Serendipity (or Calamity)

To a historian of art and grief,

To a historian of art and grief,

As I now regard my familiar Emberceuse, a swell of awe and disbelief begins to toss and pitch. Is this dizziness of rapture or dismay? I have fancifully attributed personality to the violin and spoke to it more often than I care to admit—riveting discussions, I assure you. Yet, to know that my instrument is possessed of, honest to Oghma, memory is somehow both natural and mad. The thought of experiencing the minds of ancient virtuosi is surely cause for excitement. Still, there remains a terrible trepidation.

As you say, magic is fickle in its favour. What cause have I to believe that it should inhabit me? I haven't the faith of a cleric, the blood of a sorcerer, or the learning of a wizard. Neither my lineage, my deeds, nor my station are, in any way, remarkable. My palace is a hovel, and my entourage bleats and gnaws at my skirts.

If Emberceuse were to select me as the vessel of her power, I would rejoice and accept without delay. Yet, how can I aspire to worthiness? I have ne'er stepped foot on a grand city stage. In the absence of my mentor, study is perpetual toil. Even upon accessing magic, how would I know that it was so? There are moments in practice of complete musical sublimity. I am overcome by a focus so pure and fierce I forget I am thinking at all.

At its zenith, music is clarity. Music is freedom. It is freedom from doubt, from suffering, from society, even from self. I dissolve in music, and the boundaries between matter—between my body, my sound, and all of sweetly shuddering existence—cease to be. I imagine that is what you heard those many years ago when your maestro played in defiance of death—all of creation in tandem vibration. How does one discern magic from music when music may seem so magical?

Gratitude for resisting the temptation to take my violin. Without her, life would fade to the state of my brother's unseasoned barley pottage—bland and only palatable for purposes of staving off starvation. Alas, I am not expecting to be murdered anytime soon and must deny you the sport of avenging me. As it stands, I am of no interest to any except the sibling who covets my coin, and that dastard hasn't the stomach to lay me low. Perhaps I come across as surly, but none of the villagers would bear me a grudge. We seldom interact, save for business, and my dealings are always fair.

You, in contrast, have likely cultivated a collection of enemies as vast as your collection of instruments, though not so vast as your sister's. Your account of her misdeeds implore my quill to voice an earnest and dire declaration: she is truly an abomination. My brother was indeed a selfish, pilfering little leech, heedless of consequence. Yet such heinous acts as you describe were beyond his ken and capability.

I gather there was scant love in your family, what with your mother slaying your father. You say she is not excessive in her cruelty, yet she killed her spouse in a mere financial spat. Therefore, forgive my distrust of your appraisal. Considering their exceptional propensity for homicide, tis a wonder your species has not gone extinct.

Speaking for my own, I suppose humans too find humour in acts of meanness. In youth, my brother and I indulged in our lot of crude mischief. Once, he poured mlk and preserves into my shoes so they would sour and fill with ants overnight. In response, I gathered goat dung and sewed it into his mattress. Summertide is a particularly brutal time for such tactics.

Perhaps my proudest achievement in our childish campaign involved an apple and a beetle. With care, I managed to insert the egg of a great hart beetle into the core of an unripe fruit. When both were mature, I presented them to my brother. He was meant to bite into it, but something yet more marvellous occurred.

Ere he grasped the apple, it began to tremble and roll across the bench like an object possessed. In fact, I convinced him that it was possessed, and his sinful touch had awakened the restless spirit within. Hysteria and hilarity ensued until our meddling parents gossiped. A cleric from two towns o'er arrived to exorcize the fruit. He did not find it so amusing.

Apologies, if this seems a tad presumptuous, but I posit the root of your cynicism and insistence on superiority is becoming illuminated. Still, I would seek to disprove your argument on the hierarchy of value in sentient lifeforms. I have heard tales of sagely storm giant elders who have lived for seven hundred years and, though their bodies are embrittled, may endure another century. I have heard of the gold wyrm, Palarandusk—the Unseen Protector—who has seen five thousand years but whose eyes are still bright.

Finally, there are the humble, mindless gelatinous cubes, speculated to be immortal unless slain or starved. According to the Venerable Aggar's Bestiary, there may be remaining cubes from ere the First Flowering—older than some minor deities. Shall we then herald them as supreme beings, worthy of obedience and worship? You are welcome to found the cult of the cube, if it pleases you.

Is a rose less beautiful than a cornflower because it blooms briefly? You are a musician. To perform is to embrace the most fleeting of ephemeralities—a ripple on the wind to flower in the ear and fade to memory. If might and longevity are your measure of value, perhaps bronze sculpture is an art better suited to your sensibilities. And what of your maestro? Did you not spare him by virtue of a single performance—momentary and unrepeatable? Why was this man more worthy than generals and magistrates whose inscribed names and effigies adorned their city in stone?

Did the halfling composer, Amarus Mattz, have centuries to perfect his art? Nay, the vintage of his genius was poured out young. He perished ere his thirty-sixth birthday, yet any lover of music would bow before his shrine. Tis to him and his six hundred and twenty extant manuscripts that we owe much of modern harmony and form. The innumerable tears drawn out by his strains would fill the loch of Dragonmere. This you must know, having arranged his requiem.

In this vein, I would advise altering your standards should you again seek a lover. Your species, it seems, shares the common affliction of massive sticks—nay, entire trunks—up their arses. The concept of romance as solely a function of prestige and procreation is woefully archaic, though shared by many humans of equal stuffiness.

Tis a modern world. Your teacher was a half-elf. I know of an Orc and a Gnome who are supposedly quite content together, though I do ponder the physical details. Your last letter implied that your kind does not form permanent partnerships, so what harm may come from casual dalliance with a so-called lesser life-form? Unless your females boast truly extraordinary anatomy, the copulation bears no risk of fruit.

Truth be told, I was unaware that such a union—that is to say between two women—was possible. Do you know if it is commonplace or even permissible amongst humankind? I have always found women more pleasing, but knew not that it was allowed by the laws of society or nature. Tis not that my village hosts an abundance of lovely maidens to admire but rather, as you so eloquently expressed, that men are about as enticing as a wet boot. I already have a pair drying at the hearth and have no want of another. I anticipate that a woman, however, may someday prove desirable. Tis unfortunate that the marital veil descends upon us so soon. I am certainly the eldest unwed girl in this village or the next.

That your fantasy involves the organ does not surprise me, but I did not anticipate such fervent interest in your local community choir. They must indeed be exquisite to perform the Cormanthyr Requiem. I have ne'er borne witness to a performance, but Demik directed me to analyse a transcription of the sequentia in theory. Twas not for the faint of heart or breath. Personally, I favour the Lacrimosa.

You have clearly dedicated much thought to joining the ensemble but abstain for dread of fear and animosity. If you polymorph to watch their concerts, I wonder that you do not simply conceal your appearance in rehearsal. By my appraisal, your fantasy is not so fantastic that it is impossible. I bid you claim happiness, if and while you can.

From,

A musical spinster and her magical memory violin

----------

Requiem in D minor, K. 626, Sequentia, Lacrymosa (Mozart)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dy2ZWL2oxJU