Mmkay. This is written for the November Challenge at The Order of the Knights of Santiago, owned by the weirdo, Mexicano27. :D The theme used here is rain. The ballet is "The Legend of Love."
Disclaimer: I don't own the libretto for The Legend of Love. The music is by Arif Melnikov and the ballet was choreographed by Yuri Grigorovich in 1961. The libretto is by Nazim Khikmet.
Everyday was torture. He could barely live without her while he struggled to overcome his weakness. No one knew what it is; they only knew that it crippled him beyond belief, impaired his ability to concentrate on his task, stopped him from ever being whole again. If only they knew that it was Shryin, his love, who was his weakness. She was miles away, enjoying her life without him, a poor artist who had only hindered her ability to give to the world that shunned him.
His hands tightened on his pickaxe as he thought of his Princess's sister, the Queen, Mekhmeneh Bahnu. She was the cause of all his grief. Her cunning mind, jealous fits, everything she did was to spite him. She claimed to have feelings for him, yet she tore his heart into pieces when she made him choose. The people or love.
He felt the rain coming down on him, bringing him soothing feelings along with it. He smashed his pickaxe into the rock, calming himself with the thought of the villagers. He stopped and rested for a moment and craned his neck, trying to catch sight of the villagers, undoubtedly ecstatic at the light precipitation.
He saw them as he moved back, his pickaxe dropped onto the hard, stone ground of the unforgiving mountain. They leaped with joy, danced with superhuman abilities, as if the rain and joy brought them to the full extent of their powers.
He scowled again as he picked up his tool and raised it high above his head, again angry with his fate. Why was it he was doomed to serve his people, to be away from the only one he had ever truly cared about?
His hands curled around the handle, forcing the wood into his skin, blissfully distracting him from the pain in his chest. He hated how his heart constantly toyed with him, whole one day, battered the next. Was this his future? Was he really fated to spend his lifetime yearning for the one person he couldn't have, hoping he could hear her say his name, and wishing for her to be with him for an instant, just to relieve his pain?
He'd finish this job one day. It would not be his life. He wouldn't allow it. He only wanted to spend his life with Shyrin, away from this horrid mountain, this horrid pickaxe, this horrid rain, this horrid life. He refused to let this one task consume him, take over him, the way jealously took over Mekhmeneh Bahnu when she had seen Shryin.
It was pouring now. He hated it. The villages were overjoyed, he knew, grateful for a slight pause from the endless drought that plagued them. Even with their joy, he could not stop from frowning. The constant slamming of the rain against the ground echoed with the sound of his heart ripping itself into millions of pieces, smashing itself against the rocks and his pickaxe, his tool, his only companion.
The rain had stopped. Only the slight drips of water, falling off of the mountain peaks, remained. His hands remained tight around the pickaxe as he contemplated his fate, wordlessly yelling into the wind, challenging the world to strike him down and end his suffering.
There was no answer. Ferkhad stared blankly into the sky, until he remembered his duty to this world in this life and picked up his pickaxe, falling back into routine as he tried to forget about how the rain sounded like how his heart felt—torn and abandoned by the world that had decided to let him suffer without any way to escape.