Harmony

For the past month, Octavia had encountered the same dream, repeatedly, every night and without fail. It was miserable.

Regardless of how much she’d hoped and prayed to dream about absolutely anything else, her wishes were fruitless. She struggled to make sense of how the same exact scene, verbatim, could sneak its way into her head every time she surrendered to sleep. She’d tried warm milk, excessive exercise, and reading until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer--all to no avail, as unfortunately expected. She’d taken to preemptively rolling her eyes each time she woke up, naturally assuming that yet the same dream again would’ve plagued her the night prior. Still, it was almost a reflex to assume that the very next night would bring with it more of the same. For four straight weeks, she was never wrong.

The dream itself was nothing grandiose--at its core, a simple box took center stage, eternally burnt into her eyes by now. It was a forest she didn’t recognize, darkened and blighted by ample greenery. She was being somewhat crass with the term “box”, given the way by which she outright recognized it to be a chest. The mahogany was resplendent, strangled by ivy and cursed by moss. Octavia had seen that exact chest so many times in her dreams that she could picture it with her eyes shut, even in her waking hours. There was nothing remarkable about the chest itself, plain and weathered as it was.

The dream was static, an image practically frozen in time. She lamented, on every occurrence, her inability to so much as reach out and brush her fingertips against the wooden chest that saw fit to torment her. For what seemed like an eternity, she would drink in this strange scene, cursed to look on in what was effectively utter helplessness. It was the mercy of warm sunshine on her face that would set her free for the sixteen hours that followed. The box would be back. She wouldn’t be lonely for long.

As always, she opened her eyes and groaned. Ultimately, she shouldn’t have been surprised to spend another eight straight hours staring at the same box.

With an aggravated stretch, Octavia propped herself up on her elbows just enough to reach the curtains at her bedside, a half-hearted tug battling the lingering darkness that tempted her to sleep more. The daylight kissing her skin in full was a welcome distraction. She stretched once more for good measure, rising in full and willing whatever annoyances she had to cling to the pillow in her wake. Even on the cusp of consciousness, it would’ve been lovely to leave the residual thoughts of the chest in her dreams where they belonged. Still, they followed.

Absentmindedly walking herself through the motions of changing her clothes and checking her boots for scorpions, she recounted every facet of the mahogany, the hinges, and the moss that had undoubtedly germinated for ages. She eyed the storage chest at the foot of her bed with mild irritation. There was no resemblance of which to speak. She still hadn’t even figured out where she’d drawn the mental image.

She dragged her feet down the stairs, still fighting the last remnants of sleepiness and generalized annoyance. Pancake day was a relief. It was somewhere between joy and a zest for further distraction that she indulged willingly in setting the table, every motion tinted with a bit more energy than was necessary so early. She was well aware she was making ungodly amounts of noise with every clatter of utensils gracelessly slamming onto the tablecloth. It was still better than the box.

“Slow down, Octavia, the pancakes aren’t going anywhere,” her mother chided with a smile, one fully-grown pancake sliding from the skillet onto a similar fluffy stack.

It was only half of her concern, ultimately. It was still a solid motivator. “Yes, but I would like them to be going into my stomach as soon as possible,” Octavia called back, arranging the plates with a slightly more gentle touch.

“I’m almost done, anyway. Go call your father inside when you’re done. He’s out in the garden.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Octavia answered, generally satisfied with her early-morning handiwork.

She did as she was told, embracing the breeze that came with the outside world. She was comfortable with the bare sunshine of a summer’s morning, by comparison to what her windows could offer. She had half a mind, in actuality, to leave the windows open this morning. For the fear that it would siphon the scent of pancakes out of the kitchen entirely, she ultimately decided against it. The shimmering sunshine did wonders for the azaleas, at least, and that, too, did wonders for her spirit. Her father wasn’t particularly difficult to find. Flowers were still better than moss.

“Dad, mom says breakfast is ready. It’s pancake day,” she called with mild excitement.

“Pancake day? Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” her father called back, grunting as he rose to his feet in full. “How are you this morning?”

“I had that dream again, like always,” Octavia whined. “Every single night. I’d kill to have a normal dream for once. Literally anything else would be nice.”

Her father held the door open for her, gesturing for her entry. “Maybe the next one could be about pancakes?” he joked.

She appreciated the effort, given exactly how often she complained about her unconscious dilemma. “I wish. Anything would be better than the box again.”

On the threshold of the kitchen, she stilled. Where she’d expected the same joyous atmosphere, her mother’s face had instead clouded with discomfort. The way by which her eyes flickered back and forth between Octavia’s own and the table was not subtle. Octavia followed her gaze with equal discomfort, tensing in tandem. It was a chronic mistake. She’d tried to curb it, for the most part. Her father, several paces behind her, was not immune to the same realization. He sighed heavily as she felt one hand settle upon her shoulder.

“You set four places again,” her mother murmured, hands half-extended as she hesitated to grab the extra dishes.

“I-It’s okay, I’ve got it. Sorry,” Octavia muttered in mild embarrassment. She nearly tripped in the process of resolving her error alone.

“No, no, it’s fine, really,” her mother reassured, tearing her eyes away from the vacant space with notable effort. The false grin on her face as she formally placed the pancakes on the table was surely more obvious than intended. Octavia stifled another apology. “Just…eat. Don’t worry about it.”

Octavia feared for the same expression on her father’s face, largely, shutting the cupboard with the same lingering discomfort weighing on her shoulders. Still, he, too, was smiling, already commentating on the quality of the lovingly-crafted meal instead. She worried his smile was crafted much the same--for her benefit, more than likely. Her eyes, too, were not immune from lingering on the same empty chair for longer than was controllable. She slid into her own seat with a knot in her stomach that couldn’t be untangled. Ideally, the pancakes would bury it instead.

Her zeal was impeded. It showed, apparently. She tried to ignore the fleeting glances her parents exchanged with one another, silent and loaded as they were. Of the box, instead, she was not free.

“So,” her mother offered, “did you have that dream again? The one with the box?”

Octavia groaned loudly. The topic was endless, and her answer was the same. “Of course I did. Every single night, it’s the same stupid box, over and over. I’m going to lose my mind!” With a forkful of pancake, she stuffed her mouth and chewed in aggravation. “Ah noh eben sure wha ih mean”, she muttered with her mouth full.

Her father chuckled. “Finish chewing first, sweetheart.”

Octavia gulped, exasperated. “Sorry, I’m just annoyed. I want a normal night’s sleep without weird boxes for once.”

“What’s on your agenda today, dear?” her mother tried.

“Well,” Octavia began, “there was another book I picked up at the library awhile back that I wanted to start working on. Something to do with mushrooms, I think. Fungi and stuff.”

Really, she could’ve done anything she wanted to, summer sun be damned. The next semester wouldn’t be starting for several months, and any excuse she had to avoid assisting in the workshop was a good excuse. It wasn’t that she hated the actual work so much as that washing varnish out of her dress was becoming aggravating. Mushrooms would suffice instead.

“Gotta say, didn’t peg you for the mushroom type,” her father added.

“Well, I dunno, it just seemed interesting. Thought about doing more foraging lately.”

“Are you going to read outside? It’s a nice day,” her mother continued, already beginning the process of clearing the table.

Octavia finished at roughly the ideal time, rising from the table. “Thought about it, but the library books are always fragile. I’m scared the sun is going to damage the pages, so I’ll probably just curl up in my room.”

“A good citizen, worried about the library. I’ve got to head out to the shop in a bit, but thank you lovely ladies for the company of a good meal,” her father spoke with a grin.

“Do you want help with the dishes, mom?” Octavia asked, already moving to her mother’s side preemptively.

“No, it’s okay, sweetheart, really,” her mother replied almost defensively. Her soft smile spoke to more than it should have. “Go relax and have fun with your books.”

Octavia trailed in her father’s footsteps as she made for the staircase, stealing one last glance at her mother’s back. She took the steps more slowly than was necessary. Thinking about the box was far more preferable than thinking about the empty chair at the table. For that reason alone, she’d give it a pass.

Her ascent came with a battle to not cast her eyes to the right. She lost, ultimately, as was the case each and every morning. This time, the settling dust on the doorknob was a new observation. The knot in her stomach she’d sought to bury beneath warm fluff was still prominent, much to her distress. No amount of physically clutching at her torso was alleviating it in any capacity. Ultimately, what lay beyond was solely an empty room full of dust and devoid of life. Empty as it was, it felt full all the same.

She mouthed softly and silently, crafting her own false smile in the wake of those gifted by her parents in turn. “Good morning, sis.”

As could be expected of a summer’s day spent largely indoors, her leisure time was uneventful. The incident at the table faded from Octavia’s mind gradually, edged out by significantly more images of mushrooms and general fungi than were necessary. As it turned out, moss and lichens were not to be confused--a plant versus a fungi, apparently. It took multiple pictures to illustrate a lichen. Moss was a readily-available mental image, by comparison. She’d seen it dozens of times. Hundreds, possibly, over the course of the past several weeks. Typically, she’d find it crowning a certain chest beneath a certain tree. She closed the book with a groan. A moss dream would’ve been more pleasant.

It wasn’t necessarily a wasted day. It was still better than coating her hands in wood shavings.

She curled up in bed with hopeful anticipation, resisting the urge to slam her curtains shut. Octavia closed her eyes gently, praying to whatever god would listen that the moss dream would bless her unconscious mind instead. She took a deep breath, carrying the mental image of moss down with her instead into the depths of sleep. For how much she’d struggled to fill her head with other subjects, another dream was sure to come.

Of course it didn’t.

Still, something felt off this time around. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly what--not immediately, at least. The chest was there, as could be unfortunately expected. The moonlight was relentless, the greenery was all encompassing, and the general scene itself was similar. The vines, split and severed, were new. The moss, discarded and sloughing to the sod below, was new. The hinges, flipped and shimmering beneath the gleaming moonlight, were new. She’d never seen it open before.

The scene remained a still image, granted. An observer as she continued to be, peeking inside was impossible. No amount of straining or pushing her unconscious self was leading Octavia to anywhere productive. There was a twinge of nostalgia that bit her as she scanned the altered dreamscape to the best of her ability. She’d never actually observed the brook in the distance, nor the clustering mushrooms slightly out of view--the latter, by which, she supposed she’d deserved in her dreams, for all of her desperate prayers. Familiar landmarks peppered the scene she’d thought she’d memorized every facet of, stinging her with a clarity she hadn’t felt in the four weeks since her chronic issue had begun.

There was a realization that settled upon her with muffled urgency. For once, she lost her dream in the worst way, blurring and fading as her dreambound eyes surrendered the scene to darkness at last. She found nothing, a full month later. It was the first time she lamented such a loss.

Octavia’s eyes popped open, tiny beads of sweat dotting her brow as she found herself splayed out against the mattress. The urgency that slammed into her was untraceable and baffling. Still, it led her to consciousness in full, and she rose quickly enough to make her head spin. She tore open the curtains swiftly enough to sting her pupils, the harsh moonlight blighting her remorselessly. Silver Ridge was draped in starlight and silence. The natural glow of the evening was enough. Her darting eyes connected puzzle pieces she’d never bothered to touch, sailing past the fence on the far edge of town and drifting deep into the forest upon the outskirts. She was strongly familiar with it.

There was no outright indicator of anything awaiting within, and it was only the treetops rustling in the breeze of a summer’s eve that stood out in any capacity. Still, her heart pounded. It was an urge. If there was any possibility of curbing the cycle of box dreams, it was a chance Octavia was willing to take.

It was with curiosity burning a hole through her heart that she leapt to her feet, hurriedly running through the motions of dressing. She tied her braids up as quickly as was possible, given her self-made urgency. A solitary glance back at the window was all she left in the wake of her silent escape, pulling the door closed behind her quietly. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly what motivated her eyes to flicker to her sister’s room once more, but tearing them away once they’d settled was difficult. She endeavored. She was successful, with only parting words to spare.

“I won’t be long, sis,” she murmured under her breath, descending the stairs as quickly and quietly as was possible.

The soft breeze tickled her skin in earnest the moment she embraced the night, ironically trailing in the direction she’d intended to follow. There was a wistful part of her that vaguely entertained the idea of the wind itself guiding her path, and she rolled her eyes at the fanciful assumption. With equal urgency and delicacy so as not to wake a sleeping village, she dashed as quickly and lightly as was possible. She left only dirt and sod kicked up in her wake as her gentle footsteps pounded against the earth, fixated on an instinct she couldn’t shake. The breeze she’d enjoyed trailed at her back instead, and the cool rush that now streamed against her skin was pleasant in its own way. It was an odd situation for her speed to serve her well. She didn’t mind it one bit.

The entrance to the forest brought with it hesitation. Still, it took only a moment for her feet to move on their own once more, and again she was running. It was more of a sprint, possibly, fueled largely by pure curiosity that burned brighter by the minute. The dense underbrush feebly snagged at her dress with every step, and her braids tickled her cheeks with every rapid movement. Beads of sweat rolled down her skin, and bushes swatted at her shins. She was undeterred all the same, carried forward by a raw instinct she couldn’t erase.

Octavia was almost positive she was in the right place--although explaining how, exactly, she was certain would’ve been impossible. Regardless, even as she pushed deeper and deeper into the forest itself, all she was rewarded with was an even split between sharp nostalgia and nothing to show for it. She recognized walking paths. She recognized foraging spots. She recognized favorite patches of shade to recline beneath under hotter days. They were fixtures. She needed the extraordinary.

It took twenty minutes to find it, her blurring vision giving way to a vast clearing she’d never identified before. Octavia doubled over, the full weight of her run slamming into her as she rested her palms on her knees. She gasped for air, panting in earnest as she struggled to raise her head. Her heart skipped a beat, and not from lack of oxygen alone.

She recognized the tree, granted. She recognized the branches, the oak, the abundance of leaves and the shade against the oppressive moon. As suspected, she found the brook. Similarly, so, too, did she find the mushrooms. Of most notable importance was the split vines and scattered branches, discarded gracelessly at the base of the tree in question. The moss was more strikingly viridian in person. The mahogany was, in the same way, more gorgeous than she’d expected. It was unlocked, it was open, and it was hers to observe with eyes not steeped in sleep.

It was there.

Elation and a pounding heart aside, Octavia approached with caution regardless. As to exactly what left her apprehensive this late into her forest foray, she had no idea. On the tail end of a deep breath, she summoned the courage to peer inside. The ivy that had rudely snuck between the crevices had tangled its way down into the depths of the chest. Gnarled and clumped as they were, she had her work cut out for her. It was with less hesitation, by comparison, that she thrust her hands inside. She pushed, pulled, and tore with urgency, grunting as each vine scraped her hands and dirt burrowed deep beneath her fingernails. It took far longer than she would’ve hoped to clear enough of a path downwards towards the bottom.

From above, she could vaguely make out a mass beneath a swatch of lovely purple velvet, indiscernibly shaped as it was. Dirt beneath her nails be damned, she withdrew it with a far gentler touch. Octavia was careful not to snag the fabric against the last vestiges of the mangled vines, to the best of her ability. It took another deep breath, steeped in resolution, to unravel the velvet with her trembling hands. The fabric falling gracefully to the dirt below was the least of her concerns.

Where once had been swaddled velvet now rested a violin of mahogany, splendorous in every way. The moonbeams that splattered against the inlays and golden accents from on high only compounded its beauty, and the silky bow that rolled out from beneath was equally gorgeous in Octavia’s hand. It shimmered and sparkled. It was baffling, partially, if not overwhelmingly more fascinating. Octavia came to settle upon her knees, ignoring the way by which the dirt scraped against her bare skin. Resting the bow delicately upon the velvet sheath once more, she ran her fingers along the length of the instrument experimentally. The smooth feel of the wood against her dirtied fingertips was as calming as it was nostalgic, and she immediately lamented the manner in which she was sullying its purity.

She flipped the violin over carefully, resting her eyes on the odd crest burnt deep into the wood itself. The strange shape comprised of winding lines and curves was nearly indescribable, if not somewhat captivating. It held her tears well, for how one rolled clean through the inlay as she traced her finger upon it. She hadn’t even noticed she was crying, frankly, and she reached up to brush her stray tears away with the back of her hand. The nostalgia that had stung her again and again now washed over her in a gentler tide, and she hugged the violin tightly against her chest. She hadn’t heard it sing in five years. Of everywhere she’d thought it could’ve ended up, this was possibly the strangest place--and under the strangest circumstances. It was as confusing as it was wonderful.

Shakily, Octavia rose to her feet, both halves of the instrument embraced in her delicate touch. It was an urge that she couldn’t pinpoint that brought the violin to her shoulder, and she didn’t particularly resist. The nostalgia flowed freely, and she settled into it with warmth and love. Her face nestled gently into the mahogany, the bow claimed the strings softly, and she pulled once. A singular, soft note resonated into the open air, perfectly tuned and beautifully vibrant. So, too, did the vibrations shake her heart in a way words could never do justice to. Her fingers moved of their own accord, weaving together a song she’d long missed--a song she wasn’t aware she’d known the notes to, in truth. She could feel her smile, melancholic as it stung her lips.

It wasn’t exactly the same without the fingers that helped curl her own into the right positions--little as they’d been. It wasn’t the same without the patient hands that had assisted her in holding the violin at all, still somewhat large versus her small body. It wasn’t the same without the love that had guided the bow back and forth across the strings beneath the touch of another. Octavia had mostly come to associate every note with laughter, praise, and joy. Her sister was a prodigy. She wasn’t. Beneath the gentle moonlight, this was the best she could do. It was enough.

Octavia was never a spectacular violinist. Truthfully, she couldn’t even remember being a good violinist, only able to recall a handful of finger positions and songs long since burnt into her muscle memory from playful practice. Still, in the cool air of a summer’s evening, she crafted a perfect melody to an audience of only mushrooms, fireflies, and the breeze that played along. She closed her eyes and relished the feeling, her heart resonating and her soul overwhelmed with indescribable sensations.

There was comfort and complacency that came with her own song. She nurtured it without resistance, foreign as it was. She relished every twinge of the copper strings beneath her fingertips. She relished each vibration of the bow against her wrists. She relished the song she’d not thought possible to weave by her own hands, still beautiful in its own right. It was disorienting. It was wonderful. This was a dream of its own.

The screeching that pierced her eardrums was relentless, sudden, and horrific.

Given the fierce recoil that followed, she nearly dropped the violin outright. Initially, she’d had half a mind to believe she’d somehow scraped a string in the worst fashion imaginable. What began as a single sound, jarring and viciously frightening, grew to something continuous and penetrating. It was a scream that wouldn’t stop, perhaps, plunging deep into her ears and stinging her head from the inside out. It was a pain unlike any she’d ever experienced, and all wonder that came with the tender moment evaporated in an instant. Her world spun. Her eyes watered. Nausea crashed into her with ferocity.

Octavia pulled the violin close to her chest, clinging tightly as she staggered. Staying upright was a task, baffling as it was. No amount of frantically scanning for the source of the horrific wailing was productive. With her free hand, she clutched her head feebly, scratching at her scalp in desperation. It was awful, inescapable, agonizing in every way. Beads of sweat rolled down her face in droves, her eyes watering fiercely as the ground rose to meet her face-first. She was vaguely conscious of the way by which she curled inwards defensively, cradling the violin tightly behind her knees even now. Octavia slammed her palms over her ears in tandem. Still, it was a futile attempt, and the screeching blighted her endlessly.

Octavia panted heavily, more or less hyperventilating. Bile rose dangerously from her stomach into her throat as the ungodly noise grew ever louder, undeterred by her best attempts to shift her body or block her ears. Sharp, intense waves of pain were rolling through her head in earnest, sending her brain pounding against her skull and her heart throbbing painfully against her ribcage. She squeezed her eyes shut, her thoughts stolen and drowned in sounds she couldn’t escape. Even with her mouth opened wide to scream, she found nothing. She was lightheaded. She was borderline unconscious. She was helpless, curled up in the dirt, wrapped around a violin steeped in the splendor of joyous reunion just moments before.

If this was how she died, it was not at all how she’d expected to go. Her tears, this time around, were born of pain alone, rolling down her face freely and irresistibly. For how blurred her thoughts had become, there was no making sense of the sensation. There was only suffering. She hated it. She prayed for relief, however it would come.

It was a louder sound, then, that answered her prayers. Above the screeching, in a contrast so stark she thought herself to be hallucinating, Octavia found instead a shrill and sharp interruption. It was melodic, if not mysterious in its own right. She couldn’t trace it, not for how she was still bound to the earth and blighted by dizziness. The sudden decrease in sound only worsened the sensation, and her ears were ringing long after the eternal screaming had ceased. She collapsed onto her back, still clinging tightly to the violin and bow alike. It was with great effort that she fought to raise her head, struggling to catch her breath. So, too, did she fight to blink the blur out of her eyes, given how disorienting the scene she found was regardless.

As to what another girl was doing this deep into the forest, in the dead of night, Octavia had absolutely no idea. She knew most of the girls in Silver Ridge. She didn’t recognize this one, whether secondary to her pristine clothing or otherwise. The flute was confusing in its own way, raised aloft to unwavering lips as it glistened beneath the brilliant moonbeams. The sharp, tender melody breathed into the air was beautiful, and Octavia lamented the way her eye contact had done it injustice.

As the flute fell from the girl’s lips, so, too, did her eyes fall to Octavia’s own. She blinked with great confusion, shakily pushing herself to her feet as she held the girl’s gaze all along. It was all she could do to cling ever more tightly to the precious violin in her arms, her heart racing and her stomach churning. For every question she had, not a single one escaped her lips. No sound at all did, despite her best efforts.

Whatever reprieve she had was dashed in an instant. The earth practically rumbled beneath her, and she staggered once more, nearly losing her balance in full this time. The smoke was new, wispy and delicate as it rose from the height of her boots to well above her head. It pulsed, it swirled, and it coagulated, billowing vividly in a distressing display of writhing violet Octavia had never witnessed before. Born of the dirt as it was, its origin was inexplicable. Still, it ambled, it expanded, and she could’ve sworn the cloud was screaming at her. She recognized it, actually. It took until it was well upon her for the same screeching to send her reeling, and she cried out at the sight of the murky smog that practically bore down on her.

It never got the chance. The girl whose eyes she’d clung to so desperately reclaimed them without hesitation, raising the shimmering flute to her lips once more as she glared down the writhing violet itself. Octavia watched with absolute awe as the most gentle of notes brought with it the most resplendent crystal she’d ever seen in her life.

Every shrill sound was as chilling and frosted as the ice it birthed from nothing, spearing shards of sharpened crystal coagulating upon the open air. The girl breathed deeply, found her footing, and offered them up into the hazy violet before her with a song yet more shrill to show for it. Octavia’s eyes followed the flight path of every last spiked shard as they sailed onwards, hurtling into the writhing fog remorselessly. The ear-piercing screech elicited in return was vile. The disbelief that came with the sight was far more striking. Octavia blinked several times over.

“How are you doing that?” she breathed, slightly startled at the sound of her own voice finally emerging from her throat.

If the girl had heard her question, she didn’t show it. She caught her breath, briefly, and the cycle began anew. Every sharp melody was frosted, jagged ice born of nothing coalescing above and bearing down. Glistening beneath the moonlight as they were, they were almost wasted on such repulsive, screaming smoke. Each crystalline assault saw the same razor-edged shards passing clean through the fog and smashing like glass against the earth.

The screeches that erupted into the air again and again were horrific to withstand, and the pain had returned in full. Octavia’s eyes watered once more, her eyes flickering back and forth between the relentless violet and the girl with the flute. Of the latter, the way by which she was panting heavily immediately made Octavia’s stomach lurch. Her reddened cheeks and absent breath paired terrifyingly well with the fear in her eyes. Her free hand rising to cover her own ear, reflexive as it appeared to be, was enough for Octavia’s eyes to widen. It was a connection she hadn’t thought to make.

“Is that what’s making that noise? That…smoke thing?” she called out to the girl.

She got no response. Instead, where the girl had initially turned her head towards Octavia, her attention had shot downwards to the violin cradled in her arms. Her own eyes went wide in turn. When her gaze did finally meet Octavia’s own, it was as pleading as it was desperate.

“Play,” she murmured, just barely loud enough for Octavia to hear.

Octavia flinched. “Wait, what?”

Their reprieve was short. The smoke was unbending, pulsating and rising before them even now. It was the girl at her side, instead, that had fallen in the path of its ire, nearly sentient to a degree that terrified Octavia. Breathless as she was, the flute was at her lips once more. She struggled, and what frail notes she could muster brought with them only pitiful icicles that crashed to the earth shortly after birth. The girl coughed heavily, clutching at her throat in pain. When her pleading gaze met Octavia’s eyes once more, it burned.

“Play something! Anything!” she cried. “It doesn’t matter what!”

“But I barely know how!” Octavia shouted back, casting her frantic eyes down to the violin in her hands. Her fingers curled tightly around the bow as she trembled, and she hesitated to raise the instrument to her shoulder. “I don’t know what to do!”

“Just play! It doesn’t matter, please! If you don’t, we’re both going to die!” the girl pleaded.

She stumbled backwards as the vicious violet fog drew ever nearer, well past the point at which Octavia could outrun it. Writhing as it was, the way by which it stretched towards the girl was achingly malicious. It was with a wispy tendril, almost, that her face grew ever closer to direct contact with the screeching mass before her eyes. The girl collapsed to the ground--whether from exhaustion or fear, Octavia couldn’t tell. She didn’t get the chance to ask, for how the girl once again begged and pleaded with her eyes alone. Octavia found her answer in that same gaze, for the most part. Her blood ran cold.

“Play!” the girl screamed in desperation. It was enough.

It wasn’t of her own volition--at least, it didn’t feel that way. The violin was upon her shoulder before she’d even realized it, and the bow was clutched in her opposite hand much the same. It was warm. It was hot. It was too hot, scorching relentlessly. Octavia slashed it across the strings without hesitation, submitting to an urge she couldn’t identify. It pulsed. It surged. It burned somewhere deep in her heart, untraceable and indescribable. Her fingertips ached and seared in a way that didn’t quite hurt. What that left her with was a blast of light that rushed to meet her eyes.

She indulged it, savoring the scathing warmth in her heart that bubbled into her blood and out through her fingertips. It was brilliant, a glorious splendor born of every note and erupting from beneath her ministrations. She couldn’t quite control it, and the arching radiance burst outwards of its own accord. It came with recoil, almost, for how every desperate strike of the bow against the strings had practically launched the surging light outwards. She struggled to maintain her balance, watching with awe as it cleaved deep into the screeching violet before the two girls. It missed her mysterious companion by inches, and for that, she was grateful.

The horrific noises that pierced the air once more were quickly hushed, blighted by such brilliance as they’d been. So, too, had the smoke succumbed to the same, thinning to pitiful wisps that rose uselessly into the evening air. Only the natural sounds of the night were left in their wake, devoid of a violin or a flute as accompaniment. Octavia watched for far too long as each and every last tendril of violet evaporated into the night sky, gasping for breath she hadn’t realized she’d lost.

She’d lost the scorching heat that had tinted her palm, the adrenaline rushing through her veins slowing to a stop along with it. It was mostly a reflex, spurned on by the renewed sight of the girl crumpled on the ground, that led her to drop the violin to the ground with a thud. As quickly as was possible, she fell to her knees instead. “Are you alright?”

The girl raised her head weakly. She’d fared poorly, splattered with dirt as she was and coated in sweat. The brilliant reds that came with exertion splattered her cheeks freely. She coughed. “I-I’m fine. What about you?”

Octavia nodded, struggling to slow her racing heart. “I’m...okay. I’m confused, a-and I don’t know what just happened.”

“What just happened,” the girl panted, aiming one trembling finger at the dirt-plagued violin, “was you.”