The caverns shook with the low notes of the steam organ as Vilar leaned into the foot pedals, tossing his wildly expressive mane of orange hair, eyes closed tight in rapture, tears upon his cheeks. He let his dancing hands strike the rows of lapis lazuli keys, lifting from them music both sweet and sad. The moisture from the steam glistened on his creased brow.
The cavern into which the ancient instrument was built became a sound chamber, with towering pipes set into points of harmonic resonance in the undulating basalt. The tune was a traditional one, pared to the story of an Iron elf and a sulfur elf who fell in love and bore the first spark of organic life in the universe. Originally, the melody had been a song of triumph, of joy and hope that life would endure and endure and endure even when it had never existed in the first place. But this was a new arrangement, and the familiar tune was played in a minor key so that its joy became a lamentation and the bittersweet reminder of the miraculous value of life only served to make its ending more cruel.
Kavas raised his head to appreciate the music as he ascended the long and narrow stair to his father’s favorite perch. Stepping up onto the platform from whence the vast instrument was played, Kavas stopped to watch his father. The king of Falu was unaware that he had an audience and he played with a passionate abandon, body swaying in a pendulous dance across keys which seemed to fly to his hands. He thrust his body across the many-tiered keyboards, his hands calling the notes to chase along after their lusty galloping as phrase by phrase and measure by measure he poured out his grief into the flowing keys.
As Kavas watched, the music brought to mind his own grief at the loss of his grandfather, and before that his uncle Vigi who had loved his young nephew like a son. But beyond the personal, the music represented a larger grief, a grief that echoed in his soul and had been with him all his life, the deep sense of fear and helplessness that had festered in the guts of so many of the hidden people since the coming of the prophecy. The Earth was dying, and the dark elves would play Her a requiem long after the symphony of life had passed into silence.
Vilar played the last three notes like the tolling of a funeral bell and finally stilled, breathing hard, his head bent and one finger resting on the final key, as if he could hold onto the music even after it had fled. He felt the bench shift beside him and looked up through tear-filled eyes as his son took up the position of a duetist to play the higher register.
Kavas did not speak, but into the silence after his music, he dropped a few ringing notes and looked at his father with a loving smile as he lifted his second hand to stir the keys into flowing measures. His tune, in answer to the Ballad of Iron and Brimstone was a variation of the same phrasing, lifting up the turning music into a joyful song that called to their minds the ancient, elemental memory of their spirits.
Vilar looked at his son and smiled. “They were our children,” he said, “we forgot after the prophecy, after they had done so much wrong in this world, but there was a time…” Kavas touched his shoulder and Vilar covered his hand in his own. He had no shame in his tears.
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