Chapter Text
Silence.
Everyone - the elders and the young, the Belobogians and the Peneconians, the rich and the poor - was holding their breath as they awaited, patiently, but eagerly, for the central stage to lit up.
No one dared to open their mouth, to complain about how long they've been waiting for her.
No one dared to even breathe, as they were all holding their breath, as if they could only finally inhale, and relax, once they were sure it was really her taking up the stage.
It was a thrilling, and charged moment indeed. The atmosphere in the crowd only got more tense as the silence drew on, like a screech that, with the never ending flowing of the seconds, only intensified in a ever growing crescendo, making the hearts of the audience beat uncontrollably fast, all in unison.
Finally, after some long and heavy minutes, the central stage lit up. The blinding lights reflected in the eyes of the youngs in between the crowd, showed the absolute innocence residing inside those bottomless oceans, and the awe they soon fell into upon setting those glimmering mirrors on the shining figure in the middle of the stage.
White, long hair shone as bright as the northern star, leading all eyes- brown or blue, green or gold, red or purple- on her splendid form.
A kind smile rose on her lips as she eyed the audience with her gentle eyes, before, finally, setting them on a certain white haired male, whom, sitting, composed, in the middle row, was gazing at her with a soft, almost fond expression.
Sunday's lips almost gave away a tiny smile as his sister, Miss Robin, the Pop's Leading Star everyone, no one excluded, knew and loved, gave him a warm smile before starting her pre-concert speech.
As she began her heartwarming speech, her voice danced in the people's ears ever so gently, bringing some even to tears. It wasn't everyday that a Star like Robin would sing for free in such an enormous concert.
Once the news that Miss Robin was going to host a concert for free spread, the pubblic was in shock. But Sunday wasn't surprised even in the slightest. He knew his sister has always been a kind and magnanimous soul. So, for him, it was only natural that his beloved sister didn't charge anyone even a single penny, for she wanted to make her music, her voice, her symphonies of freedom and love, her melodic poems of peace, available to everyone, not only to the rich.
"-but I can not birth these melodies of freedom and peace alone, and I surely can not present these splendid arrangements to the world all alone. " Her eyes glimmering as she accentuates these last two words.
Slowly, from the shadows behind Robin's ever shining presence, the subtle clicking of high heels echos through the auditorium. A growing crescendo that signals a mysterious arrival. The first thing about this unknown figure that basks in the light of the stage are her black heels, elegant and yet so simple. Her dark pink hair, tied up in a simple looking bun, shines under the ever so bright light, the scene resembling a rose basking in the sun's early warmth. So beautiful, and yet so dangerous. She, soon after making her appearance, bows with her violin in front of the cheering crowd, eyeing the audience with her dangerously captivating, pink orbs.
"Let's give a big cheer to our violinist- Kafka!" Robin's voice booms in the mic, ever so slightly louder than before, betraying her growing excitement.
Soon after Kafka's silent thanks, another figure quickly emerges from the dark curtain. Her heels, even if hitting the lucid pavement with the same purpose as Kafka's, strangely don't emit any clicking noises, making her appearance on the grand stage ever so silently, almost ghostly. The first thing that catches Sunday's eyes is her black, opaque blindfold that obscures her eyes from the public's watchful gaze. A mysterious aura, created by the impossibility to read into her soul, surrounds her ever so elegant form: shining white hair with touches of baby blue in it, carefully gathered in a high ponytail, contrasting with the opaque dark purple dress she's wearing. The light and the void- two opposites that have found harmony in a single person. The second thing that catches Sunday's eyes is the Xianzhou looking instrument that the woman is so carefully holding in her hand: the huqin. A very peculiar and unique instrument.
"Let's welcome our huqin player: Jingliu!"
As the crowd cheers, reanimated by Robin's ringing voice, Jingliu only gives a brief bow in return.
Two distinct footsteps make their way up to the stage's lights after the second introduction: one light and quick, the other heavy with purpose. A young boy quickly emerges from the back stage, his excited smile lighting up the entire auditorium as he jogs up to the front. His dark blue suit and blond hair wave with the evening's fresh wind, giving the boy an aura of carefreeness. His eyes shine as he salutes the audience briefly while holding his instrument: the dong xiao, another native Xianzhou instrument.
The more Sunday's eyes scrutinize the boy, the more he looks somewhat familiar to him. After dwelling on his familiarity for a bit, he remembers that he has seen that same boy talking excitedly with Jing Yuan, his orchestra's dong xiao and flute player, after a very successful concert.
A few seconds later, on the right side of the stage, a tall figure finds its way into the light: his red hair shines like a dazzling flame, burning with fervent passion on a never ending night. His white suit, following his almost dramatic steps so romantically, gives him a chivalry, heroic aura. His captivating yet gentle eyes cast upon the audience with a calming and charming smile before bowing deeply, very theatrically, in front of the drum set. But, as he does so, the red rose that's resting ever so beautifully on the left side of his suit loses a single petal, which slightly swings in the soft breeze before gently setting itself onto the polished ground.
"A big applause for Yanqing and Argenti!" Says Robin, ever so cheerfully, hyping the crowd up like nobody else.
"And last, but not least, let's welcome our guitarist: Aventurine!"
The melodic clacking of gold jewelry, which adorn his white, with glimpses of dark green suit, accompanies the masculine figure back under the crowds eager eyes. The green gems blessed by the stage lights shine like little shards of glass resting in the warm embrace of the white sand on a peaceful summer day. The peacock feather on his hat - which is slightly obscuring Aventurine's face, only showing his cocky grin - wiggles with each step the man takes. Sunday squints his eyes, trying to get a glimpse of what the other man his hiding behind the hat, when, almost as if the man has heard his thoughts, Aventurine delicately places two of his fingers under the delicate, thin rim of his hat, tilting it up and revealing his mesmerizingly unique eyes. If he were a siren, he wouldn't need to captivate his prey with his nostalgic melody: he would just need for them to stare into those spiraling eyes to lead them into his trap. To make them his pawns.
The crowd's cheers get even louder as the man salutes them with a cocky grin and a brief gesture of his right hand, while holding with his left one the guitar neck.
Little by little the audience's loud cries begin calm down, leaving room to Kafka's sweet violin. As her slender rosy fingers quickly move on the violin neck, pressing down onto the cords with newfound purpose and passion, her body gently swings left and right, back and forth like a fragile flower, oscillating with the dancing, chilly afternoon breeze. Even if only for this brief intro, all eyes are cast upon her. Weighting gazes make her the main character of the stage. The woman, though exposed to intense stares and crushing expectations, doesn't seem fazed by the attention, like she's not even acknowledging the crowd surrounding the stage. Sunday deeply appreciates not only her talent, betrayed by her effortlessly agile fingers and by the depth, the emotion that she gives to each note, but also for her never crumbling resolve.
With one final, slow strike of her bow, a familiar voice rings within the room's walls, filling the hearts of the audience with delicious warmth.
Now all eyes fall back upon her shining form, leaving the violin in the background. Her head wings, white like the freshly fallen snow, slightly flutter, stretch and lightly surround her glittering eyes as her voice slowly becomes louder, building up for the beat drop that's about to happen, and welcoming the soft drums in the back. A message of hope drips from Robin's lips and flows into the audience's blessed ears. The people's eyes widen in awe as the beat finally drops: some of then sing along, meanwhile others, struck by such beauty, are unable to utter a single word. Argenti, even if in the background, clearly puts all his body, his passion into every beat he delivers. His red head wobbling lightly to the beat as the smile on his face never fades, nor falters. The way he hits the wooden sticks onto the hard membrane of the drum, or the shining surface of the hit-hat, with such unwavering force and yet effortless elegance does not go unnoticed by Sunday's scrutinizing eyes.
A few enchanting songs, featuring Kafka's elegance and Argenti's punctuality, and contagious passion, flow by, like a melodic river, quenching the thirsty, and soon enough another part of the concert begins. The unique timbre of the dong xiao mixed with the equally unique one of the huqin, are like a fresh bath to Sunday's ears. Jingliu's swift, but soft pecks on the instrument's single cord accompany Yanqing's light melody like the fleeting breeze. Even if blindfolded, the woman's elegant fingers never miss a single note: instead, they effortlessly press down onto the lone cord with confidence, almost as if the instrument were the one guiding her every movements.The slight change in the bright melody born from Yanqing's agile fingers catches back Sunday's attention. The boy's movements remind him of a lost feather, dancing with the wind into the horizon. Even if you could see a hint of pink on the young boy's cheeks, a sign of embarrassment and slight nervousness, his hands don't waver and, most importantly, he's letting himself be swayed by the symphony of his fingers.
With soft hums, Robin's voice makes itself known again, dancing perfectly with the calm ambience that the other two created. Romantic words sung in the Xianzhou dialect awaken even the coldest of hearts in the crowd, bringing crystal tears to their eyes. Such beautiful words and heartwarmingly nostalgic melodies hold even greater power over humanity's hearts, than a loaded gun.
These songs pass by like an emotional breeze, and soon enough the second part of the concert also comes to an end, putting Yanqing's carefreeness and Jingliu's expertise to rest. But, as the last song of this beautiful Xianzhou compilation came to an end, there was no cheer. Instead, shockingly electric guitar solo shakes the auditorium, completely changing the mood. Slender fingers press onto the guitar's strings with rapidity, and agility, never resting on one place for too long, like a lone wanderer, desperately searching for a place to call home. Even though his left hand runs up and down the guitar neck restlessly, the rest of his body doesn't move much. The light wobbling of his head, which slightly moves his white hat down, somewhat ending up to cover a portion of his eyes, and his tinted glasses down lower over his nose, along with the light tapping of his foot are the only parts of his body that are actually moving along with his fingers. Then, suddenly, Robin's fiery words of freedom boom into the mic, inciting the crowd to sing along.
Sunday's eyes linger for a few more seconds on the guitarist's form, before casting them upon his sister. He does have to admit that hearing Aventurine's solo brought peace to his turbated mind. Finally he has resolved the one thing that was nagging at him for months. Finally he has found the last piece of his perfectly harmonious puzzle. Finally everything fits together just how it should be. And maybe now, he can let himself relax a little.