02-21-2018, 07:21 AM
When she finally spoke to the consulate of channeling, it was not to discuss the ideas she had presented during her meeting with Brandon; those she left to fertilise in Evelyn's cupped hands. In fact it had not even been with Marcus DuBois himself she negotiated, but with his people. She had leaned a little too heavily on Brandon's authority and her position as a Patron's granddaughter to smooth an untroubled path; and how surprisingly easy to silver-tongue her way to the things she needed. Though it was not like she asked for anything untoward.
All she wanted was a room. A piano. And the space to practise and record her findings.
The room was one of hundreds of administrative spaces along the wide corridor, as grand and beautiful as everything she had seen since passing the Kremlin's threshold. A dark-stained bookcase lined the length of one wall. Beyond, the arching gilded windows hung with velvet drapes, stuffed chairs that had perhaps once bracketed the open fireplace now pushed to observe the view beyond. The rest of the furniture had been removed. The piano itself claimed the newly central space, its glistening grain catching gold in the streaming late afternoon light.
Such an indulgence. She could have done this from home; her apartment housed a stately Bösendorfer, utterly untouched but for a callous glance the night she had arrived in Moscow. A guilt-shadowed gift from her mother, most likely; Eleanor might resolutely funnel her towards this path, but she at least understood that for Natalie each step cut her feet to bloody ribbons. The new piano was far more expensive than her old Steinway, and yet she would have preferred to discover its bitter-sweet memory amongst her new possessions instead. Not that it was her only reason for avoiding the empty shell of the apartment. Demons danced in the silence spaces, and she was wary of the isolation. During her weeks of convalescence in Aubagne, Eleanor had insisted on a therapist; a standard part of the debrief, really, when a project went so terribly wrong, but Natalie was the sort to cling to her wounds; to feel their full wrath before she consented to let them heal. She needed the distraction of bodies moving in the hallway beyond.
It had been a long time since she had sought this kind of escape, but it was the closest earthly feeling she could align to the swelling joy the light blossomed when it lit in her veins. Though after the blood of Africa, neither feeling felt deserved. Her fingers swept the ivory keys like she touched the relic of an old life -- and it did feel that way, something distant and old; too pure to touch.
The instrument itself was beautiful.
It was German designed, rich dark wood and decadently carved, gold capped feet. Tsar Nicolas II had favoured Blüthners, but Natalie had never had the pleasure of playing one. The lid was already propped open, baring the hammers and strings within, and the empty music stand above the keys swirled with inky lattice work, begging attendance even of the unworthy. Despite her own hesitations, she sat at the bench, placed the datapad and stylus beside her. On a whim she slipped the shoes from her aching feet, rested her bare toes on the pedals. Just breathed.
It was foolish to feel so at war with herself, but the battle stiffened her rigidly against relaxing. She ought to be picking up the pieces in Sierra Leone, not nestling in the lap of luxury indulging her passions. Yet despite the shade of guilt, her heart was singing. It only made her feel worse.
You're here for a reason.
One that didn't truly stem from frivolity, not that it helped ease her conscience. Her fingers hovered. She had tried this in a basement of the embassy, hunched over the stub of a candle she'd almost burst a blood vessel trying to snap to flame. She had vowed then to learn the complexities of the gift, but it had never worked. Now the light was not barred from her any longer, but it still did not always come easily. Instead of forcing it, she chose to lull it. The first rich note from the smallest pressure shivered through her soul. The tensions weakened their grip, burdens realised and unrealised snaking a looser hold as the notes blended to the first chord, resonating like a promise of peace.
The light unravelled as her fingers moved in a familiar rhythm, woven like the music itself. She had never seen it so clearly; the colours and textures only caught before in desperate snatches. Like any symphony there were component parts, explored for the first time.
As the music played, the threads danced.
[[Chopin's Requiem for a Dream]]
All she wanted was a room. A piano. And the space to practise and record her findings.
The room was one of hundreds of administrative spaces along the wide corridor, as grand and beautiful as everything she had seen since passing the Kremlin's threshold. A dark-stained bookcase lined the length of one wall. Beyond, the arching gilded windows hung with velvet drapes, stuffed chairs that had perhaps once bracketed the open fireplace now pushed to observe the view beyond. The rest of the furniture had been removed. The piano itself claimed the newly central space, its glistening grain catching gold in the streaming late afternoon light.
Such an indulgence. She could have done this from home; her apartment housed a stately Bösendorfer, utterly untouched but for a callous glance the night she had arrived in Moscow. A guilt-shadowed gift from her mother, most likely; Eleanor might resolutely funnel her towards this path, but she at least understood that for Natalie each step cut her feet to bloody ribbons. The new piano was far more expensive than her old Steinway, and yet she would have preferred to discover its bitter-sweet memory amongst her new possessions instead. Not that it was her only reason for avoiding the empty shell of the apartment. Demons danced in the silence spaces, and she was wary of the isolation. During her weeks of convalescence in Aubagne, Eleanor had insisted on a therapist; a standard part of the debrief, really, when a project went so terribly wrong, but Natalie was the sort to cling to her wounds; to feel their full wrath before she consented to let them heal. She needed the distraction of bodies moving in the hallway beyond.
It had been a long time since she had sought this kind of escape, but it was the closest earthly feeling she could align to the swelling joy the light blossomed when it lit in her veins. Though after the blood of Africa, neither feeling felt deserved. Her fingers swept the ivory keys like she touched the relic of an old life -- and it did feel that way, something distant and old; too pure to touch.
The instrument itself was beautiful.
It was German designed, rich dark wood and decadently carved, gold capped feet. Tsar Nicolas II had favoured Blüthners, but Natalie had never had the pleasure of playing one. The lid was already propped open, baring the hammers and strings within, and the empty music stand above the keys swirled with inky lattice work, begging attendance even of the unworthy. Despite her own hesitations, she sat at the bench, placed the datapad and stylus beside her. On a whim she slipped the shoes from her aching feet, rested her bare toes on the pedals. Just breathed.
It was foolish to feel so at war with herself, but the battle stiffened her rigidly against relaxing. She ought to be picking up the pieces in Sierra Leone, not nestling in the lap of luxury indulging her passions. Yet despite the shade of guilt, her heart was singing. It only made her feel worse.
You're here for a reason.
One that didn't truly stem from frivolity, not that it helped ease her conscience. Her fingers hovered. She had tried this in a basement of the embassy, hunched over the stub of a candle she'd almost burst a blood vessel trying to snap to flame. She had vowed then to learn the complexities of the gift, but it had never worked. Now the light was not barred from her any longer, but it still did not always come easily. Instead of forcing it, she chose to lull it. The first rich note from the smallest pressure shivered through her soul. The tensions weakened their grip, burdens realised and unrealised snaking a looser hold as the notes blended to the first chord, resonating like a promise of peace.
The light unravelled as her fingers moved in a familiar rhythm, woven like the music itself. She had never seen it so clearly; the colours and textures only caught before in desperate snatches. Like any symphony there were component parts, explored for the first time.
As the music played, the threads danced.
[[Chopin's Requiem for a Dream]]