Spellbound

Chapter 1 - Overture

TW: talk of death (I know, great start to a story :) )

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Stephen had never really cared for music, never really cared for any of the fine arts at all. His entire life revolved around numbers and stringent rules, not ever taking the time to think abstractly. To him, there was only one way to solve a problem, and that was through logic and reasoning.

But for the life of him, he couldn't find any logic to the problem before him.

You.

He watched you as you entered the stage, cello in hand. You wore a pair of black dress pants that flare out at the bottom, and a white flowy blouse with sleeves that went past your hands. Gold jewelry glinted as the lustrous lights beamed down on you. You took a small bow as you reached center stage, before taking your seat.

The entire room went silent as they waited for you to begin. You were one of the most prolific performers of your time, and you knew how to captivate an audience.

You especially captivated Stephen.

The lights dimmed over the audience, leaving you in the spotlight.

You lifted your arm, preparing for the downward bow of the first note.

The audience was held like a puppet in suspension, and you were the puppeteer.

The strings were cut, and you were off.

In a flurry of 32nd-notes, you started, your sound resonating through the entire auditorium. Your hands moved deftly across the fingerboard, years of practice allowing you to play with ease. He practiced using his hands to cut and remove; you used yours to create.

You made it look easy. Hell, you didn't even have any music in front of you; you had it completely memorized.

As you played, Stephen felt himself being enchanted by your music. That's what confused him; a man of logic enjoying a form of art, an abstract interpretation of life, the expression of emotions, and the human experience.

Continuing your piece, you looked at ease, and he saw your eyes scan the audience. When your eyes landed on him, he swore your face lit up ever so slightly. He gave you a small smile, and you beamed at him, and with a boost of confidence you played on, slightly more energized and bright.

His gaze continued to linger on you, your eyes closing as you concentrated. You had an assortment of gold bands on your fingers, small enough to not hinder your movements. You also had gold nails that paired well with the rings, and an almost choker-like band of gold wrapped around your neck.

You were a goddess.

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5 minutes earlier

The crowd was gathering behind the curtains you were anxiously pacing behind. Even though you've performed hundreds of times, you still get nervous, the fear of failure taking over every sense.

You rosin your bow again, the mundane task distracting you momentarily. The bow scratched nicely against the yellow block, and a little dust cloud formed.

You heard someone calling your name, and you grabbed your cello, forcing your hands not to shake. The person led you to the side of the stage, standing in front of you, blocking your view of what was happening. He looked like a stereotypical bodyguard; shaped like a mountain, black suit that was slightly too small for him, Ray-Bans that hid his eyes, and a corded earpiece in his left ear.