Notes: The characters are not mine and the ficlit is! Rhapsody14 introduced me to the song Fuer Dich by Pohlmann. It sounds so much like Autor and Ahiru in my post-series verse! I made an AMV with it, complete with Rhapsody14's translation. The AMV also inspired this accompanying, multi-part ficlit, which will use prompts from the Livejournal community 30_Deathfics. Thanks to Rhapsody14 for the inspiration!
Akt the First
Prompt: #6 - Innocence
The autumn night was cold.
If she had been there, she would have surely complained. Even as a human, she had never liked the chill.
A fire was roaring in the old fireplace, the flames' reflections crackling and dancing on the side of the black varnish and tinting it a reddish-orange hue.
He noticed it somewhere in his mind, but the light show was not his top priority. Even so, he consciously thought about it enough to note that she would have been fascinated by it. He half-expected to hear an excited exclamation. But of course he did not. There was no one here to take pleasure in such simple things.
He sat at the piano, his hands poised over the keys. But before he could bring his fingers down to begin the construction of a new piece, he stopped, frowning.
He had never done this before. What was the urge pushing him to it now?
Perhaps a better question was, Why had he never done it before?
He had wanted to for so long. Many times while sitting at the piano and pondering on the subject of his next composition he had considered writing one for her. But for some reason or another he had always changed his mind and picked a different topic instead.
He had written about his hopeless love for Rue. He had written of sorrow and loneliness, both in the past and in the present. He had composed pieces for some of the wild adventures, times long gone that he would never have again.
Once he had even, foolishly, written a bit of music for Ahiru and Fakir. He was not sure why. It had been done on a whim late at night with a candle burning on top of the piano. He had never even intended to share it. But during one of Fakir's visits, on another whim he had played the piece for the other boy. Fakir had been more surprised than anything else, then somewhat sad. He had seemed moved, however, and had thanked Autor for letting him hear it.
Now Autor had decided not to put off this other composition any longer. In his mind he had already planned out several chords. It had happened almost without his realizing it, as he had thought of her and all that he and Fakir were now without. Notes had come to him when he had envisioned her in the past, and continued to build and flow as he concentrated on them. It was time.
He found the opening—bright, cheerful, and yet with just a touch of mystery. As he played he thought of her and all that encompassed her beautiful soul—innocence, friendliness, selflessness, absurdity, curiousness, a touch of immaturity . . . the charm that she had not known she had.
Few hearts had been quite as closed to someone like her as his had been. But she had touched him even when he had refused to believe it, and had continued to change him long after he had finally opened his heart to her and her priceless offer of friendship.
He loved her and grieved for her and missed her every day, as did Fakir. Though she had meant different things to them, they had come together in their mourning.
Fakir had been angry at first. It was understandable; Autor had really expected such a reaction from him. Not only had Fakir been upset over Ahiru's death, but over the fact that Autor had been close to her too, and knew things about her Fakir did not know. They had very nearly come to blows over it once. But when Fakir had come to his senses and stepped back, he had apologized and left in a drastically subdued state.
It had been after that when he had started to gravitate to Autor. He had wanted to know what Autor knew—the times he and Ahiru had spent together, what they had talked about . . . everything that Fakir did not already know from what Ahiru had said. Autor had complied, determining that under the circumstances Fakir deserved to know, and they had spent many long hours in conversation.
Ahiru was gone, but she lived on in their memories—and in the piece Autor was writing. He was celebrating all that had made her who she had been.
He should have composed it while she had still been alive, he reflected. He should have played it for her and seen what she would have thought.
She would have been surprised at first, no doubt. She had never seemed to fully realize the impact she had on people.
Later she would have been curious, wondering what each change in the mood of the music represented. Perhaps she would have been somewhat annoyed by some. But overall, he liked to think she would have liked it. He could imagine her suddenly embracing him without warning, thanking him for writing it and sharing it with her.
She had taken him by surprise so many times—hugging him, latching onto his arm, dragging him off to one thing and another. And though he had often been disgruntled, he had also been amused, and had secretly liked it after a time. No one had loved him as she had. No one ever would again. She had been so unique, a free spirit never bridled with cares for long.
After his own experiences, he knew this life was not the end. Someday, God willing, he would see her again. And maybe in the meantime, she was hearing his composition after all.
He knew when it was done. He took the sheets down from the piano shelf, looking through them with care and precision. Everything was in place. Everything had been said that he had wanted to say. There was just one thing left.
Taking up his pen, he wrote at the top of the first page in his clean and neat handwriting.
He leaned back, inspecting it for a moment. It was simple, yet those two small words said so much. The title was deceptive, perhaps; it was far deeper than it might appear on the surface.
Just like Ahiru.