clicked his tongue in disapproval, lips pursed: “I stand corrected.”

You snarled at him and were just about to show him how ‘harmonious’ you could be when you noticed something out of the corner of your eye. Someone else that was familiar.

You craned your neck in hopes of catching another glimpse while Astarion kept scolding you for not paying attention and how you would cause the two of you to lose the image of the imposing, perfect couple if you tumbled over each other while dancing. But you were indeed barely paying attention and therefore ignored what your partner was blabbering about.

Another turn and then you saw them again: another couple enjoying the dance together. Maybe a tad slower than the two of you and a bit less fluently. And in one half of the couple, you recognised your lovely elderly lady neighbour. She was dancing with a man much taller than her small frame, elegantly clothed with long black hair, tied together at his back in a low ponytail. While they slowly and a bit sluggishly turned, you saw how young and devilishly handsome her partner was. She was beaming up at him. And just the huge, genuine smile took years off her aged face.

You couldn’t help yourself, your mouth fell open. Your gaze snapped back to Astarion once more, hoping again that he had observed what you had just seen. And surely, he had, because there was at least slight surprise and even a bit of admiration on his face – his downturned corners of his mouth and lifted eyebrows giving him away.

“Old lady still got it within her, it seems”, Astarion commented and hummed approvingly. You had to agree.

“I hope it’s not for her money or estate,” you replied. You felt how the vampire just shrugged under your hand on his shoulder. You craned your neck again to look at them. But when you saw how he as well looked at her as if she was the most precious thing, he’d ever come across you knew it wasn’t.

“I do wonder though. When they go to bed how well she’s taking it with the age differ-“, Astarion began with a wicked glint and a grin that made him look almost fiendish.

This time you stumbled fully on purpose. Causing Astarion to hiss at you angrily again.

“You’re one to talk about age difference, grandpa!” you hissed back and stuck out your tongue when he began twirling you around with more force as if he was trying to work the insolent attitude right out of you by force.

Had he called the two of you harmonious just moments ago? Apparently only if the harmony was accounted for by the way you both violently bickered with each other like an old married couple.

“Why am I even taking this from someone barely older than a child,” Astarion snapped angrily while his grip on you got a little firmer, trying to show you there would be no more slip-ups, not under his watch.

“Be happy, I’ve decided to take care of an elderly citizen, love,” you spat back but barely hiding a grin.

Astarion huffed. “You’re not simply after my money, are you?”

You snorted. “There’s barely any notable amount to speak of, is there?”

The pale elf sighed in mocking disappointment: “So you’re only in it for the love – how sentimental and very unbusinesslike of you, my dear.”

“Guess, we’ll have to do with the feelings we have for each other,” you sighed back. Astarion too gave you another dramatic sigh as well while you shared a deep look into each other’s eyes. Then you both started to laugh softly before the strings of the waltz became slower still and more melancholic, the bittersweet music making a feeling of yearning rise up in your chest.

You were focused wholly on each other again with only the music lulling you. The room, the party, the other guests swirled by in colourful but easily ignorable billows. With steady moves again now you let yourself be taken away by the feelings rising up within your chest and your vampire’s tender expression while you moved over the dancefloor once more with the elegance of water in motion.

“Have you,” Astarion began in a much more sombre and genuine tone now after a while of just gazing at each other, “have you ever wondered how it would have been? If we��d met under different circumstances? Happier ones, I mean.”

“You mean, if you hadn’t become-“ you awkwardly gesticulated around with your hand wrapped with his. He simply nodded. And you immediately understood what he was trying to say: would there have been a version of events where you had found each other without all the pain and the turmoil in between?

The way he looked at you in such a vulnerable manner now made your heart ache. You saw the cracks within him he usually did his best to cover up and hide – and that he only trusted you with to only ever see. If only there was a way to relieve him of this weight he felt.

A pained smile swept over your face: “I have.” You sighed. You had to look away for a single second.

“Although in every version I’ve come up with so far we would have crossed ways and probably would have only spared each other a spiteful glance – with me having grown up homeless on the streets and you being a magistrate with noble upbringing and everything”, you continued. And then you remembered something you had spoken about earlier that evening, your gaze snapped back to his. “And I would have probably left with your purse and laughed about how stupid you were.” A weak smile played on your lips with the weak attempt of lightening the mood again.

You saw some of the pain you felt mirrored on the vampire’s face. His gaze shortly slipped from yours as well as he seemed taken by his own imagination of an alternate meeting, another ending to your story. Then he offered you a small, slightly sad smile when he looked into your eyes again: “If only you were an actual princess, things might have turned out differently, my heart.”

“That’s a lot of ifs, isn’t it?”

Astarion shrugged and was prepared to move on from the topic, but now that he said it, there was something about it.

“Although,” you began, catching the vampire’s fleeting attention once more. He cocked his head slightly. “This might have not even the biggest ‘if’.”

Astarion’s interest was caught, his full lips forming a questioning “oh” while his eyebrows jumped up. Frankly, he seemed thankful for an opportunity to leave the territory of hurtful memories and regrets behind.

You cleared your throat, getting yourself ready to reveal something about your past you didn’t like to dwell on – at all.

“Well, I might have told you that my father was a pretty high-up elven noble, right?” Astarion bowed his head to you, waiting for the new piece of information in this, narrowing his eyes.

“Turns out, he’s actually the king of a small, mostly secluded living elven enclave in some Faerun forest – all this being part of the reason why my mother dropped me on the steps of some cloister after birth. A bastard child is one thing, but the bastard child of a king – unimaginable, not tolerable”, you burst out all at once like ripping the knife out of a wound. And just like a blade viciously pulled from flesh made blood gush from the cut, making it hurt more, you felt how a whole lot of emotions of long hidden away memories were about to wash over you.

You couldn’t hold the vampire’s gaze for a few long moments while you fought to not get swept away by hurtful, long stowed away memories. Astarion’s gaze at you softened, his thumb wandering over your entwined fingers. He didn’t fully understand what all this meant for you. But he surely knew and realised when someone was not willing to share further details about pain of the past.

If you wanted there would come a time and a place to talk more about this and what I meant for you. But the middle of a dancefloor during a big ball was neither for that.

You remained in silence for long heartbeats while you asked yourself why you had so randomly offered up this piece of information about yourself – something that you had neither thought about in a long time nor wanted to pay any mind to in the future. Where you came from meant nothing to you, only the present and the man that held you was important for you now.

After a while you had caught yourself again and you lifted your head to meet his gaze again.

“I guess that’s just what we are right now, Astarion, a vampire only having broken free from his master after two centuries and a former street kid that also barely made it as a thief”, you said with a small bitter laugh.

Astarion let his thumb wander over your entwined hands again while he pulled you in closer once more, both his hands on your back now as he still made you both turn around lazily, another waltz nearing his end.

“For what it’s worth, darling,” he murmured and offered you a genuine smile with wide, open eyes, “I’m sure you agree we would have both been happy if we hadn’t gone through everything we did to get here. But I am still very happy that I’m here now and that I get to share it with you, my heart. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

His crimson eyes conveyed his love for you as he cupped your cheek and the strings drew out a single last mournful note. Slowly your lips curled into a smile and saw it spread over Astarion’s face too – two partners in crime.

What was it even worth to mourn something that could have never been?

And you had to agree with him. You were incredibly happy for the time since you had met him, if not for the circumstances. But luckily, from there on out, things had been looking up tremendously.

Your future, you thought, looked quite golden, and with a fair share of garnets strewn across.

Taglist (DM if you want to be added please):

@spacebarbarianweird @sunfire-ancunin @tragedybunny @dependsonthedream @tallymonster @magazzne @micropoe10 @aoirohi @my-bunny-prince @lumienyx @fayeriess @aurasyn @margoteve @usuallyunlikelyfox @hollowmasque @worryknotdear @wraithmaine @darlingxdragon @hereliesblackdragon @ayselluna @ajokeformur-ray @i-cant-get-into-my-other-account @rikuyrk06 @marina-and-the-memes @somewhatclear @davenswitcher

#astarion #astarion x tav #baldurs gate #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #astarion x reader #astarion x mc #baldurs gate astarion #astarion x oc #astarion x you #fanfic #fanfiction #astarion ancunin #bg3 spoilers #a night of fake smiles and hidden lies #tav #bg3

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cleaningproductnz · 2 months

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The Rise of Eco Cleaning Products: Understanding their Environmental Impact and Benefits

Green Cleaning Alternatives: A Burst of Eco-Friendly Wisdom

The rise in popularity of eco-cleaning products in the context of the global environmental consciousness movement is evidence of people looking for environmentally friendly ways to meet their cleaning demands. Say goodbye to conventional cleaning solutions that are packed with dangerous chemicals and join us as we investigate the emergence, advantages, and effects on the environment of these greener substitutes.

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#eco-cleaning products

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musicarenagh · 7 months

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Sara Beth Yurow's Heartfelt Serenade: A Review of 'Cuz I'm in Luv'" Sara Beth Yurow is a songwriter who takes pride in the authenticity of her craft. Hailing from Hawaii and collaborating with 2x Grammy-nominated producer Natalia Bortolotti, her latest single, "Cuz I'm in Luv," is a further exploration of the genuine sound that is uniquely Sara. Let's dive into my thoughts on this heartfelt track. Sara Beth Yurow takes a departure from her Pop Punk roots to share her island-inspired acoustic and Folk pop sound with us, featuring the sweet simplicity of the ukulele. Her passionate voice, combined with rich chords reminiscent of Hawaii's fragrance, creates a captivating blend that hooks you in, especially during the choruses. The song benefits from a solid mix that preserves the dynamics of its elements while bringing them together for a cohesive and tight sound. It's a sonic blend that I found quite enjoyable. In "Cuz I'm in Luv," you'll not only encounter a pleasant musical atmosphere but also a sincere feeling of affection that makes everything seem wonderful and emits a positive vibe. Guided by the compass of romance, you'll find yourself immersed in a captivating soundscape where love is the panorama that evokes deep emotions and brings out our warmest and friendliest side Amidst the vibrant Los Angeles music scene, Sara Beth Yurow stands out with her sincere ukulele love song, "Cuz I'm in Luv." As the song unfolds, it gradually builds, mirroring the crescendo of emotions that love brings. This organic progression, paired with Sara's captivating vocals, delivers a poignant musical journey. The simplicity of the song's themes is something you have to experience firsthand to fully appreciate. Throughout the song, Sara's vocal technique takes center stage, and it's a welcome focus. Her vocals have a distinct character that adds an entirely different dimension and layer of meaning to the track. Listen to Cuz I’m In Luv below https://open.spotify.com/track/1trY0w5QEF527prDoE8PeW?si=5fd7c20707974a70 Follow Sara Beth Yurow on Facebook Twitter Spotify Soundcloud Youtube Instagram Tiktok

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mikrokosmos · 5 years

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Poulenc - Concerto for Two Pianos (1932)

Francis Poulenc was among other popular composers in the French ‘avant-garde’ who were close friends with [and funded by] Princesse Edmond de Polignac. This concerto is one of the many early 20th century masterpieces dedicated to her. And this is a great example of cosmopolitain side of Poulenc, in which he write music for broad appeal entertainment based on public taste. Here the concerto is treated in the spirit of Ravel’s opinion of the genre, “The music of a concerto should, in my opinion, be lighthearted and brilliant, and not aim at profundity or at dramatic effects”. He has this sense of fin de siècle Parisian charm and lightness, but it does not keep itself from going into deep and moving directions. The music opens with the two pianos and orchestra smashing out an exclamation. The soloists play a flourish in a colorful harmony, and after a wild introduction, the music storms in with dramatic scales and humorous orchestral staccatos. The next part is almost like jazz you’d hear on the streets, running to catch a bus. A counter section gives us some room to breathe, suspicious winds play under the pianos melody. Soon we go back to a quasi-dramatic burst of energy. After that, the music calms down a bit, and the pianos go back into the colorful harmony passage, only slowed down and hushed, recreating the sounds of Indonesian gamelans [which were popular in Paris since the World’s Fair]. Here, the light melody over these piano textures creates a sense of nostalgia and disassociation, as if in the middle of a party, your eyes gaze off and you go through an involuntary memory recall. The movement ends with a whispered but definitive period. The second movement opens with what sounds like a Mozart homage. Pleasant melody plays over 20th century harmonies. In the middle, we get thicker harmonies pounding over each other in slight crescendo, then the opening section repeats. The movement closes with a call back to the gamelan texture and harmonies, again a painful or bittersweet memory coming back against our will. The finale opens with the same kinds of exclamations that the concerto started with, more joyous this time as the pianists try to out-toccata each other. This starts a whirlwind of goofy and almost sardonic melodies, like you’d hear in a circus or on a children’s cartoon. It even includes a motif that sounds like “nyah nyah,” The pianos together dazzle over fun orchestral melodies. Then, they introduce a softer serenade-like melody, that the orchestra takes up and compliments, right before we are thrown back in the storm. And then, again, the colorful passages that opened the concerto comes back as the coda.

Movements:

1. Allegro ma non troppo

2. Larghetto

3. Allegro molto

Orchestra: Svetlanov Symphony Orchestra Conductor: Alexander Sladkovsky Soloists: Alexander Malofeev and Sandro Nebieridze

#Poulenc #concerto #piano #classical #orchestra #neoclassical #neoclassicism #piano concerto #orchestra music #piano music #piano duo #double concerto #double piano concerto #concerto for two pianos #Poulenc concerto #Poulenc concerto for two pianos #Francis Poulenc #HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

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short-stories-club · 3 years

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Both Eyes Open

"Morning already?” Restless sleep thrusted my mind into a foggy expanse. I allowed myself a moment to float lazily in the nothingness between consciousness and slumber. This was my favorite part of waking up, if such a thing could even be considered pleasant. The sound of rustling papers and muffled chatter coaxed my eyes open all too soon. The crisp draft from the overhead window mocked me as I searched the room for my shawl. There, by the white marble fireplace, bundled carelessly on the chaise-lounge from last night’s blissful mood. Officer Davenport had asked me to accompany him to this evenings Carnevale. Excitement flooded my body as I recollected the conversation. With a soft giggle I flung the duvet to the side and winced as my bare feet brushed the frigid floor. Two brisk steps to the chaise and my shoulders were covered. I practically danced out of my room as the door creaked shut behind me.

Papa’s voice slowly came into audible range as I descended into the dinning room. “Again, Margaret. I can’t make sense of it.” “Make sense of what?” I responded, twisting my copper tresses into a swirl at the nape of my neck. “Wilhelmina, You look lovely, dear. Come, sit. My associate Mr. Jackson returned last week from the far East with your favorite tea.” “Wasn’t his name listed in the missing persons section last week, Papa?” I was awarded muttering for a reply as he turned his attention back to his newspaper. Flattening my nightgown I looked up at mama while she poured the black liquid before me, shaking her head. Papa had made quite the habit of evading topics he didn’t wish to discuss. With a tinge of annoyance, I raised the gold-leafed cup to my lips. The tea was delightfully bold and soothing. It rolled over my tongue and warmed me from within. I peered over at the end of the table. Papas ink-stained fingertips clutched the edges of his previously crumpled newspaper. Crumpled out of frustration perhaps? A plume of tobacco smoke rose from behind the folds, punctuated by grunts of indignation. Breaking the silence, I directed my question at Papa “Are we still on schedule for today?”. Every Saturday we loaded up the guns and graced the local range with our remarkable precision. Papa was an avid hunter, and I would often accompany him whenever he indulged his hankering for skill-work. “Today I must oversee production, my manager is out with something they’re calling the ‘Spanish Flu’.*(1) Do forgive me for this unfortunate postponement, Mina-dear.” “Of course, Papa. Next week.” Standing up he neatly folded his paper and walked toward the door, brushing his knuckles against my cheek as he passed. Before closing the substantial piece of cherrywood behind him, he slammed his paper onto an old stack. The compilation was surely gathered from this week’s no less frustrating news. Concerned for Papa, I rose from my chair and started after him. Just then, a gust of wind from the open bay window coursed through the room, leaving the neatly placed dailies in disarray. Giggling with mama at the sudden upset I took another step after Papa. Feeling a crunch beneath me, I planted my heel and raised my toes only to see this mornings paper. The headline flashed in bold “Seaford*(2) Suffers More Missing Persons”. After Mr. Jackson last week, and the pair of siblings the week prior, I pondered this series of lamentable events. Curious.

* * *

“He gave me his word,” I thought begrudgingly, leering at our unoccupied point of rendezvous. Then, perhaps it was given out of a momentary surge of pride. I challenged him, you see. He asked me to go out with him in front of his colleagues. I pointed out the arrogance in his assumption of an immediate acceptance and told him he wouldn’t follow through. He begged the opposite as he flamboyantly gave me his lapel pin as a token of his vow. “Far too showy” I thought to myself in the moment. Right. That’s all it was – a show. A worthless defense of his wounded dignity. At half-past the hour, embarrassment had slithered its way into my chest. “Mina, you sap” I muttered, shoving my freshly manicured hands into my coat pockets. As I approached the old bloodwood tree *(3), an unsettling feeling trailed its ghostly fingers along my body, staining me with footprints of paranoia. Frantically, I tucked in every loose strand of hair, dusted my frock, and pinched my cheeks. I became vexingly conscious of my gait, my hands, even my breath. This was quite unusual. Fidgeting with my buttons, I recalled the night I brazenly approached that Naval Officer, the one who’s word I’ll never again accept. * * * “What do they call ya, handsome?” Eyes darting to the crook of his arm, he found his service cap swiped and resting cockeyed atop my elegantly braided head. “Officer Philotius Davenport. But you can call me Philo” he offered, as he lifted the brim and peered into my coal- lined eyes. “Emeralds” The word slinked from his mouth in a low purr. “How’s a martini? - with an olive to match those gems.” “Make it dirty” I shot back with a menacing grin. The comment trailed off leaving echoes of flirtatious remarks and unwavering stares. Where was that girl tonight? My steps grew more unstable with each metre gained. My mind had become frenzied with thoughts of the most sinister variety. Intrusive images of agony, pursuit, confinement, and the like had usurped any last remaining shred of poise. Forceful as they were, they all the came to a halt at the faintest of melodies. I plucked my gaze from the horizon and let it fall to the outskirts of town. The Carnevale had made a sudden appearance in East Sussex *(4). It was erected seemingly overnight. Even so, it baited the masses despite the lack of previous advertisement. A suppressed sigh escaped my lungs as the thought of attending sans escort danced antagonistically around me. No matter. I was accustomed to being alone and tonight was no different than any other. Pulling my coat tighter around me, I abandoned my expectations for the evening and set off toward the music.

Suddenly, the entrance was before me. I thought I was hundreds of yards off. I must have been dazed from my bout of nostalgia. “How peculiar,” I noted aloud. The imposing entrance doors loomed over me, casting a tangible shadow onto the soft earth. This carnival was walled, quite unlike the tented carnivals I attended in my childhood. The music I heard before had now dwindled into silence. The only melodies here were those of nearby loons *(5), serenading me with their haunting ballads. I peeled my eyes from the foreboding entrance to discover that my surroundings had very much altered. There was an enveloping eeriness about the place, the sort that heightened ones awareness. The bloodwood trees were barren, unlike the trees toward home which were still full and vibrant. Their branches looked as if the hands of skeletons were grasping at moons borrowed light. The wind rustling through them brought them to life. The earth lost it’s abundace. What was once green and lush, was now grey, sparse, and brittle. The brush below my feet had turned to powder with each skittish step. The air lost it’s salted ocean scent and replaced it with something too noxious for words. “Isn’t there always a boisterous, bearded man with a top hat and tails welcoming eager patrons?” I wondered. It was a feeble attempt at disctraction from the present circumstance.“Yes, where has he run off to? He should be enticing me to “try this” and “see that” with his whimsical introduction. Strange.” I stole a foot of ground with hesitance, inhaling with difficulty the now chilled air. I held it captive in my lungs and placed my hands on the icy wrought iron handles. One…two…three. Screeches of iron against iron pierced the air as the sights and sounds of the festivities came into view.

Instantly, I was met with a collision of dazzling colored lights, the scent of fresh confections, gongs and whistles, and characters of the most bizarre form. I felt the dense presence of disappointment and dread ease it’s grip while I strolled along the center isle. “Step up and test yer sharp shootin’, lil’ lady!” the gruff holler cut through the hustle and bustle. “American” I confirmed with myself after a moment of contemplation. I whipped my head around to see a stout man in pinstripes and top hat that boasted Englands national colors. The only American I was aware of so close to Seafort is - “Mr. Jackson?” I inquired, stepping onto the plywood platform. His eyes widened as I meticulously studied his face. With conviction I stated his name once more “Mr. Jackson! How are you here? I saw your name in the paper just last week. You and your wife – you were reported missing” He took a step back, and shifted his eyes from side to side after my abrupt crescendo. “A mans allowed to have more than one source of income, and I’ll thank you to keep your voice down” he retorted, handing me an absolute peashooter of a revolver. “Three shots a contestant” he spat. With pursed lips, I inspected each chamber for vacancy. “No pullin’ the wool over YER eyes, I see” He chuckled nervously. Ignoring his remark, I flicked the cylinder shut and planted my feet. “Well, sir” I continued, lining up the sights, “unveil the targets, If I shoot three out of three, you tell me what the hell is going on.” “And If I don’t?” “The remaining three bullets will be assigned to those pretty little wing-tips*(6)” With a huff of exasperation, he pulled back the double sliding doors to reveal six severed human heads. “Well-crafted figures, I’ll give 'em that. Even the smell is convincing. Let me guess, red-stained ink for blood?” My exterior was cool and collected, but my mind held nothing but chaos. Breathing deeply, I let my eyes fall shut. Retreating into myself for but a moment, I looked on while clarity battled with the malevolent dyad of confusion and panic. As the former gained ground, the disorienting whirr of the carnivals sights and sounds swiftly melded into a low, sustained hum. The hum was strong and steady. I inhaled once more. Mustering every bit of lingering tenacity I possessed, I drove clarity behind enemy lines - forcing the adversaries surrender. Amid the resulting decrescendo, Papas advice rang in my ears.“Both eyes open, Mina-darling”. Silence.My eyes shot open; pupils constricted. BANG! Thud. First shot fired. A spray of crimson simultaneously decorated the striped curtains, and my stippled my face. Wiping the droplets with the back of my hand, I walked over to examine the result of my “sharp shooting”. There, at my feet laid Mr. Jacksons lifeless body. I rolled his corpse face down with my boot heel. Taking the knife with which my father had armed me, I ripped open the back of his suit jacket from the neck straight down to the hem. I inhaled sharply at the sight. Starting at the top of his spine and creeping down to below his belt-line, lax skin was haphazardly held together by monstrous metal staples. My suspicion had been confirmed. Skinwalkers. I’d seen this in photographs before. The aftermath of a raid by Scotland Yard *(7). It was a cult gathering headed by the notorious Elias Draven. The members took the Navajo definition of the word a bit too literally. Displayed in the photos were policemen standing over cult leaders, removing skins that previously belonged to the gored corpses lining the back wall. I shuddered at the memory. That incident was farther north, though. I never thought those ideals would seep their way out of London and settle here. My nose wrinkled from the overwhelming stench. From the spine outward fanned purple and black skin from several days rot. Upon further reflection, during our exchange Mr. Jacksons demeanor was unfamiliar, and he had aged tremendously over the course of a few days. Poor Mr. Jackson. Had this skinwalker been masquerading as him for that long? Are the others? What sort of place is this? Cutting short my train of thought, a strong hand coiled it’s fingers around my upper arm and yanked me behind the blood-stained curtains. Struggling in vain to break the grasp, I tripped and landed on something that felt like what could only be described as dozens of perspiring men. I strained my eyes to see what I’d fallen into but to no avail. It was quiet. It was damp. Who had pulled me in here? My heart rate skyrocketed as I labored to take even the shallowest of breaths. The strike of a match and the subsequent glow of a gas lantern severed the darkness. A tall, strong figure of a man in a bloodied uniform emerged from the shadows. An incredulous gasp preceded “Philo? Wha-?” “Shhhh!!!” He knelt before me and covered my mouth with his sizable hand. “I’d hoped you wouldn’t come alone. I’ve just barely escaped with my life, but the fight isn’t fini- You’re a block of ice!” He whispered forcefully. “Mina, you’re going into shock” He said as he shifted me from my landing spot to the dry ground. He ripped his jacket off and wrapped me in it as one would a child in a blanket “A dead carnie won’t stay unnoticed for long. We’ve got to move.” Before I could protest he hoisted me to my feet and turned to grab the lamp. I was afforded a few moments of sufficient illumination to identify what I’d previously fallen into. They were in fact men – bodies rather; dismembered and tossed into a heap. Freshly acquired, as indicated by the steam ascending from the pile. My stomach heaved as I stepped to the side and bent to spill it’s contents. “You can shoot a man and study his mutilated corpse, but this upsets you?” His handkerchief appeared in front of me. Unable to produce a coherent response, I took it gratefully and pointed toward the exit. “Of course, this way”. Swiftly extinguishing the lantern and supporting my weakened frame, he led me out of that abominable place. To be continued (1) The Spanish Flu started in 1918 (2) Seafort rests on Englands southern coast - on the English channel. See map here: https://www.google.com/maps/place/Seaford,+UK/@50.848991,-4.1385618,6z/data=!4m5!3m4!1s0x47df7986ed6f704f:0x7441a7a1135a8869!8m2!3d50.7734669!4d0.101108 (3) When cut, bloodwood trees release their sap in long, red drips. Unfortunately, this tree is not native to England. It prefers much warmer climates. See it here: https://www.reddit.com/r/natureismetal/comments/gar13m/desert_bloodwood_the_bleeding_tree/ (4) East Sussex is the county. (5) Loons are waterfowl native to North American and northern Eurasia. Listen to their hauntingly beautiful calls here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hk2302piqUc (6) Wing tips are a style of mens dress shoe originating in the 16th - 17th century. The tip of the shoe has curved stitching making a sort of “wing”. These shoes are still very popular today, although there have been several style modifications throughout the years. The most popular style in the 1920’s was a two- toned wing tip. See them here: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/292382200799158398/ (7) Scotland Yard is a colloquial name for the London Metropolitan Police

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elesianne · 7 years

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A Silmarillion fanfic, chapter three / five

Chapter summary: Makalaurë and Tinweriel come to an arragement, both believing that they are the more stubborn one.

Story summary: These are the things we know about the sons of Fëanor: they are full of fire, and they do no give up easily. These things hold true with Maglor too, ever since childhood, and apply in love as well as war. This fic is a four-part exploration of the relationship that develops between Maglor and his future wife.

Rating: General audiences; Length: ~2,300 words

Tag-type thingies for the whole story: years of the trees, romance, falling in love, music, first meeting, courtship, pining, some light humour

Notes: I had some trouble writing this third chapter and eventually realised that it was because it needed to be two chapters. So the total chapter count of this fic has been upped to five, with both this and the next chapter from Makalaurë's point of view.

(Also posted on AO3 etc.)

Chapter III // Crescendo – ‘becoming louder’

Far from giving up on courting Tinweriel, Makalaurë begins to pursue her with a single-minded determination he has never granted anything but his music. Years ago she told him he needed to work hard to prove his talent true, and he did. He can do the same to make her believe the truth of his feelings, and when she does, perhaps she will give him a chance.

After all, they discovered a strong affinity of spirits between them not long after they met. It seems likely to Makalaurë that if Tinweriel can get over thinking him a little boy, and her denial that they could only ever be friends, she could care for him in a deeper, different manner.

He is convinced that the easy, utterly effortless way they have always sang and played in harmony means that they are meant for more than friendship.

Once he recovers from his inebriation and the subsequent indisposition, he realises that a loud serenade in Tinweriel's garden while her family and neighbours watched on probably wasn't the best way to announce his feelings and intentions. Now that he knows, he will alter his strategy. He cancels the plans he made with some musician friends of his for a public performance in Tinweriel's honour and asks his older brother to help him make a gift for her instead.

Their father has been experimenting with coloured metals lately, so Makalaurë crafts seven colourful roses with Maitimo's help and sends them to Tinweriel together with the sheet music for a song about midsummer flowers.

A day later a messenger brings back the roses, along with a note.

Makalaurë,

the roses are beautiful but please do not make yourself do any crafting for my sake – I know that you would rather keep away from your father's workshop.

In any case I must return the roses since I do not reciprocate the feelings they represent. I will keep the sheet music and offer my critique the next time we meet, should you wish for it. The ending of the piece was lovely but the beginning was uninspired, not up to your usual standards.

In friendship

Tinweriel

Makalaurë burns the note and tosses the metal roses into the bottom of a chest.

It is he who avoids her for the next week, slipping away quickly from the practice sessions of a company they both belong to. He needs time to think about his next step.

His world shifted when, a few years ago, he gradually realised that he feels more than admiration and friendship towards Tinweriel. It had been an exhilarating, intriguing kind of skewedness that he'd though might would right itself when he told her how he feels, but all that changed is that he feels slightly lost now, and the bright song inside him is fainter.

In the end he sends her a message asking when he can meet her for the critique she offered on his composition. The lacklustre opening has been bothering him too, and she always has good ideas for improvement.

They meet at her house, as usual – Makalaurë's four younger brothers do not make for an environment conducive to any focused work whereas Tinweriel's one older brother is already married and lives elsewhere. Makalaurë brings a bouquet of flowers again, just natural flowers this time, because he wants to bring a reminder of things having changed to this meeting that is otherwise just like a hundred other meetings they have had over the years.

'Don't bother giving or sending them back to me', he says to Tinweriel as soon as he pushes the flowers into her hands and sees her beginning to protest. 'They'll be wilted by the time I get home, so you might just as well put them into water and enjoy them.'

Tinweriel gives him a pointed look, summons a servant and instructs him to put the flowers in her mother's room.

Her comments and critique on his composition are helpful as always. Makalaurë takes note of them and tries not to be insulted or heartbroken that Tinweriel acts a little more formal with him than before, sits with her back very straight and a little farther away from him than usually.

As soon as she runs out of things to say about his composition she rings for a servant again and busies herself with offering him tea, acting beautifully the part of a perfect, polite hostess. Makalaurë would have much preferred it if they'd gone to the garden and sat on the grass and eaten berries straight from a bush like they've often done in the summer. It is a lovely enough day for that.

Still, he supposes he should be grateful that she didn't call for her mother to join them. Even if there is an unpleasant kind of tension between them, at least they are alone.

'We should talk about what we are going to be to each other going forward', he begins, watching Tinweriel closely, seeing her tense.

Before she replies the silence and tension hang in the air between them like drops of condensation about to fall.

'I hoped we would still be friends. You said that we would, on your begetting day, and you came here and we talked just like we used to, so I thought –'

'We haven't been "just like we used to"', Makalaurë interrupts her. 'We used to be easy around each other. Now we have been awkward and odd ever since we stopped talking about my music.'

'If you wanted things to say the same, you shouldn't have serenaded me with a love song', retorts Tinweriel.

Makalaurë bites his tongue and considers his answer. 'If you gave me a chance to be more than a friend, we could have a much more pleasant kind of tension between us.'

'That is impossible, Makalaurë.'

'I still don't understand why it is utterly impossible.' Suddenly he feels cold in the golden-bright room. 'Is there someone else? Did I wait too long?' If she already loves someone else they must have been courting in peculiar secrecy, or Makalaurë would have heard of it.

'There is no one else.'

Tinweriel is as good at lying as she is at other ways of using words with skill, but Makalaurë believes he knows her well enough to know her to speak true now.

'There has never been anyone I was interested in as more than a friend.' Tinweriel gazes out the window pensively. 'Perhaps I was not made for emotions like that.'

Makalaurë knows that there are some people who are very old and have not married, and never even wanted to. Yet even of those people one cannot be sure if they are unable to love, or unwilling, or if they have just not yet met the person to whom their fëa is drawn towards.

Then again love is a mystery truly understood by no one, and all Makalaurë can do is hope and pray and do his best to have even a chance.

'Perhaps', he says. 'But you are not that old yet, you know. Perhaps you just haven't experienced the love one feels for the person one wishes to marry. It may still come.'

'It may', Tinweriel concedes, and Makalaurë is relieved to see she is not being wilfully against everything he says.

'I have a suggestion', he says, for he had managed to think of a plan before coming here. 'Let us stay friends, and once a year – as my begetting day gift each year, you will let me court you for that one day.'

'Do you really want to spend your days of celebration lavishing attention on me?'

'Of course I do.' He groans, and then laughs.

'What is so funny?' Tinweriel asks, looking more mystified than ever.

'I hold on to hope that you feel for me as I do for you, but then you ask something like that, and I know that you don't. You really don't understand.' Makalaurë shakes his head, and laughs more when he sees Tinweriel's eyes darken, her temper flaring up.

'Fine', she says in a voice of steel and silver. 'I will give you one day a year to try to make me understand, and to change my mind. But you should remember that though you are determined and stubborn, I am even more obstinate.'

It's not a question of obstinacy, Makalaurë wants to say, but in the end he doesn't, because this is another thing she wouldn't understand.

When he leaves he bows to kiss her hand, as a reminder, and then straightens up and looks her in the eyes steadily, reminding her that he is finally as tall as she is, or perhaps standing a little taller now that he has voiced aloud what has been growing in his heart for years.

On the morning of his next begetting day Makalaurë delivers Tinweriel a sheaf of beautifully calligraphed poetry and another one of sheet music for the flute, all of it inspired by her beauty and wit. Though he has spent a very long time composing both they feel woefully inadequate, little more than what he might bring her to analyse and critique at any meeting of theirs. But she disliked the public performance of his love song a year ago and thus Makalaurë thinks he should give her something more private that she can read in the quiet of her bedchamber and think upon in peace.

He brings her flowers as well, red roses that are almost purple, vivid and extravagant and beautiful like she is.

She accepts the gifts with all the grace she can muster, which is a great amount for she is a great performer, and her graciousness is almost enough to disperse the awkwardness that has returned with a vengeance after slowly fading away during the year that has passed. He takes her out for a walk and she takes his arm and lets him hold her closer than usual, but the acquaintances they happen to meet appear to see no difference in their demeanour, treating them as the close friends they have been for years.

He claims an inappropriate number of dances with her at the party held in the evening and walks her home at the end of the night. He would kiss her on the cheek as goodbye rather than her hand but when he leans in, she flinches infinitesimally, and all his desire to claim a kiss disappears in the face of that proof, and all he feels is lost again.

It is all intensely frustrating and Makalaurë is grateful that his temper, though it can be fiery, isn't as short as Tyelkormo or Carnistir's. He has patience for things that matter, and time – what is a few years of waiting, if they could have countless years together?

After Tinweriel has gone in he stays in the shadow of a tall tree in front of her house for a moment, gathering himself for the walk home.

He doesn't mean to eavesdrop but doesn't dare to move after hearing voices from the closest window, so he ends up overhearing talk of himself and as they say, eavesdroppers never hear good things about themselves.

Tinweriel is telling her mother Silmien about her day. 'He gave me so much poetry I didn't have time to read it all in the time I was at home between walking with him and the party', she says, sounding tired.

'I saw the sheaf of it before you took it to your room.' There is a smile in the voice of Tinweriel's mother. 'It wasn't the work of one day.'

'It might have been the work of a year', Tinweriel mutters in a voice low enough that Makalaurë has to strain to hear, and then feel shame. 'It was all masterfully written, of course – perfect meter, beautiful imagery, filled with a musicality few could match. But there is so much of it. I didn't know what to say when he asked if I liked it.'

'Young men's hearts are fragile, Tinwië', Silmien says very maternally. 'Be kind to him.'

'I am trying', Tinweriel replies, and sighs.

Makalaurë slips away. Even fear of discovery can't make him stay to listen to more of such talk.

My heart isn't fragile, he thinks rebelliously all the way home, displeased with Silmien and even more with Tinweriel. For the first time he comes close to wishing he hadn't come to feel the way he does about her; his love for her has made his heart sing in joy more often than it has made it ache.

Makalaurë loves loving Tinweriel, and if thinking that his heart is fragile will make her keep giving him chances, let her think so. He will just pretend not to have heard that conversation – it might take him a few days to calm down, but he will, and after all he too is a performer, and not proud to the degree of self-harm like his father.

Not that he has a choice anyway. He grew into loving Tinweriel in a way that is more than friendship in the same manner that he grew into a taller but not very tall body and a much more powerful voice; he grew into them gradually, adjusting along the way, knowing these were all things beoynd his control to choose but his own to accept and embrace. They are all inseparable parts of him now, and it would take much more than gentle rejection of his advances for him to hate a part of who he is, or to wish that it didn't exist.

A/N: I didn’t have time to edit as carefully as usual, and I didn’t check the ‘nativeness’ of all expressions this time, so if you find anything very silly, please let me know so I can fix it.

Unfortunately there will not be an update next weekend because I'll be travelling and wasn't able to get the next chapter into good enough shape that I could have saved it as draft now and posted when I’m abroad. So the next update will be around the 20th, provided that Scottish midges don't eat me alive.

Thanks for reading! If you have a moment and want to make me happy, leave a little comment :) (AO3 link)

#I kind of wanted to work on this chapter a bit more #wasn't completely happy with how I described maglor's emotions #but then I just ran out of time #oh well #silmarillion fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #maglor #maglor's wife #tinweriel #romance #consonance #my fics #elesianne's fics

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rotworld · 7 years

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Bad Faith

hi its me phasing temporarily back into existence before i return to the void for a week or so

Death goes to Cafe Royale to seduce the unwitting with wordless love songs, a melodramatic rendition of Moonlight Sonata that rises like a wave over the gentle murmur of late-night conversation and the clinking of pastry forks against scalloped-edged porcelain.

You have seen him, night after night, seated at the piano bench with a patient smile, and he doesn’t have to look because they come to him. They stand at a distance and they gaze in unbridled longing, and they don’t even notice when the music draws them closer, they don’t hear their own panicked breathing over the crescendo of a Chopin or Schubert piece.

You think people know death when they see him but he is not what they expected; he is pleasant conversation, a gentle but intimate touch on the shoulder, a soothing voice and tranquil countenance. They ignore the way their heart is pounding and conflate fear with infatuation.

And when he takes them—the ones that he takes right away, at least, because some he chooses to let walk away, some sit there in his wake clutching their chests and trembling without knowing why, some walk out the door and never come back, and you want to believe they’ve found somewhere else to spend their nights but you know better—they don’t fight. They think death is an ugly, hideous thing that lurks in shadowed corners, not a charming stranger playing the Gymnopédies with an inviting, come-hither smile.

They don’t know that he can be both.

But tonight, it’s Clair de Lune that comes to life beneath his fingers, it’s Clair de Lune and that’s important because it’s your favorite. He doesn’t play this often, only when you’ve seen boredom seep into him, weighing down his shoulders and slowing his playing, when he has grown tired of whomever has last disappeared into the night. He plays, watches you out of the corner of his eye, smiles knowingly, and waits.

And you go to him like all the others, your feet move without your permission, and you find yourself standing beside the piano and watching death play the sweetest and most beautiful Clair de Lune you have ever heard.

“I wondered if you might be here tonight,” he says, his eyes shut as he sways to follow his hands as though there is an ounce of passion in his body for the hollow serenades he churns out to any stranger who catches his eye.

“I’m here most nights,” you say, and you are looking at him carefully, you are searching for something that will betray his thoughts and intentions, or maybe just a flaw, a crookedness in his features, a blemish on his face, something imperfect and human, and you find nothing. “Bored already? You didn’t take the last one that long ago. It’s only been a couple days, hasn’t it?”

You’ve won more of his attention, a sidelong glance. Clair de Lune rings out as clear as church bells and echoes in your head. “That’s a rather accusatory tone,” he says, the slightest hint of amusement touching his lips. “I think I should be offended. My personal life isn’t any of your business, is it?”

“You’d like it to be.”

His smile widens. “Oh, undoubtedly. But would you like it to be?”

“I’d like to hear the rest of the song without you talking over it.”

It’s an impudent thing to say and you know it, but he lets you get away with things like this on nights when he plays for you. You think he’s trying to charm you even though he’s aware that you know better. You think he’s waiting for you to drop your guard, to forget everything you’ve seen and assure yourself that death couldn’t smile at you like that.

You think it’s a fantasy you both entertain as the last notes of Clair de Lune fade into silence, swallowed by the soft applause that follow. He’s waiting, you think, death is just waiting because he knows that’s all he has to do.

He stands from the piano bench and offers you a rose. Your gaze flicks to the petals and back to his eyes hesitantly. “I can’t seem to win you over with my playing alone,” he says.

“Switching tactics?” You take it from him, carefully grasping the stem between the thorns. There’s a distinct, coppery odor just beneath its pleasant scent.

“I understand roses are considered a deeply romantic gesture for some.” He touches your cheek softly. “But I’m more than happy to bring you something else if that’s not to your liking.”

Death stands so close to you now, casts his shadow over you, strokes your skin with gentle fingers. You shiver, but you find yourself leaning into the touch. “I’m sorry,” you say, “but I don’t want anything.”

He pauses, waits a breath for you to change your mind, pulls away slowly so you have time to regret, and holds your gaze when he steps back from you. For some reason, he looks pleased with your answer. He always does.

“Next time, then.”

“Maybe next time,” you nod in agreement.

He’s gone then, drifting towards someone in the corner who you’ve both noticed has been eyeing him. They’ll be reluctant now, the spell will have worn off with time, the sound of the piano having faded from the room, and seeing the rose exchanged between you will sour the mood. But even if they feign disinterest, they’ll be drawn in again. They’ll hear his voice and see his face and feel the lightest touch, and they’ll think of him long after he’s gone.

You will go home, find a vase for the rose and watch it shrivel in the coming days, as permanent as everything else he has ever promised. You will sleep, and in your dreams, you will find him waiting, arms open, a garden of bones and roses before him.

He will ask you if this is a gesture grand enough to match your love, if this would satisfy you and bring you to him, and you will lie like you always do. And death will wait, because that is all he has to do, until he has exhausted you of your resolve or you have exhausted him of his patience. In the dream, roses grow from your veins, blooming from your wrists, and you wake frightened, breathless, still feeling a prickling sensation on your skin.

You find black feathers beneath your window, and you wonder if you are only imagining hearing Clair de Lune somewhere far away.

#rotpeach writes #btd2 #cain #more short posts on the way lol sorry im in a rut again

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