SOMETIME AFTER MAARIT had savoured every last drop of her tea, leaving only the bitter residue of tea leaves at the bottom of her cup, her eyelids began to grow heavy. Though her legs were sore and the floor was uncomfortable, the book she was holding began to slip from her fingers, settling onto her lap. For a moment, she stirred and tried to shake herself awake—she simply had to try out a spell to see if it'd work. But perhaps now was not the best time. She allowed her eyes to fall closed like shutters, knowing she could surely afford to wait until her mind was refreshed.
It was then that she heard it.
A beautiful, lilting melody that struck a chord inside her, resounding down to her very core.
Though it should have lulled her deeper into the embrace of slumber, she found instead that it entranced her. Pulled her back to reality. At once, her eyes shot open and she scrambled to her feet, the book she had been holding discarded on the floor. The music was faint and distant, yet she could still make out each of the delicate notes.
She was curious who was playing it; yet, more than anything, she found that she wanted to get closer, to be able to distinguish each of the crescendos. Swaying slightly from exhaustion, Maarit weaved her way through the library shelves—the sun had set and the room was dark—and dashed toward the double doors.
The song was louder out in the hallway, without an extra set of doors to muffle it. Maarit could now tell that the sound originated from a piano. Could it have been Theodoracius? Had he ever mentioned being able to play the piano before? She couldn't recall.
Still, with both trepidation and excitement settling in her bones, she followed the sound. As she walked down the corridor, she knew she was headed in the right direction when, suddenly, she could feel the vibrations of music in her blood. She turned down a corner she was positive she never had before. Knowing very well that she was probably lost, she remembered something Alexander had told her once about the paintings on the walls being clues as to what lay beyond certain doors.
She trailed her eyes over the paintings on the walls. They were the most beautiful ones thus far, depicting masked people and costumed ballet dancers perched atop a stage. The theatre, Maarit thought to herself, her gaze raking over the walls until they settled on a door.
Slowly, carefully, she nudged it open and peered into the room. It was indeed a theatre, with rows upon rows of vacant seats and a stage at the very front. The theatre was beautiful; she found herself wishing she had known of its existence sooner. For some reason, they had neglected to show it to her.
A red curtain was drawn, but behind the rippling red fabric was the source of the mellifluous sound that had pulled her in. She trod carefully towards the stage, eager to peek through the curtain and see who the pianist was.
As soon as she set foot on the ebony floor of the stage, she felt the vibrations grow stronger, resonating throughout her entire body. Gently, her fingers found the space between the two red curtains and she pulled it back slightly—just enough to allow her to look discreetly through.
It was him, as she had suspected. His back was to her, but she could identify him from the shape of his frame.
Yet somehow, the fact that Theodoracius was the one playing the piece made it even more captivating to her. His shoulders were slumped over the instrument and his hands moved rapidly across the keys. She had never understood before how songs without words could carry meaning until that very moment when it simply struck her, and all of the notes and rhythms and the way he struck the keys made sense.
The piece that he played was a tragedy, and she could hear it. It was a ballad of despair and despondency, telling a tale of abuse and loss and burning bones and spilled blood and how, despite all of it, the boy who had grown up too fast was then forced to carry the weight of an entire country upon his shoulders. It showed in the way he let himself go as the ballad reached its climax, unravelling in ways she had only caught glimpses of in the past.
It was the story of a falling angel wearing a demon's mask.
It was the story of a darkness within his chest that had taken everything inside of him but his heart, which was too big to be swallowed—even by an abyss.
It was the story of the Infernal King, who was nothing but an unloved and fragmented boy.
Maarit's heart rate quickened, even as his hands slowed on the piano. After he had played the final notes, she found that she was reluctant to disturb the scene in front of her. It truly was tragically beautiful.
But she took a deep breath—watching his back as he sat before the piano, unmoving—and slipped between the curtains. Her footsteps made the ebony wood on the stage creak, causing the king to whirl around, startled. His eyes widened and his posture changed completely; he straightened his spine and adjusted the crown atop his head, swallowing nervously.
"I don't often give compliments," she began, thinking she ought to say something first, "but that was the most wonderful thing I have ever heard."
It took a few seconds for him to respond. When he did, he sounded frantic. "What are you doing here?"
Maarit frowned. "Look, I—I couldn't help it. I heard you from the library and I just—followed the sound," she stammered.
"I thought you'd be asleep by now."
"Well, I did nearly fall asleep on the floor in the library. But no, I'm not."
Then silence.
"I'm sorry if you feel—I don't know, violated or something," Maarit told him, approaching him slowly.
He furrowed his eyebrows. "Why would I feel violated? I don't feel violated," he insisted defensively, crossing his arms and standing from the piano bench to meet her eyes.
"I've never seen you like that before," she said, raising her eyebrows. Her eyes bore into his deep brown ones. "You seem to constantly be wearing this mask. Sometimes, I see it flicker or fade, but it is never truly gone. It was nice to see you without your mask, even just once. And for what it's worth, that truly was beautiful. I had never known a melody that could make me feel the way yours did."
Eyes still wide, he slowly nodded and slid back into the piano bench, leaving room for her to sit beside him. He seemed not to know how to receive a compliment. "Thank you," he said, his front teeth sinking into his bottom lip, "but you make me sound like a virtuoso when, in fact, I am not even that good at all. At least, that was what my fa—" Then he stopped, even though she already knew what he would say.
"Your father?" she scoffed, sitting down. "That's what your father said? And what exactly does he know about music evoking emotions? Wasn't he a heartless bastard?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"And are you saying that I am even more emotionless than he was?"
"No, of course not—"
"Exactly!" Maarit exclaimed. "Then why exactly is his opinion more valid than mine on the matter of what music can make someone feel? You put your heart into it when you play—that much I can tell. Music is art, and art was created to evoke emotions, and that is exactly what you do. So tell me again, why does your infant-killer of a father know better than I do?"
He was already smiling at her by the time she had finished her rant. He chuckled lightly, looking down at his hands, which were clasped together in his lap. "My, you have an answer for everything. I would give anything to have seen you argue with Tevenot; you'd discredit anything he said in an instant."
"I absolutely would," she stated proudly, flashing him a wide grin. "In fact, I'd do more than just discredit him."
"What else would you do?" he asked, quirking his eyebrows.
She tapped her chin in thought. "I would first challenge him to a duel," she replied, a smirk dusting her lips. "Then I'd fight him until I won and he was begging for mercy. And right then and there, I'd take the crown off of his head and put it on my own." She lifted her hand to Theodoracius's crown, plucking it from his head and placing it on hers. "And then I'd become king."
The crown was heavy on her head.
Maarit stood from the bench and watched for Theodoracius's reaction to what she'd just done, but he seemed completely unfazed. In fact, he was still smiling at her, cheeks flush with colour. She smiled back, then turned and began to walk to the other side of the stage with his crown heavy on her head.
He stood up and strode after her. "Are you stealing my crown?" he asked, an undertone of amusement in his voice.
"What?" she demanded dramatically. "Of course not, this is mine. I am your king."
"Oh, you are, are you?" he challenged, approaching her. He was instantly close enough that she felt his breath disturb strands of stray hair, causing them to tickle her face.
"Yes, I am, and I will not be spoken to in such a manner," she admonished, lifting her nose in the air. "Now bow down before me, peasant!"
Then something peculiar happened: the King of Bonvalet fell to his knees and knelt before Maarit Pheraios.
"Your Majesty," he said dramatically, a hint of playful desperation in his tone, "please forgive me. I meant no disrespect and I assure you that I shall worship and love you with my last breath! Have mercy on me, my lord."
Maarit's heart was in her throat as she stared down at him, still on his knees. He was so beautiful, so purely human in that moment. It was his eyes that captivated her once more—for once, they were not empty, nor were they filled with pain.
Unable to stop herself, her fingers suddenly found themselves buried in his silken locks of brown hair. In response, he closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his face into her abdomen, hugging her to him. (Upon wondering when he had last been hugged, she felt a painful pang in her chest.)
"You are forgiven," she whispered—not realizing the weight of her words.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE
I know that I've been torturing a lot of you with these past few chapters so I think I should say this: if you ship it, everything will be alright. If you don't ship it, everything will be alright. Don't worry, my darling readers, everything's going to turn out just fine. *Cue malicious laughter.*