Work Text:
His tired eyes were closed as he glided the bow on the strings of his golden violin, the music dancing in the wind. His thoughts waltzed with the melody, his head swaying as he got lost in this strange consolation. Leaning on the railing of his balustrade, he played the tune. He played the tune, which he played so many times before.
For him, for her, for his daughter. He played the tune, making them smile. He missed their smiles, their laughter, their everything. He missed his family.
He played, looking at the hotel. The hotel that his daughter worked so hard to create, he played as he felt guilty not believing her earlier, not endorsing her dreams and projects.
He played his blues as he was forsaken.
His grip tightened around the fingerboard, forsaken.
Forsaken. Forgotten. Alone. He was alone. His demon mocked at the sorrowful melody performed.
He was left alone. Seven years of loneliness without a note. Seven years of neglect that came from his own. Wife. His wife disappeared one night and never came home. Him and his daughter left.. Alone.
He was lonely. He longs for the warmth of his family. To hold them close and tell them never to leave. He was selfish. Devilish. Defective.
He was.. Defective. A broken cog in an infinite machinery that is life. He was the first mistake of humanity, and never the last.
.
.
.
His breath aches as he makes a mistake on a note. He was shaken, with a tremor in his hands, but he pursued his lone performance. A performance overlooked by Heaven.
Heaven hung high in the sky, its light piercing the eternal night of this accursed land named Hell. He played as he looked at the land that spurned him, his thoughts, his ideas. A land that cursed him to be their eternal sinner. He played as he remembered the glances of his brothers when he fell; he played as he remembered how his father didn't spare a second glance.
It was painful. The fall from heaven? agonising.
The fall burnt him to the core, his skin melting as he protected his beloved from the fall. He watched as his scars darkened like coal. He dreamed of pardon; he thought of home; he smiled at the thought of flying back home, but, like Icarus to the sun, Lucifer was to Heaven. Fallen.
A disgrace, a mockery, a mistake.
He had fallen, fallen from grace, fallen for ideas he gave. Fallen, from falling in love, fallen from giving them freedom. Freedom of thinking, of speech, to act how they please. Freedom to be their own, to not be the puppet of a puppeteer.
He let out a dry laugh as he switched position, sitting on the rail legs hanging off the edge. Resuming the piece he had started.
How ironic. He, himself, has been putting on a show. A masquerade that started forever ago. He was wearing a mask, a porcelain one, so easy to break yet so hard to detect. He loved his daughter; he truly did. He just wished she thought the same of him.
The screams, the blame, the insults. It was constant. A constant of every day of the week, of the year, of the centuries, he always made mistakes, and he was always to blame. He was tired.
Tired of keeping a broken mask afloat, tired of keeping his mind on this lifeboat.
He was floating in an endless ocean of blame. He fell from the boat when his daughter screamed at him, and he drowned at the thought of losing everything. He watched his lifeboat sink the day he escaped a scary box.
Empty.
He was empty.
He couldn't feel anything; he was suffocating. His demons. His thoughts. Strangling him with hate, never letting him see the surface. He wished. He wished that the music that made him feel alive with his wife and his daughter, which he created for them. He wished that it had made him feel happiness again. He wishes to make his one last mistake. He wishes they could forgive him.
He looks at the ground below his balcony,
He sighed.
He glided the bow in a final note, as the music came to an end, he took his final bow.