The Player (Mythklok Interstitial)
Jan. 11th, 2012 03:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: The Player (Mythklok Interstitial)
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A busker plays Grand Central.
Warnings: None.
Notes: This was inspired by the story of classical violinist Joshua Bell busking in a Washington DC subway station.
A handsome elephant
“Now, hold on to Daddy's hand.”
“Uh-huh!”
Charles broke into a smile as he glanced down at the sincere brown eyes. What was people's big deal about kids? They did more or less what you told them to, and their biggest problems could usually be solved with a Transformers Band-Aid or peanut butter. And they looked up to you, both literally and figuratively.
As a being who was not tall of stature, Charles appreciated the former.
With Elias gripping as many of the fingers of Charles' left hand as he could manage, they set out towards the New York subway system. They could have achieved their destination a number of other ways, both natural and supernatural, but Charles was probably being influenced by Ganesh's constant prattling about how Elias needed to participate in the world of humans. So Charles had gotten into his dullest, most quotidian Court Form, and even dressed down for the occasion. Then he had wrapped them both up in warm coats and set off.
Elias, for his part, marveled at the mere fact that a train was running underground. At this point in his life the kid appeared to run on one of two modes: one was excited babbling, of which Charles could glean maybe at best about a half. The other was his quiet absorption mode, which he appeared to have gone into at present. Gripping a bar on the crowded train, Charles smiled again. Probably some day next week they would wake up to a new mural depicting commuters reading the New York Times and panhandlers with much-folded cardboard signs and the bicycle messenger lost in whatever was pulsing through his iPod.
The train pulled into Grand Central, and Charles and Elias exited along with a number of other passengers. “Manhattan,” said Charles.
“Hatten!” answered Elias brightly.
New York was new and awesome, but so were frozen fish sticks.
You really had to like kids.
Charles readjusted his grip on the boy's hand and led the way through the busy station. They strode across the grand main concourse. “Do you like this?” asked Charles.
“Uh-huh,” replied Elias, who really seemed quite taken with the starry ceiling. Charles tugged him along, but then was brought up short when the child abruptly stopped dead.
“We gotta get to our train, Boon.”
“Biowin, Daddy!” said Elias, pointing across the station.
There was a busker in the corner. He was indeed playing a violin.
“We gotta get to our train,” Charles repeated. He frowned across the station to the busker, now at last actually hearing the soft music. He looked back down at his son, and then back across. Wordlessly, keeping a tight grip on Elias, he moved farther from their platform and closer to the musician.
One or two other people had stopped to listen. And there were a few dollars – though not much – in the player's case.
Charles moved near and then stopped, now utterly transfixed, thoughts of a departing train suddenly forgotten.
The musician continued on, essaying what sounded like a classical piece. Charles and Elias stood perfectly still, as did the now half dozen other listeners, the bustling of the busy station utterly disappearing in the background. It was slow and sad, like something half-forgotten, the violin echoing with a fine, warm timbre.
The piece at length ended, and there was sprinkled applause from the audience. The violinist politely bowed and, with the tossing of a few more dollars into the nearly empty case, the small crowd dispersed back into the anonymity.
Charles had stepped forward.
“Giuseppe?”
The musician looked up and smiled. “Sariel?”
“It's been a while.”
“A few centuries,” said Giuseppe.
“That one of yours?” asked Charles, pointing to the violin.
Giuseppe nodded and held it out for Charles to take. Charles squatted down so Elias could see the instrument. “This is a del Gesu,” he told the boy. “It's very special. The best ever made.”
“Certainly not as fine as one of yours,” scoffed Giuseppe.
“No. I never matched this.”
“Do you still play?” inquired Giuseppe.
“Not like that. I could never play like that.”
“Daddy made da geetar!” Elias piped up.
“Oh,” said Charles. “This is my boy. This is Elias.”
“Is dis many!” supplied Elias, holding up two fingers.
“Oh, you have a boy now!” said Giuseppe. “Is he to be a luthier?”
“He'll be what he wants to,” said Charles, standing and ruffing the boy's hair. He handed the instrument back to Giuseppe. “We should.... We should have coffee some time. Catch up.”
“Like old friends?” asked Giuseppe, a hint of skepticism now in his voice.
“Well. Yeah. I think I could put the past behind. I mean, if you could?”
Giuseppe grinned, and pulled the bow across the violin, making a lovely, low sound. “I can't even recall what sparked our rivalry!” He began to snap the instrument back in the case. “I'll admit, I do know of you. I know you have taken up music as a profession this lifetime.”
“Some things never change, I guess,” Charles admitted. “You know....” He paused for a moment. “You know, we have a demon. In our band now.”
Giuseppe looked up. You couldn't see them, but it almost felt like you could hear the rustle of leathery wings. “Do you? Do you. Perhaps some things do change.”
Charles nodded. “Yeah. Maybe for the better?”
“Perhaps. At any rate, it was a pleasure to see you,” Giuseppe told Charles, “and to make your acquaintance,” he told Elias. He extended a hand. “I hope I have not delayed your travel?”
“There's always another train,” said Charles, shaking Giuseppe's hand. “Are we ready to go now?” he asked Elias.
“Uh-huh!”
And so, with a short wave goodbye, Charles led the way across the crowded station, walking now in time to a half remembered tune from so very long ago.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A busker plays Grand Central.
Warnings: None.
Notes: This was inspired by the story of classical violinist Joshua Bell busking in a Washington DC subway station.
A handsome elephant
“Now, hold on to Daddy's hand.”
“Uh-huh!”
Charles broke into a smile as he glanced down at the sincere brown eyes. What was people's big deal about kids? They did more or less what you told them to, and their biggest problems could usually be solved with a Transformers Band-Aid or peanut butter. And they looked up to you, both literally and figuratively.
As a being who was not tall of stature, Charles appreciated the former.
With Elias gripping as many of the fingers of Charles' left hand as he could manage, they set out towards the New York subway system. They could have achieved their destination a number of other ways, both natural and supernatural, but Charles was probably being influenced by Ganesh's constant prattling about how Elias needed to participate in the world of humans. So Charles had gotten into his dullest, most quotidian Court Form, and even dressed down for the occasion. Then he had wrapped them both up in warm coats and set off.
Elias, for his part, marveled at the mere fact that a train was running underground. At this point in his life the kid appeared to run on one of two modes: one was excited babbling, of which Charles could glean maybe at best about a half. The other was his quiet absorption mode, which he appeared to have gone into at present. Gripping a bar on the crowded train, Charles smiled again. Probably some day next week they would wake up to a new mural depicting commuters reading the New York Times and panhandlers with much-folded cardboard signs and the bicycle messenger lost in whatever was pulsing through his iPod.
The train pulled into Grand Central, and Charles and Elias exited along with a number of other passengers. “Manhattan,” said Charles.
“Hatten!” answered Elias brightly.
New York was new and awesome, but so were frozen fish sticks.
You really had to like kids.
Charles readjusted his grip on the boy's hand and led the way through the busy station. They strode across the grand main concourse. “Do you like this?” asked Charles.
“Uh-huh,” replied Elias, who really seemed quite taken with the starry ceiling. Charles tugged him along, but then was brought up short when the child abruptly stopped dead.
“We gotta get to our train, Boon.”
“Biowin, Daddy!” said Elias, pointing across the station.
There was a busker in the corner. He was indeed playing a violin.
“We gotta get to our train,” Charles repeated. He frowned across the station to the busker, now at last actually hearing the soft music. He looked back down at his son, and then back across. Wordlessly, keeping a tight grip on Elias, he moved farther from their platform and closer to the musician.
One or two other people had stopped to listen. And there were a few dollars – though not much – in the player's case.
Charles moved near and then stopped, now utterly transfixed, thoughts of a departing train suddenly forgotten.
The musician continued on, essaying what sounded like a classical piece. Charles and Elias stood perfectly still, as did the now half dozen other listeners, the bustling of the busy station utterly disappearing in the background. It was slow and sad, like something half-forgotten, the violin echoing with a fine, warm timbre.
The piece at length ended, and there was sprinkled applause from the audience. The violinist politely bowed and, with the tossing of a few more dollars into the nearly empty case, the small crowd dispersed back into the anonymity.
Charles had stepped forward.
“Giuseppe?”
The musician looked up and smiled. “Sariel?”
“It's been a while.”
“A few centuries,” said Giuseppe.
“That one of yours?” asked Charles, pointing to the violin.
Giuseppe nodded and held it out for Charles to take. Charles squatted down so Elias could see the instrument. “This is a del Gesu,” he told the boy. “It's very special. The best ever made.”
“Certainly not as fine as one of yours,” scoffed Giuseppe.
“No. I never matched this.”
“Do you still play?” inquired Giuseppe.
“Not like that. I could never play like that.”
“Daddy made da geetar!” Elias piped up.
“Oh,” said Charles. “This is my boy. This is Elias.”
“Is dis many!” supplied Elias, holding up two fingers.
“Oh, you have a boy now!” said Giuseppe. “Is he to be a luthier?”
“He'll be what he wants to,” said Charles, standing and ruffing the boy's hair. He handed the instrument back to Giuseppe. “We should.... We should have coffee some time. Catch up.”
“Like old friends?” asked Giuseppe, a hint of skepticism now in his voice.
“Well. Yeah. I think I could put the past behind. I mean, if you could?”
Giuseppe grinned, and pulled the bow across the violin, making a lovely, low sound. “I can't even recall what sparked our rivalry!” He began to snap the instrument back in the case. “I'll admit, I do know of you. I know you have taken up music as a profession this lifetime.”
“Some things never change, I guess,” Charles admitted. “You know....” He paused for a moment. “You know, we have a demon. In our band now.”
Giuseppe looked up. You couldn't see them, but it almost felt like you could hear the rustle of leathery wings. “Do you? Do you. Perhaps some things do change.”
Charles nodded. “Yeah. Maybe for the better?”
“Perhaps. At any rate, it was a pleasure to see you,” Giuseppe told Charles, “and to make your acquaintance,” he told Elias. He extended a hand. “I hope I have not delayed your travel?”
“There's always another train,” said Charles, shaking Giuseppe's hand. “Are we ready to go now?” he asked Elias.
“Uh-huh!”
And so, with a short wave goodbye, Charles led the way across the crowded station, walking now in time to a half remembered tune from so very long ago.
