He sits with his legs folded up underneath himself on the bench, thinking that there are a dozen other places he could be, right now, diving through the middle of someone else's war, curled up in someone's bed, playing at dice with off-duty officers, but instead he's sitting here, at the piano of a woman who's been dead so long that it's hard to wrap his head around, years slipping like oil and water through his mind.
Without really meaning to, he reaches out, starts playing scales from the deepest to the highest, slow but without pausing. There's no jazz in his fingers tonight, no syncopation or triplets, no laughter. This Queen and both her sons are dead, and he's played this piano so often some of the staff are convinced there's a musical will-o'-the-wisp, but it's still Brighid's piano, and he is just a latecomer playing it.
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'piano scales played slowly' - Wild Roses, Aodh
Date: 2009-01-19 09:34 pm (UTC)From:Without really meaning to, he reaches out, starts playing scales from the deepest to the highest, slow but without pausing. There's no jazz in his fingers tonight, no syncopation or triplets, no laughter. This Queen and both her sons are dead, and he's played this piano so often some of the staff are convinced there's a musical will-o'-the-wisp, but it's still Brighid's piano, and he is just a latecomer playing it.