NOVEL WEB Chapter 15: I Want To Be With You, Even if It Means I Must Defy God.
She quickly learns that coziness she felt was uniquely her experience. Dinner starts awkwardly. They’re seated in a circle. The soldiers don’t share a similar sentiment towards Soril. They’re too nervous to make conversation. Soril doesn’t care to break the ice to ease them in. Especially wearing that deadpanned look as he is, it’s easy to mistake his aloofness for distaste. He’s terrible with crowds when he’s not bossing them around. He won’t make small talk. Or maybe, he intentionally doesn’t, because they respond to him stiffly as if they’re taking an order when he casually tries to ask for their names.
There’s a distinct and unspoken power gap between commoners and nobles in Astia. They can’t even have a normal conversation because of status differences. Now it’s getting apparent to her why redhead infiltrated the Astian troops so easily. Soril doesn’t know his own men on a personal level aside from subordinates to a cause. And soon, she can’t help but imagine, isn’t Soril rather lonely? Put on a pedestal yet detached from genuine connections.
Is he bothered by it? She can’t tell. His face is hard to read as always. She really doesn’t know much about him. What he likes, what’s going on in his mind or what he does for fun? She should pry when she gets the chance. Maybe enroute back to Ryden perhaps.
The chatter in this group completely died down. Eating in silence as everyone is. It feels uncomfortable. So, she gets the ball rolling again by inquiring about the soldiers' backgrounds. They don’t seem to have the same walls dividing her. Brunette, Ovid, she recalls him introducing his name is, especially, is keen to chat.
He tells her, he and Blondie, Theo, are childhood friends. They got drafted together from Shangria, two villages away inland that produces grapes for wine brewery. They have been deployed under Lord Wascald since. They met the three others here. Blue hair with one missing eye. Dark hair straggly looking one and a freckly ginger boy. Locals of Kanra that grew up in this city. None of them are that old. A little more than teenagers, Ovid and Theo, not even, yet they begin shortly after, reminiscing about the times like retired elderly, when things weren’t always so dreary, and everyone had brighter smiles on their faces. It makes her realize; these young soldiers were forced to grow up.
They mention that Kanra used to be much busier with travelers and merchants. They hosted festivals and plays every other fortnight. The theatres would be crowded with children. Ginger freckles remembers the old lady from the bakery and her husband frequently visited to distribute whatever was left over to the patrons. Recalling that he even received her tarts when he was younger. And when Lumeria brings up, she met that old lady before, but she was alone in the store. He simply tells her; her husband has passed. Stabbed by an Estelian slave attempting to escape. Violent even in chains.
Though, it’s only after a few more drinks and life stories that their walls start coming down and they get used to Soril’s presence. They won’t include Soril but they aren’t rigid anymore. Now, they’re actively cracking jokes, bantering amongst themselves. Monkeying around until Ovid spots a violin lying in the rubble of a half-collapsed woodwork shop and he rushes forward to dig it out. After some rummaging about, he manages to find the bow too. The strings still look intact. Excitedly, he turns towards them,
“Hey guys! Check this out. Look what I found!” stumbling back. He’s already slightly intoxicated. With ungraceful motions, he attempts to play, although, he’s wielded it closer to a cello than anything else. Creating an unpleasant screeching sound which immediately sends Theo laughing,
“You’re supposed to perch it on your shoulder, you uncultured bumpkin.” he takes over. Another horrible shriek, and he immediately passes it to the next. Only when it reaches her hands, something resembling a song is finally created, albeit horribly out of tune. Wow, her harp skills really don’t transfer from instrument to instrument. And she thought she could’ve awed them with her beautiful angelic music. The soldiers are trying to be polite, comforting her, at least she tried, it’s not that bad. Was that supposed to be, twinkle twinkle little star?
“Stop. I understand already. That sucked.” she uses the bow to push at Ovid’s cheek across her, “Don’t laugh at me, prick. You didn’t even know how to hold it.”
It’s here Soril remarks,
“The strings are loose.” he unhands the violin from her. Twisting at the knobs to adjust them. They're watching him as he delicately plucks at each wire. Testing out the sounds. Before tucking it between his chin and shoulder, with a fluid stroke, he plays a simple scale. Crisp and sharp. Unlike any of the chicken slaughtering noises they’ve been producing. And she isn’t the only one that’s surprised,
“That’s how it’s supposed to sound like.” Ovid mutters. She feels a little betrayed,
“You never told me you knew how to play the violin.”
“You never asked.” she urges him,
“Go on. Play us something. Show off a little.”
“Can’t promise I’m any good so don’t get disappointed. I haven’t practiced in a while.”
“Don’t worry. if you suck too, I’ll make sure to laugh at you.”
“Encouraging.” he scoffs, but he’s getting ready. Briefly lidding his eyes, as if he’s trying to remember the scores. Then he starts.
It’s a soft and gentle piece, like the wingbeat of a lark in breathless staccatos startled in flight from a spring branch. The graceful drift of a frost flake landing on the green fields. But it begins to unsettle. The melody twists after the first verse. Creeping forward with increasing valor, brewing something looming, something lurking beneath the veils. A howling gale picks up. The skies darken with clouds. The tranquility shattered by a tumultuous snowstorm. A brilliant concerto. Frantic. Devastated. The music molds into a soul rattling symphony of a tragedy, narrating a bloodbath for survival. Yet there’s grace in all its discord. Gentle in all its chaos. Harmony in disharmony. A never-ending discourse demanding in its technicality, but he’s shaping every note crystal clear with breath-taking articulacy.
The chatter in the background gradually falls silent. His performance captivates the attention of all the nearby soldiers. Now the spotlight is entirely on him. A grand stage in the rubble. Nothing but his music resonates through the air. Mesmerizing in its layers and complexity. Evocating in its meaning. More than anything else, it describes him, the scrutinizing conductor, the man behind the aloof title of the White Ghost of Astia, in a way, frighteningly, unfrightening.
The blizzard mellows out. The tune brightens. He almost looks like the studious, bright-eyed little boy that he once probably was. She imagines him in a preppy vest, a tidy suit. Cherished by a warm loving family that gave him all they could. The skills he extrudes convey he restlessly practiced for hours on end. There’s desperation within the phrase. A wish for acknowledgement. A wish for a heartfelt compliment from the people he adored. But now, the melody is growing melancholic. That wish has long slipped past his fingers. And all that remains is a solitary voice singing graceful woes in the dark. A quiet, forlorn mourn subdued. It makes her chest pinch. Gradually concluding with a simple hope. The whispering remembrance of a lark that once perched on a spring branch, frozen over.
There’s a lingering silence in the air when he’s done. No one is saying anything. But he’s addressing her first when he puts the instrument down on his lap, reaching a hand forward to swipe his sleeve against her cheek,
“Was I that awful?” she quickly rubs across her eyes, clearing the tears,
“No silly. It’s beautiful!” so beautiful it touched her. She starts clapping her hands. That deserves recognition. And it didn’t touch only her. The soldiers begin following. Fearfully at first, before it cascades into a standing ovation filled with whistles. They don’t have roses to toss so instead, they fill the gaps with praises. Ovid’s coddling up to him, throwing an arm over his shoulders,
“That was sick! You got to teach me how to play like that. Maybe I can finally pull chicks then!” and Theo instantly retorts him, injecting himself in the space between her and Soril,
“You one track minded fool. Don’t waste your efforts on him, he’s so clumsy he laced his boots together. Teach me instead.”
“That was one occasion!” ah. They’re both rather intoxicated now to care about mannerisms and authority. Soril looks distraught by their sudden cordialness. But it isn’t anything resembling disdain, or insult. In fact, he seems embarrassed. Lowering his gaze to the ground, with a quiet smile, he mumbles,
“Sure... If we have the time.” the lack disapproval from him now emboldens the other soldiers, they’re coming over with ale, plopping it in his hand and introducing themselves. She backs away to give them space to crowd around him. It’s so endearing to see how flustered he gets when he receives attention. Giggling to herself, so...
He was lonely after all.
She likes to watch from the sidelines. How his reservation eventually crumbles as the hours grew. The smile on his lips is becoming more pronounced. They spend the first few moments challenging each other to arm wrestling competitions. Then friendly sparring the soldiers to drinking penalties. It eventually evolves to a dodge ball like game after someone suggests they should play plate tag. Some sort of common past time for Astian children perhaps. Everyone is strapping a plate to their torsos. The goal is to shatter the opponent’s plates whilst protecting their own. Once the plate is shattered, the player must down a drink to reenter. Though after a few rounds, it becomes apparent that Soril’s dominating regardless of the team he’s on. That isn’t very fair.
Sneakily, she tucks a brown plate into her corset. Joining the opposition before diving for a rock to cheese him as he’s focused on someone else. It breaks the white plate on him. Getting him by surprise,
“Woah. That’s such a cheap shot.” she only returns him a smug smirk. Bouncing another rock within her palm,
“My team doesn’t think so.” Ovid’s cheering for her,
“Does it matter if it’s cheap?” then he commands,
“Attack whilst their leader is down! Now’s the chance.” It invigorates a new wave of projectile storms in valiant back and forths. Soril’s swigged himself back into the game. Now with a brand-new plate and determined to get revenge. Drinks are being chugged, pebbles are being thrown, plates are being broken, sometimes accidentally by friendly fire but it’s all good fun.
She likes to hear the laughter, the banter. To see the smiles. But most of all, she thinks, Soril looks genuinely happy when he’s surrounded by people. It’s precious. So much, she even forces herself to down the alcohol to be a good sport when she loses. It’s every bit awful as she remembers. Bitter, sour and tastes like how iodine smells. Grimacing the flavor. She slams the emptied glass onto the table, grabbing another plate to shove into her corset. She swoops for a rock to return the favor.
The moon is hanging tall when everyone eventually tires themselves out from celebration. Passing out cold one by one either from exhaustion or intoxication against any surface they’re able to find. The game concludes with no clear victory because no one bothered keeping scores. The few that are still sober enough to stay awake have now relegated to small talk and casual introductions.
She finally decides, she should start searching for a place to sleep too. Her head’s starting to buzz, and she doesn’t want to stay and find out how good of an alcohol tolerance Bathory has before it starts hitting her and she does something embarrassing that she may regret in the morning. Leaving the last imagery of Soril in a lighthearted conversation amongst them. Humming a joyful tune, she makes her way down the streets towards the abandoned house. But he calls out to her right as she departs the scene,
“Hey, Lumeria.” running after her. He catches up with a tight hug behind her back.
“Thank you.” he says quietly, leaning his chin against her shoulder. That surprises her,
“You don’t have to thank me. I didn’t do anything. It’s all you.”
“I get this inkling feeling that you’re the cause.” his words are slightly slurred,
“I don’t know.” he’s being more open than usual,
“I’m glad I met you.” it pierces like an arrow straight to her heart. Don’t say that so sincerely. It’s going to make her falter. She attempts to put distance between them, but he’s just holding her tighter, he’s getting heavier. It makes her realize when she flicks her gaze to look at him, he’s drunk.
“Don’t just pass out on me. I can’t carry you!” but he isn’t conscious enough to converse anymore. Effortfully, she drags him on a shoulder indoors. Hardly managing to nudge it open with her hip. It feels like she’s unloading a rice sack when she dumps him on the bed. Only except, she got toppled down along with it. And now she’s trapped beneath an arm across her torso. She tries to wiggle herself free. He won’t move. She’s getting exhausted. Her vision’s spinning. Defeatedly, she sighs and resigns. Pulling at his cheek with the one hand she managed to free to begrudge,
“I’m definitely dropping you in the middle of the ocean once I get my wings back.” and he does reply,
“That’s fine.” in a very disoriented mumble,
“If it means you’ll stay with me until then.” snuggling up against her neck with an easing smile. What’s with this selective hearing? It’s taking her breath. Though she reckons she’s probably already inebriated too when she hesitantly reaches forward to embrace him back. Can she? She knows she’s being extremely selfish when she shakingly confesses,
“I want to...” for that she may need to defy God once more. And she can only pray, this time, she won’t lose. She won’t let anything bad happen to him. Never. She holds him tight to her hammering heart.