Work Text:
Theremin
Audio/Podfic:
Her hand trembles. The pitch changes. She wills it still. The sound still hums.
Mary Wardwell fears. She fears a lot, in earnest. For every lost thing she cannot recall. But in all the things she fears this moment, she fears she’s lost the steadiness to create music.
The air is hauntingly still in her cottage. There is a coldness to the thawing spring. A chill has fallen once again, as is expected as the fickle wind decides whether to blow in warmth or storms. For now, it has decided to rest.
Mary took the time to tightly close all the windows. To wedge an old blanket at the gap in the door. To close the blinds. To light the fire. To allow the warmth at her feet and face. And to pull the theremin, an item she’d admired far too long in the shop window, to the place where she’d normally kneel to pray.
The pitch. The tone. The melody of haunting things resonating in her ears before her hands even come close.
Start over.
Her hands used to be steady and calm. She used to find solace in these small things. But she cannot give herself that comfort. She cannot summon it from the theremin’s body. The warmth it gave her was nothing. Pale in comparison to the dim embers of the fire.
Adam… he’d come with her to the music shop one day. She’d only gone in to return some music history books. The shopkeeper was the sort to loan her anything, because she’d be the sort to share anything she found with him and they may speak over tea all day at the counter. But this time, Adam had come, and they’d planned a picnic by the library courtyard.
Only Mary’d stared a fraction too long at the beautiful instrument. The one that sat idle for the past half-year, because it wasn’t a standard instrument for anyone in the town of Greendale, certainly nothing you’d get credit for in school. And perhaps because it seemed like witchcraft. The spell in your fingertips, like manifesting your soul to sound.
Mary smiled once again to the shopkeeper, gave him the books and chatted in such a lively fashion, and Adam was beside her a moment later, asking after the availability.
Still available.
“Well, perhaps not anymore?”
He wouldn’t buy it without Mary’s approval. And he wouldn’t force it upon her. It was her choice, after all. If she’d wanted… if she had time for another hobby.
She’d played off her interest at first, but she eventually admitted her interest. And the shopkeeper offered her a discount. An educational one, which was normally reserved for the rental of flutes or drums. But he said Mary did far more, and earned it, certainly, for all the educating she did.
Oh. She loved it. The idea of this small spellcraft that she could do. There was no evil in wanting such a spell. It had quite the spell over her, in any case.
So Adam took her for the picnic, to think. And in half an hour they were back, with Mary purchasing the theremin -- Adam respected this decision, of course -- and Adam purchasing, as gifts, a few books on technique and history. Because he wanted to encourage her, and perhaps he’d be able to learn a thing or two as well.
She’d played in the drawing room. She’d learned slowly. Surely. One of Adam’s extended stays and they tried together. Adam couldn’t get it as quickly, but Mary’s intuition for such things was somehow miraculous. She played carefully, tuned the instrument and attuned herself.
The sounds of ghostly laughter -- of herself and Adam in the air between them, between the rods.
Between Mary and the theremin now.
Because she’s standing alone in her living room with it, with the ghostly wail of her tremor inching closer to her chest.
For goodness sake.
She plays a shriek of the invisible strings, drawing her hand sharply upward. Her other hand steady at the high pitch.
To wake her up. To call herself to focus.
Once again.
She tries. And it becomes clearer. Her eyes are watering, and she forces them shut. And she tries to steady. And the tone grows clearer.
She waits. Opens her eyes. And the wobble is back. And she waits. And she closes her eyes. And she feels the slightest bit of uncertainty creating a beautiful floating memory.
Is this her mind? The unsteadiness bringing forth the sounds?
Is this her new magic? To turn her fears into music, and her craft into clarion calls.
The music echoes. And with a confidence she attempts to bring into herself, she closes her eyes, and lets the memory of her past self take over.
And the sounds of a soft folk melody overtake her home. And the feeling of the hearth fire, alive yet again, warm her heart. And perhaps it was an aching hope, but hope nonetheless, that Mary felt that magic come alive in her hands. She takes a breath, her hands coming away from the space where her spell lives.
She opens her eyes. She looks at her hands. And she starts again.