a message on the wind
He sits, as he often does, on the roof. His feet hang over the edge towards the outside and his eyes search the darkening horizon for something. For anything. For a time, the horizon had been his destination; it had been a matter of traveling to travel, moving around so as never to tempt himself with the foolish, the unthinkable, that which he'd been shown without a doubt was impossible.
His chest stings for a moment, a heavy dull ache that's always there to some degree whenever he has nothing to distract himself with, and his effort to shake it off moves the violin over his shoulder. The strings echo faintly at the movement and he turns to look, pulling the bow from them after a moment...
------
It might be the magic. It's so hard to tell in this strange world with these strange people. So... it might be the magic in the melody that brings the notes of the song to her ears, the heavy, mournful notes striking her as much in the heart as anywhere else. She knows that song, knows that violin, knows the feel of this music even as it wraps around her like warm, well-cherished memories on a cold night. So like his father. So very like his father that she wonders what he looks like now, how he's changed, what sort of man he's become. She'd watched Sizer grow up from her crystal prison in the Northern Capital and she'd thought of Hamel, imagined him in her mind's eye and wondered. The song, in it's way, told her everything and yet, nothing. It told her that she wasn't alone, that her son was here, that he was alive and well and still had the violin... but for every question it answered, it brought about three more.
But sometimes questions don't have answers. Sometimes you just have to wait. Sometimes a melody is just a melody.
Sometimes it requires a harmony.
So she hums a counterpoint, sweet and clear, simple and perfect. Perhaps he cannot hear it, doesn't know it even exists, but at least it's there.
At least it's there.
[ooc: Multipup post/drabble; if you'd like to tag Pandora in the Magog Farm, do so. If you'd like to tag Hamel on the roof, go right ahead. Both are open.]
His chest stings for a moment, a heavy dull ache that's always there to some degree whenever he has nothing to distract himself with, and his effort to shake it off moves the violin over his shoulder. The strings echo faintly at the movement and he turns to look, pulling the bow from them after a moment...
------
It might be the magic. It's so hard to tell in this strange world with these strange people. So... it might be the magic in the melody that brings the notes of the song to her ears, the heavy, mournful notes striking her as much in the heart as anywhere else. She knows that song, knows that violin, knows the feel of this music even as it wraps around her like warm, well-cherished memories on a cold night. So like his father. So very like his father that she wonders what he looks like now, how he's changed, what sort of man he's become. She'd watched Sizer grow up from her crystal prison in the Northern Capital and she'd thought of Hamel, imagined him in her mind's eye and wondered. The song, in it's way, told her everything and yet, nothing. It told her that she wasn't alone, that her son was here, that he was alive and well and still had the violin... but for every question it answered, it brought about three more.
But sometimes questions don't have answers. Sometimes you just have to wait. Sometimes a melody is just a melody.
Sometimes it requires a harmony.
So she hums a counterpoint, sweet and clear, simple and perfect. Perhaps he cannot hear it, doesn't know it even exists, but at least it's there.
At least it's there.
[ooc: Multipup post/drabble; if you'd like to tag Pandora in the Magog Farm, do so. If you'd like to tag Hamel on the roof, go right ahead. Both are open.]