I SHOULD HAVE LOVED A THUNDERBIRD INSTEAD
AT LEAST WHEN SPRING COMES THEY ROAR BACK AGAIN
There is a certain childish pride that rises in Oliver as they are escorted into Delumine’s keep; as the other musicians gawk at the thoughtful stonework and ornate, rich decorations, Oliver keeps his head high. He has been here before, not simply for performance, but due to his family’s prominence. There are few situations where Oliver takes any pride in his family but for that hairsbreadth of a moment, he does.
They are led by a single guard and some type of courtier into a large, open room with excellent acoustics. The trio of musicians are given a list of “dos and do not’s” and told exactly when their performance will start. They are entertainment for some type of fundraiser; Oliver never bothered to ask what for. He knows his place, and it is atop the elevated wooden stage at the back center of the room. Mortimer has brought his viola, Clarise has her double bass, and Rekker has his woodwind. They spend several minutes tuning their instruments and then, just before the doors are open and the fundraiser begins, they begin to play.
The instruments play well off one another; the full, mellow sound of the viola dancing beneath the violin’s sharp, beautiful cry; the complimentary double bass adding complimentary depth; and then the power and volume of the woodwind behind the string instruments, switching back and forth in a multitude of powerful, dynamic combinations. The fundraisers begin to trickle in; they settle in front of the concert, drinking wine and eating hors d’oeuvre
Oliver plays until intermission, when they bring on a new set of musicians for the audience. He’s been told to stay in the back or behind stage in a series of dressing rooms with the other musicians, but… the temptation is too much, and he slips deeper into Delumine’s keep.
He doesn’t know how long he wanders through the stark, torch-lit corridors until he is lost. But eventually he is lost, and that only adds to the intrigue.
@Ipomoea || "Speech" || Songs: idk some classical mood || Po can find him wherever or getting into trouble or anything! <3
GOD TOPPLES FROM THE SKY, HELL'S FIRES FADE, EXIT SERAPHIM AND SATAN'S MEN
He hardly hears the music playing, or the sound of the people chatting, or the serving girl offering him a flute of champagne and asking if he would like another eclair. He shakes his head once, the movement sharp and quick and dismissive, and watches her turn towards the other patrons once more.
An instant later, Ipomoea doesn’t ever remember her face. It fades from his memory like water in the desert, leaving only his dry and cracked thoughts in its place.
Once he would have been smiling and laughing and indulging himself, mingling with the guests and charming them for the cause. He wouldn’t have held back, or kept to the edges of the room like he does today. But it feels like a lifetime has passed since the last time he attended a function, and he has aged a hundred years since. His smile - when he smiles, rare as it is - feels rusty and stiff, and he knows even before taking his first sip that no amount of wine will erase the deep lines etched into his face, or smooth out the sharp curve of his neck.
He wants to listen to the music instead of his own dark and worrisome thoughts - but the sound of the two opposites crashing together in his head only sets his teeth together tightly. He grinds his jaw as a vein in his temple begins to throb. And then his heartbeat is adding its own discordant strains to the din, dancing alongside the viola, melancholy and ambition, one wailing and the other strumming, sharp peaks and hollow valleys, opposites that dance just off-beat with one another.
It’s only when intermission causes a break at last that Ipomoea can escape his duties - and it comes not a moment too soon, as his thoughts turn ever darker and he begins to wonder how the room might react if his skull were to split open right then and there.
He all but runs from the small acoustic room, the warbling tunes of the next band reverberating off the walls and chasing him out.
But the throbbing in his head and the pounding of his chest doesn’t stop as the doors close at last behind him. If anything the tempo only continues to pick up, rising and rising like the magic in his veins that has the flowers tapping at him through the closed windows, begging to be let in.
His wings are fluttering at his ankles like they’d like nothing more than to fly far, far away from here. So without stopping to consider where he’s going or why, Ipomoea begins to walk. The sound of his hooves clacking against the marble floor is soothing: constant, even, if a little hurried. It matches the pace of his heart as he settles into its rhythm, and as he paces through the halls he can almost forget the questions pounding against his brain, and the rage that still rests like a sleeping sand wyrm in the pit of his stomach.
Until he sees the boy cloaked in grey standing in the hallway.
His body stiffens once more as he comes to a half-stop, and the temptation to retrace his steps away from the softly-lit corridor rises. But the thought is only fleeting, as he stuffs it down alongside the beast that cracks one eye lazily open.
Ipomoea’s stride is broken now, hoofbeats ringing out unevenly as he steps down the aisle. He’s planning on walking past him at first, nodding only a little too stiffly in his direction. But something in the younger man’s face has him pausing again, staring at his eyes until a spark of recognition flashes in his own.
”You’re one of the musicians, aren’t you?” He doesn’t need to hear his answer to know he is right.
But then, feeling the tension in the silence that follows and feeling like he needs to fill the empty space - an instinct that had once come to him so easily, but now he finds the words stifled, forced - he adds, ”The violinist? You play beautifully.”
But he can hardly remember the tune now, having hardly paid it any mind even when the music had swelled around him - and he can only hope it isn’t too obvious.
I SHOULD HAVE LOVED A THUNDERBIRD INSTEAD
AT LEAST WHEN SPRING COMES THEY ROAR BACK AGAIN
Oliver hears the ring of hooves down the hallway; momentarily he is split between walking hurriedly away, or standing firm where he is, admiring a well-crafted tapestry. Eventually he decides on standing firm, and believes it’s a good choice until the steps halt near him and a voice asks, You’re one of the musicians, aren’t you?
The young man already knows what’s coming, and nearly sighs audibly. You’re not supposed to be this deep in the citadel! What are you doing, wandering around? Get back to the theatre—
Instead, he hears, The violinist? You play beautifully.
Oliver turns, then, to glance at the speaker.
He is taken aback when it becomes apparent he is standing face-to-face with Dawn’s Sovereign. He might have responded differently, if the question had not been so casual and tense, as if the Sovereign is simply making conversation because it’s the polite thing to do.
Oliver smiles. “Is that what I played tonight? Jeez, I can hardly keep track of these things.” He shakes his head, as if aghast with himself. “Thank you, though, I appreciate it. It’s very high praise. My parents have been heckling me since I was a foal, though, to have some kind of useful talent. Like yours!”
His demeanour, surprisingly enough, is no stiffer for being questioned by the Sovereign himself. From the man’s wearied posture, Oliver wonders if the biggest favour he can perform is by simply being… casual.
“It’s awful beautiful, in your citadel. I bet it can get a little lonely, though.” And still, with those boyish bright eyes, and that kindhearted, genuine smile.
@Ipomoea || "Speech" || This is very overdue <3
GOD TOPPLES FROM THE SKY, HELL'S FIRES FADE, EXIT SERAPHIM AND SATAN'S MEN
He can’t remember the music anymore — and the realization strikes like a hammer descending on his heart. He can feel it crushing beneath the weight, can feel the blood and the magic draining from it bit by bit like the guilt is determined to leave his chest hollow.
He can’t remember the music —
Or any music.
When he thinks of a song, he thinks of the way the flowers danced even when there was nothing for them to dance to. He thinks of the voices of the trees, the way they weaved around each other so that you could not pin their rustling to any one tree, or branch, or leaf; all you heard was the forest, singing as one. And he thinks of the wind, and the sun, and the rain and how it all felt like an almost-song, one not everyone could hear.
When Ipomoea hears music, the sort of music that makes his chest feel tight and convinces the magic in his veins to sing, it reminds him of the earth. And the song he sings along to does not have words or lyrics; only roots and petals and a language older than the common tongue.
Sometimes, he wishes he could hear the music other people heard, that it might move his soul in the way it moved their’s. But a flower had no use for music.
The boy smiles, but Ipomoea is only thinking of how bright his eyes are. They remind him of another pair of eyes, eyes that were just as violet, eyes of a woman who did not know the sound of music; and he smiles back.
“Do you play many instruments?” he asks, with genuine interest (he cannot play an instrument himself; orphans did not receive free piano lessons with the scraps of bread tossed at their feet.) He wonders if tapping a rhythm upon the back of a drum felt the same as pulling a bow across the strings of a violin; he wonders if playing notes feels the same as shooting arrows. He knows he will never know for himself, not when the only music he can play is the song of the soil and the roots and the water.
Ipomoea knows he will never understand what would prompt someone to strum a harp instead of plant a sapling, and how the two things could feel the same to different people. But he is glad there are people who know the sound of music, and who can make it their own; he only wishes he could be a better listener to it.
He wants to hear more of the boy’s lessons, and why his parents did not think it useful (he knows how well musicians can be paid; he knows, because he pays them). But the boy is smiling again, and his violet eyes are sparkling, and his voice is flowing like a melody through the hallway. It feels like the music from the concert room, and something about it makes his heart harden.
“I suppose some might think so.” The wisteria is stirring in the nearby window, lifting its leaves and looking at the two horses standing in the hallway. His magic whispers to it, and slowly, silently, buds appear along the vine and begin to bloom. “—But the flowers have always kept me company.”
He turns back to the boy, regarding him quietly.
“Is that why you play music?” he asks quietly. “To escape the loneliness?”
