Work Text:
He fastened the final clasp of his ceremonial deel, stepping back slightly to get a better look of his full appearance. The fluttering chatter of the excited guests from outside fell flat against the door, leaving Mongolia in almost perfect solitude in the dimly lit, but homely dressing room.
Gingerly adjusting his fur hat, his vision was glittered with the brilliant colours of his garment. The light - though subtle, captured the delicate glimmer of the golden thread against the sheeny blue silk. It cast an intricate floral design, meticulously and expertly woven, reminiscent of the yellow poppies that would sprout upwards towards the blue sky during the height of his country's summer.
A black velvet trim - though a stark contrast, complemented the regal outfit, and Mongolia himself was in awe of the beauty of the fabric. He turned his body every so often to observe how the dainty patterns and colours seemingly glowed when they caught the light.
He finally shifted his gaze. The Mongol swiftly walked over to where he propped his morin khuur, lacquered and lustrous, and tenderly traced his finger against the curvature of the carved horse head, trailing it down to feel the angular outline of the carved ulzii symbol against his flesh.
It's been a while since he's given a performance like this. But he had no qualms about his ability.
This is an art that he's perfected.
There was one thing though. One thing - one song, that caused a twinge of apprehension to ache in the depths of his stomach when he thought about it. An old tune…
Ah.
He glanced at the clock. It was time.
Picking up his instrument, he made a tentative tread towards the door, as if not wanting to disturb the stillness of the room, and walked out.
The chatter dampened as Mongolia made his way on stage, the audience's eyes now planted on him in eager anticipation.
He caught a glimpse of a few of the nations who were peppered throughout the crowd, all of them on a diplomatic visit. Upon seeing South Korea's wide grin, he fought the urge to smile back. Instead, he turned to face behind himself, giving a small nod and smile to the musicians who already took their places.
All of them were clothed in a sumptuous, silky white. The headpieces that were sat on top of the woman performers framed their faces prettily, strings of pearls hanging like decorative curtains past their cheekbones. They were all seated with their respective instruments, broad yatga with its silver strings beneath one, the slim, elongated flute of the tsuur in the hands of another. It was all coming together.
Mongolia perched himself upon the chair placed for him in front of the other performers. His morin khuur sat comfortably in his lap as he dragged his bow against the string, his cured fingers fluently finding their rightful positions against it as he began his first song, purely in the kargyraa register. For now.
The air was filled with the sound of his deep, guttural voice. It was almost as if he was growling. The Mongol could feel the deep vibrations oscillating intensely through his throat and chest, and noticed how the sheer volume of his voice caught some people off-guard.
Of course, throat singing is ideally performed amongst the wide open plains, with nothing acting as an obstacle to the sound for miles. It sounded a hell of a lot louder when performed indoors, even if it was in a hall.
Song after song came, diverse in their sounds and topics but all as equally as mesmerising as the other. However, he did not just sing in kargyraa. But khoomei and sygyt too, khoomei being slightly softer compared to kargyraa. He relaxed his abdomen as he sang, lessening the tension in his larynx, mouth contorting itself in every which way to manipulate the melodies that danced from his throat.
The way the sound whirled throughout the great hall was evocative of how the wind passes through cobbles of large stone on the steppe, the sounds not dissimilar. After all, the original intent of throat singing was to imitate nature.
His sygyt, though, was truly something to behold.
He manipulated the shape of his mouth once more, sealing his tongue around his gums, behind the teeth, leaving a small opening near the right side of his molars. His mouth positioned itself effortlessly to accommodate this style. The tension built and fell in his throat as he fluidly switched from khoomei to sygyt and back again, the vibrations even reaching his sinuses when he'd switch to sygyt.
The audience sat firmly in their seats, utterly enchanted by the alien whistling noise being emitted from the man's mouth. They watched intently at the way he'd hold a linear sygyt note with ease, eyes scrunched shut and brows knitted together. They listened in astonishment at how he could rapidly ripple his voice, matching the quickened speed of which he played his morin khuur, imitating the steady rhythm of a horse on a speedy trot.
Like the sound of a family of birds gliding freely across the blue sky, his harmonious voice, too, travelled freely throughout the hall. The shrill but soft sound fell gracefully against the ears of the audience.
After finishing the penultimate song, he turned his head to catch his breath, the audience's boisterous applause dimmed by the sick feeling in his stomach he felt before he came on stage.
He silently cursed himself for choosing this song to be his final - Ertnii Saikhan. A tune that - though cheerful, caused his heart to ache and swell with bitter, painful nostalgia.
At the time, it felt like a good idea. Surely he was over it by now, right? Plus it couldn't all just be throat singing, the Mongolian long song is also a beautiful art. Ertnii Saikhan seemed like a great choice at the time, but now, he wasn't so sure.
As he opened his mouth to give his final performance, his piercing voice ringing throughout the hall, he remembered a time, long ago. A time when this powerful song was just a gentle, muted hum, lulling a squirming child to sleep.
He remembered how small he used to be, how he was weightless in the cradle of his arms. The way his fragile fingers peaked curiously from beneath the layers of fur, instinctually finding something to grab on to. He remembered how the gentle, glowing light from the sun fell through the tonoo of his ger, casting its pleasant warmth across the child's face, his dark eyes shifting to a subtle, golden hue.
He was a glowfly amongst the vastness of the forest, a star amongst the boundless black sky.
His son.
He gave a final drag of his bow against his fiddle, executing the last note as his voice fizzled out, drowned by the loud praise of the crowd. He didn't realise it at first, but his eyes were glassy with warm wetness, gravity threatening it's fall.
Turning away from the crowd, he stood up and gave a meek bow before gesturing for the other musicians to stand and receive their praise.
He swiftly made his way off of the stage, eyes downcast, unable to deal with being haunted by the ghosts of old desire.