13th of Winter, 510 A.V.
Tomes like towers loomed tall and proud over the walkways of the Cribellum. Their yellowed pages and thick, leather bound covers offered a sense of stability in the underground library; a constant structure in the rapidly changing world. Through the changing of queens of kings, through the raging storms and the shaking of the earth, through the death of loved ones and the birth of new life, those books stood resolute. Pages and ink standing in direct opposition of hungry time, these books would stand here even as the writers and caretakers left this world for the next. A rare, unchanging fact in the rapidly changing life of the young Symenestran boy who walked aimlessly amidst the long shelves and stretching bookcases.
He stood dwarfed by the pillars of knowledge which confined him on all sides. Short, even for his young age, it proved a truly odd sight to see someone of his small stature striding forward through the labyrinth of pages. The boy appeared an insect drifting through a city; a spider so tangled in an unseen web that it proved doubtful he would escape. Eyes, molten gold, stared out emptily as he looked without seeing. He took in the names and titles of the books that flitted past his sightline, barley even registering their meaning as his blank gaze bored beyond their covers.
An air of despair choked the atmosphere surrounding the youth. His movements were sluggish and half-hearted, almost as he was walking just for the sake of moving. Small shoulders cloaked in a deep blue jacket slumped forward as his loped gait lingered onward. Tiny sighs slipped free from his soundless lips and those golden eyes, which usually burned bright with intelligence, had been tarnished red with tears. It proved in the smallest details that the child’s true mood was revealed. The subtle tremor in his hands, the smallest quiver of his lip, those breaths which carried with them a ragged undertone, all such signs of one experience.
The boy was sad, yes, but it was more than that. He was guilty.
Deep, unequivocal, unshakable guilt. The type that poisons the soul; that makes one shudder at the thought of your wrongdoing. It tears and bites and claws at ones insides, leaving the victim feeling hollow. Empty. Devoid of all purpose and drive, this guilt makes puppets out of people, every step a string pulled by an invisible master. There’s no reconciliation, no explanation, just movement that stems from a consuming, festering pain. Guilt is like an old wound left to rot, given enough time, it will turn anyone into a sickly, shell of what they once were.
His friends had wondered why the child had seemed so depressed. They wondered if it was the bullies again, or trouble at home. They pestered him during his classes today, asked again and again “What is wrong?” They received no answer, no note of significance passing through his silent-self to their entreating ears. If they had known, they might have understood some semblance of his pain. Understood that today was a day he had to go throw alone. A day that he always had to go through alone.
His birthday. His mother’s deathday. The day his father left him, abandoned to Lhex’s will.
All in all, definitely not his favorite holiday to celebrate.
“Davor!”Rang the wizened, wheezing voice that the child knew all too well. The voice, the one that had truly raised him, shook him from his stupor. The sadness that overwhelmed the child was put on hold, and Davor put on a brave face as he turned to face the voice.
Blazing, old eyes met molten gold as Davor looked up at his surrogate father. Calvino Amaranthus, not a pretty sight by any normal standards, but one that brought a small measure of happiness to the youth’s heart. The old man stood tall and proud despite his age, a whimsical energy bounding in his gaze despite its apparent lack in his gait. His, or what was left of it, was snow white and stark against the cozy darkness of the Cribellum. Grey veins spider-webbed up and across the elderly man’s neck, finding an odd home at the peak of his scalp.
Standing where he was, atop a winding staircase which led down into the corridor that Davor was wandering, the child ventured to think that he even looked noble right now. Almost like a wizard or a sage out of one of the many storybooks which clung tightly to the shelves of the library.
“I bet you thought I forgot!” Calvino teased good-naturedly, attempting to raise the boy’s spirits even in the slightest manner. “Unfortunately for you, I’m not that old yet! How could I forget the day that an ungrateful miscreant like you nested in my house?” The old man’s waggish smile proved infectious, and Davor found himself chuckling soundless to himself despite his foul mood. As Calvino took steady strides down the study staircase, a small, brightly wrapped package caught the youth’s eye.
A present? That struck Davor as odd. As much as he loved the old man who had took him in, Calvino’s style of parenting was, well, very hands off. He rarely gifted Davor anything besides the necessities or the occasional word of praise when merited. The young Symesteran didn’t begrudge the old man for this, he completely understood the uniqueness of his situation. Calvino, despite his stubborn refusals, was near-ancient by his race’s standards and didn’t have the time nor the energy to raise a child. He took care of Davor the best he could, giving him shelter, food, teaching him to read and write, even giving him violin lessons when time allowed, but the fact was that he couldn’t afford to bring Davor up as many of his fellows had been. Too old, too poor, too unprepared, some could have said that Davor’s mother’s death was just as much a burden to the elderly man to the child.
The Symenestran youth didn’t see it that way, however. His mother’s death fractured a part of both of them, yes, but neither was a burden on the other. They helped each other, forced each other to grow and move past it as best they could. Picking up the pieces, one shard at a time, together they rebuilt a patchwork life.
Except, today was different. Today, Davor just couldn’t fight the gloomy feelings that echoed throughout his core. Crashing against the walls of his soul like vicious waves against the shore, sea-blue sadness continued to maul his spirit even as Calvino approached the child. For a second, Davor’s smile faltered, another crack in the mask he felt compelled to wear in front of his foster father. If Calvino noticed, he didn’t mention it or move to fix it. Perhaps the old man’s sight was finally beginning to fail him? Or perhaps he knew that some pains could only be healed when the wounded was ready? Regardless, the old Symenestra’s smile persisted as he handed off the expertly wrapped gift to the boy.
“Eight years of age, that’s quite an accomplishment,” Calvino beamed sarcastically at Davor, wrinkled hand tousling the salt-and-pepper hair of the youth. “You should be proud, I thought you’d have done me a favor and keeled over by now.” A short, loud bark of a laugh bounced across the near-silent library as Calvino enjoyed his own joke. This sort of teasing was commonplace between Davor and Calvino, though it was admittedly one-sided. For some reason, Davor found writing down a witty response to one of the balding man’s comments lacked the satisfaction of a verbal bout. However, that proved neither here nor there, and the child hesitantly grasped the odd package which was now in his small hands. Calvino’s features softened as he saw Davor grasp the covered edges of the box-like structure now in the child’s arms, and he placed a single, aged hand on the boy’s fragile shoulder. “It was your mother’s.”
Black eyebrows furrowed sudden intensity at the strange object in his hands. Nails like knives tore into the packaging with such urgency that the child completely forgot to thank the now disappearing form of Calvino, brown robes vanishing into the labyrinth of tomes around him. With swift, strong brushes, Davor wiped the remains of the multi-colored wrapping off of his gift. Eyes now bright with curiosity, Davor was rapt with awe as he held what appeared to be a simple, brown leather journal in his hands. A sad smile tugged at his lips, and the Symenestra held the book close to his chest as he rushed off to his room. The title danced in his mind as he ran through the maze of pages, a wraith of emotion filling every facet of his being.
For My Son
___________________________
Davor sat down excitedly on the rooftop of the Cribellum, still clutching the book to his chest as if it were a valued part of his being. The child often climbed his way up to the top of the library whenever he wanted space or to be alone. Sights and sounds of the city served to clear his head, to allow him to focus completely on the task at hand. From up hear, Davor could hear the heartbeat of the city, see its veins pulse with power as Symenestra scurried from place to place. It gave him a rare perspective on the interconnectivity of the city, of how the pale white webs wove together to create a portrait of cooperation. In a lot of ways, Davor supposed it was similar to a song. Each section of Kalinor had its own tempo and place in keeping the small city running, from the Matriarch above him to the monsters below him. They were all notes in the Symenestra song, waiting to be played.
Which is why his mother’s gift confused him so. Davor understood music. On an almost innate level, the child had a prodigious gift deciphering what the twisting pitches and deafening crescendos of sound meant. To him, music was as close to speaking as he was ever going to get. It proved the best method to ensure his silent voice was heard, that his emotions and opinions could reach beyond the limitations of his birth.
But his mother’s songbook? It was complete nonsense to the eight year old.
It wasn’t that he didn’t know enough musical theory to comprehend the piece. In all honesty, it was fairly simple to grasp, even at his age. The shifts were predictable, the notes easy to follow, and the meter wholly simplistic. No, what confused him is that the piece seemed incomplete. There were spaces left blanks were there should have been notes. It was like reading a third of a sentence and trying to determine the meaning behind it all. Impossible, and completely frustrating.
Sighing silently, Davor placed the book down at his side, next to the only other relic of his mother. At least the child understood his mother’s instrument better than her work. Rich, dark wood, bright silver strings, and an elegance about it that spoke so much of its previous owner. The violin was still a bit too big for the boy, but, at least according to Calvino, Davor and his mother shared a very similar stature. As long as he didn’t grow too much during his teenage years, which the Symenestran severely doubted, Davor would most likely be able to use his mother’s instrument for as long as he wanted to.
Pale white fingers danced across the scroll of his instrument, picking the object up and cradling it with care. He wondered if his mother had ever held the violin like this before, had ever treated with as much reverence as he did. Did she ever think that he would follow in her footsteps? Seek out the language of music in order to better understand and communicate with the world around him? Or did she think he would take after his absent father, whatever he might’ve done with his life?
Did she even care?
Davor buried his head into the neck of the instrument, red hot tears stinging his bright eyes as they burned down his cheeks. His face went flush, stark white skin darkening as the day’s dark emotions once again sought control of his thoughts. Hard black nails bit down into violin he was clutching to his chest and crescents formed in the wood as he pushed harder and harder. Soundless sobs fled from him as his tiny form began to shake with strain. He was so tired of being alone, of being forgotten by the crowd. From the day he entered the world, it seemed like Lhex stacked the deck against him. A missing father, a dead mother, and to top it all off, a voice that would never be heard. No matter how hard he screamed, shouted, sang, Davor was doomed to the worst kind of silence. An unending one.
With ragged and rough breaths, Davor set his mother’s instrument down. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t, cause injury to that instrument. It carried with it a legacy that the child felt compelled to complete. No matter how hard the road got, how much he wanted to just lay down and let the world pass him by, Davor wouldn’t give up on his mother’s dream. His dream now, he supposed.
And then it hit him.
His mother’s book, there was a reason it seemed incomplete. A reason why the song made no sense to him. It was because the song was waiting to be finished.
It was waiting to be finished by him.
The Symenestra started to laugh soundlessly. At first, it was a small thing, but as the realization dawned upon him, Davor became uproarious. The tears which stained his cheek fled their quiet home and flung themselves far and wide as the boy’s body shook uncontrollably. Translucent hands gripped his sides to stop their shaking, and for a very real moment Davor worried he had cracked a rib from the ruthless joy which wracked his being. Though his chest did hurt from the exertion, it was a good pain. Cleansing even; washing away the grime of grim obsession.
Broad and white, his smile cracked through any mask he had left on from the prior events today. Davor grabbed the smooth leather of his mother’s songbook, once again treating the object with the careful adulation he had shown to his violin. His hand slipped into the confines of his jacket, fishing out a well-worn charcoal pencil. Pressing the tip lightly against the unblemished paper before him, Davor began to fill out the pieces left behind by his mother.
___________________________
It took him the better part of two bells, but with black-stained fingers Davor finally put the pencil down. A smile once again flickered to life on his pale, pointed face and it was with proud eyes that he looked down at his collaboration. His mother had provided the framework, even as she looked down from the heavens above, and he had completed. Though Davor would never have a conversation with his mother in this life, though he would never know as others did, this was as close as he could come to grasping at some semblance of who she was. Her notes combined with his, a symphony of son and mother.
Anxious breathes bumbled outward as the boy set his violin against his shoulder. He rolled his wrist once to ready his hand, and placed the white hairs of his bow against the silver strings of the instrument. Davor was still learning to play, but Calvino had said he showed great promise and a natural talent for the fiddle. The music sheet was set at his feet, notes begging to be brought into existence. A slight tremor shot through his hand, and with one more cleansing breath, Davor focused his attention completely on the dark circles and lines of the song before him. Distractions flickered like a dying flame in the back of his mind, and soon Davor’s world consisted only of the music, his violin, and him. Nervousness now fled from his form, the child slowly began to play.
Music trickled out of the instrument, bleeding out notes like a vein freshly cut. Sound slipped into the air with quiet consistency and every note flowed smoothly into the next. The song, like his mother intended it to be, was easy to preform, something that even a novice like Davor could play. However, as the boy’s bow began to sail across the shining strings, a startling shift occurred in the song. The notes and rhythm hadn’t become any more complex, but there was still something…more about the music. A strange sort of sweetness, one tinged with melancholy but tempered with hope, lay hidden behind the veil of simplicity that the song portrayed.
Davor’s pale lips trembled, and happy tears began to stream down his face. Still, he played however, weaving a web of notes that connected his present with his mother’s past. They tinkled through the air, like pieces of shattered glass that were coming together for the first time. The child poured his heart and soul into the simple song and in response the music he and his mother wrote slid into life. All the guilt, the sorrow, the pain, the lost chances; all of it funneled into the symphony of sound the child created. A river of remorse, cold and beautiful, rushed from his instrument, and the longer Davor played the more haunting it became. The Symenestra was playing as child possessed; the power of his melody pushing past all resistance.
Sweat shimmered on his brow, so overtaken by his playing that his body could not keep up. The crescendo approached, a climb which echoed of hope, of healing. A mountain of music belabored by an arduous ascent; its melody accelerating in tempo. Quarter-notes became eight-notes, the beats short and sharp as they cut through the once still night air. The song wasn’t violent or explosive in its speed, but instead filled with the type of mirth that proves inherent in recovery. As Davor approached the peak, he could swear that for a moment, for the briefest, most chilling moment, he could hear his mother in the echoes of his instrument; the instrument that once was held in her hands.
Slowly but surely, Davor quieted the rushing reverb which flared out from his violin. His hands, once shaking with apprehension, found themselves steady and confident as he approached the end of the set. A small smile flickered to life on those pale, near white lips, and it was with a light heart that the Symenestran removed his bow from the thin strings pf his instrument. Tears still streamed steadily down his face, staining his alabaster skin a shade darker than what was normal. He raised the dark blue sleeve of his jacket to wipe away the wayward water. As the cloth caught the liquid which escaped from his crying eyes, a strange sound began to replace the absence of music in the air.
It was clapping.
Davor’s golden orbs shot wide with surprise, and the child whirled around to face the intruder. He had come onto the roof alone, seeking the solace that the top of the Cribellum offered. Whomever this unintended audience was, they had interrupted what was meant to be time between himself and his mother’s memory. Davor felt violated, as if this person had stolen the seconds meant for his mother and pocketed the emotions inherent in them. A thief of sound, pilfering the beats and meters that were aimed at someone far gone from this world.
The boy continued to clap as he approached the boy. He looked an odd sort, especially down in the dark of Kalinor, but appeared to be around the age of Davor, if not a couple of years older. He was richly colored, dark skin standing out in stark difference of the near white hair on his head. What truly struck Davor, however, was the child’s eyes. They were rich, filled with a fire that burned off of what must have been decades of experiences. Old eyes, echoing of sorrows and triumphs far too numerous to be contained in the youthful body of a boy. He appeared human, but the entreating aura about him spoke of so much more. Despite the surprise of his sudden appearance and applause, something about the child persuaded him to pacifism. The Symenestran was put at ease by the child’s simple presence, though the hunger and passion still misting in the human’s eyes still put Davor slightly off.
“Now that,” the boy began, voice almost like a sweet wind which blew from the surface down the winding caves of Kalinor. “That was impressive. Really kid, you’ve a knack music I haven’t heard in a while.”
Black eyebrows furrowed in confusion, a perplexed look painted plainly across his face. His mouth opened and closed silently, and he reached for his mother’s notebook and pencil. Turning to the back page, the Symenestran child began to place his charcoal pencil on a blank page before the stranger stopped him.
“Hey, it’s all right. I know you can’t speak. Wouldn’t be a very good God of Sound if I couldn’t spot the soundless, now would I?”
Davor dropped the songbook and pencil in surprise, his mouth soon following suit. How could this child so casually claim to be a God? What insanity had befallen the world that, on today of all days, that a boy similar to his own age could interrupt his performance and, almost as an afterthought, mention he held divinity? Disbelief struck an apparent chord through Davor’s tiny form, and the boy screwed up his face as if to investigate the other child’s claim.
But instead of anger at the Symenestran’s curiosity, the godling responded with howling laughter. His summer-sweet voice chimed liltingly throughout the upper reaches of Kalinor, and the human child wiped a wayward tear that threatened escape from his eye. “Ahh, that never gets old! However, in all seriousness, Rhaus, God of Music and Bards, at your service.” The boy bowed elaborately as he formerly introduced himself, hand sweeping low in an elegant gesture of good faith.
Davor’s breathing became quick and fearful. Claiming godhood? Appearing before him, and right after his performance? The only thing Davor knew about from the gods was from the stories in the library, and from those stories, the only things that happened when gods arrived where great and terrible. Davor wasn’t sure he was ready for anything Rhaus had to offer, be it great or terrible.
“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” Rhaus japed, an easy grin sliding on to his face. At the angry look which overtook Davor’s face, the god raised his hands as a show of peace. “Joking, joking! See kid, that’s what I like about you. Beneath that quiet mask, you’ve got a real fire to you. And it burns brightest while you play.”
Rhaus closed the distance remaining between the two children, standing face to face to Davor. Old, emerald eyes met molten gold, and the god’s toothy grin proved infectious. The god stuck his hand out towards the musician, reveling on the confusion which returned to Davor’s face.
“So here’s what I’m going to do kid. I’m going to offer you the chance to change your life. To make history even, if you work hard enough,” Rhaus began, that devil-may-care smile of his cut right through Davor’s wall of reservation, entreating him to listen further. “All that you have to do is keep playing music, give me some praise every once and a while, and take my hand.”
Davor’s hand began to move forward on its own accord before the Symenestran regained control of his body. Rhaus’ offer was tempting, and Davor had an almost all-consuming urge to accept it on principle alone, but something held the child back. He looked down at the god’s hand, and then back at his own. If he did this, there would be no turning back. He would have to devote his life to music, to the creation of sound even when he could produce none by the power of his own voice. Why had Rhaus chosen him? He wasn’t special, wasn’t important. He’d never be able to contribute to a Harvest like so many his age wanted to, and he’d never be able to gain the approval of his race. Davor was broken from the beginning, damaged goods. A mistake. Something that even his father wouldn’t even want. That his mother had left behind.
A snapping sound brought Davor’s attention forward again, Rhaus’ face suddenly serious before him.
“Kid, you may not be able to speak, but you face says a whole lot more than you realize. All those doubts in your head, all those things that you think you can’t or won’t do. Petch them. I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t special, if I didn’t like you. So take my damn hand, and show the whole world what you can do.”
The god’s words pierced Davor deeply, shaking him from the melancholic mindset that began to choke him. Golden eyes looked downward at the hand before him again, and then back up at the emerald gaze which smiled at him. Light, pale hands met strong darks ones, and an ampersand burned itself into existence on Davor’s wrist.
And with such a simple action, Davor’s world changed irrevocably.
![[Verified by Mirage]](./images/checkmark.png "[Verified by Mirage]")
