WHO: Kvothe and OPEN WHERE: In the park not far from the apartments WHAT: Practicing for his audition, thinking WHEN: Saturday afternoon WARNINGS: Possible talk of death, ptsd STATUS: Open/Ongoing
Auditions for West Side Story started on Monday, and Kvothe was determined to land the role of Tony. He was certain he could do it, and besides that, he was certain that he was the very best possible for the part. Who else here had been trained for the stage since birth? Who else here had talent pipes to confirm their position as a master musician? He had very little trouble with the songs; he'd listened to them a few times on the CD player he'd purchased for that very purpose, and was able to repeat them with perfect pitch, and - he thought - far better emotion than the man on the tape. He certainly would be leaving very few eyes dry in the theater when he performed. It was a tragic role, and those were always the ones that got the most accolades. And to be honest, every player found death scenes some of the best to act. And with music - why, it was the role of a lifetime.
Putting the CD player on the top of the child's slide, he skipped to the voiceless version of the song he wished to sing, needing to get used to the accompaniment as well. He closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him as it led to his entrance.
Make of our hands one hand, Make of our hearts one heart
It was a silly thing, wasn't it? One hand, one heart. When were two people ever so close? There was always a separation, no matter how well you loved a person. He loved Denna deeply, and he knew that her heart was his, even if her body never would be. But still, he would never say that their hearts were one, or that anything could pull them so closely together that they would be anything but individuals. It was inane. It was dangerous.
Make of our vows one last vow: Only death will part us now.
How absurd was that? Of course death would part them, but it was likely a thousand other things would, too. There were happy marriages, but there were unhappy ones as well. And a life was a long time. And even love couldn't always find a way to be happy. Look at his mother, who had left her home to be with his father, and had ended up -
His voice broke and he cleared his throat, rewinding it back to re-do that bit, angry with himself for the mistake. Kvothe didn't make mistakes. He sang the two lines flawlessly before continuing on, waiting for Maria's parts before reaching the end.
Make of our lives one life, Day after day, one life. Now it begins, now we start One hand, one heart, Even death won't part us now.
With that, he turned off the CD player with angry annoyance. Even death won't part us now. What kind of stupidity was that? Merciful Tehlu, death certainly would part them. There was nothing beyond death, nothing but darkness. It was the complete and utter sundering. The end of all things. It was cold, and brutal, and he could still remember the smell of it. There was nothing romantic about death. Or dying.
He sat on the swing, pushing those thoughts back where they belonged. Of course death could be romantic. Of course death wouldn't part true love. He was Tony, and Tony was a romantic. He was Kvothe, in love with Denna, the only man who had ever captured her heart. He was Kvothe, who had spent weeks...months with Felurian and escaped with his sanity. Those dark thoughts came from a hurt boy who no longer existed, or whose existence at the moment was irrelevant.
He smiled as he pushed the swing with his feet, whistling. He could play any role he wished, any time he wished. He was Kvothe, son of Arliden, of the Edema Ruh, and he was what he made himself. And he would not be that person. Or, at least, he would not show that person. Not ever, not to anyone.
As the swing moved gently and rhythmically back and forth, he began to hum Maria, this time his dark thoughts staying where they belonged - deep, buried, and out of his way.