Musical Magic

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 2 (v.1) - The Chosen Trio

Submitted: April 19, 2008

Reads: 121

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Submitted: April 19, 2008

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The Chosen Trio
A young woman tip-toed to the parlor, where she had heard someone, her cousin most likely, speaking to himself, and playing on the pianoforte.What is he doing in there, besides driving himself insane? She thought quietly to herself, as though afraid he could hear her very thoughts. “No, that’s not right!” he shouted, and the girl jumped back. “No, no, that doesn’t work, it sounds better this way!” he yelled, as though someone had just contradicted him. Oh my goodness, he is already insane! Thought the young woman, running a hand over her long, fiery red hair, which was confined in a French braid.
“Well, I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid that I am the one who knows how it’s supposed to be done! After all, since I can’t write music anymore, you have to do it for me!” said an angry figure, standing over the young man’s shoulder, and stabbing his finger at the music. “Play it right!” the figure was pale and semi-transparent as he floated above the ground, a bald spot on the crown of his head from before he had died.
“There is more than one way to play a song, Sylvester! Now, listen, it sounds better this way!” The cousin was a strapping young man, his brunette hair messy, and one side looking as though he had run his hand through it many times with frustration. His bright scarlet eyes were sparkling with said emotion, and his proud brow was shining with stress sweat. His long, slightly tanned fingers played a small section of a tune before he stopped again with an angry pounding of keys as Sylvester once again prodded him in the small of his back. “That’s not the right music! Play it like your supposed to, Coran!”
Of course, our lovely little eavesdropper couldn’t hear Sylvester’s tirade on how the music wasn’t correct and simply thought that her cousin was suffering from insanity as he snapped back at his unwelcome companion. The red of his eyes grew brighter as he replied, and he stood, no, leaped up and away from the pianoforte. “Fine, Sylvester, fine! You play it then, I’m going!” Nicole, for that was her name, gasped, and ran as quickly and quietly as she could from the door. As she ran, the notes from the music Coran had written was swirling around in her mind. She stopped in the gardens, certain that she had not been followed, Nicole collapsed onto the ground in a heap, his music still in her mind.
Why does his music affect me so? She thought, absent mindedly swirling her fingers in the pond nearby, twitching the first few times the fish greedily nibbled at her fingers. As she thought about the music, she also started to be changing bits of the song as it ran through her mind, to make it sound better. Soon, she was singing her own version of the piece without a care, her fingers still in the pond, keeping time for herself. Smiling, Nicole stood up, her hand leaving the water, and, still singing, began to stroll leisurely around the many plants, her dark green dress billowing around her, caressed by lazy breeze.
Coran heard a voice singing as he stormed away from the music room. Looking out the window, he noticed how a breeze rippled in certain areas of his extensive gardens, then those areas which had just moved settled again as though a giants hand had wiped across it gently. Then he heard the song again. It sounded too familiar to be a coincidence, but no one had heard him playing. He had ordered all his servants to stay away from the room while he was writing, but his cousin whom had recently come to live with him did not yet know this rule.
His eyes were a soft shade of orange-tinged grey as he walked from through the doors to the garden path, following where the wind had been. He caught up with Nicole rapidly, though lagged behind to hear her voice. It was lovely, he admitted with grudging admiration, though it only made him look sourer. As he continued to watch her back, he hesitated; not wanting to interrupt her song, but his pride told him to stop her from stealing his work any longer.
“Miss Nicole? Miss, you seem to be singing a song that I wrote.” He was somewhat unsurprised to see her jump, though it pleased him in a small way. When she spoke, her could hear the fire she usually spoke with, though she restrained it with him. “I’m sorry, cousin, I didn’t realize it wasn’t allowed.” Her tone was polite and cordial, though an underlying note of annoyance ruined the effect.
“It’s quite alright, it’s just you seem to have, well, rewrote it. That is what makes me worry. Please, don’t do it again.” As he was about to turn and walk away, Nicole stopped him with a question. “Were you worried that it would sound better?” she words seemed to reflect the smug look plastered upon her face. He was so still it seemed as though he was made of marble. Remaining silent for many minutes, when he finally turned to her, his eyes looked as burning embers do when the fire is at its hottest. “Of course not, I am simply protective of my work.” He spoke through clenched teeth, his voice showing the poorly disguised strain to keep calm, and the whiteness of his knuckles showed how hard he was fighting not to lash out at her.
Nicole shrugged, and walked away, leaving a very angry man in her stead. He stayed there, silently fuming, for she had been, in a small way right. It did sound better the way she had sung it, but his pride would not allow him to admit it. Unclenching his fists, he turned away from where Nicole had been, and walked back towards the house.
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“You’re late,Aneirin.” Called a rumbling voice from the behind a shadowy desk, a fire crackling with sinister intent behind the speaker. “Forgive me, my lord.” Spoke a man’s voice from near the closing doors, his face cast into the shadow of the great chair in which sat the first man whom had spoken. “Why have you summoned me, sir?” His voice was youthful, but it sounded as though the person to whom it belonged had seen a lot of things no one should ever see within his life.
The Lord rose from his chair, and walked up to the youth. His face showed age, but time had been his friend, not enemy. He was still handsome, and looked as though he could beat any man who dared challenge him, though they rarely did. His hair was oiled into submission, the streaks of silver highlighting his thick mahogany hair. A pair of thinly framed glasses rested upon a sharp nose, giving him a learned, authoritative look. He stood about two meters tall, and was rather broad in the shoulders. All in all, he was a very intimidating figure.
“My spies believe they have found two of the prophesied trio. Bring them to me.” With that, the man turned around, and faced the fire. “Outside the door, there are two guards to take you to the border.” He continued, and tossed a package at Aneirin. “There’s the map, and pictures of the targets.”
Realizing he was dismissed, Aneirin caught the package, and left the room. There in the hallway were the two guards, and sweeping past them, he left the large mansion; looking at the pictures he had been given. One was of a pretty girl with a long fire red braid, the other of a young man with messy brunette locks, looking thoroughly frustrated with something that the person who sketched the picture couldn’t see.
His gaze was drawn back to the portrait of the girl. There was something about her, he couldn’t name it, but she looked familiar, as though he had seen her once in a forgotten dream. Shaking off the feeling, he looked at the guards, and then to the three midnight blue-black horses. Climbing onto one, he didn’t wait for the others before he urged his steed into a gallop.
The moonlight illuminated his features, showing the thin pale lips, dark brooding eyes, and the frown that rarely left either one. His hair was black as the shadows from which children cowered, and was tied back in a long, low-hanging ponytail, secured with a black silk ribbon. He was lean, not bulky like the man whom he answered to, and his aura oozed power, frightening most he came into contact with. Beating against his chest was a reed flute, secured with a strip of black leather.
The guards and Aneirin rode on for over an hour before reaching the border between where he lived with the rest of the ‘dark’ population, and the place where the ‘good guys’ lived. Jumping from his horses back, he handed the reins to the guard nearest him, and crossed the invisible barrier between the two sides. As soon as he was over, he looked at the location, and took a deep breath. With his free hand, he lifted the reed flute to his lips, and began to play a few notes, a song that sounded like a traveling wind flowing from the instrument. As he played, a wind lifted him off the ground, carrying him while he continued to play.
The scenery was lush beneath, bowing in respect to the winds and its somber passenger. The long grasses and brightly painted wild flowers of the meadows shone with a brighter light, though they had a bleached look about them. The beauty of this scene was not lost to Aneirin, but he didn’t let it override his need to obey the Chief. Still, the wonder of this part of the land astounded him. The trees were greener, as was the grass, and the plants seemed more alive. Everything seemed to work smoothly together, all laboring in a circle to keep the land healthy and breathing with life. He sighed as he looked out across the lush wildlife, even at night it was pulsing with energy.
He watched the landscape pass him by. He loved the look of the land, and was almost sad that he couldn’t stay here. Then the estate came into view, and he was jerked rudely back to reality. With a small sigh into his pan flute, he landed, and looked up at the formidable estate rising above him. The walls were of blocks of soft coral colored stone that he couldn’t name, the mortar holding it all together the same shade of light kiss pink. The blocks were roughly made, and so provided many footholds and handles, making it easy for him to scale the wall. Once upon the roof, he sat and watched the moon make its journey across the sky, waiting for his chance to follow orders.


© Copyright 2018 Wilma Al Carlson. All rights reserved.

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