Fleeting voices.

It was crowded today.
Many people walked dully in the streets. Cars drove by every second or so on the roads, and horns were blurted every minute in the large city. In a large square, with a church right up front, an oddly-clothed human sat, covering its face and body with clothing.
By winding a very large scarf around its head, covering the eyes and ears, and only letting the mouth be shown, the man played a gentle tune on a battered instrument, a metal harmonica. Through the noisy place, it was almost inaudible, but if you kept close, you could hear the docile notes, like secret words pouring out of the man's mouth.
Every now and then, a person walked by, dropping a piece of money in front of the man, who seemed to pay no attention, and to continue playing his instrument, sitting on one of the stairs that lead to the entry of the church.
The bright sun was covered in clouds, announcing a gray day. But it didn't rain. It was only gloomy, sticks, and hanging desperately over the people's heads. Even though the weather seemed so sad, the man kept on playing his music, as if nothing else was there in the world, except him.

It was unclear just when the man had sat down and rested his back against the stone banister that bound the edge of the steps. Neither did it seem to have been noticeable when he suddenly started whistling in that low tone to the tune of the harmonica. Just how well it lent itself to that music so sad was almost unbelievable. Yet, that ethereal beauty of two instruments so simple and still so wonderful to hear could have caused even the skies to weep. The large black coat was stretched out beneath him as though it were a great blanket and the stone upon which he sat a bed. His hair laid all around his head, framing the pale skin like the ebony sky at night frames a cloud washed white in the moonlight. Thin red lips were pursed so that they controlled the sound which emanated from within the lungs so musical. His claw-like hands rested lightly upon the knee that was retracted to his chest. It was the right leg that he held, while the left laid out limp before him. The eyes were closed, thin eyelids pulled over them. The whole demeanor was that of peace and tranquility.

As the hidden man heard the other person sit right next to him, he felt a tad uneasy, and hesitated slightly in his graceful tune. The mouth gently slipped off the cold metal surface, ending the notes from playing. The cloth-covered being pulled the scarf up his mouth, and lifted it slightly, only letting his eyes peer from the cloth. A gentle, but sad hue glinted in the man's eyes, as he directed them to the person's entity.
The man pulled the scarf downwards, hiding his eyes, and letting his lips poke out again. He pulled the black, metallic object to his mouth, and blew delicately into the holes made for this action. The elegant mixture of the two sounds, forming only one when together, gently arose into thin air, setting a calm and silent atmosphere onto the surrounding square. His ears, experience with sound, detected the soft lilac-like tune which slipped out of the other person's mouth. People kept coming, giving pieces to the playing personas.

Breaking off from the main tune, the whistler began to form a harmony to the original melody, weaving once again his intricate strains, modulating around the notes as only one skilled at the art could ever do. First deeper and then up into higher scales he went, always keeping that heart breaking aspect, the utter sadness. The music seemed to be following the course of a story, though it told its tale without the use of words. One might see, in the threads of the melody a seashore, sand leading up to a great rock precipice that towered up into the sky. the base of the rock carved into a great many caves by the water and by time. On that beach, one might have seen children playing, or perhaps it was a single child, laughing at the waves. Ships sailed by on the horizon but none ever came to that shore. Years might have passed in this narrative, or it could have been only a fraction of a moment, but somehow it spoke of sorrow.

Perhaps the child had died, perhaps instead someone close to him, or perhaps he never knew what another human was. Yet he sang to the waves with such a voice. Even though the words it spoke were unintelligible, they could have enthralled the sirens of Greece themselves, and so it would seem they did. It was as though, when in the sun the young man stood upon the beach and sang his songs of joy and love to the ocean that a beautiful young woman walked forth from the waves. She was unlike him, her skin shone and shimmered in the light of the sun and her eyes fairly gleamed. her hair fell down in great lengths around her like rays of golden sunlight.

As he watched her come, she began singing a haunting refrain that harmonized so well with the music of the lad. Enraptured, he sang back to her and together with the waves they made a symphony of nature the likes of which has never been heard before and never shall again grace this earth. When it ended, the sky wept at the sorrow of losing such a joyous sound.

They beheld each other then, like stones set up to watch one another for eternity. Both wore looks of the purest and naivest curiosity and wonder upon their faces. Some would call it a love that was enacted upon at first sight, others would call it an abomination, and still the last would call it perhaps one of the most beautiful tragedies he had ever heard, but then the story suddenly ceased.

The man had stopped whistling, his lips had closed, a flash of sharply pointed teeth was the last thing visible beneath those bloody red gates that closed over the black pit from whence had arisen such unearthly music. He was silent, still with his eyes shut in contemplation. A deep breath indicated that he might even be somewhere close to sleep, and the look of unadulterated serenity that lay over his features was almost enough to ensure that this was the final impression one might receive from his still form.

The hidden man, clothed in clothes of a variety of sizes, hiding any of his human appearance and features, suddenly closed his nearly eclipsed lips, preventing any more air coming from inside him blow through the scratched black metal instrument. A few moments after that action, the indiscernible gesture of his fingers made the harmonica topple over in his hand, which he swiftly swayed by the fabric of his hide. He slowly pulled his hand back to his right knee, the object having almost magically disappeared under the covers of his clothes. He let out a sinister breath, that folded in the air, crippling with annoyance, and with an ounce of intrigue. He had listened to the story that the man had sung with the placid tune, but the deepest sorrow that emanated from the song, and that could break the heart of the most callous man didn't affect by the smallest the person under the clothes.
"You seem to like the company of the poor," the man began. His voice was soft, as if spoken by a child, but it had already matured. "don't you?"

The answer which came thoroughly befit its owner. "What is wealth?" low tones threaded their way from that throat like porcelain, "Were I now to be asked what the fortune of the man sitting before me possessed, I would say that he is thoroughly enriched by the treasure of music. For that which exits your mouth once held a place in your soul, and your choice to set it free has made me the richer for it."

At first the eyes had remained closed, but ever so slowly had the lids retreated, as though their retraction would allow the beauty of the images behind them, which had been trapped, would now find a way out into the world at large where they could never be recaptured. With those images escaped a small sigh. The depth of sadness held at once in that face, the lips, the eyes, every line or the lack thereof attested to internal pain.

"How deep the well," the words were whispered under his breath delicately. No effort was made by the man to repair his apparent feeling. In matter of fact, he appeared to be savoring this moment just as he had the last. Once again, the lashes drew the lids downward over those lenses that were a one way ticket in the deep dark depths beneath. From his mouth, the tip of his tongue came out and slipped over the blood-red lips, moistening them ever so slightly.

He had, perhaps, swayed a little as all these things transpired. His arms may have fidgeted a tad, but on the whole, his body had not changed position except that his head had now been laid back against the stone so that had his eyes been open he would have stared up at the sky. The foot of his right leg began to slide forward ever so slightly, rasping only in the smallest bit across the rocky step.

A quick intake of breath, that lengthened as it went, swelling his chest for a moment before it deflated with a another sigh. The look on his face turned to one that might have been regret or a sad happiness. "It smells like rain," his voice was again whispered, but this time in such a way that indicated that it was meant for the veiled figure who had accompanied his song, "Though, I've been known to be wrong before."

The cloaked character smirked slightly as he answered quietly. "It does smell like rain," he muttered back, "literally," he added, pointing up at the sky, which had darkened by the last time the person had seen it. What was bizarre was that only the character's mouth was showing, and despite that fact, he knew that the clouds were reassembling around above.

In a glare at the ground which showed pain and nervousness, the man turned his head away from the other person. He gulped silently, trying to ease himself. He had never liked company. Especially by people he had never met before. It made him think that he was searched for.

"You speak wisely," he continued, but looking away as if he wasn't talking to the man at his side, "but yet, I do not understand what you want with me."

"A moment," the reply came distractedly. The pale man appeared to be scanning the sky above, looking for something. The dark roiling mass of ominous clouds churned like smoke being hurled away from its fiery source by a stiff breeze. "You play beautifully. Some might even call it magical," the gaze was drawn away from the entrancing vista caused by nature to stare at one of those who lived in it. The man, wrapped up as he was, hidden away from sight, was scrutinized in a seconds breadth.

"I wanted nothing from you, Friend, only a moment," as he spoke, the darkly clad man pushed himself laboriously up from his sitting position until he once again stood upon his feet in a steady manner. He smiled, "My foot has quite gone to sleep on me." He indicated the right foot as he put his left arm out to support himself on the stone banister. In contrast, his right arm dipped into the inky folds of his large overcoat and from the pocket of jacket he took out several gold coins and through them among the rest that lay on the walkway before the steps. Even with the dark sky above, they shone with an unearthly gleam. Their make and design was that of doubloons, the kind used as currency in a century long past.

The long, dark locks that fell around his head began to sway in a slight wind, the kind that races ahead of the storm upon the fastest chariots to herald its master's approach. Above, the whistling sound could be heard, like the pale man's, but this was the far more terrible and wild as only nature's howl can be. The absent-minded stranger sniffed the breeze, his eyes closing as he did so. Nostalgia seemed to creep upon him and he was at once sorrowful and at peace with the emotion.

Then, it was gone, though not completely, and he turned to the abundantly clothed minstrel. "Have you a place to weather this storm? Or perhaps you will grace me with your companionship. I know of a wonderful little coffee shop nearby, and there is nothing like a hot drink to warm the spirit in the face of the storm's chilling power," he pointed up at the clouds, indicating a what might have been a storm head and that which lied beneath it, a sheet of rain, "If you will allow me, I will account all the bills to myself, but should you be willing to join me, then we will have to move fast to avoid the downpour." His arm had lowered and he was apparently watching expectantly for the answer of his fellow musician.

The clothed person wasn't used to accept anything from people he had just met, but a certain appealing aura emanated from the now simple man through his eyes. After the mentioning of 'coffee shop', he had changed his mind completely of the stranger. He looked up at the sky, where he could notice the clouds brewing. The other odd person was right. He shouldn't stay here.
The hidden person put the harmonica back under the clothing, and slowly stood up straight, looking at the ground. "It's true that I do not always really like the coldness that is present during storms," the man replied softly, "so it's with great joy that I shall accept your offer, stranger."
His clothes floated with the small breeze that made so many things move in an ethereal manner. The trees' leaves bristled against each other, making a small scratching sound echo in the air. The hidden person turned his head to the other stranger, nodding once ever so slightly as a sign of acceptance.

The smile that was given to the heavily clothed individual was one that might have been described as disconcerting. It was not that it was, in any way, false, but rather the appearance of it that held disturbing power. Already thin lips were pulled even thinner as they pealed back slightly to reveal a set of viciously pointed teeth that looked like they had been filed down at some time to wedged shpes that ended in minuscule tips of infinite sharpness. Any animal of prey would have recognized, in that moment, their predator, given away by the glint of light off of those teeth. Yet, his eyes were warm and welcoming and there was no sign of hostility even in the pearly white blades that lined the man's mouth, but in the next second he had turned his head and started to walk down the street, obstructing the view of his haunting visage. His pace was apparently as rapid as he could make it, with a slight limp thrown in thanks to the foot of which he had claimed a bother.

The wind was slowly picking up more and more. The residual effect was that, all around, objects were being lifted and moved by nature's power: trash that normally sat in the gutters, the leaves of the trees that rested where they had been planted by the roadside, a page of a news paper that had been wrenched from the grasp of some pedestrian or other. The man pulled his heavy overcoat tighter around him as his hair flared out behind him in a sudden gust. His foot had seemed to return to its previous state of well-being and he now sped his pace in the hopes of outrunning the oncoming torrent. That of his coat which he could not hold down flapped back with an almost whip-like crack.

The first few drops began to sprinkle slowly down, bringing with them such a sudden chill that even under the several layers he wore, the pale man was forced to shiver. He turned his head back for a moment to look for his companion. "We'll fare better, I think, if we make a dash for our intended cover," his voice was savagely torn at by the wind's forlorn howling, but somehow it managed to carry itself through the air with clarity. Perhaps it was that his eyes spoke louder than his mouth, but it wasn't fear or annoyance that they talked of... No... He enjoyed this. The strange man who could tell a story by whistling a love song to the sky above seemed to revel in the discordant symphony of the wind and water. "Quickly," he called as he turned and followed his own advice, picking his heals up as he ran with such a sudden outburst of speed that he was a good ways down the street in a moment.

The rain was starting to come harder as he backpedaled fiercely and suddenly to stop himself before he passed his mark. The little green awning the hung above the glass door barely protected him from the rain as it drove down in an inclined manner that would make such a shield a difficult thing to use to any advantage, and sudden, apparently random gusts would drag a bucket's worth of large rain droplets hurtling straight at a person so that dodging the drenching force was quite impossible. The darkly clad musician's hair and clothing was already plastered down to his skin which shown like a pale light upon the moors at night. That face so enraptured with all around it was turned once towards the other music maker and a smaller smile than the last, one that did not show nearly as many teeth and held far less fright, was turned towards that companion. So filled was that look with happiness and mirth. Then he disappeared from view for a moment as he stepped into the coffee shop's interior, his form distorted by the glass and further more by the water running down it. Nevertheless, the warm yellow light from within distinguished his form like a reflection in a dirty mirror.