Secret Santa Fic for Jaden - "Raindrops"
Jan 1, 2013 0:00:37 GMT -5
Post by Vincent Meian on Jan 1, 2013 0:00:37 GMT -5
It is always said that music soothes the savaged soul, that its notes can heal even the most pitiable of wounds and bring light to the darkest of moments. It can take that soul across the sea to undying lands, cry havoc upon the battlefields of fate, or weave sorrowful dreams of loss and anguish. It can be bold and forward, soft and sure, or simply an accompaniment to a much grander tale in which many more voices cry out to be heard. It can be the strength the guides the numbers, the fluttering heart of the most beautiful poetry ever known, or a single voice that weeps for days not yet lived and tomorrows not seen. Every note is pure, every beat alive, and each thrum of a string or whistle of song contains more sensation and emotions than mere words can describe.
Music was, is, and always will be. But more importantly, it was/is/will be forever alive.
Despite this truth, many are not taught the simplicity of such a thing. Skill takes the place of feeling in modern day, with hate and unhappiness uprooting the base sensation of love for the art. Those who write music now do so for renown and hopes of glory rather than the joy of true creation, and the world’s song fades from memory as the cries of the people grow ever louder, ever fiercer, ever angrier.
But, perhaps, that is because the world itself grows more discontent with every day.
Normally, Lei was not one for such deep thoughts. Most of the time, life just seemed to slip by whether he cared or not, and for the most part he didn’t. Why should he care; it wasn’t as if the grains of sand in his own hourglass were treasured by anyone before. Why should he worry about how fast they slid through his fingers?
At least, that’s what he’d thought before. Now, he wasn’t so sure. The people here at this strange school, they all wanted “in” on his life for some reason. The doctor, the psychiatrist, his trainer, his classmates… everyone wanted to peek at the inside of what made Leiken Do Chu tick. Some of them knew and hadn’t run screaming; others were waiting patiently for him to open up and show them the dark, supposedly so they could help him light it once again. And then there was the one – the one that knew without knowing, that trusted without having trust, that understood when Lei could not begin to comprehend. It weighed on the boy’s mind and soul, made him think more deeply than he ever had before.
It’d been weeks since his last appointment, when the doctor declared him fit for society again. Break had come and gone, the holidays were over, classes continued on with nary a whisper of the rumors that surrounded him before. Though the snow continued to fall outside in a flurry of white, January had brought more than a new calendar year. It had brought a new beginning. A new way to tell an old story, a new start from a bitter ending… another chance where he could make things right.
The Chinese boy ran his hand over the polished maple, the hard wood beneath his fingertips smooth and cool. The wood had been stained a deep red-brown; as cherrywood, or maybe the same radiant auburn as its maker’s greatest love. Even though his abilities only affected living beings, the teenager could swear he felt the pulse of the instrument’s slow and knowing heart beneath his skin. The love that had been poured into those keys, the joy that had fluttered through every note, the gentle understanding of every teacher that sat upon that bench and played for a room full of nervous little birds to coax them into singing… every emotion imaginable settled into the very grain of the wood and the worn shine of plastic, and for all his lack of empathy Lei could feel it resonating under his hand.
I wonder, then, what it would feel like to play?
The bench pulled back with a disgruntled whine against the floor, and his thin frame slid into position as easily as water filling a chalice. He paused, hands hovering over the protective layer hiding the keys from view, then settled them onto the careworn wood, pushing it back to reveal ivory-colored plastic. A low thrum echoed through the room as the wood settled back. The smell of hands and polish and wood and so many years drifted up, giving a slight sense of nostalgia – of forever. Thin fingers traced the shiny keys, touching without playing as the silence seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.
Then, Lei began to play.
The notes came soft as pattering rain, with a slightly sweet sound; a spring morning, perhaps, where the sun shone in the distance through the soothing tinkle of water on tin roofs. It was beautiful symbolism, laced with understanding and love, even through the sorrow of knowing that being out in such wonder could cause suffering. But for now, it was simply soft and knowing, with a hint of longing. Then, with as much warning as the treacherous sea, the tone shifted to something darker and more frightening. Tension rounded in the air, and even the player seemed tight as the notes flitted under his hands, each of the keys pressed with the force of lightning and echoing with a distant rumble of thunder. The pain and fear he felt seeped into every stroke, into the grim black of the clouds he wove with hammer and string alone.
But as with every storm, the black must fade and bring with it just the sweet scent of water and earth on the wind, losing its grief and anger to return to a state of gentle being as the light of day peeks through the clouds. So, too, did the piece return to gentle understanding, laced with a single wish and the comfort of gently falling rain.
The last note still hung sweetly in the air long after it faded into silence, and only to the soft sound of footsteps did Lei wake from his musical trance. He blinked, exhausted as if the piano had taken every ounce of soul he had left, then looked up as the realization that he was no longer alone dawned on him. Dark eyes met blue-grey, and for a moment there was silence, each gathering the measure of the other before speaking. It was Lei who broken the silence.
“I suppose you heard everything, then. Or is this about the note?”
“A little of both,” the older man replied, his face lined with intimate understanding. “Although normally, I do not have the same student sending me an apology and a finger-painting at the same time, let alone one that will do both before playing a near-perfect rendition of Chopin’s fifteenth prelude to an empty classroom.”
“Why? Has there been a student do all that and then play to a full classroom?” A slight smirk came over the boy’s face, and a light chuckle emanated from the man before him as well. “Guess not,” he continued, closing the lid over the keys. “I’m guessing you were looking for me, right?”
“Your note said that you wished to talk.”
“I kind of figured you’d schedule an appointment or something.”
The tall man thought about it for a moment, nodding his head. “Normally, I do,” he answered. “Although, this seems like something best spoken about on equal ground, where you’re comfortable and I’m just a listening ear.”
There was some truth to that. Lei scooted to the other end of the bench and motioned for the older man to sit, thinking about what he wanted to say as he did so. There was so much he had to apologize for; so much he had to make right. Everyone had told him that this man could help if no one else could, and even though his trainer knew almost everything, there were some things the eighteen year old couldn’t bear to bring up even to him. Especially not to him. A moment of silence stretched between the two; one deep in thought and the other patiently waiting.
Once again, it was the younger who stirred his voice first.
“All right, I think I’m ready.” His voice shook, but his posture straightened as he looked to the psychiatrist, his expression determined and full of inner courage. “Where do we start, Dr. Neville?”
~Fin
Music was, is, and always will be. But more importantly, it was/is/will be forever alive.
Despite this truth, many are not taught the simplicity of such a thing. Skill takes the place of feeling in modern day, with hate and unhappiness uprooting the base sensation of love for the art. Those who write music now do so for renown and hopes of glory rather than the joy of true creation, and the world’s song fades from memory as the cries of the people grow ever louder, ever fiercer, ever angrier.
But, perhaps, that is because the world itself grows more discontent with every day.
Normally, Lei was not one for such deep thoughts. Most of the time, life just seemed to slip by whether he cared or not, and for the most part he didn’t. Why should he care; it wasn’t as if the grains of sand in his own hourglass were treasured by anyone before. Why should he worry about how fast they slid through his fingers?
At least, that’s what he’d thought before. Now, he wasn’t so sure. The people here at this strange school, they all wanted “in” on his life for some reason. The doctor, the psychiatrist, his trainer, his classmates… everyone wanted to peek at the inside of what made Leiken Do Chu tick. Some of them knew and hadn’t run screaming; others were waiting patiently for him to open up and show them the dark, supposedly so they could help him light it once again. And then there was the one – the one that knew without knowing, that trusted without having trust, that understood when Lei could not begin to comprehend. It weighed on the boy’s mind and soul, made him think more deeply than he ever had before.
It’d been weeks since his last appointment, when the doctor declared him fit for society again. Break had come and gone, the holidays were over, classes continued on with nary a whisper of the rumors that surrounded him before. Though the snow continued to fall outside in a flurry of white, January had brought more than a new calendar year. It had brought a new beginning. A new way to tell an old story, a new start from a bitter ending… another chance where he could make things right.
The Chinese boy ran his hand over the polished maple, the hard wood beneath his fingertips smooth and cool. The wood had been stained a deep red-brown; as cherrywood, or maybe the same radiant auburn as its maker’s greatest love. Even though his abilities only affected living beings, the teenager could swear he felt the pulse of the instrument’s slow and knowing heart beneath his skin. The love that had been poured into those keys, the joy that had fluttered through every note, the gentle understanding of every teacher that sat upon that bench and played for a room full of nervous little birds to coax them into singing… every emotion imaginable settled into the very grain of the wood and the worn shine of plastic, and for all his lack of empathy Lei could feel it resonating under his hand.
I wonder, then, what it would feel like to play?
The bench pulled back with a disgruntled whine against the floor, and his thin frame slid into position as easily as water filling a chalice. He paused, hands hovering over the protective layer hiding the keys from view, then settled them onto the careworn wood, pushing it back to reveal ivory-colored plastic. A low thrum echoed through the room as the wood settled back. The smell of hands and polish and wood and so many years drifted up, giving a slight sense of nostalgia – of forever. Thin fingers traced the shiny keys, touching without playing as the silence seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.
Then, Lei began to play.
The notes came soft as pattering rain, with a slightly sweet sound; a spring morning, perhaps, where the sun shone in the distance through the soothing tinkle of water on tin roofs. It was beautiful symbolism, laced with understanding and love, even through the sorrow of knowing that being out in such wonder could cause suffering. But for now, it was simply soft and knowing, with a hint of longing. Then, with as much warning as the treacherous sea, the tone shifted to something darker and more frightening. Tension rounded in the air, and even the player seemed tight as the notes flitted under his hands, each of the keys pressed with the force of lightning and echoing with a distant rumble of thunder. The pain and fear he felt seeped into every stroke, into the grim black of the clouds he wove with hammer and string alone.
But as with every storm, the black must fade and bring with it just the sweet scent of water and earth on the wind, losing its grief and anger to return to a state of gentle being as the light of day peeks through the clouds. So, too, did the piece return to gentle understanding, laced with a single wish and the comfort of gently falling rain.
The last note still hung sweetly in the air long after it faded into silence, and only to the soft sound of footsteps did Lei wake from his musical trance. He blinked, exhausted as if the piano had taken every ounce of soul he had left, then looked up as the realization that he was no longer alone dawned on him. Dark eyes met blue-grey, and for a moment there was silence, each gathering the measure of the other before speaking. It was Lei who broken the silence.
“I suppose you heard everything, then. Or is this about the note?”
“A little of both,” the older man replied, his face lined with intimate understanding. “Although normally, I do not have the same student sending me an apology and a finger-painting at the same time, let alone one that will do both before playing a near-perfect rendition of Chopin’s fifteenth prelude to an empty classroom.”
“Why? Has there been a student do all that and then play to a full classroom?” A slight smirk came over the boy’s face, and a light chuckle emanated from the man before him as well. “Guess not,” he continued, closing the lid over the keys. “I’m guessing you were looking for me, right?”
“Your note said that you wished to talk.”
“I kind of figured you’d schedule an appointment or something.”
The tall man thought about it for a moment, nodding his head. “Normally, I do,” he answered. “Although, this seems like something best spoken about on equal ground, where you’re comfortable and I’m just a listening ear.”
There was some truth to that. Lei scooted to the other end of the bench and motioned for the older man to sit, thinking about what he wanted to say as he did so. There was so much he had to apologize for; so much he had to make right. Everyone had told him that this man could help if no one else could, and even though his trainer knew almost everything, there were some things the eighteen year old couldn’t bear to bring up even to him. Especially not to him. A moment of silence stretched between the two; one deep in thought and the other patiently waiting.
Once again, it was the younger who stirred his voice first.
“All right, I think I’m ready.” His voice shook, but his posture straightened as he looked to the psychiatrist, his expression determined and full of inner courage. “Where do we start, Dr. Neville?”
~Fin
