The Audition (October 3009) - [One-Shot]
Mar 20, 2018 14:03:46 GMT -5
Post by Niphredil on Mar 20, 2018 14:03:46 GMT -5
Outside, the autumnal air was crisp and cool, sweeping in long tendrils through the winding, busy streets of Minas Tirith. The sunshine overhead was muted, overcast by fluffy, white cloud, casting shadow over the laughing and vibrant life that passed by the little home on the third tier. Spirits were bright, a sense of energy coming to the city of white stone with the cooler temperatures. The energy was pulsing and carrying through air, flooding the little upstairs bedroom.
The window was open, the curtains pulled back and billowing about as if in a dance in time to the music. It was a bright tune, plucked from a standing harp. Long, nimble figures slid and leapt from string to string, coaxing the instrument to breathe the music into the air that hid inside in its stillness. Niphredil could feel the sunlight on her face, hear the joy and pleasure of the folk as they made their way to and from the market, and in her mind she turned the simple room to the grand hall of the Steward himself. The desk, the chest of drawers, and the bed with its woolens all disappeared, replaced now by comely women in fine silk dresses, twirling about on the lead of their handsome partners.
She was no longer alone in her room.
Niphredil was one of the many sitting and playing for the attendants of the Yule Ball, the annual event the Steward hosted to fill his white halls with warmth and laughter. Her music was helping sweep feet and gown alike around in twirls and lifts, and her own heart hummed and raced alongside her fingers.
A bold finish, and brown eyes once more opened; the visions of grand party and guest were gone, and once more Niphredil was seated in the middle of her bedchamber alone in practice. She smiled, drawing her shoulders back with pride. This was the year, she was certain. She had worked harder this year than ever before, and her music felt like life’s breath, living and warm and moving. When she arrived to the audition the next day, Niphredil would be able to sit with poise and confidence and play her tune, and the Steward’s men would leap at the chance to sit her amongst the elite players of the city.
Niphredil had auditioned before. Many times. Year after year she came to sit in the lone chair, surrounded by those Lord Denethor himself entrusted with his events. She played her soul into sound, offered everything within her, but found herself each year passed over. No longer.
With a content sigh, Niphredil stretched her fingers, and once more placed them at the ready, beginning anew the tune she had prepared for use in the morning. As she began to play she sought to lose herself once more into the sweeping and vaulting notes, though there came to her the sound of the front door closing in hurry and the clamber of feet climbing up the stairs instead.
“Niffy!”
The cry was a familiar chorus in the home from the youngest member of the household, the sound interchangeable between anguish and elation; the only difference the way the ‘y’ of the familiar nickname rang out. Long and drawn meant Rovain was crushed or angry, quick and short meant the girl was ecstatic or excited.
Today, she was happy.
Niphredil dropped her fingers from her strings, smiling to her wooden door just in time to see the entry swing open with great force and reveal a set of pink cheeks and brown eyes upon the other side. “Niffy!” She trilled again.
The young woman laughed, spying the glittering stars in her sister’s eyes. “I’m right here, Ro,” she answered in kind, her own voice matching her sister’s for warmth, though with far softer inflection.
“You’ll never guess who I just saw,” the girl gushed, hurriedly shutting the door behind her and moving in a blur to throw herself upon the Niphredil’s bed. Niphredil’s trained brown eye followed, laughter bubbling up from her chest, and smirk pinching playfully.
“Oh, it wouldn’t be Fin, would it?” She hummed. The redheaded glazier had long been a friend of her own, owning the shop that was just a short walk from their own storefront below. The young man was no stranger to anyone in the household, and yet in the recent months, it seemed, that Finlach had captured the attention of some of the more impressionable hearts in the family.
Niphredil could understand. Finlach had about him a boyish charm, carried in himself a heart of summer sunlight, and was certainly handsome and in a way that was less conventional. But even beyond his kindness and appearance, Finlach worked hard. He was steadfast in his craft making good use of his eyes that saw life in things that were dull and misshapen. There was not day that Niphredil saw his work and was not in awe of what he had done with his own two hands and a vision.
Certainly many thought the young glazier a fine young man, though perhaps none were quite so vocal as young Rovain, who had heard the man laugh not but two months prior and was suddenly captivated, as if she had never heard such a sound from him before.
Rovain looked to her sister from the bed, her legs already swinging at the side, a slight incredulity in the small gape of her mouth. “How did you know?” She asked innocently.
Niphredil smiled, and shrugged to hide the small trembles of laughter that threatened to come forth from her lungs. “Lucky guess,” the young woman hummed in reply.
It seemed to satiate young Rovain well enough and with a wistful sigh she threw herself to splay onto the bed, knees and legs yet dangling over the side. “He was at his shop,” she sighed wistfully.
“Was he now?” Niphredil offered in question. Truly, he was rarely anywhere else. Sometimes it felt like she had to pull him from that kiln of his, though other times she did not mind letting him work. Sitting and practicing her harp while watching him create art from fire and sand was amazing in its own way.
“Mhm,” Rovain answered. “Father and I went to fetch the focal beads he was working on for Lady Círban’s new trim for her gown, and he was there. He smiled at me, Niffy. He said I looked nice today.”
Niphredil pressed her lips together in a vain attempt to hide her growing smile, though the curl still sneaked in upon her lips’ edge. “Did he? Well, you do look nice, Ro.” There was not a person in the house who minded their appearance more than Rovain; recently she had begun asking their parents for cosmetics, like the ones Mother sometimes wore. Much to her dismay, she had not yet been allowed such things.
“And then, when I left…” Rovain turned to look to Niphredil, a girlish grin upon her face. “He said he would see me later.” The blissful way the words poured from her lips made Niphredil shake her head, no longer able to hide her growing amusement. “I think it’s a date, Niffy. Like the courting ones,” Rovain added in a whisper.
“Oh, well, I wouldn’t go around telling people that. Some might think you’re too young to court,” Niphredil offered, laughter still ringing in her words.
“You should try courting,” her little sister pressed, propping herself up on her elbows before sitting once more. “I think Eruli has been talking to the boy at the grocer’s stall.”
Niphredil offered an affectionate chuff of air, turning back to her harp. “You mean when she buys groceries?” She larked in question.
“You didn’t see her. I think the boy thinks she’s pretty. Like how Fin thinks I’m pretty,” Rovain frowned to her. Her brown eyes were serious, prodding—a look that Niphredil did not think belonged on such a young girl’s face. “You’re pretty too, Niffy. Maybe Eruli and I can find someone for you, too.”
Gentle plucks began to coax the harp back to life, and Niphredil glanced to her youngest sister for a moment, brown eyes dancing. “Dragging her into this now, too?”
“Well, Father says we’re the outgoing ones,” Rovain protested, hauling herself to her feet. “You’re old enough now. You can get married, you know.”
“Thank you for your advice, Ro,” Niphredil hummed, marking her sister as she moved back for the door, fingers plucking their way through her song once more.
Rovain paused and looked over her shoulder, for a moment, her face falling serious. There was something in her brown eyes that looked sad, or fearful. And for a moment, Niphredil’s smile faltered. “I mean it, Niffy,” Rovain pressed quietly, words almost a murmur. “Don’t get too old. It’s dangerous.” She paused, waiting for the words to sink into the low sounds of revelry wafting from the pulsing street below her window. “I am going with Gwae and Haleth to the grocer…see you at dinner.”
“I love you,” Niphredil said quietly Rovain slipped back into the hall, door clicking closed behind her.
“I love you, too,” the girl offered back once she was safely hidden.
Niphredil knew was going to need to talk to her again. Tomorrow evening, after her audition. Perhaps Mother’s weakness was beginning to take a toll upon the youngest member of the house. But it was nothing she could fix tonight. By this time tomorrow she was going to be heading home from the audition, balancing precariously on the precipice of elation to bide her time for the week the Steward’s men would take to decide who would be called back for further auditions.
Her heart hummed, and she smiled down to the harp, sunlight once more raining down upon her face, fingers working the strings into liquid notes, showering the street below with a sweeping tune fit for the Steward’s Hall.
This was going to be her year.
The window was open, the curtains pulled back and billowing about as if in a dance in time to the music. It was a bright tune, plucked from a standing harp. Long, nimble figures slid and leapt from string to string, coaxing the instrument to breathe the music into the air that hid inside in its stillness. Niphredil could feel the sunlight on her face, hear the joy and pleasure of the folk as they made their way to and from the market, and in her mind she turned the simple room to the grand hall of the Steward himself. The desk, the chest of drawers, and the bed with its woolens all disappeared, replaced now by comely women in fine silk dresses, twirling about on the lead of their handsome partners.
She was no longer alone in her room.
Niphredil was one of the many sitting and playing for the attendants of the Yule Ball, the annual event the Steward hosted to fill his white halls with warmth and laughter. Her music was helping sweep feet and gown alike around in twirls and lifts, and her own heart hummed and raced alongside her fingers.
A bold finish, and brown eyes once more opened; the visions of grand party and guest were gone, and once more Niphredil was seated in the middle of her bedchamber alone in practice. She smiled, drawing her shoulders back with pride. This was the year, she was certain. She had worked harder this year than ever before, and her music felt like life’s breath, living and warm and moving. When she arrived to the audition the next day, Niphredil would be able to sit with poise and confidence and play her tune, and the Steward’s men would leap at the chance to sit her amongst the elite players of the city.
Niphredil had auditioned before. Many times. Year after year she came to sit in the lone chair, surrounded by those Lord Denethor himself entrusted with his events. She played her soul into sound, offered everything within her, but found herself each year passed over. No longer.
With a content sigh, Niphredil stretched her fingers, and once more placed them at the ready, beginning anew the tune she had prepared for use in the morning. As she began to play she sought to lose herself once more into the sweeping and vaulting notes, though there came to her the sound of the front door closing in hurry and the clamber of feet climbing up the stairs instead.
“Niffy!”
The cry was a familiar chorus in the home from the youngest member of the household, the sound interchangeable between anguish and elation; the only difference the way the ‘y’ of the familiar nickname rang out. Long and drawn meant Rovain was crushed or angry, quick and short meant the girl was ecstatic or excited.
Today, she was happy.
Niphredil dropped her fingers from her strings, smiling to her wooden door just in time to see the entry swing open with great force and reveal a set of pink cheeks and brown eyes upon the other side. “Niffy!” She trilled again.
The young woman laughed, spying the glittering stars in her sister’s eyes. “I’m right here, Ro,” she answered in kind, her own voice matching her sister’s for warmth, though with far softer inflection.
“You’ll never guess who I just saw,” the girl gushed, hurriedly shutting the door behind her and moving in a blur to throw herself upon the Niphredil’s bed. Niphredil’s trained brown eye followed, laughter bubbling up from her chest, and smirk pinching playfully.
“Oh, it wouldn’t be Fin, would it?” She hummed. The redheaded glazier had long been a friend of her own, owning the shop that was just a short walk from their own storefront below. The young man was no stranger to anyone in the household, and yet in the recent months, it seemed, that Finlach had captured the attention of some of the more impressionable hearts in the family.
Niphredil could understand. Finlach had about him a boyish charm, carried in himself a heart of summer sunlight, and was certainly handsome and in a way that was less conventional. But even beyond his kindness and appearance, Finlach worked hard. He was steadfast in his craft making good use of his eyes that saw life in things that were dull and misshapen. There was not day that Niphredil saw his work and was not in awe of what he had done with his own two hands and a vision.
Certainly many thought the young glazier a fine young man, though perhaps none were quite so vocal as young Rovain, who had heard the man laugh not but two months prior and was suddenly captivated, as if she had never heard such a sound from him before.
Rovain looked to her sister from the bed, her legs already swinging at the side, a slight incredulity in the small gape of her mouth. “How did you know?” She asked innocently.
Niphredil smiled, and shrugged to hide the small trembles of laughter that threatened to come forth from her lungs. “Lucky guess,” the young woman hummed in reply.
It seemed to satiate young Rovain well enough and with a wistful sigh she threw herself to splay onto the bed, knees and legs yet dangling over the side. “He was at his shop,” she sighed wistfully.
“Was he now?” Niphredil offered in question. Truly, he was rarely anywhere else. Sometimes it felt like she had to pull him from that kiln of his, though other times she did not mind letting him work. Sitting and practicing her harp while watching him create art from fire and sand was amazing in its own way.
“Mhm,” Rovain answered. “Father and I went to fetch the focal beads he was working on for Lady Círban’s new trim for her gown, and he was there. He smiled at me, Niffy. He said I looked nice today.”
Niphredil pressed her lips together in a vain attempt to hide her growing smile, though the curl still sneaked in upon her lips’ edge. “Did he? Well, you do look nice, Ro.” There was not a person in the house who minded their appearance more than Rovain; recently she had begun asking their parents for cosmetics, like the ones Mother sometimes wore. Much to her dismay, she had not yet been allowed such things.
“And then, when I left…” Rovain turned to look to Niphredil, a girlish grin upon her face. “He said he would see me later.” The blissful way the words poured from her lips made Niphredil shake her head, no longer able to hide her growing amusement. “I think it’s a date, Niffy. Like the courting ones,” Rovain added in a whisper.
“Oh, well, I wouldn’t go around telling people that. Some might think you’re too young to court,” Niphredil offered, laughter still ringing in her words.
“You should try courting,” her little sister pressed, propping herself up on her elbows before sitting once more. “I think Eruli has been talking to the boy at the grocer’s stall.”
Niphredil offered an affectionate chuff of air, turning back to her harp. “You mean when she buys groceries?” She larked in question.
“You didn’t see her. I think the boy thinks she’s pretty. Like how Fin thinks I’m pretty,” Rovain frowned to her. Her brown eyes were serious, prodding—a look that Niphredil did not think belonged on such a young girl’s face. “You’re pretty too, Niffy. Maybe Eruli and I can find someone for you, too.”
Gentle plucks began to coax the harp back to life, and Niphredil glanced to her youngest sister for a moment, brown eyes dancing. “Dragging her into this now, too?”
“Well, Father says we’re the outgoing ones,” Rovain protested, hauling herself to her feet. “You’re old enough now. You can get married, you know.”
“Thank you for your advice, Ro,” Niphredil hummed, marking her sister as she moved back for the door, fingers plucking their way through her song once more.
Rovain paused and looked over her shoulder, for a moment, her face falling serious. There was something in her brown eyes that looked sad, or fearful. And for a moment, Niphredil’s smile faltered. “I mean it, Niffy,” Rovain pressed quietly, words almost a murmur. “Don’t get too old. It’s dangerous.” She paused, waiting for the words to sink into the low sounds of revelry wafting from the pulsing street below her window. “I am going with Gwae and Haleth to the grocer…see you at dinner.”
“I love you,” Niphredil said quietly Rovain slipped back into the hall, door clicking closed behind her.
“I love you, too,” the girl offered back once she was safely hidden.
Niphredil knew was going to need to talk to her again. Tomorrow evening, after her audition. Perhaps Mother’s weakness was beginning to take a toll upon the youngest member of the house. But it was nothing she could fix tonight. By this time tomorrow she was going to be heading home from the audition, balancing precariously on the precipice of elation to bide her time for the week the Steward’s men would take to decide who would be called back for further auditions.
Her heart hummed, and she smiled down to the harp, sunlight once more raining down upon her face, fingers working the strings into liquid notes, showering the street below with a sweeping tune fit for the Steward’s Hall.
This was going to be her year.