pianst

The previous Graf Strollo's funeral is already halfway through. The performance is set to begin.

Czerny lifts his head, looking into the distance. The lofty buildings of the Cliffy Patio enter his vision, yet in his mind's eye, he sees that afternoon with Fanny, passing by the Afterglow Hall again and again.

He gives an imperceptible bow to the crowd, seats himself, and begins to perform.

They had an Infected play for this funeral?

Obviously she's seizing on her brother's death for the chance to sell more records.

A piano solo? I highly doubt whether a single piano grants him enough to evoke both a flute and a cello's manners at once.

The musician's ears are sharp. He hears every ill-willed voice picking away at him, before the performance is even truly underway.

He bites at his tongue in regret, but it's too late to stop playing now.

He's already heard everything, but he needs to force himself not to hear anything.

The melody trickles through the grounds. The noise doesn't subside, and yet, it gradually begins to fade away from him.

Morgen und Abend.

From first light to last.

If a flute is clarity, light, expanse, like an unbounded sunrise atop the hill, then the piano's morning sun is addled by a shawl of mist.

Sunlight bathes the earth in equal measure, never dwindling for the parched, nor strengthening for the clouded.

The wisps of chill emanating from the first light feel almost ruthless.

...Bold arrangement.

I still don't think it's quite on the mark. Can you really call this morning sun? What could a morning sun like this possibly illuminate?

Perhaps nothing at all.

He's quite engrossed.

I'd posit it's the first he's ever performed for so much nobility. He'd do well to seize the chance.

But if you ask me, Strollo—and not the one flitting around the attendance, I mean the one in the coffin—he's had the short end of the stick.

The man spent so long living in his father's shadow, and he could barely come into power himself before illness whisked him right back out. To boot, an Infected playing at his funeral.

From first light to last.

A hammer can never shudder the listener's heartstrings as the bow does, stirring the doleful scarlet shadows of the setting sun.

And so, he chooses to perform the most ordinary afterglow one could know.

The sun is setting soon. It's time for us to go to sleep.

Hurried gasps. The scent of bed. That orange ceiling. The scattered stars glimpsed through deep blue curtains.

At its jet-black nadir, the night holds the departed close. The light still lingers. The musician, ignoring them all, performs that deep, shivering green where light and dark intertwine.

Violent yet tranquil, profound yet mundane. The most ordinary of forever partings.

Graf Strollo, you tragedy... *sigh*.

Timid, shrunken bastard. Laughed at his own words as if apologizing for everything he said, even after succeeding the title.

The last time I saw him, he gave me the wrong gift. I jeered at him to my heart's content... And now, damn it all, it's like he's still there, laughing along.

What drives me to do that, my god—

...Shh.

(Sniffs)

From first light to last.

The sun climbs up in its track, up to its apex, so high as to steal the breath from you. Then in gentle leisure it descends, until the murk of twilight, until it sinks into the earth.

In the face of the sun, we are insignificant, exposed, our wealth of emotion our greatest treasure, one amounting to so, so little.

If we could tarry just a little longer in this mortal coil, could we see the pain vanished, the wrinkles smoothed, the love we've lost made young by the dusk of rising east and dawn of setting west?

But we are no more than motes in the confines of time. In the end, we part.

A thorough and achingly open parting.

The final note disappears into the late rays' winds.

They blow it away from Vyseheim, to some place far beyond the eye, and only then do the whispers finally surface again.

Now these murmurings are solemn and restrained, interspersed with low sobs.

...You know who I'm reminded of? My uncle. A veteran who retired from the field, terrible temper. Never much humored me. And then eventually he became senile.

I visited him once before he passed. Just so happened to find him burning his things in the garden. The wind came and carried away all that paper ash, like grey snow falling into the sky.

Czerny, Czerny...

My god, there's nothing fair about a man's fate. How could he have been born here? How could he be an Infected?

You're quiet.

(Sniffs) I... *sigh*... what else can I say? What am I fit to say?

Once I'm home, once I've calmed down, I'll write a mild review. You know, that's highest praise coming from me. But for now—

(Takes a deep breath)

Let's talk about something else. Have you noticed Herr Ed? He's the most esteemed of the critics Dame Strollo invited here, but I haven't seen him at all.

Dame Strollo was just looking for him at the burial site.

Just? While Herr Czerny was playing?

Yes.

Czerny slowly lets out a very pent-up breath.

His ears are sharp. He's heard everything, the voices flummoxed by prejudice, yet shaken by art... by their own vulnerability.

He wipes the tears from his face, and incidentally catches sight of Gertrude.

Herr Ed, I count my blessings that you suffered no misfortune while lost in the Afterglow alleys.

The onus lies with me, that I had you so graciously lead me out, and miss Herr Czerny's performance in the process.

I wouldn't be so sure. Didn't we hear it, even from where we were? What beautiful music.

Gertrude forgets to hide her formality smile as she turns her head, forgets to switch to one of grief, and that is how she makes eye contact with Czerny.

Once she takes notice of how incongruous the musician's red eyes and her own expression are, only then does she realize she's made a huge mistake.

Would that she could take it back, she thinks, as she maintains the smile on her face, leaves the critic it was meant for behind, and quickly paces over to him.

As she expected, Czerny is also walking up to meet her.

What is Czerny doing? Striding right over to Dame Strollo? Not one acknowledgement for the audience?

...As is fair. They must have a lot to talk over.

This... is how you mourn your brother?

...The artist can focus on one thing only, but the patron cannot.

The setting sun hangs west. Both take pains not to look at the other's face again.

Don't.

...Fine. It's your turn to grieve for him.

Czerny hurriedly leaves the Afterglow plaza. No greeting. No stopping. No one enters his eyes.

Mein Herr, letter for you.

From who?

...Gräfin Strollo.

You haven't talked for a month. What if...

An invitation card... and a penned letter?

You want to invite me a second time, Gertrude... <i>Dame Strollo?</i>

No, first, let's see what she wrote.

Find you well, how do you do... this is hollow rubbish.

Wait, what is this in her postscript...

'I won't apologize for the funeral, nor for never grieving over my brother. I apologize that I cheated you.'

'If you'd believe it, I came to realize afterwards I only accomplished one thing.'

'I had an Infected perform a piece at Graf Strollo's funeral, sending my dearest Strollo family... 'best wishes'. Ridiculous, isn't it?'

'...I'm astonished I just tacked on such carelessly offensive words.'

'It seems, in the end, we're not the same.'

'Sorry.'

Gertrude, you absolute...

This... isn't even her invitation. Is this... a tour?

A tour?

Critics and nobles all wanted me to perform in their cities after that funeral, so she went and drew up a 'tour'...

'The artist can focus on one thing only, but the patron cannot,' you say?

...*sigh*.

Ursula, what do you think about the tour?

An Infected on tour... I can't imagine how it might turn out, but I'm sure it wouldn't be like on holidays.

What an understatement. I'd practically be an exotic sideshow animal...

But I must go.

What for?