- Username: vivika
Clan: azeryn
Quest Number: 3
Response:
she smashed a sledgehammer into the burnished rougewood of her studio.
fine silver strings sprung back in a discordant screech and shards of rougewood splintered her cheeks, but she was beyond caring. she picked up the long slender neck of the viola, still in-tact. her touch skimmed the strum of the strings, the outlines of the ribs, the silver engraving of a winged star at the back. for my beloved daughter━
the snap of the viola's neck was sweeter than any applause.
a graveyard of broken, ugly things glittered at her feet. and with each step, a ghost of a song shivered—a haunting melody of broken bones, cut strings and hollow notes. her heartbeat was a staccato in her chest, but life behind scarlet curtains and chasing the clamor of applause had taught her enough. hold it together, euri.
she tore leaflets of paper from her shelf, the pages like a moth's wing and shivering, and knelt by the fire. capricious twists of molten gold leapt to attention, devouring each offering as if it were something sacred. first with a gentle lick, a taste, a flicker of gold flame. gold morphed to scarlet, then to an inky black, until only ash crumbled at her feet as if a fine mist.
the flames cackled. they writhed like a twisted mass of serpents, each tongue clamoring for just a taste. their greed never satiated, growing with each bite, erasing neat inked notes that flowed and ebbed against a backdrop of dark barred lines.
her father’s whisper haunted her, a bass note strumming deep in her bones. there is freedom in music, euri. look at these━ the notes float outside those dark bars. untethered by the darkness that rots this world. and with you, my little star, music can be light.
her father had seen the musical notes as outside━in-front━of the bars, but what if they weren’t? what if those notes were behind those prison bars? perspective. all perspective. and she had discovered the truth. music was not freedom. music was shackles, a chain fettering her to a weighted ball of fame and glory.
she burned everything.
her sheet music, her recordings, the shards of her viola. her fame, her glory, her legacy all nothing more than a rubble of broken ugly things. and perhaps, she had been broken for too long, too. because even with the smoke thick in the room, everything gleamed like a prism in daylight, her breathing easy and light.
a soft skitter crested like the scratch of a record player. splashes of banded colors flashed from the veil of shadows, before a little tongue poked out at her, his bandit tail arched in a question: are you okay?
“xitomatl.” she knelt, offering a paw to the gecko. the gentle patter of xito's toes trailed up and over her shoulder, each step as rhythmic as the beat of rain. his tiny foot rested on her nose and he leaned in to offer a quick kiss. a kiss that always came just before the scarlet curtains closed at her performances. something in her twisted, weeping like a still raw wound. “we're not rehearsing for a show, xito. this… it isn't for anyone.” this is for me.
xito blinked, head held in a slight tilt.
she patted his head and cinched a leather satchel over her shoulder, facing a floor length mirror. the shattered glass warped her reflection, distorting her features as if she were a bleeding painting of watercolors. her throat bobbed as xito trailed down her shoulder, squeezing into the satchel.
“i’m leaving, xito.” the words seemed so small, so fragile, quivering as if they were nothing more than daydew. she tugged in a deep breath, trying for a smile. “you don’t have to come. you can stay with my papi if you’d-”
the gecko shuddered. his webbed toes touched her chest right where her heartbeat thrummed. i'm going, he seemed to say, i’m coming with you.
her chest squeezed, leaving her breathless. she rested her paw on his and though she couldn't form the words, he seemed to understand. his dark eyes shimmering with a steady sagacity. she wouldn't be alone.
an ancient kerosene lantern flickered on a low wooden shelf, the metal polished to a glistening shine, yet worn. she hooked her grasp around the intricate silver handle one last time and opened a stained glass window. metal creaked and the fragrance of florals and sweetspice kissed her cheeks, the honeyed glaze of moonlight dancing on the canals. a gondola bobbed in the waters, a nest of silky shadows.
she turned back one final time, tracing the graveyard of her studio. the smashed rougewood, the scratched accents of rosegold, the barren shelving, the slit scarlet curtains, the broken bones of her viola. perhaps in another life she would have been her papi’s little star. a beloved daughter, a record-breaking musician, a songwriter. maybe they would’ve painted portraits of her with a viola in the small of her paw, the tender strum of fine strings in motion, the cool kiss of rougewood against her skin. maybe they would’ve played her music for generations, immortalizing her with each of her notes ringing rich and full in the silence. but not anymore.
with a last parting nod, she hurled the lantern against the wall of her studio. twists of amber and gold trailed from scarlet curtains, the shards of her viola burning as hot as the core of a distant star.
they would remember her as the musician lost to flame and stars. the musician whose legacy burned with her in a tragic accident. with time, she would fade dissipating like fine ash in the wind. forgotten like an echo in time.
Word Count: 952 words
