![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jateshiTitle: Interlude After Intermission
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jateshi
Characters: You tell me
Rating: G
Word count: 1,101
Warning: Er...no names used?
Disclaimer: I still don't own anything of the Harry Potter world except merchandise - the instant I *do* own it, I'll let you know. In the mean time, J. K. Rowling maintains both all of the rights and glory and I promise to put everything back *just* the way she left it when I'm done.
Summary: Musicians guide dancers and the conductors control the musicians but who is the patron of the whole evening?
Sometimes, he thought, it seemed like it was all a dream. Dreams were filled with the good and the bad, messages from your subconscious mind translated to masquerade balls set to funeral dirges. Whirling dancers, laughter and off-key musical notes reflected by mirrored ceilings; constant barely-audible conversations refracted by bodies in motion, everything set to an ever-changing tempo seemingly guided by the lone conductor. Musicians followed the wand's cues, bows flying over strings, fingers shifting to arch and contort into proper position like the mere players that they were - the sounds they created guided the dancers on the floor below their stage but neither musicians or dancers were truly anything more than glorified puppets.
When the line between dream and reality clarified enough that his sleeping mind recognised he was in an amphorous world he could see the puppeteer's strings in the candlelight. The dancers whirled and reeled, arms pulled from the motions of the waltz into the quick steppe; taffeta and silk spun under the ceilings, snatches of glitter and gold when the light highlighted elaborate coiffures, dazzling flashes of brilliant white bouncing off diamonds and emeralds as they spun, spun, danced and jerked exactly where they were told to go. The dancers moved according to the musicians, the floor glowing under their feet in ghostly precursors to the positions every beat would send them too.
Notes poured from the musicians dutifully - they directed the lesser players but even they moved as they were told to, their strings spider-silk fine but present none-the-less. The performers were less free than he thought them from the outside - the dancers were tugged by their arms, guided by the hand to their places but they could slow, change partners. The lead violin was bound in place from head to foot, gossamer strands moving his arms and hands in a flurry of movement but at the same time wrapped so many times around his chest that breathing took effort. His solo bridge flew off the strings of his instrument but he heaved, trying to draw more air inside.
Every time the conductor lifted his baton to drive a crescendo the musicians winced, the fine strands binding them in place constricting ever tighter against their bodies. The dancers could slip off the floor and head for the refreshment table when their feet grew tired but even as the musicians leaned against their stands to catch their breath, even when the lead trumpet with fiery red hair dropped the brass instrument, they couldn't be freed. Some of the percussionists were dead but still they were forced to play - nothing freed them from playing their parts in the grand orchestra, not even the final opus of death could cancel the contracts signed in blood.
Intermission changed the conductors during some balls - it wasn't a guarantee. As one conductor exited off-stage the dancers stopped moving, politely greeting the man as e bowed with admiring applause. The conductor bowed, accepting the applause with the air of a lord receiving his owed due, and sometimes - only if their performance had been exceptional - he'd step to the side and bow to his orchestra, giving them their due. That event - honouring the musicians - rarely took place; after all they were under contract so if they played well and missed none of their notes they were only meeting the obligations they'd sworn to fulfill. something extraordinary had to happen for their conductor to praise them - pulling off the rare solos flawlessly, maybe, or moving up positions in their sections.
Neither conductor was really dissimilar from the other - they always shook hands when changing position on the stage. They both wore the formal tuxedo with tails, white board shirt and cummerbund. The biggest difference was the music they drove their mutual orchestra to play, their styles in conducting. The conductor who led less preferred the dark melodies, wand stabbing the air in successive attacks - Troika and Wagner his preferred playbill. One conductor coaxed the musicians to meet their potential, delicately increasing the level of skill he demanded of them from intermediate to advanced. He gently drove them to their full potential but if they faltered he never slowed to give them time to breathe - he continued to pull, to demand, not even letting them pause for water when their limbs lagged from exhaustion. The other conductor started harshly, driving his orchestra from start to finish without even attempting to coddle of coax them along.
It wasn't until recently, late in the evening one ball night, that he saw something which shook the foundations of everything he thought he'd known. Even the musicians were unaware of the revelation, still looking at the conductor as if those two men drove the show onwards but that momentary vision he'd been gifted with showed that idea to be nothing more than a lie. They no more controlled the ball than the musicians controlled the dancers below them. The conductors, both of them, pulled and prodded, drove and coaxed, pushed their orchestra to the pinnacle of performance and exhaustion but other than tugging on their strings with jabs of their baton they weren't the grand concertmasters he thought they had been - they didn't control anything, not even themselves. Their strings were finer than freshly-spun silk threads but those threads were wrapped tightly around their necks, arms, wrists, and chests just as much as their musicians were bound to their chairs.
Finding their master took many nights. He wandered the ballroom floor endlessly trying to solve the mystery of who was pulling them all in their steps. He checked every reflection, looking for the one nightly attendant moving of their own free will but never saw the hidden master. He watched the conductors to see if the men bowed or gave any indication they knew their master. Neither man gave anything away though, they never bowed their heads in deference to any single musician or dancer. As a last resort he grabbed the fine strands wrapped around his own arms and pulled.
Younger hands closed over his arms, a familiar voice whispering in his ear moments later, a body suddenly present behind his. "Stay and dance for me," the voice crooned. "Now that you know," the young voice continued, "You can play your real part." And then it all vanished, leaving him in his evening dress and an empty ballroom. He had only the truth of who was behind it all as a comfort in the sudden absence of everything that he had thought had been real.
Author:
jateshiCharacters: You tell me
Rating: G
Word count: 1,101
Warning: Er...no names used?
Disclaimer: I still don't own anything of the Harry Potter world except merchandise - the instant I *do* own it, I'll let you know. In the mean time, J. K. Rowling maintains both all of the rights and glory and I promise to put everything back *just* the way she left it when I'm done.
Summary: Musicians guide dancers and the conductors control the musicians but who is the patron of the whole evening?
Sometimes, he thought, it seemed like it was all a dream. Dreams were filled with the good and the bad, messages from your subconscious mind translated to masquerade balls set to funeral dirges. Whirling dancers, laughter and off-key musical notes reflected by mirrored ceilings; constant barely-audible conversations refracted by bodies in motion, everything set to an ever-changing tempo seemingly guided by the lone conductor. Musicians followed the wand's cues, bows flying over strings, fingers shifting to arch and contort into proper position like the mere players that they were - the sounds they created guided the dancers on the floor below their stage but neither musicians or dancers were truly anything more than glorified puppets.
When the line between dream and reality clarified enough that his sleeping mind recognised he was in an amphorous world he could see the puppeteer's strings in the candlelight. The dancers whirled and reeled, arms pulled from the motions of the waltz into the quick steppe; taffeta and silk spun under the ceilings, snatches of glitter and gold when the light highlighted elaborate coiffures, dazzling flashes of brilliant white bouncing off diamonds and emeralds as they spun, spun, danced and jerked exactly where they were told to go. The dancers moved according to the musicians, the floor glowing under their feet in ghostly precursors to the positions every beat would send them too.
Notes poured from the musicians dutifully - they directed the lesser players but even they moved as they were told to, their strings spider-silk fine but present none-the-less. The performers were less free than he thought them from the outside - the dancers were tugged by their arms, guided by the hand to their places but they could slow, change partners. The lead violin was bound in place from head to foot, gossamer strands moving his arms and hands in a flurry of movement but at the same time wrapped so many times around his chest that breathing took effort. His solo bridge flew off the strings of his instrument but he heaved, trying to draw more air inside.
Every time the conductor lifted his baton to drive a crescendo the musicians winced, the fine strands binding them in place constricting ever tighter against their bodies. The dancers could slip off the floor and head for the refreshment table when their feet grew tired but even as the musicians leaned against their stands to catch their breath, even when the lead trumpet with fiery red hair dropped the brass instrument, they couldn't be freed. Some of the percussionists were dead but still they were forced to play - nothing freed them from playing their parts in the grand orchestra, not even the final opus of death could cancel the contracts signed in blood.
Intermission changed the conductors during some balls - it wasn't a guarantee. As one conductor exited off-stage the dancers stopped moving, politely greeting the man as e bowed with admiring applause. The conductor bowed, accepting the applause with the air of a lord receiving his owed due, and sometimes - only if their performance had been exceptional - he'd step to the side and bow to his orchestra, giving them their due. That event - honouring the musicians - rarely took place; after all they were under contract so if they played well and missed none of their notes they were only meeting the obligations they'd sworn to fulfill. something extraordinary had to happen for their conductor to praise them - pulling off the rare solos flawlessly, maybe, or moving up positions in their sections.
Neither conductor was really dissimilar from the other - they always shook hands when changing position on the stage. They both wore the formal tuxedo with tails, white board shirt and cummerbund. The biggest difference was the music they drove their mutual orchestra to play, their styles in conducting. The conductor who led less preferred the dark melodies, wand stabbing the air in successive attacks - Troika and Wagner his preferred playbill. One conductor coaxed the musicians to meet their potential, delicately increasing the level of skill he demanded of them from intermediate to advanced. He gently drove them to their full potential but if they faltered he never slowed to give them time to breathe - he continued to pull, to demand, not even letting them pause for water when their limbs lagged from exhaustion. The other conductor started harshly, driving his orchestra from start to finish without even attempting to coddle of coax them along.
It wasn't until recently, late in the evening one ball night, that he saw something which shook the foundations of everything he thought he'd known. Even the musicians were unaware of the revelation, still looking at the conductor as if those two men drove the show onwards but that momentary vision he'd been gifted with showed that idea to be nothing more than a lie. They no more controlled the ball than the musicians controlled the dancers below them. The conductors, both of them, pulled and prodded, drove and coaxed, pushed their orchestra to the pinnacle of performance and exhaustion but other than tugging on their strings with jabs of their baton they weren't the grand concertmasters he thought they had been - they didn't control anything, not even themselves. Their strings were finer than freshly-spun silk threads but those threads were wrapped tightly around their necks, arms, wrists, and chests just as much as their musicians were bound to their chairs.
Finding their master took many nights. He wandered the ballroom floor endlessly trying to solve the mystery of who was pulling them all in their steps. He checked every reflection, looking for the one nightly attendant moving of their own free will but never saw the hidden master. He watched the conductors to see if the men bowed or gave any indication they knew their master. Neither man gave anything away though, they never bowed their heads in deference to any single musician or dancer. As a last resort he grabbed the fine strands wrapped around his own arms and pulled.
Younger hands closed over his arms, a familiar voice whispering in his ear moments later, a body suddenly present behind his. "Stay and dance for me," the voice crooned. "Now that you know," the young voice continued, "You can play your real part." And then it all vanished, leaving him in his evening dress and an empty ballroom. He had only the truth of who was behind it all as a comfort in the sudden absence of everything that he had thought had been real.
