:The Music of Silence: (Whilaroo)

--Because the last one was baleeted for some reason before I could correctly reply to it.--

Cities, to begin with, were just nearly normal-sized mixes of various buildings of diverse uses and services. They were, normally, populated with a great cast of people, going from the powerful, the wealthy, the poor, the healthy, the miserable, the normal and so on.
People say that our society has evolved since that time. Surprisingly, and ironically, it hasn't much.
On the white marble steps of a church, of which the windows reflected the faint light that managed to pierce the thin clouds covering the sky, sat a cloaked, dirty figure. Breaking the cold monotony of the white marches that led to this religious building, was this form, covered with dark clothes of dull colors. The gentle breeze lifted the clothes delicately, but it could not push enough to even let the eye perceive a mere feature of this entity.
Two, pale, skeletal hands held a black metallic object, from which whistled a majestic tune, a beautiful voice. Dried, dead blood-colored lips were cautiously parted on the silver surface of the said object, blowing within a mince stream of breath.
The music stood out in the monotonous atmosphere of the city. It was full of harmony, of which nor the people nor the buildings had, and this mere difference was able to make the docile sound pierce the train of thought of any man, making them attentively listen to the elaborate music coming from deep within the lungs of this form.
In front of the discolored bard, laid a small dirtied piece of cloth, on which few coins that glinted gold and silver had been dropped, either gently by the hand of a child, delicately by the hand of a woman, or determinedly by the hand of a man.

The large heavy door seated in gray masonry stood, a giant made of wood and metal, and guarded the interior or perhaps the exterior, as if whatever god was inside was being barricaded one way or the other. Many people would look at them and see foreboding, others would look up and be strengthened, and still remaining were the people who wouldn't care or bat an eye as they walked past those doors. The great stone walls of the building were a brilliant contrast to everything about them upon the street, causing the rest of the buildings to look dirty and disheveled at best. It was as if the world cowered in shame, as far away from this place as it could get. It was a place of accusation, of damnation... Even the structure seemed to know that, inanimate and lifeless as it was, it seemed to rise above a fallen world, pious and pompous in its glory.

Stained windows gazed down, the scenes depicted in them alternately tragic and happy, morose and exuberant. Money and power were completely evident in the looming thing, and yet, defiantly, upon the steps of this very building sat a man who was anything but powerful and rich, anything but clean and collected. And yet, sitting there as he was, it was as though he were a greater work of art than those same stained windows above. As beautifully as they were crafted, so was his music that much more astounding. As impressive as every arch or pillar, so was his music that much more breathtaking. It was as if the breath of an angel had escaped just outside the door to the church and found its way into a bunch of tattered garments, and was trying for all it was worth to sing out with its glorious voice the praise of its own song.

It was upon this scene that the massive, dark doors slowly creaked open. Actually it was only one of the large doors, and it came apart only to enough to allow a solitary figure passage into the open world. But from within was darkness and a cool breeze whisked away into the sky, as if some black spirits who had been within detained now drug with them the air of the grave as they took to the sky upon their vile business. They were quickly proceeded by a man, all dressed in black as though he were either just come from or just going to some funeral or other. His long dark hair swirled about, as did his coat as he seemed to be bidding farewell to someone within, a figure whom could not be seen and who only might have been heard had the listener possessed very sharp ears to cast his own parting remark and some sort of apology. The darkly clad figure shook his head as though to shake away the apology and then turned down the steps. The door shut with a sort of muffled thud behind him and slowly he began to descend.

His thick black boots made no sound of their own as his feet touched the marble, however, and silent was his progress. When he reached the player of music, he seemed simply inclined to sit down and sprawl himself across the steps. A look of regret rested upon his features but instead of indulging himself in that emotion, he instead chose to partake of the bittersweet melody that danced its way through the air like snow flakes dance in the wind as they fall, or rain as it drops into the see dances a fabulous jig that sends ripples cascading outward with each drop. His eyes closed in what might have been contemplation or even ecstasy. Either way the face that had been so possessive of a depressed expression only moments before now took upon itself an aura of peace and tranquility. All the lines smoothed out and one watching might have guessed that the enraptured man had found a long lost love or some other such strange passion.

So he sat there listening, with his raiment sprawled about him in the same fashion as his limbs, all in disarray. Fold upon fold of black cloth was draped over the stairs now, like black blood which had bled out of some great dark bird who had met its final resting place there on the steps of that church. And he could have very well been dead or asleep, assuredly he was wounded, though whether in the soul or body was hard to tell. His head lay back to rest on the step above and his hair fell down around it in the same manor that a halo does, only it was a much darker hue than the traditional halo. Thin hands rested upon the marble steps as if to hold up the last vestiges of strength, or perhaps they were just resting. Stranger sights have been seen, but this was of indeed odd, a sparrow and a great black raven so arrayed in proximity to the large white cliff.

The person continued the melodious thread for much more time than it would normally of taken to notice something as contrasted than that of the shadow raven on the steps of light. But that was most probably because the man had his eyes covered with the scarf, and that he couldn't see past his nose, literally. As well as it had begun, the song had ended, and the instrument was delicately placed in the palm of the man's pale, cold hand, of which the long skeletal fingers curled upon to firmly close upon the metallic object before the hand slid it under the scarf, on the shoulder.

The masked head turned as slow as ever towards the laid-down entity. A few faces from the children which had been calmly listening to the angelic voice had frustrated, even angered faces stretch upon them as they heard the music stop. They were called by their birthgivers before they pointed their heads in their direction before scampering over to them. The hidden male was not affected by the least of this reaction, as if an opaque, yet invisible wall stood before him and his instrument ands the rest of the world. Even though, that was hard to imagine, because people always think there are hidden messages that lie in the most beautiful of things, such as the air that had been blown by the lungs of this person, who had yet no resemblance to neither demon, neither angel, but just a man who would seem to be the complete opposite of whatever what one would think.

Resting on one hand after having hidden it under the large sleeve of the dark brown turleneck the man wore over his body, he kept his head to the other lying down. One could wonder what had made this man do this certain action, to rest next to a person who had neither intention to be with someone, yet neither intention to be completely alone. A normal person would've kept walking, at least to get to their bed, he thought. This dark form, that resembled so much as the fallen bird from the cloudless night sky, grasped his attention like a vice grip. As elegant as one man of royalty, he lifted both sleeves to place them against his temples, lifting the upper part of the scarf, also lifting the lower part, still hiding his nose. One piercing eye peered through the tight opening of the dark crimson scarf, reflecting a color of blue that would've made any normal person be deceived at first glance. Dullness and monotony was revealed in the iris of this certain eye, annihilating all effect of the angelic being that both men and woman thought he could've been.

"Tiring day, isn't it?" the man asked nearly sarcastically, addressing the words to the maybe-sleeping man. His voice was gentle and it croaked, even though nearly imperceptibly. The voice of the angel still came out of the only slightly parted purple lips of the man, who had, at first glance, nothing that people would refer to him as a being of light.

He had remained unmoved all while the music had played, and even after it stopped, like a statue that had been carved out of the same stone as the steps, as though it were one with the marble. And yet it was black against the white, the great black form. Like a bat with leathery wings cast about, he sat enraptured in a dream, placid and calm, even when the people left, even when the children were called away. He remained, perfectly still in every way. If his chest even still took breath, it was imperceptible. If his heart still beat blood, one would not have been able to tell from the cool skin which was as much the same hue as the marble as his clothing wasn't. Like the water of a lake frozen into a mirror, unbroken by wind or tide or any living thing. Thus sat he, that darkened angel, still entranced as though the magic of the music had woven a spell, binding and unbreakable around him, a captive to its power.

Then came the voice. One might have thought that even a voice so beautiful would have shattered the mirror, would have caused that placidity to break in a manner of violence, so taut was the thin string which seemed to balance the ever-dangerous, black-winged beast between peace and destruction, but it was not with suddenness that he would be awakened. Instead, slowly, he seemed to come forth from the dream, a sleeper who had been drowning in the fantasies of oblivion pulled back to the surface for a breath of air. Yet he did not gasp for it, but reluctantly sniffed it in through an ever patient fluttering of the eyes. This his of air entering through his nose was accompanied by the rise of his chest once more as his breast expanded to welcome back life even when his eyes said it was not welcome. And so, groggily, he was drawn back to the present, to reality's cold embrace.

With a final sigh of resignation he looked over, his head slowly rolling to the side. "Indeed it is, but what beautiful work it is that brings us a desire to rest. Yours is more beautiful than most. I only wish I had such a trade to weary me as you do," from some mouths those same words might have carried a sharp note of the sarcastic bent or even outright scorn, but here, spoken into the frosty air of winter's clutches, they were heartfelt and even forlorn... His near-black hair cascaded, a darkened waterfall down the white steps. "You make the music of an angel, and your voice holds a similar quality," again the dreamy tones lifted themselves and plodded through the air, "how is it that you have come by such endowments?" Question posed, he waited, staring, dark eyes affixed politely upon the man to whom he spoke, without causing a stare. The rest of the body remained unmoving so that only the head had moved, and the mouth formed itself around the simple words, the eyes which had cleared conveying nothing but an inquisitive state of mind.

The form chuckled slightly under his breath, merely hiding it with one dirty brown sleeve, of which an angel's clothing could not be made out of. The whole appearance of this thought to be divine creature had everything against it, either with or without its consent. Its legs seemed glued to the marble itself, nearly merging with it, despite the great contrast of color and shape.

The angelic sound called out again, flowing gently out of purple lips as it coursed, "I am pretty sensible to flattery, stranger," it replied so calmly, "it seems to me like you want to get something out of me by only your voice and action. I don't know where this talent comes from, so I'm either pleased or regretting that I cannot answer you correctly. But, you, sir," it continued, the voice unchanging, callous, "why is it that you come to sit next to a person who you have never met?"

The man awaited the answer silently, transforming into a dull-colored statue on the marble steps. The man did not move at all, and, unnoticed, his chest expanded and flattened as he breathed very quietly. He did not make a sound, as silent as the carving on the wall, on the steps of white marble, as the clothed statue that one would've mistaken him for.

The head rolled back to allow the man's great dark eyes to gaze up at the heaven's expanse, though they were obscured by the almost white gray of cloud cover. It was not, evidently, the sky which he meant to look at still, for once his head had completed its motion, delicate eyelids once again closed themselves over those black gates to the fiery depths of the man's soul. His perfectly etched, pale features formed themselves around the thoughts in his mind, or perhaps the images he beheld upon the backs of those thin eyelids. The result of their workings was a smile of mirth, despite its small size and slowness in stretching the lips across so immovable a face. Even in its brilliance it was still tempered by the teeth which it revealed. They seemed almost ready to pierce the already blood-red lips and stain them further into more evocative colors yet. With the smile was the head tilted back, as if some sort of silent and private laughter were being portrayed in such a way that no sound was needed to indicate its presence. It did serve to expose a pale but strong neck which had hitherto been concealed under a scarf as dark as the rest of his clothing. How vulnerable he looked like that, a great, black winged creature who laid there as if fallen from the heavens, and now even his weakest point was shown to the world, that small and easily broken throat.

When came the speech did not fade the smile in the least, but seemed rather to strengthen its presence and meaning. "Had I not ever taken the time to talk with a stranger, I think I should have found it quite difficult to meet anyone at all," he did seem to be chiding slightly, but not in an unfriendly way. Rather it was like a friend, speaking to another of the enjoyment he had found in his companion's words. "Besides that," he waved his hand in a faint, dismissive manner, "Do the greatest of men not pay away their very souls to hear the music of angels? And here, I am given the opportunity to listen to those heavenly strains for the price of only a little of my time, and that is not so much at all to pay for the exchange of a moment of rapture to the very celestial dwelling from whence this music was breathed." And with silence fell the hand, so white and cold looking, to meet the marble steps which did share its properties. How akin they did look, as if one belonged to the other and even as though they were a complement to the finished work that the artisan whose fault was this building had originally intended.

And the man did seem lacks to part from the position. Perhaps the will, upon which we have already discussed to the point of digression, pressed down on his own so that he thought as one with those intentions and plans and did seek to make a finality of that endeavor incomplete. Neither did his clothes nor body stir for a time. It was as if oblivion had consumed him and he had become marble and his clothing like onyx, carved so that it was in every way without blemish or mistake. The coat flowed down over the stones as though it were real, the hair too had a sense about it that might have even convinced a passer-by that there once had been a living being to which it belonged, but had someone with them, some companion perhaps or just a a stranger making a stray comment, claimed to have believed the black clad figure to be anything but some ancient statue erected with the building itself, they very simply would have laughed in that person's face. Then a breath of wind stirred the air with a kind hand and whisked only softly to batter it about, and in its churning, the air disturbed the hair and clothes of the man, and even caused a shiver to ripple across his lightly-hued skin. And with the movement, even so small as it was, the effect was disrupted and one would have noticed the gently heaving chest and the small nuances of a person that call out and speak of the life within that shines without.

Again turned that thin, even gaunt, face, to look upon the hidden form of that fallen-angel-who-would-be. "A question I have asked, and a question have I answered. Pardon me for my curiosity, if you will or not, but another question do I pose to you," it were as if he was reciting some sort of rhyme from his childhood, but his darkly grave voice and the tones he lent to it, though still friendly, had an odd feeling about them that was not natural to such verse, "Why do you use your gift so freely as this, and make music of such incredible beauty for free? Many artists have been forgiven eccentricities such as your attire for the astounding quality of their fingers or lungs or minds in the composition of the note or lyric. And bedraggled as you may be, there is assuredly someone who would give a great deal to have talent such as yours at their disposal. So why then take what you have and peddle it away on these stone steps?" And the shadowy sound of his voice ceased, leaving a sort of ringing echo of its own music, a black melody that did not sit altogether well with whatever warmth and light there may have been in the air about him, or why else would they have seemed to be chased away? But as his mouth no longer expelled the little clouds of steam which accompanied breathing in general in such weather, the meager sunlight which did make its way through the clouds brought back its small measure of cozy warmth down to the chillingly cold steps once again. Or maybe they were drawn back, and now seeped into those deep black wells that were the man's eyes to feed the fire within, that edge that could be seen around the darkness. That edge which sometimes looked as if it were only barely contained, madness behind sanity, a raging fire behind a slowly burning door, the inferno of Hell itself hidden by its own bleak shadow. Still, they inquired, looking for an answer, whether or not one be given.

-Don't delete this topic. After the vacations, I'm going to reply to this.-