Tale of a Telltale Pianist: The Immortals Journey

Nocturne Op.9 No.2


A commotion came to The Pianist's ears as he sat, silently behind a velvet shade. He sat utterly silent waiting for it to draw and for him to play; the Ivory keys tempted his fingers, as they do. A weight feels as though it is placed on his shoulders as it is hard to breath. Each breath was deep and personal, as though they each came directly from his heart, not lungs. The plan danced in his mind: Fingers moving at an elegant speed, playing the song he had played for two hundred years. In the very spot he had played long ago he sat once more. The Grand Piano sat in front of him, stained green and weathered by time; it was special to The Pianist. For he had gotten it from a friend long ago, in a time long forgotten by mortals of this existence.
Finally the curtain began to rise; for this shade which had hidden him can no longer hide the elegance, of a Pianist in deep thought.

He sat there, patiently waiting for the entire audience to be silent; slightly ushering for an attendant to try and hush the whispers of aristocrats, in their booths. It irritated him: How people with such trivial issues, could sit there and complain about the things, in which enrich their lives.
An eerie hush fell over the crowd finally, and the pianist began to wade on his emotions. The Stadtschloss was more packed this evening: so naturally he wanted to put on his best show. He whispered unto himself, "Andante" and began to play. Each key echoed loudly into the loud auditorium; bringing with each noise, a sense of sadness and longing. It was Nocturne, OP.9 No.2 by Chopin, The Pianist's favorite. For it brought him great pleasure to provide such a song worth playing to the ignorant masses, which watched him play it.

For this one moment his disdain for the attention of people drifted away, along with his troubles. This one moment he felt right as though he belonged. Not only in the time frame but in this world, in which he has experienced since before Pianos existed.
Since before he found a place he belonged in, inside this world full of hate.
Still the keys were heavy with feelings: his love and hate for this immortality he pertained rushed into his song. It gave him a sense of accomplishment, even though he knew no one else was able to feel or even begin contemplate. For this was his feeling, his accomplishment.
Slowly, but surely though this feeling began to wane as the song ended. His sentimental feeling was laid to rest, and he sat there once again. In his piano chair: as the audience watched on and cheered politely. The sounds of stage hands were not drowned out by the noise, as they patronized him, and marveled at what they called, "Miracle Hands".

So he stood up, turned to the audience, and bowed, before walking off stage. His coattails followed closely to his legs as his heavy footsteps echoed. His piano was wheeled off to the side as dancers began to twirl into his place. Sitting off to the corner, he examined the prancing of the 'Artists' as they are so called, began to prance and spin.



That is all he could do after all, watch and observe the people as their lives pass before his eyes.

END CHAPTER 1

Law of the Land

He stepped out of the backstage, and into a flurry of passer by's. The stage let out straight onto the sidewalk, perfect for The Pianist, for he did not want to interact with people. As he set foot on the cobblestone road a loud rumble followed by a rush of horses interrupted his stride. He faced a large, imposing, and black carriage; drawn by six black stallions. The Pianist scanned it, spotting a golden Prussian Eagle on all sides of the Folding Head. Slowly (and dramatically) the door on his side opened, letting a small carpet fall unto the ground. Out from it stepped a large imposing man, with facial hair covering most of his lower face. The Pianist couldn't help but notice the age was sowing on this man; with grey hairs taking prominence over his (seemingly) once proud demeanor. With a sigh, The Pianist took his knee impatiently and asked, "May I ask whom you are, my lord?".

The man scoffed through his facial hair rather impotently, stating, "I am the head representative of the House of Hohenzollern. I am here representing Prince August Wilhelm of Prussia: he....has an interest in your music. The Prince has requested you are to meet with him in the Imperial Palace of Goslar immediately. I shall accompany you there: I hope you don't have plans." The Pianist took to his feet cautiously, he sighed, brushing off his pant leg impatiently.
"May we head to the Palace then?" Asked the Representative.
"We may" Responded the Pianist as he walked past the man and took seat in the carriage.

He shut the door and sat facing The Pianist, with an annoyed look on his face. "His majesty, the Prince is on leave from his study at the Reichstag building; and may I add, he get's bored easily. So he commissioned me to find a talented musician here in the Capital. He feels in order to one up his brother towards the throne, he needs to produce a piece which.....How should I state this? The Prince wants to produce a piece which..." The Pianist rose his hand to eye level and interjected, "A piece to use to one up his brothers? i have had these deals before." The Representative furled his brow at the blunt response of such a common man. "I hope you are not this straight forward with the Prince. No one is in the mood to cause a schism within his family-"
"How is it that a simple Pianist can create a rift within the Royal Family?" The Pianist interrupted once again."
"That is none of your concern" He replied quickly.


And just as the conversation came to an end the scenery of the Capital City of Berlin, faded away into the distance.

A Man Whom History Loves

(Come on guys who you no postin')

The countryside dragged onwards: bringing no interesting points to The Pianist's attention. It was all a blur of green fields, and blue sky; something which after so long, had begun to be a bore. Everything around the carriage was constant in it's movements. The cows grazed, the farmers tilled their fields, and the children played. All paying no heed to the black carriage, which stood out distinctly from the background environment. It seemed the norm that a coach laden with the symbol of House Hohenzollern, would ride through the small towns accompanying the country. The Pianist began to drift into space, thinking of the strange new genres of music being played in places like America. It was a strange place to The Pianist, having only ever lived in Europe. He wondered about the far off land occasionally.
But his train of thought was interrupted by the loud, neighing horses and the sudden jerk of the carriage coming to a halt. He began to get up, curious to what came into the path of their journey. The Royal Representative rose his hand to chest level and began rambling about proper carriage etiquette. "One mustn't bother himself with the problems of commoners-" He began, obviously noticing that the man in his company was not listening.
Then the carriage door flew open, startling both Men inside. A soldier stood present, Gewehr 98 slung over his shoulder, half-shouting, "Hurry! There has been an accident on the road and a fire has broken out." The Representative seemed dumbfounded by this new, barely able to get up before The Pianist was out the door. He landed gently on the dirt road, kicking up dust as he set foot on the ground.

The Inferno was clear to see, the heat was intense enough to repel a person from looking at it. But The Pianist just looked on, before asking, "Mr.-" He turned around and looked at the soldier dogtag, continuing, "Mr...Adolf. I guess that there was a munitions factory located in the center of that fire?" The soldier nodded slightly before stating, "Yes. It is Lieutenant though: There was a factory making Gewehr weaponry located around the Jewish Ghetto. It provided much income into the town-" He began to mumble, "And I bet they caused it too."


Lieutenant Adolf at the time he met the Pianist

The Pianist rose an eyebrow in curiosity, a person who was so open about his Antisemitism was indeed a strange sight to The Pianist. Usually the kind he knew were more to themselves, but that was irrelevant. There was still a fire raging through the city.

Then the Representative burst out of the carriage, barely tripping over himself on the last step. "And how does this Fire effect our trip to Goslar?" The soldier turned to him and confirmed the obvious worry of the Older man, "The road to Goslar is cut off, you will either have to wait in a camp for it to be put out. Or take a detour through a neighboring township, around twenty Kilometers North." The Representative turned grey, "That could take three days!" He began to rave about how the army should be doing a better job of things such as this. But The Pianist was not interested in such things, excusing himself without word.
He walked out of view of the carriage, towards a refugee camp: It was filled with soot covered children, and burn victims with nothing less than simple bandages on their wounds.

Then from out of nowhere a man spoke out to the Pianist, "I heard your heading to Goslar..." The Pianist turned towards the voice. It was a man covered heavily with bandages, the only places free of them was his face. How he figured out where he was going was far from the guess of the Pianist. The man spoke in a cracking voice, damaged obviously by the fire. He moved his hand to uncover some of the gauze, to reveal Lieutenant stripes. "I just need you to tell my unit commander I am alive. Then I can get you a ride."

Reluctantly, with no other option, The Pianist nodded his head, "Fine I shall do so."