#writing-central

[incorrect-muncle-quotes]

Napoleon: Would you like to come with me on a daring, dangerous quest that may end in our injury or death?

Illya: What a nice way to ask someone out on a date.

Napoleon: I try.

[infernallewords]

Dialogue Prompt / The Trouble with Singers

The Trouble with Singers

The small little apartment where St. Clair and Amaline lived was packed with people when they got home from shopping.  The two had to elbow their way through a crowd of fawning onlookers, who were spilling out their open front door.  From the midst of the crowd, Amaline spied Bo, their tall assistant with his deep brown skin and arms waving around in the air, trying to signal his Superiors.

Amaline dropped the groceries to the floor, her mouth tightening into a stretched sneer, while St. Clair held a hand to hers, black eyes suffused with shock.  “What in the goddamn--” Amaline began.

“Wait, wait, let’s find out what’s going on first, and then react,” Amaline heard St. Clair say.  

Her friend might as well have been half a mile away, words streaming through an empty plain when they reached her ears, which were now on fire with anger. “Wait?  Wait for what?  We see what’s happening.  Do you see what’s happening?  You have precious vials and liquids that can’t be exposed to strangers, and what about all my stuff?  These people don’t give a good goddamn about our things.  They’re just stomping around like this is some kind of fucking ... some kind of ... fucking ...”  Amaline’s words drifted as a thought entered her mind.  “Some kind of ... concert.”

In seconds, her fears were finalized when she heard a high note streaming through the air, cutting through the noise of a crowd demanding one last song before they dispersed.  It was a sweet note, deepened and elongated with years of practice and preparation, that silenced the apartment full of people with the gentlest of entreaties.  The sound was soft, like a feather beginning its descent from the apex of the tallest tower, and gathering strength in volume like a hurricane as it wafted through the group, until its full power landed at the edge of the apartment where Amaline stood with St. Clair.  When the singer was satisfied, she began her slow progression through the song.  Her voice spun through the notes like a weaver spinning threads for a fine tapestry, pulling and stretching through chord changes with deft vocal chords as her tongue tapped at consonants like a ballerina dances across the room, light and limber.  Every vowel was pushed to its limit and treated to a thick application of the full richness of her vibrato, like decadent ganache spread over a fresh cake.

The people surrounding the two swooned, but every note, every word, every phrase filled Amaline with an anger so vibrant, so core-shattering, she reached into the eye of the hurricane churning and battering her own mind, ripped out a handful of energy, sent its electricity down her arm, and pitched it into the crowd with her hand.  Bodies flew against shelves and cabinets and walls in reply.  The music halted as people scrambled to avoid the next throw.  Behind her, St. Clair reached out, positioning her small hands onto Amaline’s shoulders, but the current coursed through her like a murder of crows taking flight.  She pitched again and again, sending a volley of pure hatred through the room, until every listener was either bustling past them out the door, in a heap on the floor, or shivering in a corner with their arms up in defense.

“That’s quite enough,” St. Clair ordered, her voice low and stern.  “I hope you haven’t damaged anything important.”

“Don’t worry,” Amaline said, pulling out of St. Clair’s grasp and stalking through the room, dark eyes lingering on every cowering figure she passed.  “Your workshop’s over there.  I only tossed them about over here.  Like a bunch of fucking rag dolls.”

Bo emerged as she wandered further in, his body protecting the woman in the chair behind him and the source of the music.  Amaline came within an inch of the servant, lifting a finger, and angling it to the right.  Without his consent, Bo’s body slid out of the way as if on a bed of ice.  The man inhaled, bracing for the worst, but all Amaline required were a few good inches to unmask the singer.

In a chair next to a lamp sat a girl curled up, head down and face scrunched up.  She wore only a light summer dress of white, a pretty contrast against her ochre skin.  When she realized the fireworks were over, the girl’s gaze peered up and met with Amaline’s.  The unfiltered rage brewed as she watched the girl unfold and give a tiny laugh.

***

“Okay, so you’re going to say ‘you wouldn’t believe me if I told you’ to which I’ll respond 'try me’ and we’ll have a dramatic stare down and then you’ll tell me anyway. So let’s skip all that, and you can explain what the hell happened,” Amaline growled.

“You’re well versed in the cliche,” replied Auralia with a nervous titter.

Amaline grunted, causing Auralia to jump and give a sharp squeak.  “Explain.  Now.”

Holding up her hands, Auralia tried to calm her breathing and her mind.  St. Clair edged up behind her friend with a disapproving stare and arms folded.  “Okay okay.  So, while you two were out getting food and other things, I was cleaning and lonely and bored.  Bo was out as well, as he usually is, so I just starting, well, ... singing!  It’s what I do.  It’s my only firm grasp on this world and my true nature and I couldn’t help myself.  I have to practice as much as possible, so I began singing an aria to myself, and forgot that others were outside and could hear, and halfway through I had this group of people at the door.  Oh!  They were knocking so loudly I could barely hear myself.  So I went to open it and ... and ...”

“And?” Amaline asked through gritted teeth.

“And I did.  And they just started streaming in!  I can’t help that song is my ability.  I can’t help how it lures people to me!  They just kept coming and coming, begging me to finish.  By the time I was done with the aria, they had me backed against the wall in this very chair, praising me and exclaiming how my voice was beautiful and entrancing, and how I should sing another.  Soon Bo was rushing in trying to clear folks out, but they wouldn’t leave without another song.  So I sang another to satisfy their indulgence, but that just brought more and ... well ...”

“Well?” asked Amaline.

“Well?” followed St. Clair, eyes squinted in disbelief.

Auralia shrugged and offered a meager smile for her own reassurance.  “And?  That’s when you came.  I felt you, but, well, what else could I do?”

“Fucking *stop*, that’s what!  Oh my fucking god, are you fucking serious right now?”  Livid at this point, Amaline leaned her small, yet intimidating frame over Auralia, who yanked her knees against her chest and curled up again, tensed for the smiting her new roommate appeared ready to offer.

“Now now,” St. Clair said, clasping her hands around Amaline’s arms covered by a thin, stripped sweater.  “There was no malicious intent here.  The girl just doesn’t know how to reel in her power.  That voice is a force of nature and she’s had no instructors or Superiors to guide her ... magical charms.  She needs but a little guidance.”

Auralia peeked up from her ball, fluttering her eyelashes as St. Clair coaxed the woman away with slow, steady movements.  Amaline allowed this the singer noted, rubbing her forehead with one hand and massaging her temples.  “What did we tell her when she first arrived?  Why did she not listen?”

“I believe,” St. Clair began with an even tone, “We told her to avoid singing loud enough for others to hear.  To avoid these exact same situations we outlined when she first arrived.  Why she would sing an aria and not something a bit more subdued is beyond me, but I’m sure Auralia will use this newfound wisdom for next time.  Won’t she?”  St. Clair fixed a tempered stare in Auralia’s direction, a stare suited for a mother admonishing a child who should have known better.  The effect was disconcerting, as Auralia chewed on her bottom lip and played with the edge of her skirt to release the tension in her body.  

“Yes,” she replied.  “It won’t happen again.  I *promise* you all.”

Wriggling out of St. Clair’s grasp with a gentle shake, Amaline combed her loose brown hair back with a sigh.  “Fine.  But if this happens one more time, I swear by your gods, my gods, every Celestial that may still walk this physical plane and the Waywards that worship them I will rip those chords out of your throat, and feed them back to you through a tube.”

Auralia gazed at the woman before her, a figure made of sheer might and uncompromising ferocity, and gulped.  This was not a person she wished to anger again.  “Okay, I promise--”

“... by shoving it up your ass.”

Pausing, Auralia swallowed that last bit of information like a cumbersome chunk of meat that threatened to clog one’s esophagus.  She shivered and inhaled and set her unsteady feet down on the bare floor, still littered with scraps of clothing from her hapless admirers.  “Yes, ma’am.”

“You damn right, yes ma’am.  Now clean this place up.”  With that, Amaline took off back towards to the door, gathering the groceries, and putting them away in the cabinets.  Auralia gathered pieces of furniture and set them back into place while every now and again Amaline shooed away a twitching victim of her violence by grabbing them at the collar and tossing them towards the door.  The woman’s strength was superhero-like and caused Auralia to shudder with every body flung towards the exit.  The singer would not dare distract the woman from her routine as she exhaled her frustration via storing food and other goods.

“Best to be tidying up, sweetness,” said St. Clair, heading back towards her shop with a serene shake of the head.  Auralia looked towards Bo for help, but he was out the door and around the corner before she could blink.  Auralia could not see herself withholding the arias in her heart for longer than a week, so she would need a place to practice without causing so much distress and panic.  She figured one of her two roommates might be able to help, but for now it was Jazz standards and silly little pop songs until such a location could be arranged.  Auralia knew her voice was dangerous, but hadn’t conceived of the danger being so *close*.

She straightened the living area with a swiftness, not eager to invoke Amaline’s rage to such a point where she dined on her vocal chords through an orifice meant for expelling for the sake of her art.