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In a way, it was the same as it always had been, he supposed. He’d set this routine decades before he’d died, so it only made sense to continue it now here in Hell, though of course he had spent quite some time to find a space adequate enough for his means when the first anniversary came. No space down here was truly worthy, but he would make do with what he had.
After that first year, with a rather unfortunate offering, Alastor had more than enough sway to lay claim to a bit of land. It was rather far from the city, barely on the edge of what people called the wastelands. He made sure any buildings or other debris was cleared away, leaving an unobstructed view of the vast empty space all around.
The progress was rather slow considering the simple design, but it needed to be as perfect as possible. By the end, he was rather pleased with how it turned out: a circular stone with a name, a quote, and a set of dates inscribed placed in the very center of a larger, spiraling circular floor, with stone arching over it at four different points to meet in the middle, creating a truly elegant formation with a small, antique lamp hanging from the keystone to light the area. Despite the lack of growth in any part of the wastelands, over the years the pillars had grown some of the local fauna, vines and buds of various plants sprouting from the four arches; Alastor suspected this was Rosie’s doing, though he never asked, and she never mentioned, an unspoken thing between the two of them.
A piano sat dusty and vacant off to the side, and after dusting off enough to be satisfied, he took a seat. He sat still for a moment, simply contemplating. It’s now been a century since he passed, he mused, wasn’t that something? He stretched his arms out above his head, shaking out his hands as he lowered them again, placing them gently on the keyboard as he thought of what to play for this private concert.
His clawed fingers gently stroked the keys as he thought, not playing a note as he didn’t yet want to disturb the quiet outside of his performance. It took a while to decide since, honestly, there were far too many options, but soon enough he had a playlist of songs created in his head. He’d start off with something simple, something to announce his presence. No audience was there, but he wasn’t playing for anyone in Hell anyway.
After a simple tuning, he waited for a moment longer before playing a ragtime from early 1900, Creole Belle . It was a rather jaunty tune, fun and lilting in several playful ways while keeping a steady beat. He’d played it so many times before that it was easy to incorporate harmonized bits of the melodies, even while his voice joined in.
With the song completed, he waited until the last of the notes were cleared away by the gentle breeze before placing his hands back on the keys. This next one, Bird In A Gilded Cage , though a lovely medley, hit a bit too close to home in his mind, as thinking back on his life and moments spent with his mother only seemed to further confirm that she was never truly free; any prejudices of the time notwithstanding. She’d had no real say in all her life, even when it came to giving birth to him. Alastor never liked to think of it for too long, but because it rang with words of truth, he included it as a type of reminder, and always played it at the beginning of this concert he performed, wanting to get it over with quickly.
He waited again for the breeze to clear away the notes into the ether before beginning his next song, this time Scott Joplin making an appearance. He was always one of the artists he loved to dance to with his mother, twirling her around their tiny home back and forth with a smile on his face, determined to get her mind off of anything heavier than being in that moment. He practically played each of the composer’s rag pieces, his smile growing at the memories of his mother’s smile and laughter. When he was younger she would tease him as he tried to play these pieces himself on their rundown piano. If only she could see him now.
Once done making his way through a few other various songs, he seemingly switched moods. One of his shadows formed, taking the shape of a feminine figure, a standing mic manifested in front of her from shade. Reaching into his mind, he dug up the recordings of Bessie Smith, Empress of the Blues, and with his piano accompanist, the shadow began to sing I Used To Be Your Sweet Mama in her voice. Other shadows appeared as the song progressed, donning hats, their trumpets with mutes adding onto the song. It had quickly become his mother’s favorite before she eventually succumbed to her aching body. It deserved all the fanfare he could provide.
The feminine shadow dispersed in the breeze once finished, but the others remained, ready to accompany him. He moved on to songs that were past both their times, moving through the 1940s and 50s, playing songs he know she’d like, such as hits from Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby, and one song that he thought was quite amusing that he wanted to share, called We Will All Go Together When We Go . He included more modern pieces of jazz, simple instrumental pieces like Way Back Blues , Body and Soul , and In a Sentimental Mood , as well as including songs from artists like Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, Nina Simone; the songs all more melancholy in tone, but each sung with the voice of the original artist.
The break between songs was longer this time, an all too familiar pang in his heart as recalled why he was here. He clenched a hand over his unbeating heart with a soft sigh, eyes closing momentarily.
Well. This just wouldn’t do.
Alastor stood from the piano, asking a shadow to take his place. He made his way towards the center, briefly noting that the hanging lamp shone brightly now that the sun had gone down, the plants on the arches giving off a slight bioluminescence to further light the dance floor. With a twirl of his wrist he called for another feminine shadow, one that resembled his mother in only the vaguest senses, shorter than him by a good 6 inches, barefoot with a long and ragged skirt, a wrap around her head holding back any hair, shining eyes the only feature for a face. He probably wouldn’t even be here if he could summon a perfect replica all the time, he supposed. He simply sighed once more as he bowed his head to the ground, taking a moment to compose himself.
Without a word, he righted himself and reached out to the shadow in a bow, silently asking for a dance. They took his hand, and when they were in position, the instruments kicked in, playing slow waltzes that he had come to favor over the years. If lyrics were needed, he made sure they came from his mouth in his own voice, as he selfishly yearned to be the one she associated the songs to, instead of some unreachable artist. He knew it didn’t matter, that she couldn’t even hear him, but he did it all the same.
He and the shadow waltzed around the area, making sure to never touch the very middle. He sang to her We’ll Meet Again , eyes never leaving the shadow’s figure, a slight burn in his eye as he sang.
The song came to a close, but still he held the shadow close, not quite ready to let go. Next was a song that he thought fit his mother perfectly, as she had always been a romantic at heart. He cleared his throat, but still made no move to continue.
A breeze rustled through the area, ruffling his deer-like ears. It seemed the entire wasteland waited for the end with bated breath for this final piece, and though it would never be fair, the show must go on, as they say.
He cleared his throat again, blinking rapidly to clear away any burning left, the only pain now staying within his cold and long-dead heart. He and the shadow met eyes, and he gave a short nod, telling his accompanists he was ready.
This time, instead of moving around the dancefloor, they stuck close to the middle, just on the outer edge of the centerpiece. No instrument besides the piano this time, it was much more intimate as he gave his best rendition of La Vie En Rose .
His voice remained clear, though the pang in his heart worsened and the burning in his eyes returned.
He and the shadow stayed close, staring into each other’s gaze, a simple swaying from side to side their only movements. The song ended, as all good things must, the last notes carrying higher into the air where he’d like to imagine she could hear. He let the shadowy figure step away from him, and he bowed deeply, bringing their hand to his lips. The breeze picked up a bit, and he stayed bowed, closing his eyes as his shadow slowly dispersed.
Alastor dropped his hand after he opened his eyes and confirmed his shadow had gone, slowly uprighting himself and straightening his jacket. He looked to the centerpiece of the floor, where, apparently alerted by the ending of the music, the plants from the arches had spread their roots and now flowers of all colors bloomed to life around the engraved stone. His heart warmed at that, and he’d have to thank Rosie one of these days.
He gently knelt down, his fingertips brushing across his mother’s name in reverence, reading the inscription he had put there decades ago:
Je répète sans cesse que je ne regrette pas ce que j'ai fait, mais ce n'est pas vrai. La séparation perpétuelle d'avec vous est la seule. J'aime ta mère. Votre mémoire vivra à jamais, car je prévois de ne jamais s'effacer.
He gave a soft chuckle. “Ça reste vrai, maman. Jusqu'à la prochaine fois.”
With that, he stood once more, giving one last long look at the gravestone before moving away. He stopped before stepping off the circular floor, and summoned his standing microphone to his hand. He began to twirl it in his hands as he walked away from the site, no music playing, not even humming to himself as he left that holy place, refusing to teleport back to the city. He knew he could always look back, hell, he could visit more often if he wanted, but he never did. That would be too… human. He’d lost his humanity well before he arrived here, and as proven time and time again, being human down here made you vulnerable, and he couldn’t have that.
The structure behind him continued to glow despite no one being there to see it, the breeze from the wasteland fluttering the petals and leaves of the delicate plants. They would wait for him until next time like they always did, keeping vigil over the area until the Radio Demon came once more. They were the only ones in Hell able to bear witness to the fact that perhaps there was still human in him after all, and they would gladly wait.