Ὀρφεύς - Orpheus (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
golden_lyre) wrote2018-08-07 05:39 pm
golden_lyre) wrote2018-08-07 05:39 pm
Entry tags:
The Drowning Fiddler
The Drowning Fiddler is a little pub in Earl's Court that Orpheus has been visiting, on and off, for about two hundred years now. In more recent decades, the basement has been remodeled to double as a concert venue, and a number of bands who went on to be famous got their start on its cramped stage. Having spent a good deal of time and a good deal of coin at the bar, Orpheus has come to know the owner, Martin, well enough that he's occasionally asked to fill in for any musicians who back out at the last minute or on any nights when the stage isn't booked.
(Orpheus suspects that Martin keeps nights open when business isn't going well, so Orpheus can help him pick up the slack. Orpheus doesn't mind. He always puts a little encouragement to drink in his music when he plays. Martin deserves it.)
It's a Wednesday night, and though that's the Fiddler's least busy night in general, the room is packed. There wasn't a lot of time for advertising, but since the advent of social media (something Orpheus still can't quite get his head around), a few hours is all the notice needed to fill a room when he plays.
There's no amplification system because Orpheus never needs one, and there's no one to introduce him. He just sidles onto the stage, whiskey in one hand, cigarette in the other, and takes a seat on a wooden stool. As he settles himself (whiskey on an unused amplifier, guitar in his lap, still lit cigarette tucked between two strings), the room gradually quiets, but anyone still speaking comes to a hush when Orpheus starts to play.
He starts off with something quiet, something that feels like a Wednesday night, a needed breath of fresh air and freedom in the middle of the week. The room relaxes in the wake of it, as if communally exhaling in relief, and Orpheus smiles, loving the moment he knows he has the audience in the palm of his hand.
A quick sip of whiskey, a couple of drags on his cigarette as he retunes his guitar, and then he plays what they all came here to hear.
Something to dance to.
(Orpheus suspects that Martin keeps nights open when business isn't going well, so Orpheus can help him pick up the slack. Orpheus doesn't mind. He always puts a little encouragement to drink in his music when he plays. Martin deserves it.)
It's a Wednesday night, and though that's the Fiddler's least busy night in general, the room is packed. There wasn't a lot of time for advertising, but since the advent of social media (something Orpheus still can't quite get his head around), a few hours is all the notice needed to fill a room when he plays.
There's no amplification system because Orpheus never needs one, and there's no one to introduce him. He just sidles onto the stage, whiskey in one hand, cigarette in the other, and takes a seat on a wooden stool. As he settles himself (whiskey on an unused amplifier, guitar in his lap, still lit cigarette tucked between two strings), the room gradually quiets, but anyone still speaking comes to a hush when Orpheus starts to play.
He starts off with something quiet, something that feels like a Wednesday night, a needed breath of fresh air and freedom in the middle of the week. The room relaxes in the wake of it, as if communally exhaling in relief, and Orpheus smiles, loving the moment he knows he has the audience in the palm of his hand.
A quick sip of whiskey, a couple of drags on his cigarette as he retunes his guitar, and then he plays what they all came here to hear.
Something to dance to.
no subject
At his question, something deep within her soul locks into place, the final piece of a puzzle incomplete for thousands of years finally bringing their stories together to start anew. Shall he sing her to sleep?
"Please?"
His playing is divine, it's true. But Eurydice hasn't heard her Orpheus truly sing for her since--
"Please."
no subject
"Close your eyes, Eurydice." He savors her name, feeling it in his mouth like the most exquisite delicacy.
He takes a moment, a breath, a beat, to consider, and then he sings, low and sweet, the sort of lullaby his aunts sang him as a child, full of warmth and comfort and the surety of sleeping safely in the care of someone who loves you.
no subject
A frisson of pleasure runs through her, goosebumps rising on bare skin as the sound of voice in song purely for her wraps love all around them.
This is what had been missing. Happiness has been found, and it’s her beloved Orpheus with her once more. Eurydice smiles, and lets herself drift into sleep, safe and secure and so deeply loved, in the arms of her husband. Her last thought as she lets sleep claim her is that she can’t wait to see what all their tomorrows will bring.
no subject
[ooc: here. :)]