My short story for @jessiec-writes-fantasy from #wcsecretsanta @writeblrcafe!
Normally I don't post my short stories but I guess I accidentally chose it as an option and I'm not gonna put personal preference over delivering on your secret Santa!
All characters are original
(It's quite sloppy as I was super stressed this month but I hope you like it nonetheless and that I could fulfill your request!)
At this point she was starting to get annoyed. Sheâd been standing by the window for what felt like ages now. The chill early spring air had numbed her skin, her porcelain cheeks now like roses blooming in the melting snow. Granted, she didnât know exactly how long it had been, but she was sure it wasnât noon anymore. It was in small moments like these that she missed her eyesight most; if she could see the sun, she would have at least been able to know just how upset she was allowed to be. But even then, she knew she would have waited all the same.
Some few minutes later, she hazarded a guess at 5; he finally showed. She recognized him by the melody of his steps; heâd always said she thought of everything as a song; sheâd always blamed him for teaching her to listen like it was one. When finally the rhythm of his footfall stalled, his voice continued the tune. âHey, Vee!â He was utterly winded. âCome âround here often?â.
âItâs my room, Cedric; if I left, father would hang the man that took me.â Sheâd thought that her annoyance would melt from his warmth like it usually did, but clearly sheâd been colder than she expected.
âOkayyy, yup, I deserve that.â He was less excited than usual somehow; something heavy and nervous lay in the air between them, and she wasnât sure if it had been his bad sense of humor or her snide remark that had started it.
âUgh, hey, Iâm sorry; I really did try to be on time. The old man still needed me to grab some stuff on the way, and you know how it gets in the market.â
âYeah, no, itâs fine,â but it wasnât, and she didnât know.
After a few seconds of painful silence, he finally cut in, âSoooo, gonna let me up?â.
âOh yeah, sorry, come in.â She said, embarrassed, shuffling away from the window so he could climb it.
After a moment, something heavy hit the floor of her room; at first, she thought it must have been him, but a heavier second thud followed afterwards.
âCed, I told you to bring a few books, not the whole library.â
âWell, I simply wanted to give you a selection; think of this like a charcuterie board of knowledge!â From that comparison, she was sure that he had never seen a charcuterie board, but she appreciated the gesture no less.
âSo, my enlightened pupil, are you ready to be educated?â She was sure that Shakespeare had just rolled over in his grave.
âYouâre a terrible teacher, you know?â She challenged him playfully.
âOh, just the worst, Iâm sure.â He parried her barb.
But he wasnât; Cedric was brilliant. He understood the world, not like a scientist but like a lover. Like he had felt its contours countless times, and now it wasnât quite so clear where one ended and the other began.Â
âVee? Youâre staaaaaaaaring again.â He teased.
âNo, I wasnât! And besides, you know I couldnât even if I wanted to!â her cheeks flushed.
âThat is so not what I said!â and now the rest of her face followed suit.
He knew her too, her fancies and her moods. Not just how flirtatious barbs could make her turn beet red or his impression of her mother could make her double over from laughing but also that, if she needed it, he would hook his pinky into hers and sit with her when the feelings in her heart were too large to fit through her throat.
âSo, what should we start with then?â he queried, steering the conversation back on course.
âIsnât the teacher usually one to decide that?â She mocked.
âHmm, yes, but I am no ordinary teacher, you see! I amâ
âThe worst?â she asked playfully.
âPrecisely! 10 points for the beautiful lady in the front!â She was beginning to blush again. Any conversation with Cedric was a battle of barbs, but this time she knew how to turn the tides of war against him.
âFine then, play me the song youâve been writing.â He froze; it had worked.
âCome on, you said I could pick; seems only fair you should honor your side of the deal.âÂ
âItâs not finished, Vera. You know how I feel about it.â The eloquent duelist from before was gone; his voice now low and timid.
âAnd you know how I feel about it; come on, Iâm sure itâs great!â as much as she loved to return his teasing, her voice was gentle and kind once again. His art was somewhat of a vulnerable spot for him, and she would not make fun of a delicate passion.
Defeatedly he shuffled over to the leather violin case; the heavy click of the latches springing open made her heart flutter. She listened closely to the rustling of wood on velvet, the slight thump of him placing the bow on the strings, and then, as soft as the snowfall outside the window, he began.Â
She loved his songs more than the word love can express. To her, the world had always been so far away, something in a glass display at a museum, to be experienced 5 ft away so that no one could steal it. But when Cedric played, it was anything but that, each delicate note like petals in the wind, each vibrato like the footfall of children in the markets. She savored every vibration in the air, tuning herself to their frequency, tasting life through the palette of a boy who knew nothing but love for the world.Â
To her this was what it meant to live; perhaps that was sad, but to her there was no purer way to do it. She was sure that, even if she hadnât been blind, she could never have seen the world like Cedric did, and to her that might have been a worse fate than this.
But just as all things had to, it came to an end too soon.
âYou canât just stop there! Thatâs torture!â she insisted.
âI told you it was unfinished, Vee; I just havenât been able to figure out the ending.â his voice tangling in knots with frustration.
She touched his hand, the song's vibration lingering a moment, their frequencies perfectly in tune.
âItâs great, Cedric,â she said softly. âThank you for showing me.â
He exhaled, his vexation dissipating with his breath. He returned her touch, gently holding her hand in his, tracing the lines.
âYou know, I should teach you how to play sometime.â
Softly she tried to pull away, but he would not let her.
âVee, you love music; please just give it a chance.â Heâd pleaded this case to her more times than she could count now. But her answer would always remain the same.
âI canât, Ced. You understand it all, but I donât. The notes, the sheetsâhow exactly am I meant to read them without seeing them?âÂ
He opened her palm and laid in it something long and wooden, the bow of his violin.
âLike you do the rest of the world.â
Gently he placed the violin in her other hand, guiding it to her clavicle. His touch was electric, his chest rose and fell behind her, warm breath coaxing her on, and with her hands in his, he began to play.Â
The feeling was strange, the motions not her own. She wasnât playing; at best, she was a puppet. She had loved his songs, yes, but playing was entirely alien to her. What if she messed it up, ruined his painting with the brushwork of an amateur? Her thoughts were growing wilder, like waves rising and crashing in a tempest, but all the time he was behind her, a rock in the shoreline. Until he wasnât.Â
She hadnât noticed it, but his steady presence was gone, his hand still resting on her knee, but he was no longer guiding her. Sheâd been playing on her own. She couldnât make heads or tails of it; she had absolutely no idea what she was doing, but somehow it was fine. The melody guided her through the storm; she was surfing the waves, not drowning in them. It was a thin line, a finite difference, but a difference nonetheless. Finally she could feel the vibrations firsthand, feel life echoing through her like it did the body of the violin; she had become an instrument for the world; she had broken the glass display and touched the paint, still fresh, now dripping off her fingers.
When she finally stopped her playing, she was buzzing; never had she lived quite like that. And it must have been showing, because Cedric, in his usual cocky tone, whispered into her ear.Â
