Post by Variel on Mar 14, 2008 17:56:28 GMT -5
He stroked the keys as if in a trance, and Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata ached into every darkened corner of the luxury penthouse. The tall French doors to the broad roof terrace were open to the warm night air, the long sheer drapes languidly filling and floating with the breeze. From behind the glossy black grand piano as he played, he could stare out over the shimmering lights of the vast skyline and the distant taillights crossing the downtown bridges like strands of electric rubies.
It is all a dream, he thought with empty resignation, a handsome, horrible, deathless dream.
He saw her reflection in the dark glass of the French doors as she appeared like an apparition behind him. He simply blinked at her shadowy, lithe image and returned his gaze to the city lights beyond the terrace. “You must be Variel,” he said as the melody receded in a masterful decrescendo.
“I was at your performance this evening,” she replied softly. She approached and stood at his shoulder, her long black evening gown swirling noiselessly around the piano bench.
He continued to play. “It was contrived and false,” he said quietly, distantly.
Variel looked down at his hands drifting across the keys. “Just like it always is?”
He frowned in concentration as his fingertips coaxed the exquisite heartbreak out of the sonata. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Yes, just like always.”
He played the rest of piece with the skill of a virtuoso. The only gesture between them was his hands moving with tender anguish over the keyboard, and with every note that failed to resonate with any authenticity or integrity, his poor, desolate heart broke. At last, he pressed the final two remorseful chords deep into the piano and let them resolve like vapor into the dense night air.
There was an austere silence in the vacuum of the moonlit penthouse, his hands still resting on the piano. “In this ‘truth’ you claim to offer,” he said at last, “is there music?”
Variel looked down at him, the onyx beads of her choker luminous in the darkness. She considered his melancholy features for a moment before nodding slightly. “There is always music where there are people.”
He returned her gaze, searching her eyes plaintively. “But not like this.”
“No,” she said as she looked out over the mirror-like surface of the piano. “Not like this. The music we have is real.”
He followed her gaze beyond the piano’s glossy expanse to the glittering lights of the skyline. “I think I would trade every note I’ve ever played to hear a single moment of genuine music.”
“You said in your message that no matter how hard you search, you can’t find the truth you are looking for in your music.” She turned to look at him and studied his face. “It’s not your fault. This . . . place . . . isn’t capable of replicating music the way you hear it in your imagination. This nightmare is not meant for people like you.” She extended a gloved hand to him. “Our time is short. Are you ready for the truth?”
He spread his fingers over the keys, as if caressing them one last time. “Yes,” he said finally, taking her hand. “I’m ready to hear the music.”
It is all a dream, he thought with empty resignation, a handsome, horrible, deathless dream.
He saw her reflection in the dark glass of the French doors as she appeared like an apparition behind him. He simply blinked at her shadowy, lithe image and returned his gaze to the city lights beyond the terrace. “You must be Variel,” he said as the melody receded in a masterful decrescendo.
“I was at your performance this evening,” she replied softly. She approached and stood at his shoulder, her long black evening gown swirling noiselessly around the piano bench.
He continued to play. “It was contrived and false,” he said quietly, distantly.
Variel looked down at his hands drifting across the keys. “Just like it always is?”
He frowned in concentration as his fingertips coaxed the exquisite heartbreak out of the sonata. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Yes, just like always.”
He played the rest of piece with the skill of a virtuoso. The only gesture between them was his hands moving with tender anguish over the keyboard, and with every note that failed to resonate with any authenticity or integrity, his poor, desolate heart broke. At last, he pressed the final two remorseful chords deep into the piano and let them resolve like vapor into the dense night air.
There was an austere silence in the vacuum of the moonlit penthouse, his hands still resting on the piano. “In this ‘truth’ you claim to offer,” he said at last, “is there music?”
Variel looked down at him, the onyx beads of her choker luminous in the darkness. She considered his melancholy features for a moment before nodding slightly. “There is always music where there are people.”
He returned her gaze, searching her eyes plaintively. “But not like this.”
“No,” she said as she looked out over the mirror-like surface of the piano. “Not like this. The music we have is real.”
He followed her gaze beyond the piano’s glossy expanse to the glittering lights of the skyline. “I think I would trade every note I’ve ever played to hear a single moment of genuine music.”
“You said in your message that no matter how hard you search, you can’t find the truth you are looking for in your music.” She turned to look at him and studied his face. “It’s not your fault. This . . . place . . . isn’t capable of replicating music the way you hear it in your imagination. This nightmare is not meant for people like you.” She extended a gloved hand to him. “Our time is short. Are you ready for the truth?”
He spread his fingers over the keys, as if caressing them one last time. “Yes,” he said finally, taking her hand. “I’m ready to hear the music.”