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 Posted: Sun May 22, 2011 1:35 pm
   Requiem lives with Lycander in Lumena.
He is still getting used to having a roommate.
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Posted: Sun May 22, 2011 1:37 pm
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Posted: Sat Jun 11, 2011 12:36 am
I. Painted Morning
He'd woken up too early again.
It was difficult to say just why he had had a hard time sleeping as of late. Sometimes it was because of the noises outside, the scuffling of the other student's footsteps as they made their way around the modest, neatly kept rooms they inhabited within the Academy. Other times it was because he would dream of darkness - though this was not an unusual occurrence. Requiem Driscoll's heart was black, after all. That is what he believed, and though growing up his parents often tried to convince him otherwise, he did not agree with them. A nod and a low, noncommittal murmur was all it took to get them to leave him alone, satisfied that they had convinced their son of his worth.
They were good people, but they did not understand. How could they, anyway? They were not like him; could never be like him.
It was not the words of his parents that had comforted Requiem when he felt as if he were drowning; suffocating within his own breath, unable to claw his way free of the dark desires that clenched at his heart, grappled with his own body. They were soothing, perhaps...but not comforting. And Requiem did not need them. He cared for his parents greatly, but they were unlike him in so many ways.
Sometimes he let his thoughts wander too much and too far. There were times when Requiem simply sat and thought; thought about what life might have been like had he been an actual human. Did they feel what he did? After all, he was in a human body, of course, with human hands and human feet and hair and fingers. He held all of the appearance of a human, but he lacked a human soul, a human heart. The life that flowed through him was purely Majin; the electrifying blood of magic making up the rest of what had once been a human body.
He was human in appearance, perhaps, but not in mind. And not even his parents could find a way to comfort him about that.
No, it was in music that he found solace, that he found a way to let the burning heat of his blackened cravings slowly ebb away like the tides of the sea. The notes, the chords, the way the lyrics smoothed into his skin and flowed through his veins like blood and water was what comforted him, made him feel more at peace with himself, even if it was only for a small amount of time. Sometimes it would only last for mere moments; other times for days. The way his fingers itched for the porcelain keys of a piano, his ears longing for the relief and warmth of the music, however...that lasted an eternity. He had a low voice, a gruff voice, one that was meant for baritone notes and the rare raspy songs, and his playing of the violin was mediocre, at best, but it was with the piano that he excelled; it was when his fingers brushed against the cold smoothness, to cause crisp, clear notes to emit from such an odd instrument.
The music did not need him, but he needed the music.
Requiem did not need people, and he especially did not need humans; not when they would look at him with such scathing dislike in their eyes, such wary apprehension as if he were going to do something to them at any moment. He had long since grown used to the way they moved to the other side of the hallway as he passed, the way even his own relatives had tended to avert their eyes from him. It no longer angered him; rather it tired him sometimes, but for the most part Requiem did not particularly bother to care anymore.
Here at the Makai Royal Academy, Requiem stayed mostly by himself. His dorm room was private, by request, so he did not have the added stress of a dormmate to fray his already fragile nerves even more, nor did he have his parents constant fretting. He could relax here; sit alone in the sparsely decorated room and do his work without being disturbed.
This particular morning, Requiem was not as tired as he should have been, especially since the sun had not yet risen fully. The sky was still a dark umber color, the barest hints of lavender and orange beginning to show in the east, behind the smeary greyish blue clouds. The soft twittering of birds could be heard in the trees, light fluttering of wings, and a single feather drifted against the window of Requiem's room. He watched it float, pressed against the glass before a small breeze dragged it off.
The room was quiet. Requiem, still in bed, closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.
Another day is beginning.
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Posted: Sat Jun 11, 2011 1:04 pm
II. Piano Keys
When he was younger, Requiem had not enjoyed the music.
"No, no, no! That is wrong! Do it again, and this time do it right!
His instructors had been harsh; unforgiving when his fingers - unused to the music, with the baby fat still making them clumsy - had slipped, accidentally pressing down the wrong key and making the entire piece sound off. It was moments like those that made Requiem's face color a deep shade of red, his eyes downcast as they stared dejectedly and ashamedly at the floor. He was sorry, of course. Sorry that he couldn't do what they had asked of him, sorry that he was causing such a beautiful instrument to make such a horrid sound.
Sorry that he wasn't what he was supposed to be.
At age nine, Requiem Driscoll was still a human being.
At age ten, he was a Majin.
At age ten and a half, his instructors refused to teach him anymore.
"What do you mean, you're leaving?!"
His father's voice, loud and angry, the sound of a bear roaring in the forest. A big, strong man, Erik Driscoll was a man used to the ways of the world, used to the way people whispered, murmured, cast surreptitious gazes towards his son. He had no qualms with Requiem being what he was, but the world did not tend to agree.
The instructor was a thin, willowy man with a pointed nose, sallow skin, and sunken eyes. "I said," he repeated, laying heavy emphasis on the word. "That I refuse to teach....teach him. I cannot, in good conscience, teach a boy who isn't...one of us."
There was the thunderous sound of footsteps. Erik had stomped down the stairs to yell angrily into the tutor's face. It went on for quite some time. Requiem, hiding in the recesses of the small parlor within his home, pressed his back against the wall, closing his eyes briefly. He was too young to do anything about the situation; not that he would have anyway.
Ten was not an age where anyone listened to you.
The tutor was only the first in a long line of instructors that eventually left.
"I can't teach him, he's not willing to learn."
"He's too quiet. It's eerie. Doesn't he ever speak?"
"What's with those eyes of his, anyway? Strange kid, strange, strange kid...
His parents had told him not to worry, to just ignore the comments and the stares, and for the most part Requiem had followed their advice. It did him no good to dwell on things he couldn't change, after all. But he did feel a little useless. The piano was not the only thing he was having difficulties with - it had started...the dark cravings, the nightmares, the waking up at midnight desperately thirsty for something he could not drink.
Hungry for food he could not consume.
"Why don't you try playing, Requiem?"
Liliana Driscoll was a tall woman, nearly as tall as her husband, and reed thin, slender and beautiful. She shared her son's fair hair, pulled back into a neat bun at the base of her neck, though her eyes were a pale blue rather than gold, like her son's.
Requiem blinked owlishly up at her, his face expressionless. "But Mother, I do not like playing. And I am not good at it."
Liliana had shrugged, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of his lips. "You never know what might happen," she answered him cryptically, and when he had given her a strange look, she had merely smiled demurely. After breakfast that day, while his parents had gone out for their midday errands and Requiem was left alone with their nanny, he had found himself wandering into the music room of their small house. It was a cramped room, barely enough space for the piano against the north wall, and there were dozens of scribbled papers stacked haphazardly on top of both it and the bench (his lessons and practicing had always taken place at his instructor's homes, and therefore the Driscoll piano was, for the most part, unused). Carefully Requiem had moved the stacks, one by one until they were all neatly on the floor instead, and then he climbed atop the bench. For a few moments he just looked at the glossy black instrument, and then carefully he pushed up the cover, exposing the pale, pristine whiteness of the keys, the stark contrast between black and white. His hand ran along the smooth ivory, both curiosity and frustration welling up inside of him. One finger pressed down.
Plink.
A clear, crystal note. Requiem swallowed. Another finger pressed down.
Clink.
Such a beautiful sound. Beautiful and lonely, a single note just by itself. Requiem slowly raised his other hand, tentatively resting it lightly atop the keys. Then he pressed down both hands at the same time.
pllinkkkbbbbblfffffddonkdonkdinkclinkdooooonk.
A significantly less pleasant sound this time, but Requiem had expected that. He wriggled in his seat, getting more comfortable, before gritting his teeth, the corner of his tongue peeking out from his lips as he concentrated.
Three fingers of his left hand, two fingers of his right.
Music. Slow, unsteady, unsure. But music nonetheless.
It had taken Requiem several years to become as good as he was now. Several years of struggling to remember everything he had been taught, the way the notes sounded, the way they were supposed to sound. Now, at seventeen years old, he had long since mastered the art of piano playing.
♯ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♯ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭
The sound filled the room, low and clear; a haunting melody, not a pleasant one. Tragically beautiful in a way that Requiem could relate to. Not that he considered himself beautiful in any way, but it was more of a melody to him than most of what he played. The song he had composed was a simple one, comprised of only a few sheets of music, but it was for himself after all; no one's ears but himself. Perhaps one day he would share it with someone, but that day was a long way off and now was not the right time. Requiem's eyes moved across the piano keys again.
Black and white. Dark and light.
Quietly he began to play again.
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