Music of the Night

Creaaaaak. Thud.
...
Tink. Tink. Click, click, clack.
Screeeee. Thud.
The heavy air of London hit Richard's lungs like the refreshing blow of a hammer against glass, scattering the tension in his chest, caused by some unknown source. It was this tension that had led to another round of early-morning wandering in nothing but a shirt and trousers, his violin clutched paradoxically, like the only anchor keeping him attached to the earth, and impossibly gently, like a frail fledgling bird. He stepped onto the rooftop, heart swelling with the beauty of glowing lights in the purples and blues of early, early morning. He could hear the raucous atmosphere of a nearby tavern, and heard the sound of drunken singing far off. A little more music in the night could hardly do harm now, could it?
Breathe in, he thought, and counted to four.
Breathe out, he sighed, and counted to eight.
Again and again. He did not remember the taste of smoke and blood as he quietly tuned the strings and checked the tightness of his bow.
Breathe in and out, he thought, as he counted his way through arpeggio and scale alike. He did not remember the people he left behind to survive, did not remember the choices that cost him an arm and a leg.
Two arms, a leg, and an eye. And countless years of life lost to paranoia and-
Breathe in, he thought, and counted to four.
He did not remember them, he thought. He did not feel for them, he thought. There was only him and the music.
"Canzonetta" Andante (2nd mvt) from Violin Concerto in D major
He would remember concerts shared with those who held his heart, once upon a time, and he would forget them. There was no room for them, and would not be any time soon if he could help it.
The music of the night was music for forgetting, for reflection, and for thinking of things held dear to one's heart.
And so he played, serenading no one and everyone, sharing emotion and repressing it in a hidden dance only seen to himself. A soft, wistful, yet content smile graced his face, as if there were nothing else in the world to disturb him.
Of course, there always was. He would do his best to ignore that, however. 
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Catt Hatter: *She couldn't tell where the music was coming from, beyond that it was outside. Despite the chill evening air, Catt opened the window. She took a seat on the ledge and listened to the soothing strains drifting in on the breeze.*
'Tairais: After what felt like several hours worth of music, but was likely just one, Richard sighed and let his fingers begin to meander from the classic pieces he grew up with, he found himself playing a simple, haunting melody his father had once sung for him while his mother was away. Before he was aware of any effort on his part, he was humming softly along, singing the words in his mind. 'Dici che il fiume trova la via al mare E come il fiume giungerai a me Oltre i confini e le terre assetate Dici che come fiume Come fiume l'amore giungera L'amore e non so piu pregare E nell'amore non so piu sperare E quell'amore non so piu aspettare ...Clearing his throat as the last of that song died off, he switched back and forth between different melodies, flitting between them like a butterfly through a field of wildflowers. His thoughts were just as scattered, and he knew it would be a long night. Or morning, he realized, as he saw the faintest bit of light begin to emerge. Regardless, he would play. What other choice did he have?
Catt Hatter:  *Catt listened to the wandering melodies, grateful for the peace they offered. She fell asleep with a smile on her face and rested peacefully until morning.*
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hyde without a Jekyll: *Not-Allison was up on the roofs. The smoke clouded her vision while her mind ran circles. So much had happened. So much needed to happen. At night was one of the few times the girl felt safe from the world. The darkness would envelope her senses and she would finally relax, of course her brain, though, was a different beast entirely. She had too many emotions threatening to flow over. She wanted to smile, cry, scream, and laugh all at the same time, so she did nothing. 
A bittersweet melody drifts past the girl's ears; carried on the London fog. She sits mesmerized by the melancholy tune. Without words it somehow expressed every emotion and she hugged knees for comfort.*
Tairais: The twilight hours were for remembrance and sifting through emotions. A curious feeling passed over Richard as his mechanical eye darted about, seeing nothing and everything in London's great smoke. The feeling was of guilt and a sense of purpose, the need to comfort any and all who would hear. His music changed to suit the memories of summers spent in the company of family, and of watching the last sunset before the first day of fall, rose bushes blooming for the last time of the season. He dwelled on the memory only for a moment before he once again lost himself to the music.
thumb|330x330px
Hyde without a Jekyll:  *She laid down on the rooftop, staring at the stars in the sky that peek out from behind the smoke. She remembers of what she did to Catt...and some deeply buried part feels...guilty. Catt was her friend. They drank tea together. They reaped the rewards of the organs and ice cream. They came up with a plan to deal with Hela...Hela...After what she had done to Catt, after the society found out what she had done, they would lock her up, beat her, just like Hela. She didn't want to end up like Hela... She loved this place, the people there. For the first time in 4 years she felt safe...happy. Mz. Hyde promised her everything would be okay. Jasper made sure she was fit, healthy, protected. Sozo gave her someone to wrestle with mentally and physically. Elaina and Elise always brought some joy and playfulness. Dreamer tried to control Nex's chaos...but they always found some way to laugh off the darkness. Hen helped anyone in need no matter what. Hastie always put up with the shenanigans of the society never losing his air of class. Rose helped with any problem whether someone was lost...or need "assistance". And Hela, she could show her work to. She loved this place...and it would turn against her when it found out what she'd done. Enjoy the memories while they're still sweet and ripe for soon they will turn bitter poisonous.
Hot tears ran down her face.*
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Madame La Déchante: ( She was a lady. A lady of high status. Ladies don't climb the roofs of London. Tonight, however, she found herself navigating the odd shapes. Her skirts brush the filthy rooftop as she paces. Madame La Déchante. What an exhausting role to play. All she'd ever wanted to do was sing, but she never meant to make a career out of it. Her role in life was to marry and continue her noble, if not incestuous bloodline. Except she couldn't even do that. That's when HE saved her...or ruined her life. Perhaps both. All she knew was that she loved him and he trained her. Possibly to play the role of someone else, someone greater. She couldn't say their time together was healthy or even happy, but he took her invisibility with him when he left and her suitors descended upon her like wolves, even with the intervention of a kindly doctor. She had no choice but to die, to save them both. Her internal monologue is interrupted by a strangely familiar sound. musicQuietly, she makes her way to the source and sinks to the ground before him- grateful to be a simple audience member once again. )
Tairais:  Lost in his thoughts and staring farther than even the dimmest light, it was all too easy not to hear anyone else, despite all the training foisted upon him. Still, he must have subconsciously registered an audience, as he found himself improvising a bridge between songs that were islands, easily slipping back into the role of a performer rather than himself. To stop would mean to think in the light of day, to remember to feel where he wanted to feel nothing at all. A few notes into the next composition, he glanced down and saw a face he had only seen perhaps once or twice. Despite his exposed state, it did not occur to him to be startled, or to falter in the melody he coaxed from a violin as worn down as the rest of him. There was history lingering in the air, and a kindred spirit could easily be felt. He would not question or worry. He would not remember. Breathe in, and breathe out, and remember to count. Watch your fingering, be gentle with the bow. Little, light things, quick and fleeting as his fingers on the strings. ((Richard would now be playing Concerto No. 1 in G Minor, Op. 26))
Madame La Déchante: ( Though the fingers are gentle, the notes remain etched in her memory, resounding like the acoustics of a fine old hall. With each movement, the music transforms the dirty old rooftop into something far more surreal, something inexplicably personal.)
Tairais:  Without entirely meaning to, Richard's mind wandered back to one of the only concerts his father had ever made him participate in. Thought his father took a great joy in swaying the emotions of the crowd itself, he took more care in controlling the music, for the music seemed alive and invigorating much in the same way people and their emotions were cloying and deadly. His mind helpfully constructed the velvet furniture and arching ceilings, intimately lit by crystal chandelier and candle alike. The subtle creak of the wooden floor of the stage and the restless air of the concert hall reached him as well, and he found the corner of his lips turning up in a slight smile as he remembered all the hours spent practicing before the event, his brother much more fixated on the architecture and calculating the cost of the building itself. It was his last happy memory for a decent while after that. But! Those were not thoughts for this night. He eventually began to improvise a composition of his own, slowly letting it bleed hours of tension from his body as the strings danced in a melancholic but hopeful tune. He noted the faintest edge of pink on the horizon, and while he was loathe to stop playing, realism and logic still chimed in with their thoughts. Just a few more songs, then.
Madame La Déchante:  ( Her lids were closed, but something seeped in....light? Was it really that late? 'She quickly rises to her feet, an expression of alarm written everywhere. The sun rises over Bethnal Green, but not much else rises with it. The question hangs from her lips but she dare not interrupt the music of the night. With that, she settles back down. )
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Link to the discussion
Category:Main Plot
Category:A Prank Too Far