Nightingale PV Rowan Bane Finished

Rowan had been rolling down the hall, his wheelchair surprisingly silent at this hour. Class had just finished, that's why he was in this wing of the castle. Everyone had a reason to be somewhere. The stack of books sat in his lap, shuddering slightly at every bump in the stone floors. He was planning on heading outside again. 

Fresh snow had just fallen after all.  Was still falling. Rowan looked outside as he moved down the hall, the white powder shimmering in the sunlight. Peaceful over the rolling hills. Crisp, cold air blew through the open windows, clearing his lungs for once. Usually he was heavy with grief or self deprecation, but today was a good day for him, surprisingly. No crowds to overwhelm him in this wing. Just the calm air to accompany him.

The breeze didn't only bring the crisp air though. A melody reached his ears. Slow and beautiful, aching to be heard. He turned his head away from the windows, his gaze landing instead on a cracked door. It didn't sound like a radio, or a recording. He'd have to deal with people. But... He wanted to hear better. It was a risk he was willing to take. 

Keeping pace, he went over to the door, pushing it open slowly, as to not give the old hinges a reason to whine in protest. Last thing he needed was the person to notice and stop. He didn't want to interrupt their performance. 

Rowan paused in the doorway, letting the sound wash over him for a moment. But whooptie doo, would you look at that, a book slid from his lap, running everything as it slammed down onto the floor with a crash. He sucked in a breath, tensing up instantly. He didn't even try to pick it up yet. What done was done. 

Ingenium mala saepe movent.

“How many times do I have to tell you
Even when you’re crying you’re beautiful too
The world is beating you down, I’m around through every move
You’re my downfall, you’re my muse
My worst distraction, my rhythm and blues
I can’t stop singing, it’s ringing, in my head for y—what the deuce.”

Cel's eyes flew open and narrowed, their usual lopsidedness disguised by the shadow of hair falling over the single green iris. The piano bench stood constant even as she jumped a little—the meager girl's insubstantial avoirdupois was not quite enough to displace it despite the smooth floor—and the glow of the orb faded into the background as her own surprise turned the simple piano chords down, although the music did not stop completely. The thud of books was a sound she was familiar with, enough so that under other circumstances she might not have reacted at all, but the girl had been expecting silence, nothing to interrupt her song.

Couldn't she just sing for once?

Seriously. Every time she tried to sing alone in the Rehearsal Room—every single time—she was interrupted, some wandering vagabond drifting in to comment on how talented she was or whatever. And sure, sometimes it wasn't so bad—the improvised masterpiece she'd created with Ami as a result had been worth it all the way—but, well. Every time. Maybe this was Fate's way of telling her that she should just stay in her dorm, where she could sing unbothered. Her dormmates knew her better than to interrupt senselessly, and if it was them, she didn't even mind that much.

After her initial internal soliloquy of complaint, though, she tilted her head, breeze nudging a couple strands of hair to fall inelegantly into her view. The echo of song still thrummed in her mind, and it was not until she had stopped singing that she realized how dry her throat had become. And the young Ravenclaw took in the boy who had dropped the books: crisp icy hair, skin as cold-looking as hers, a crown of crimson petals so stark against the bitter white that she blinked for aa moment. And—she would die before she admitted that it took her that long to notice—a wheelchair.

Well, in her defense, Cel was both short and sitting down, not the best combination for noticing a wheelchair. And besides, wasn't that a good thing? To notice the person before the disability? Perhaps that thought could make up for what next escaped from her mouth. "How did I not hear your wheels?" she burst out, then clapped a hand to her mouth. Gah, she really needed to learn to think before she spoke; Svana was right. The crestfallen look in her eyes was nothing short of genuine, and nobody but the worst could regard it as anything else.

Apology was writ on her features well before it followed her speech. "I—I'm so sorry, I didn't mean any—that was—that was supposed to be just, meant to be a... a critique for myself, you scared me... ugh. I'm... I'm so sorry. That didn't come out right." Oh, didn't it? She mentally smacked herself, almost felt like physically smacking herself, settling for a little pinch on the inside of her wrist, a nervous habit, no more than a spasm of her fingers that just happened to rest on her skin. Now she couldn't even be mad at the intruder for encroaching, and she'd almost made it seem as if it was his fault. Hadn't she learned anything from interacting with Professor Lian? Or maybe she was overcomplicating it again. How incommodus. Cel should have just stayed in her dorm.

Reducio

Ingenium mala saepe movent = misfortune often stirs up genius
What the deuce = something similar to what the heck, just with deuce as a replacement lol

They both actually stared at each other for awhile. Rowan took a shorter time though, as his mind always took in information too quick. An advantage, at times, it seemed. Most often a disadvantage though.  Dark hair, short, small, pale in contrast though. It wasn't the only thing in contrast it seemed though. Her words proved that she was not so sweet and small like she may seem. 

Snapping at him about his wheelchair. Interesting approach. She seemed to instantly regret it though. Or more so catch herself on manners, if not regret it because it was rude. Ravenclaws were something he had yet to know much about. Ironic, wasn't it? Knowledgeable about the knowledgeable. 

Rowan slipped the remaining books in his lap into his bag, before leaning down to pick up the fallen brother. He always seemed to grow overly analytical in the rehearsal room, the few times he had been here. Scared of making a wrong move, he supposed. He didn't used to be like that though. 

The girl had asked a question. Though the remnants of song still hung in the air, beckoning to him. He rolled forward slightly, demonstrating at first, to answer her question. At first, the wheels were a little loud, the rubber sticking to the floor slightly, and the metal of the wheels themselves squeaking in protest. Once he rolled for a few moments though, the wheels went silent again, now in motion as he moved forward to her side. A few feet away from her side, actually.

He studied the contraption in her hands, still silent. His curious gaze slid over it. He prefered Riley's music actually. But the orb was at least close to an actual person playing it. Almost exactly the same, in all honesty. The music still clung to the air, whispering, tempting his voice to come out to play. 

And for once... he gave in. A cautious breath in was all the warning she got before he joined the remains of the accompaniment. 

"My head’s under water
But I’m breathing fine
You’re crazy and I’m out of my mind." 

Only when the verse ended did he realize what he had done and he froze. It was a song he knew well. The pitches were perfection. Tone incredible. Crisp, clean sound. Even after years of misuse, his vocal chords knew what to do, and responded exactly where he had left off. Nothing short of perfection, like his parents demanded with everything. His voice was equal with her actually, if not better. Which was... not supposed to happen, though here we were.

His voice was surprisingly soft when he spoke again, after a short moment, the familiar french accent touching his words. 

"You didn't finish the verse." 

Ducunt volentum fata, nolentem trahunt.

Fate leads the willing and drags the unwilling. Cel inhaled, cringing internally at herself, as the boy whose name she still did not know retrieved the fallen book and rolled forward, answer demonstrated in his action. How ironic it was for her; music floated off her tongue like clouds and writing flowed from her quills like honey, yet the words that made their way out of her mouth unscripted were broken and strange like charred bricks, scattered and disorganized, likely a better reflection of her mind than any other form of communication.

A chill slid over her hands—the orb, glowing slightly more as if preening from attention—and her fingers curved slightly around it, almost protectively. It was something precious to her, despite the fact that it was technically school-issued, enough so that she'd asked if she could take it home with her last summer. She'd been denied, but not without instructions to where she could find one elsewhere. Parker had ended up making one for her anyway.

But nothing could have prepared her for the boy's voice, because ecastor, he was good. The control, the pitch, the little undertone of skill—the usual accompanying pinch of envy was overridden by surprise, then further suppressed by genuine joy at finding someone who had an ability as strong as her own. Cel's eyebrows rose almost but not quite imperceptibly, pointer finger rising to tap the side of the orb, turning the accompaniment up a few notches. Little did she know that the action was unnecessary—the magic wound around her mind, tying her thoughts to the music, was precise enough to detect the pulse of shock and excitement that speared through her thoughts.

And then she sang, too.

No waiting for the boy to finish speaking. The song was continuing without a vocal; it would continue. The magic was not so strong as to mute its simple chords without direct prompting. A split second of stumbling, of registering generally alien, new emotion, and she opened her mouth again, vocal folds caving to cradle a melody a second time. Once a song had started, it was difficult to leave it.

“'Cause all of me
Loves all of you
Love your curves and all your edges
All your perfect imperfections...”

Silken harmony drifted into the room, a little twisted at first to rush into the right tempo after the milliseconds of hesitance. But a couple of words in, and the rhythm smoothed out, the cadence of her voice flowing through the room in waves. Before, she sang casually, a little moment of peace that she had—that she thought she would have, at the very least—to pursue a pastime. Alone. Without interruptions. Hmph. But now she had competition, or at least not competition but someone who might impose judgement upon her. A little more than that, someone who could impose correct, detailed critique on her, the girl who feared failure, despite her rare encounters with it, at least in music, at least not superficially.

Now, the timbre of her voice thinned then thickened as she switched from register to register, vibrato gentle but present, her mind intent on the heartbreaking cadence sweeping across the air, a clear, rippling liquor. The soft lilt of her music swaying through the room like rustles through a forest, ancient and youthful at once, cadence dancing this way then that, quality improved sevenfold. She had an audience now, someone to impress, even if the young Ravenclaw knew that she should not see it that way. After all, speech would do no better than song, and if the music was to hang between this new acquaintance and herself, then so be it; the whisper of song could carry her through this.

“Give your all to me
I’ll give my all to you
You’re my end and my beginning
Even when I lose I’m winning...”

Oh he liked her. 
But to say just that would be an understatement. She legitimately gave him the perfect opening to belt out the next few verses. He now loved this girl. Wait, why is the gay guy saying he loves a girl? Oh right, it's platonic, that's why.

Anyhow, back to the singing, which was the spotlight at the moment. His spotlight, to be exact. The girl had picked up right where he had left off, and stopped right before the part where you are legally obligated to belt the song out. That was enough to draw him back out of his self conscious  mind, and allow him to sing, not on instinct this time, but actually trying. Trying to make it perfect. And yes, feel free to call  him a show off, because that's exactly what he was doing. Showing off.

"'Cause I give you all of me
And you give me all, all of you
Give me all of you

Cards on the table, we’re both showing hearts
Risking it all, though it’s hard"

Dead. On. Tall vowels, perfect breathing even though he was sitting slightly slouched, tone quality impeccable, I could go on and on. But not only did he have the skill and vocal chords to sing like that, but he had the musical knowledge to create a musical harmony part, and sing it in real time.  In real time. His little brain barely broke a sweat. Show off indeed. But more so, he was giving the girl an opening to join back in, and finish the song off with him. He chose a lower, tenor part, giving the girl the melody. 

The next words would be easy, as it was the chorus again, and so it went as such, notes rolling off of Rowan's tongue, and hopefully coaxing the other girl's voice back out, so they could dance along the lines of the staff together. 

Luceo non uro.

I shine, not burn. As she trailed off, allowing the boy to pick up the next part of the song, Cel could barely keep a grin from making its way onto her face—and why not, anyway? She had competition now—well, perhaps competition was not the word. Neither was rival. What was it? She had an equal now, for lack of better words. The smile twitched at the corner of her lips for a moment, then the girl dove back into the song, slipping smoothly into a point that seemed naturally fit for a harmonizing melody to begin. The first five words were sung in unison with the boy’s own voice, and then she stepped up an interval, easily sliding a woven second voice into the piece. And, oh, that harmony.

“'Cause I give you all, all of me
And you give me all, all of you…”

Her voice spun and twisted, somehow stepping into something ever more beautiful and mesmerizing, past analyzing the finesse in control of her breath and her tone, the ever so slightly accented syllables, or even the skillful, purposeful jumps between registers. But what she herself heard was a moment from before—singing with Parker, his voice good at best but still not bad, her natural harmonizing ear seeping neatly into every challenge he decided to present her with. Perhaps she was well past training in that faction at this point, but dare she say that she missed it?

Now came the bridge.

Bridge, shouted her mind in raw excitement. Oh, she loved the bridge. Up to this point, her voice had been smooth amber, spinning its threads into a delicate masterpiece, a fragile, tragically beautiful sculpture of grace. Truth to be told, there were better songs to demonstrate the entirety of her skill—actually, no song really could, completely, due to her vast range of musical affinity. But this one, with its bridge included, was nothing short of what was necessary—the smile sweetened her voice as she anticipated, exhilarated, what was coming to her. And this could either be extremely awkward, depending on whether or not the other was fast enough to switch tunes, but judging from what she’d heard so far, it would be no trouble for him. Time to belt.

“Give me all of you
Cards on the table, we’re both showing hearts
Risking it all, though it’s hard-”

No trace of strain or stress on her vocal cords. Just pure, unrestrained power behind the push and pull of her diaphragm, probably the only muscle in her body that could be regarded as strong at this point. Her voice lit up and sustained, even as she swung her legs over the side of the piano bench and muted the orb in one swipe, hands landing on the keys perfectly—pure luck, right there; even she had her limits—and picked up where the music had left off, protracting the accompaniment of the last note. The climax was nigh. And all right, maybe she wanted to flaunt it a little. A little. Maybe a lot, but could anyone blame her? Cel had been met with competition, albeit friendly. A rival. She was not going to risk the wrong message getting across.

Higher, higher, crept her voice, climbing her range as if scaling a mountain with the flourishes that came brandished from her throat, hands moving in unison to her voice, and then—then was the top of the arpeggio, and she exited her chest register in favor of whistle tone. How glad she was for her being a coloratura. Cel jumped two octaves, the clear note, a glass bell rang in the clear mist of morning, ringing out, reverberating.

Ow. That wasn’t smart.

But she returned to the song, this time singing the main melody instead of the natural, higher harmony that she had been using earlier. Notwithstanding the young Ravenclaw’s pain, her voice was spotless, never tripping or wavering even as she continued on the piano. Her register never tipped into her throat, breathing flawless, push of her stomach tightly regulated throughout. As she returned, though, the power behind her vocal cords remained contained, pushing into the rightfully accented syllables with just the right amount—just the right amount to hit the sweet spot.

“'Cause all of me
Loves all of you
Love your curves and all your edges
All your perfect imperfections”

Here the girl allowed a crescendo to creep into her voice, the short breath she took controlled and uniting with the music to become a part of it. The power returned, and she tilted back her head, tendrils of wavy hair cascading backwards over one another. Tiny flourishes, appended to higher notes to embellish, but not to distract. They were not needed for a good display of skill, but they were simply natural for her—as reflexive as blinking when something was thrown at her face.

“'Give your all to me
I’ll give my all to you
You’re my end and my beginning
Even when I lose I’m winning…”

Decrescendo into a softer, sweeter dance of melody. Cel left the piano, tapping the orb back into function—beat so precise that the music that had been muted and not merely turned off still matched the song—as she faced away from the black-and-white keys again. A little hand motion toward the boy that she hoped he would understand to indicate a switch of roles and she was back to a harmonization, skipping a couple of half-steps upward, tweaking the simplicity just barely to match her own fancy. It would be… nicer to finish the song like that, with a higher harmony and a lower baseline.

Rowan obliged, flipping parts seamlessly. She wanted the harmony? Fine. He didn't mind taking the harmony. Though it was a little boring of course. Soon enough he didn't have to worry about that though, as the song was over. Which, mind you, also wasn't ideal,  but it wasn't terrible. Rowan wouldn't sing in the first place so they were just back to the beginning now. 

As they both cut off he lapsed into silence, looking around at room, which now seemed so quiet without their voices. Though the orb was still going, and he wanted to talk. He reached out, tapping the orb so it would be silent once more. He had seen the girl do this, so it wasn't too difficult to figure out. 

She probably didn't like him touching her things, but he wanted to at least get her name if they were going to sing for awhile. His voice was soft, like usual, french accent returning once more as he spoke.

"Sorry. I just figured it may be best to get to know each other if we're going to be singing and such for awhile. My name is Rowan. Yours?" 

Clean speech, suggesting both calm and some amount of high blood. Pureblood. Which would explain the talent to some extent. More opportunities. More pressure. Many many things. 

Arcus nimium tennis rumpitur.

Constantly stretched bows will break. The quote had, simply put, turned around and whacked her in the back of her mind as the memory of Svana’s castigation glared down disapprovingly at her poor choice of flourish. Worse, Cel had forgotten to bring a water flask down the tower with her; there would be no liquid relief. She hadn’t even warmed up beforehand… although, at least she wasn’t in danger of vocal nodes. All of Me wasn’t the most stressing song out there. Still, she ought to have simplified the flourishes. Her opinion was neutral—in her perspective, both simplicity and slight embellishment worked for this particular song— but could it possibly be overdramatic, or just too much?

She flinched back just slightly, almost imperceptibly, as the other boy leaned forward to mute the orb that still pulsed slightly with outro music—chords already fading out with a faint decrescendo. Almost dropped it, actually, but she refrained from doing so, instead raising it slightly to meet his finger before letting her hands rest comfortably once again on the folds of her robes. The orb was a precious possession of hers; not everyone was allowed to touch it, but a single tap would be all right—though he could just ask her to turn it off.

Cel’s attention quickly turned to analyzing the other’s speaking voice as he began, head tilting quizzically in consideration. French accent, though most definitely not to an incomprehensible degree. Relatively gentle, similar to his singing voice, and well-rounded speech—unlike many students, yet similar to others. And—Rowan. An interesting name. Idly the girl wondered of his wand wood. Would it be rowan as well, good for protection and purity, or a contrasting material? Likely the latter. Coincidences rarely happened, or so should be the case. Perhaps a wand carved from a normal ash tree, then, instead of mountain-ash. The Wayfarer’s Tree had a long history in folklore, she knew; either in worship of Sif or in prediction of snowfall.

Wait. He’d asked a question.

”My name is Celynne,” the young Ravenclaw responded, a split second later than what might be deemed normal. “Cel, if a sobriquet is more to your preference.” What a strange tendency she had—to imitate others’ speech patterns, at least until she became more comfortable with them. And only very rarely did that occur. A curtain of thin formality still remained between the two almost-strangers; some level of eloquence would be expected of her. Perhaps not to her degree, but she tended toward formality nevertheless. At a loss for what to continue with, the girl went silent, leaving a space for Rowan to continue the dialogue instead. Small talk—or any conversation at all, really—was, quite unfortunately, not her specialty.

“Celynne..” 

He tilted his head to the side a little. An elegant name. He almost remembered it somewhere, didn’t he? Rowan felt like he should know that name! Where was it? Somewhere in his whirlwind head he drew up scraps of memories, searching for where he may have heard that name. It wasn’t common, so where would he have heard it?

Still. There was a... more pressing issue? Cel looked like she was dying. Her voice was scratchy too. Rowan pulled his own water bottle out of his bag, going to take a sip before he saw how she eyed it. He held out the bottle to her. Maybe this was what she needed..? Merely thirsty?

His mind wandered back to his other thoughts. Where had he... oh. Oh. Oh dear. Rowan’s face stayed calm as he offered her the drink still.

The memories clawed to the surface, screaming to be heard, drowning every other thought out. 

A young girl staring at him from her father’s arms. Probably entranced by the many oddities of his appearance. Pure white hair, silver bands around his fingers, jewels piercing his ears. The many eccentricities of his line of pureblood. His father was likewhise adorned, though standing farther ahead, talking to his mother, who looked to be an angel with such a pale complexion, and such elegant features.

It was no underestimation that his family was attractive. Though they were cruel. Detatched. Full of anger at imperfection. Manipulation was not common.

”Now celynne, staring is quite rude. Leave the young man be.”

Calling Rowan a young man was very wrong, but he didn’t mind. He was young. Still forced to sit still and look pretty like his parents liked.

Rowan was sent upstairs. He never figured out why she was there the first day. 

When the second memory came though, he realised why she may have been there.

It was not of a visual, but rather a conversation. 

“Now- miss the child is pureblood. She’s quiet. She’ll play nice with your son. She’s too young to remember anything much of us by now. She’ll have no problems in your family.”

He was too young to understand when the conversation took a turn.
His mother spoke next.

”Then why give her away, if she is to be so perfect?”

A male tamber responded. The same from before. 

“She’s... not mine. She’s my wife’s, but not mine.”

”And does your wife wish the child away as well?”

A pause.

”Yes.”

The language switched to french, indicating his parents were talking. 

“He is lying. And even if he wasn’t, I want nothing of the child of the damned. It will only bring trouble to this house.” 

His father replied only with a soft ‘hmph’ of agreement. Again, the language switched. His mother spoke once more.

“We wish nothing of the child. Leave with your lies.”

”No- please- just hear me-“

The sound of wood scraping metal.

“Leave this house.” 

The memory ended. 

He looked up at her, whispering softly. 

“The child of the damned.. I have heard you before.”