If she was being honest with herself, Sarah had almost considered Edward Seymour a prospect for marriage. How could she not, after all? An experienced (and recently widowed) man with clear ambition and growing political power would have made for quite the catch. But Alastrine Stanhope had stepped into the role before she could even move beyond toying with the idea. Supposedly a love match, or something close enough to it. Lucky Alastrine, Sarah had thought. I could be a duchess.
Sarah just couldn’t help admitting that the more she saw Edward around the court, the more the man vexed her. There was something downright chilly about him. Still, he was powerful, and Sarah knew better than to get on the wrong side of powerful men, even if those men had a tendency to make her grit her teeth.
Anyway, she had come to the Duke on official business, with a letter from her father in tow. She simply had to pass it along and then she could be on her way to more intriguing matters. As she was presented to him, she dipped into a curtsy, her tone light. “Your Grace. I trust you have been well?”
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General Notes: The basement music-room of the Smythe home is invaded by ominous smoke.
Side Notes: The Smythe home has a basement-level room modeled after a studio--one wall is covered in mirror panels, the floor has wooden paneling and the room itself is soundproofed. it's soundproofed so that the playing doesn't bother the rest of the house. There are instruments--like a grand piano, a cello, one or two guitars, and one section of the room is used for storage. This is a Smog-Event Self Para.
"I'll be the one to let this roof cave in on me, buried in this house, this wooden graveyard by the sea.."
Edward's fingers spread over the key and accompanied the piano already playing on the track. The room vibrated with the strength of the notes emanating from the speakers mounted at each upper corner--where the walls met the ceiling. Ramesh Srivastava's soft voice followed the music and Edward followed it as well as him. His fingers touched over the keys quickly, like a hummingbird in the middle of the spring heading towards new and fresh flowers, and a smile spread over his lips. It always did. It wasn't the same type that came to him when he performed, violin in his hands and heart on his sleeve, but it was a private smile that he allowed himself. One that not many would see--not even his own family--as it grew from the voice he had been given. Music. The smile was for the music and only the music deserved to be in the presence of it. He chuckled. It was a weird thought that reminded him of some sort of royal justifying locking precious art away. Letting no one else see it less their eyes and minds unappreciative the sight.
"And now I know I never knew about you, only me. We carried this inside like some disease we couldn't beat."
He didn't think about anything except the music or the thoughts the music caused him to have. His family and friends were pushed to the margins of his mind. Edward continued to play. Fingers rode the wave of energy he expended. They move swiftly, always like that hummingbird in the spring, and tapped keys lightly or pressed upon them swiftly or banged at them suddenly. They just played. On and on as the song continued. Edward's shoulders moved from side to side. His fingers only slowed when the music demanded that they should and otherwise followed along well. A space formed. A place where Edward could become lost in the music and forget everything else in the world. It was all marginalized, all so far and away and beyond him that all he could do was see music and hear music and breathe music.
"Down by water's edge, under the dying tree, I let my body slip, so dead inside of me."
Until he saw darkness.
Until he breathed in darkness.
Until he heard the horrid silence that came with the smoke.
His fingers banged on the keys harshly--the tones that came from the A and D notes pushed out roughly--as he gave an aborted jerk of the head. He tried to look for the door but only saw the smoke filtering in through the spaces where the door did not meet the walls or the floor. The door swung open when he half-jerked forward; the move had been to put distance between himself and the sudden silence that filled the room. It was ice cold and horrid. Like a deprivation chamber there was nothing but silence and darkness. His shoulders met the floor brutally and his face mirrored the ghost of a gasp. Choked sounds came from him. His lungs worked overtime to bring breath but they only brought smoke. His legs pressed--unforgiving--against the piano. His legs moved erratically within the space between the piano bench and the piano itself. The bench tilted back as Edward's body jerked. It gave way and fell, and Edward too fell more onto the floor.
His hands grappled at his throat fruitlessly. The smoke. The darkness. The silence. It was everywhere
Then it was nowhere.
It receded.
He opened his eyes and instantly regretted it. The lights in the room shone brightly as the smog receded--as if the light itself were trying to make up for not being able to stop the spread of the thick mist.
"Just cease, desist, and leave me like this. Their eyes wide open, the beauty of the bright lights."
Edward groaned with hi his knees bent over the fallen bench in an awkward way. His legs were covered in bright red marks where they pressed against the underside of the piano. Distantly, he heard the door open again and the desperate voice of one of his fathers--it was lower and more rigid, and he realized it was his father and not his papa--call out to him. Hands pressed into his cheeks softly and he heard his name over and over again. By that time he was already drifting out of consciousnesses.
He focused on the music, which had started playing again when the smoke left, and clung to the last lyrics he heard.
"Down by water's edge, under a dying tree, I let my body slip, so dead inside of me.."
