Chapter Text
She opens her eyes.
In front of her are various evergreens woven into a grand arch. Despite the use of robust foliage, the arch itself appears delicate. Partly due to the snow, she assumes. Speaking of snow, the very garden beyond the arch is completely blanketed in it. She notes the unique and artful placement of everything from the dormant flower beds, to the prim hedges, to carefully pruned topiaries. This was to be expected of the host, Duke Pollock—a well-liked moodmaker and art dealer within the upper circles.
The scent of pine surrounds her, welcoming her into the quiet labyrinth. The young empress candidate stares as its emptiness beckons her.
This empress candidate, Mafuyu Asahina, follows it.
She breathes into her palms so her fingers, stiff as ice, can move easily again. The world is so quiet she can feel its stillness on her skin. There was no sound. Save for the crumbling of fresh snow beneath her feet, the only other sign of the world turning was the light snowfall.. Were it not for the small puffs of fog that trailed beside her, perhaps she would have forgotten she was here as well. Breathing.
Still, Mafuyu welcomes this rare instance of silence, wading aimlessly through it as snow dusts the silent statues and now-frosted lamp posts. She removes her glove. She is unable to feel most things but holds her palm skyward to perceive its transient chill; not the chill of the wind or the air around her but—there it is—the minute sting of ice as it stings then melts on her skin.
It was almost comforting.
A memory comes to her. It is that of a child from the day she offered to assist with an orphange's fundraiser fair. The child mouths, ‘...when it rains, it means the sky is crying!’
The snow is different, she thinks. She wonders then, what would snow be?
It is nonsensical, but a familiarity settles within her chest nonetheless. Snow simply disappears once the winter is over. After bringing smiles to the children playing in it or frustrations to the carriages getting stuck in it, it does not stay. Spring comes melting it into blissful non-existence. Just like the garden. This effortless existence here and now, with no one to monitor or judge her every move, fills her chest with a bittersweet comfort, if it could be called as such.
She wonders if in another universe, she exists without the weight of glorified titles like the ‘ Daughter of the well-respected Duchess Asahina’ or ‘ Empress Candidate’ , or one where she breathes easily, without being choked by standards even royalty could never hope to surpass.
If only for a little while, she holds onto the lie that she does.
. . . . . . . . .
Anything that strengthened her clandestine persona—from training and lectures, to assemblies and meetings—was to be done perfectly and all for the sake of Mafuyu Asahina's existence. Life was composed of accomplishing order after order. Yet despite all this purpose and all the praises she receives from her efforts, there was always something within the piercing glamor of it all that stole her attention. It was a kind of doubt, a distraction, useless to an Empress candidate. She willed herself to ignore it.
It wasn’t hard at first. Whatever that S omething was, it was weak and often fell to the wayside. She dedicated every waking moment to her studies and public relations. Even so, for something even lesser than a speck of dust, this… Thing… never went away.
It should have been easy to ignore. It was outside of the order therefore, irrelevant, but it was always in the distance silently hovering over her and observing her every move. It was neither threatening nor aggressive. It was quiet and did not judge. Even so, its tiniest whispers, the smallest of nonsensical machinations, crept and pulled at her chest unlike anything she’d ever felt:
She wondered what it would be like never having to play favors for the elites during a ballroom dance.
She quickly silenced the thought that she could wake up to go wherever she wanted, instead of to the lecture hall like clockwork.
Once, she found herself almost wishing another candidate would become Empress instead of her. This one seemed to hurt the most so she refused to think about it further.
Another, was a dream. There was no one; no wind, no light, no gravity. Suspended in nothingness she was finally able to rest, freed from the obligations and hopes that tied themselves to her.
Unbeknownst to her, she desperately denies the split-second weightlessness in her chest the dream grants her. This weightlessness—if she even realizes it to be Relief—Mafuyu will deny.
If fear is born of the unknown, perhaps this inner voice is what Mafuyu recognizes and fears to be a threat to her Existence. Because of this, she vowed to ignore this part of her or any of its imaginary scenarios. Even if she did as she pleased, she still wouldn't know what she would do and end up following the choices she had been trained to make. Everything was to be done perfectly and according to the will of her mother, a well-respected Duchess. For Mafuyu to throw away everything that she had been trained to do, meant that she would throw away her very existence.
At times like these, frozen in a prison of one's own making, that same small and deceptively weak thought always offered the salvation it could never give— that she could disappear altogether .
. . . . . . . . .
She feels ice slicing at the side of her neck and her chest fills from the sudden gasp. A panicked Mafuyu grabs at her throat, then taps and touches her left cheek. She looks around trying to even her breaths and make sense of herself.
A pile of fresh snow sits on her lap. Her hands shake as she dusts it off. She glances upwards and unlike the snow-covered branches around it, a barren branch undulates in the wind. Mafuyu begins to connect the dots.
She inhales deeply, realizing she must have drifted off while sitting on a bench; then exhales slowly, relieved and comforted by her solitude.
Solitude, Mafuyu supposes, really is a double-edged sword.
Just when she thought the universe had finally granted her solace, it decides dropping a pile of snow would remind her it was never an option. She suppresses a scoff and bites back a bitter smile so her lips may curve into a more delicate one. It did not matter who her mask was for, she must continue to dance from these invisible strings. But before she is able to laugh in resignation, there is a sound.
It is dull, but it flickers faintly like a star on a cloudy night. Eventually, more stars begin to light the sky. It grows into a small chorus, singing one after the other as if in conversation. Her ears perk to the strange resonance and the sound becomes a melody. A line of notes along F major dances past her. A complimentary few in C major respond accordingly. Then a short string of notes in A minor plays just before the melody returns to the root again. It was an uncomplicated sequence. Unremarkable.
. . . . . . . . .
Music is nothing but numbers after all. Her first music instructor was an accomplished violinist. He was strict but was always impressed by Mafuyu's ability to replicate the score with the precision of an automaton. He suddenly decided to retire to another country one day and was then replaced by a girl no older than Mafuyu herself.
Her name was Kanade Yoisaki. A quiet and somewhat strange young lady, in terms of background and methodology. Even though she was the daughter of a Baron, Mafuyu’s mother hired her because she was the daughter of a renowned composer who recently went on hiatus.
Kanade’s lessons were, to say the least, hard to grasp. Compared to the systematic framework posed by her first instructor, most of the theory Kanade presented followed things other than sequences. It was hard to understand or learn the things Mafuyu couldn’t genuinely replicate.
For example, to Mafuyu, ‘Joy’ meant bars of crescendoing legatos or high pitched, swinging staccato. To Kanade, it meant the swelling warmth in her heart when her parents made her birthday breakfasts. Even when Kanade played it out on the piano, Mafuyu only felt more lost and eventually, her persona fell from the frustration. Since then, Kanade had been trying to help Mafuyu though music, not only as a tutor but, as her personal tailor, Mizuki Akiyama, would say—a friend.
. . . . . . . . .
Mafuyu guides her hair past her ear out of instinct. It is a very specific sound, similar to a gently struck wire. Judging from the clunk preceding these off-key notes, the source must be an old instrument or more specifically, its hammers. Yes. An old piano, most likely. She stands awaiting another clue and is rewarded with another note, then two. Her theories are proven likely with each note but not yet. A part of her is drawn to this outlier and wants to see its existence for herself. She remains neutral. The snow crunches at an increasing pace.
A song, no longer a short and simple melody, builds from lackadaisical nonsense. Her mother would have reprimanded whoever was playing for creating something so childish and ‘uninspired’ but…
“It starts with a Warmth.” Kanade once whispered, before playing an unembellished tune.
Beneath the moonlight surrounded by ice and empty vines, the melody buzzes warmly about her and infuses the air with the nostalgy of a golden afternoon. The melody leaps to ‘ G’ then each note is played twice before moving to the next as the melody descends. The last note is played only once.
…like a
diamond
in the
sky…
The snow had long since stopped. She waits again, but all she can hear is the soft rustle of the snowy hedge she rests her hand on.
In front of Mafuyu is a beautiful little garden. No. It was too beautiful and small compared to the rest of the garden. Now that she thought about it, the landscaping and columns were so thoughtfully managed to quietly section off this picturesque hideaway. She cut further through a narrow space hidden between fences and trees and found herself standing amongst tall evergreens. In the middle of the clearing they outlined, was a large hexagonal pavilion and a well-worn path, lined with little garden lamps, leading to its steps. If she had to guess based on the stems and leaves from her biology tutor’s sessions, a dormant bouquet of aromatic plants decorated this path. Such an intimate setting, closed-off and away from the main walkways could only solidify its purpose. It was probably the Duke's personal hideaway.
“ Haaah… ”
A low and unfamiliar sigh reaches her from the center of the structure.
Beneath the pavilion’s roof and white wooden columns wrapped in sleeping ivy, was a boy sitting at a piano. His back is towards her. Mafuyu observes silently as he hums and haws before eventually getting up and pacing about the piano in a thin coat. Eventually, the boy fishes out a tuning fork from his pocket and gets to work. Mafuyu questions why a piano technician would be fixing a piano at this time and place. Such a temperamental instrument was not suited to stand outdoors amidst constant fluxes in weather.
“And… There! Now then.”
He huffs proudly before announcing to the stars.
“From the top!”
Just as the boy spins and glides to the chair, a grandiose flourish sweeps across the keys startling Mafuyu, not only from the sheer contrast in volume but from the sudden change in tonality. It was as if the world burst into light. He really must be a technician if he was able to bring such life to a weathered piano, she supposes. Mafuyu expects him to start playing but the boy remains still. His arms are poised high above the piano letting the lingering notes trail into silence. He waits as they settle into nothingness, then—
Gently.
His hand is placed upon the upper keys while the other sits patiently. Like a sigh, pairs of notes slowly ripple along curtains of moonlight, breathing life into the piano and the space around them. The notes float into the air like steps then after a soft pause, is a beautiful dyad. There is a moment of serenity as he guides the moon down towards them.
Mafuyu's breathing slows.
It is a well-known piece and what many describe to be an unmistakably beautiful nocturne. As the boy continues to play, she knows his arrangement is simpler from the actual piece and far from perfect, but she cannot bring herself to pick apart his performance as she was trained to do. Instead, she finds his retelling… Curious.
Instead of hearing notes in C# minor, she sees the moon. She listens as the melodies, swaying like silken threads, weave themselves into moonlight. At first, the song nods along slowly as the boy tries to remember it. Then finally, when familiarity returns, wisps of light billow delicately across the ivory keys. She recalls this part of the piece but his sound makes it feel foreign to her. His crescendos and tempos begin to swell with a ‘joy’ she can only vaguely recognize. It pulls—or rather whisks—her into an unrecognizable waltz.
For a piece that was supposedly composed to capture the delicate wistfulness and beauty of the moon, this was not what she had expected. His recital was short of everything she had been taught, yet this clumsy rendition, at times too slow or too fast, was peculiar. The music soars and swirls beyond the clouds and into the stars. Perhaps somewhere more dazzling than the stars, Mafuyu corrects, or more brilliant than that, a sea of galaxies. It brims with an honesty bright as the stars with a spark of something unrestrained and confident; far more dynamic than what the sheet music dictates. She finds herself stunned by this foreign rubato, almost wanting to be swept away in his sound. His bold little recital was nothing like the quiet repose of emptiness she knew, yet it tugged at her heart the same way. She wants to be free. She closes her eyes and listens closer. She never thought the gentle rays of moonlight could be so magical when unbound by notation.
All too soon, she hears him guiding them back to the garden.
The boy takes his time with this denouement, walking alongside the scene he paints as it fades away, slowly leading them through the last few lines of song piece by piece, then slower. He waits until they’ve returned safely upon the steps of the snowy pavilion before he releases the last chord.