story_pianst_2_1

'Any energy left? Shall we walk another lap of the Afterglow?'

'Hahah. You finally admit I'm in better shape than you, then?'

'The sun's low now. The wind at night... it's cold.'

'I know.'

He feebly smiles. His pallid face shines gilded gold in the twilight.

'But I'm going to keep walking until the sun's down. I'm going to walk from first light to last.'

'Deep upon my mind, I'll sear this place that raised me, and imprisoned me, for twenty years...'

'While I can still spurn it, sing of it, despise it, and miss it.'

'Because I know neither I, nor my music, will make it out of our little Afterglow again.'

'Promise me. Don't end up like me. Do better than I did... okay?'

Welcome.

Your eyes are ruddy. Did you just pass by the Afterglow Hall?

My sympathies.

Much appreciated, Strollo—I mean, how rude of me, Gertrude.

That's alright. Not many are aware of this trivial preference of mine.

Even the retainers aren't used to addressing their Lehnsfrau by name. I've not been here long enough, simply put, and I and this city, this Spire, aren't too familiar yet.

Back to the topic, I just realize the inconvenience of this. With everyone busy today, you coming to the Cliffy Patio was the only option... Here, your medicine.

Danke.

The Spire guards didn't trouble you, I hope?

They intended to, until they read your note. Then they muttered something about it being 'outrageous' and stood aside.

There you have it. This Spire and I aren't just strangers, we're flat-out picking bones.

Not to mention, Czerny, as composer of <i>Morgen und Abend</i>, your name is known even beyond Vyseheim now. That's far more outrageous than an Infected or two entering the Cliffy Patio. Don't mind them.

(Sardonic laugh) Mind? It's not my first day as a commoner <i>or</i> an Infected... In any case, nobles like you are far too few. I must thank you again.

Don't rush to thank me, I didn't call you here just to collect your medicine. There was a favor I wanted to ask, too.

As long as it's within my power, then by all means.

I'm hoping you can perform <i>Morgen und Abend</i> for my brother's funeral.

I know it's somewhat of an ask. You'd have to arrange the flute and cello into solo piano, but even then...

No, I understand. You're utter strangers in a sense. Lehnsherr and subject, whatever that counts for.

But he... let me find the words. He didn't rule like my iron-fisted father before him. He was a vacillatory kind of man.

To put it unkindly, he was weak.

But because he was so irredeemably weak compared to Father, he was much less harmful. Not just to me, but to his own subjects—

Gertrude.

Yes?

No need to describe him so painstakingly. I know the feeling of losing a loved one.

I paid a visit to my mentor just before this. In your manner, she has little good to say about her daughter. She calls her stubborn, disobedient, unappreciative...

But once she has no more to say, she weeps too hard to breathe.

It is what it is to be vulnerable. Masking it by lambasting the dead hides nothing.

I know the Graf's funeral will draw great attendance from nobles, and you're quite used to striking two fowls with one stone, so my guess is...

Correct. Your patron will be inviting many music critics.

You have quite a reputation already, but it's still not enough... Yes, let's be frank. It's far from enough. We must grab every opportunity we can to boost your fame.

Even your elder brother's funeral?

If it were a private remembrance, I would be glad to perform <i>Morgen und Abend</i>. However, before such stuck-up nobles and holier-than-thou critics...

It's you who needs the consolation at this time, Gertrude. Not them.

I know it doesn't take your fancy. When it comes to music, you're forever pure. I, though, am not you.

Those things you find insignificant—money, fame, connections... I have to care. The artist can focus on one thing only, but the patron cannot.

Gertrude...

Think about it. Okay?

Suppertime, Mein Herr!

Mein Herr—

Ursula, thank you, I heard you. Please lower your voice.

...Have you been waiting for me this whole time?

That I have.

Tell me, what's the matter now? You were finally in good spirits for once...

Gertrude had a... request for me. She's asking I perform <i>Morgen und Abend</i> at her brother's funeral.

And how can you say no, when she's your very own patron?

...They are laying a noble to rest in a public service, Ursula.

Performing <i>Morgen und Abend</i>, for me, is like... tearing off my own shell... displaying the most vulnerable part of me to someone else, hoping they'll understand, that they'll resonate with it.

Tell me to perform it for you, for Gertrude, for anyone in the Afterglow you like, and it would be my delight. Because I know you would understand me.

But those nobles, those critics... what will they understand? The technical prowess? Maybe they'll echo that one certain baffling review of the piece...

'The composer's meager stature is so far short of the musical ambition as to unbalance the whole thing'?

Why should I have to make my vulnerability into a show for them? For the <i>fame?</i> The <i>money?</i>

Oh now now, slowly, Mein Herr, slow down. First we have some supper, yes?

Reports of the remnants' movements, gathering points of private arms... *sigh* Oh, dear brother, you.

Dame Strollo—

What is going on? You—aren't those papers confidential?

All the more reason to feed them to the fireplace.

And by the way, Lachmann... it's been quite a few years since 'Herr Caster' planted you in Vyseheim.

You...?!

Don't worry, 'he' was my father's handler, then my brother's, and now mine. I don't plan to change anything there.

...I thank your graciousness, Dame S—Dame Gertrude, excuse me.

We need the funeral sorted before we make our next move. What's still unaccounted for?

I believe you know exactly what.

Those critics are gushing with the honor of being invited to a Graf's funeral, but should the musician himself fail to show...

Hah, yes.

He's a fool. Such a fool he'd turn away a silver platter of fame and fortune.

And that very foolishness is key. <i>Morgen und Abend</i> could only have been written in his longing for Fanny, not in mine for my dearest brother.

If you truly want this sentimental man fiddling in the palm of your hand, perhaps you should take things to the next level with him personally...

Not one more inappropriate suggestion. He has no such interest in me. Getting him to see me as his generous patron, the most trustworthy of his friends, is enough.

But if...

You think all my efforts will be for naught on the off-chance he doesn't turn up, correct?

He will.

You have a backup plan?

'Backup plan'. No, I simply know him well enough.

Or perhaps I should say, he's too blindingly simple of a person. One casual chat and you've already hit his deepest depths.

What do you mean by 'that was when you started waiting for me to eat'? Always I waited for you before supper, you hear.

I remember one time Fanny came to tell me there was an error in one of my counterpoint exercises, and I pushed away my plate and rushed right to my mentor's home to quarrel with her until the dead of night...

I came home on an empty stomach to find the table cleared, nothing left.

How was I supposed to know they'd have no food that day, eh. Besides, didn't I bring over m'own catering for her the next day?

...On which Fanny burnt her tongue.

And you almost dropped m'roast potatoes on the floor.

The potato soup's still warm, now, have another bowl.

Hrm.

Who's there? Let yourself in, it's open.

Come on in, come on in!

So much easier to find your place now, Frau Ursula.

The Herr fought for that, y'see.

Hahah, he's fought for much more than himself!

Congrats to you all on the new home, and congrats to you, Czerny, it feels like yesterday you were a little brat and now you've done something we could never dream of and become talk of the town!

*clicks tongue* What a splendiferous place... What's this, a bathtub?

I haven't seen one of these in years, now. Frau, how's it to use?

You're asking? M'bone joints used to itch each time it rained, oh, terrible, I couldn't stand it. Now with all the Herr's done, I dip in the tub and m'body comes out sixty years younger!

You see that, Czerny, Frau Ursula's life is never better! That's you, you made it happen!

Mrm... mm.

Here, take this! Fine wine, the finest, they love it all day in the Cliffy Patio. If you knew how long it took me to get it from that asshole running the cafe...

You're too kind, too kind. We're havin' supper right now, stay and have some, ja?

No need.

There was this whole party of people the other day, couldn't tell you where from, come 'in search of the place where the great composer Czerny was born'.

At that very same time I was drumming up customers with my accordion, and whoof, good day for the ol' fried sauerkraut stand. If I ever get business like that again, oh, you bet I'm there.

Right, you get on with it!

Mein Herr, what's the matter with you? Someone drops by, and he's here to housewarm you. You don't even say hello?

I was quite a hassle to him before, so it's just... a little awkward for me.

Hassle? Oh, that fight, you mean, the one you had.

*clears throat*.

Old news, old. You told him sorry, and you heard him, you were just caring too much, that's all. Him, he holds nothing against you.

That was...

I know, you're not too good with words. The whole Afterglow knows, ja? We know.

But I'll tell you what you do have, now. It's too much temper.

Fräulein Fanny, when she couldn't taste the food she ate? She didn't know up from down she was so sick, that's why she thought, gosh, they must be doing it to me on purpose. Then you come along and get carried away with it, why?

Scared the daylights out of me when you stormed up to his stand, never saw you so furious in all my life—

...My bad, my bad. Eat, go on, let's eat.

Ursula.

What is it, Mein Herr?

Would you say, if I went to that funeral, then more of that... business, that the Herr mentioned, would come in?

If I should show my weakness to the ones who don't give a shit about our fates, to let them scrutinize me, then would the Afterglow... have a few more houses with bathtubs, maybe?

Mein Herr...

No, this is wrong. This isn't how music should be. At least not my music.

But...

'Because I know neither I, nor my music, will make it out of our little Afterglow again.'

'Promise me. Don't end up like me. Do better than I did... okay?'

Mein Herr, where're you off to?

Gertrude.

The sooner I accept her invitation, the sooner I can start arranging <i>Morgen und Abend</i> for solo piano.

Time flies.

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?

I simply believe the sound of my strings, an Infected's strings... is enough to cross the widest gap, and plunge into those nobles' hearts.

Even if I'm uncompensated, even if I'll be some rare creature to gawk at, just put a piano in my cage...

Even if all I have is a metal stick to strike at my bars, I'll be more than willing.

Just as Czerny expected, the tour of an Infected musician is akin to an exotics display.

Even now, on the very last stop...

The streets have been emptied to allow this Infected to walk to the venue on his own. None are willing to walk with the Infected, save for an impatient bodyguard.

Out of nowhere, in the faintest strains, he hears the most familiar music. It comes from a roadside garden.

<i>Morgen und Abend</i>?!

Don't stop! Move!

Mein Herr, whose garden is...

The Markgraf's family cemetery! Move it, move!

Czerny begins his stride, as he lifts his head to the sky.

The city's overcast almost resembles the night sky. The irregular schedule of the tour has messed up his body clock. He just wants to sleep.

He barely has any energy left.

But still he'll keep this ailing body going, to make another lap of this dwarfing mortal coil they call life, around and around, onward and onward.

He'll spurn, sing, despise, miss...

From first light, to last.