His fingers dance across the keys of the piano, possessed by some other-worldly force; it drove him to play. He never controlled the melody, more likely the melody is what controlled him. He swayed on his seat, music drifting from the beutiful instrument to his ears. He never played for the sake of others, nor did their satisfaction mean anything to him. He played because he could do so fairly esaily, and the sounds pleased him. He played for the sake of his own heart, for without the sweet solo-symphony, their would be no sanity to speak of in sight for him.
Tears escaped the eyes of the entranced audience, their willpower nothing to the music. His swift, yet gentle style was enough to sway even the most uncatchable woman, though the composer himself wasn't very attractive. Men gripped the edges of their velvet seats, women clutched their men's arms, and the children all sat, transfixed by the ambiance of the show. Everyone moved to the music; feet were tapped, hands twisted intricate patterns in the air, as if attempting to mimick the music's path around them.
The theatre was never made to hold so many people, but room had been made. Where no one could sit, people stood. Whenever the building seemed to be packed to the point of explosion, still more bodies slipped in. Crystal chandeliers hung here and there, each individual piece vibrating with a new note from the piano. The composer never would have thought he could play in a place such as this. Gold covered the armrests of chairs, ramparts traveled along the walls, supporting both balconies and people.
The outside world had silenced itself, seeming to listen to the aurora of sound emitting from the theatre. Cars slowed to a crawl, crying babes hushed themselves, and criminals forget their chosen proffesion, just long enough to sample the music, so full of life, so vibrant and invisibly colorful. No animals called to their mates. No seas churned. The entire earth hushed itself, so even the ants along the ground could hear.
Just like that it was over. The composer finished with a feather-light sweep of the keys, stood, and turned to the audience. His extraordinarily hideous face seemed to brek the spell. Noise shuddered through the building. People rose, and with usual haughty and neglegent airs, departed the grand room. The composer stayed, however, running his white-gloved, crooked hand over the surface of the piano. He smiled as he did so, then frowned at his own deformities, reflected by the dark wood.
"Exscuse me," came a light voice from his side.
"My apologies," the composer started, bowing low before the vision of beauty before him. Flowing golden hair hung well past her shoulders, their own snowy complexion so radiant it nearly hurt his eyes. He raised his gaze a bit, noticing blood-red lips, and then, eyes black as a raven's wing. His own muddy brown ones fell again to her dress and shoes, both as red as her lips. He continued the bow, not daring to speak out of turn before this angel.
"Oh, do stand up?" she begged him, pulling him up by his hunched, uneven shoulders. She placede either hand on his neck, and leaned down to kiss him upon the cheek. "That was the most amazing thing I've ever heard," she said. "I've waited a long time for someone like you to come along to this town, Mr.-" she stopped abruptly.
"Elijah," he said. "My name is Elijah."
"Well it's very nice to meet you, Mr. Elijah. My name is Sophia." she said, smiling kindly at him and shaking his hand. Funny. Her perfect white skin touching his own scarred bron ones seemed ubsurd. He was glad he'd worn the gloves.
"Thank you for listening, miss Sophia." he said, blushing all the way up to his brow.
"Oh, the pleasure was all mine, Elijah!" she exclaimed. "I absolutely have to hear you play again! Right this moment!"
Elijah gave a slight jump at the request, glancing around the now-empty room. "Now, Ma'am I don't think it'd be very appropriate for a man like me to oplay for a woman like you privately. Wouldn't sit right with nobody," he said.
"Nonsense!" she said, taking his hand in her own and leading him to the piano. She sat him down, and then herself next to him, and placed his hands upon the keys once again. Seeing no other option, he began to play. Once more the room filled with what must have been the sound of pure joy. Nothing but good came from Elijah's hands at this moment, and as such no harm was done. This was the only time he never messed up. He always got his music right. Or rather, it always got him right. As he completed this time, he could see Sophia's tear-filled eyes up close. She looked at him, wiping away the moisture from her eyes, and then flung her arms around him and squeezed very tightly.
"You have no idea how long it's been since I cried from joy," she sobbed into his shoulder. On and on she went, crying all over his new suit, just bought yesterday. But he didn't care. All he cared about was whatever made this creature so sorrowful that she had no happiness left. He desired nothing more than to strike any such thing down and destroy all of the pain in Sophia's heart.
Finally, she released him, and stared into his eyes again. "Accompany me to dinner." it was more of a plea than a request, and one which Elijah could not refuse.
"Of course, ma'am." he said. They rose from the piano, music still echoing, not in the theatre, but in their hearts. Turning very slowly, they made their way down from the stage, through the aisles of the theatre, and out of the door without ever looking back. Of course Elijah still played for Sophia. Everyday, in fact. Never again, however did he play for only himself. He'd found a reason to play. The music restored her from a past never spoken of outside their own relationship. Her attention and love put back together the pieces of a broken, deformed man. The ending to their story is none of my buisness. Nor is it really the point.