It’s a lot harder to play for something like this, with music written, but let’s see what happens.
“I wound the strings, long unused until my violin was in tune. I tightened my bow.
And without thinking, I brought my violin to my shoulder. I began simply, playing the open strings, testing her out, ensuring she could still sing for me after so long. Then I played her hollow harmonics. Eerie, ethereal, endless. And I sank into a melody. I did not think of any of the things Armand had told me to. But I kept my mind away from the intensity of Lestat too.
I remembered the apple orchard. Eating fresh apples. Dappled shadows dancing on the ground. Apples rotting, found by animals, decomposing into cider.
And I played a simple folk song. But it darkened at the edges, as though it were frayed. And as I played, I began to feel and my emotion flooded into my music, turning my folk song from major to minor key, then gradually shattering the tune; small pauses invaded it, like breaths at first, that began to stutter until the melody was gone and only fragments were left. Until the music faded gradually into an unresolved silence."
Not very folk. Oh well.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
