The Musician

He was strolling purposely through the corridors of the palace when he heard something that quite literally stopped him in his tracks. Music.

The music he could hear, though soft, was haunting. It floated through the corridors on lightest wings and the lilting notes pleased his sensitive ears, teased his thoughts, and evoked a sensation of suspense in his body. The stone structure of his palace caused the melody to echo and as such he could not discern from which direction the music came, though he had a suspicion. Immediately abandoning his original purpose, he turned abruptly on his heels and headed in that direction.

His suspicion was correct, and as he descended far into the depths of the palace, the music, originally just a softly teasing collection of notes, became louder, clearer. It became a song. He paused, closing his eyes and letting the melodies and harmonies soak into him note by note, feeling the song soak into his skin and become a part of him, like sunshine late on a summer day. After that brief pause, he hastened toward the origin of the music once more.

The sounds became louder and louder, and, like the last piece fitting into a puzzle, he could hear the remaining, softer harmonies that the musician created then. He could hear the song in its entirety now, and as he arrived at the chamber in which the musician resided he felt as though he were standing in the music itself. It was a physical entity, not merely a sound, but part of the room, the musician, and himself. He could see how the musician leaned over the instrument and he could sense the intricacies of the melody, but the deft player exercised their art perfectly and the complicated method became as though it was second nature.

The music tapered off and was lost. He felt suddenly bereft and unwhole, and his eyes opened. He stared at the musician, who, after a brief time realized his study, and turned. Blue eyes met their match.

"Please, do not stop," he begged. "I would have you play again."

"I am afraid I have run out of things to say," she replied softly, remaining perched where she was on the bench. Her hands rested in her lap, her long fingers curled inward. Her voice sounded like the music she had just created, pleasant and melodic.

He stepped into the room hesitantly, and when she said nothing else, he came to rest beside the instrument. "Then speak of something new." He stood silently at her side, waiting for her to begin. "I cannot live a moment longer without hearing such a melody again."

She flushed, soft cheeks tinting red. "I will try."