PHROLOVA'S POV
(A theater in the distant past)
My first debut here. I care not for formalities or even the heart to put my all into this next piece... The concert manager has already accepted that what I'll play will be buried here along with the only people who matter to me. The nameless, forgotten, and kind people who gave me this future, this sorrow, this sweltering tears, boiled meteor fire and mixed with puddle water reflecting their final moments. It reflects no more though. For the waters of bygone rain have been built over but velvety seats and stage lights illuminating this Elegy for them.
Granny. Triss. Melissa.
I whisper your names under my breath, letting the syllables linger on my tongue like prayers no god will ever hear. My eyes sting, but I force them open, staring out into the faceless dark where the audience waits. The lights blind me to their details, which is almost a mercy. I don't want to see their judgment, their hunger for something beautiful. They don't care for grief. They don't want sorrow. They want art stripped clean of its wounds, polished until it shines. Completely devoid of any imperfections.
All I need is to be seen, to be heard, to be understood. That's all I can ask for from anybody. But I know deep down, these people don't look for the griefs of a girl no more, they don't want to acknowledge the horrible fate awaiting us all. All they want is Beauty. And I will offer that in this dirge for those uncommemorated.
But that's not what I have left to give.
The baton rises, and with it, my heart cracks open. Every downbeat feels like plunging into icy water, every gesture like forcing air into lungs that no longer want to breathe. I am trying not to drown in this ocean of memory one I've grown too accustomed to floating in.
It takes so much effort not to drown in this seething gloom. But I'm no stranger to it now, I sit afloat all my grief, awaiting anybody who could swim the same waters as I before I lose the will to hold on and choose to sink below the pressure. I know when I do the sharks will come to reap the fruits of my efforts. They'll sell my music, my heart, my very soul all without ever realizing just what it truly means, all for quick bit of cash in an ever wasting society.
I catch my reflection in the gloss of the stage floor: a pale face framed by loose strands of hair escaping their pins, eyes ringed red, lips pressed thin to keep from trembling. To them, I probably look composed. But inside, I'm screaming.
Granny… Do you hear me? Triss? Melissa?
This piece—this Elegy—belongs to you. To the nameless and the kind, the ones swallowed whole by fate and left with nothing but silence. Tonight, I am your voice.
And yet, even as the music swells, I can feel the truth closing in like sharks circling blood. They will sell this performance, dissect it, and turn it into something profitable. They'll praise the "beauty" of my suffering without ever tasting the bitterness behind it.
The baton falls heavier with each stroke, dragging me deeper. Home. Hope. Peace. All lost and unreachable.... I'll live unto eternity seeking but never having them.
I wonder if this is what it means to be a revenant—to sit among the living, playing one last song that no one truly hears. To smile and bow, then vanish like smoke.
Maybe, when I finally sink, I won't even leave a sound.
The Cadenza finishes and I'm free from my own thoughts. The sound finally begins to register in my ears. It's the clapping of the audience. I get so caught up in my own work and mourning that I forget I even have senses at all. Moments like these though at least make me somewhat glad for them, but I could go without hearing or seeing.
Until... I met him. He stood there as if contemplating, taunting his thoughts and me with his gaze. My curiosity is killing me, I'm not one to get worked up about people's opinion, but that performance was perfect, wasn't it? I couldn't help but state.
"You didn't clap."
I must have sounded pathetic. Like a newborn artist who can't handle criticism over the slightest thing. That whatever they made couldn't be wrong, there was nothing to improve, nobody just understands. I am no such person, I can't be, not until now at least.
"Perhaps a silent mourning is more suitable for such a depressing piece."
He... he thought it was Sorrowful? Melancholic? Even... Sad?...
Finally... Finally! Somebody understood what it meant, what each note passing by was no allegro.. it was a funeral song for them. Have I really met the right person? Here in this very concert hall? Amongst tens of faceless cheering admirers? He sits like he's any other?
I was so enraptured by him. So foolish.
My lips moved without my consent, spilling everything—about the song, the theater, even fragments of my life I swore I'd never voice aloud. I never told him it was me, never said it outright, but… perhaps it was too obvious. Perhaps I wasn't even trying to hide it. Each word that left me felt otherworldly, like I was whispering prayers in a temple where only he could hear.
Maybe it was because I had just basked in the shallow glow of praise. Maybe it was just me clinging desperately for something to block out the darkness of my depression. But when he spoke, his words weren't simple sounds, they were keys. Keys that unlocked a door I had never dared to touch, he gave me the key to a better life-
To my Salvation
"If this world can't be changed, then maybe it's time to take a different path... even if it's nothing like before, just like how I chose to change myself."
I stared at him, mouth parted, too dazed to breathe. He gestured to the seat beside him, and my body obeyed before my mind could catch up. Did he see the intrigue burning behind my eyes? How could he not? His voice carved through my wandering thoughts like a scythe so precise, and merciless.
"I started over."
The words struck me harder than any baton strike ever could. My heart clenched, and suddenly I was drowning in a flood of questions I didn't know how to ask. I'd gotten more from this single conversation than from years of applause. He made me feel lighter, freer—like grief could be carried instead of endured.
I stared at his face, clinging to every twitch of his mouth, every flicker of his eyes. Sentinel above, forgive my greed, I thought. If I'm asking too much, forgive me. But let me have just one more thing from this imperfect performance.
And then, as if he had read my soul—he gave it to me.
"When this piece is truly complete, I'll come back."
A promise. One I knew he would keep. He didn't feel like the others, the faceless crowd who cheered but never understood. He was different. He saw me. He couldn't just disappear.
I smiled, forcing steadiness into my trembling lips. "When you get back, I'll save you a VIP seat next time."
But deep inside, I was already imagining it—the day I'd listen to his stories instead of regaling him with my sorrow. And so, I waited.
———————
Tricktown. He didn't come.
Not every promise happens as soon as it's given. Patience, I told myself.
Peyero. He didn't come.
Perhaps I wasn't trying hard enough. He said he'd return when it was complete… maybe I wasn't there yet.
Mendon. He didn't come.
My breath grew heavy, my hands ice-cold against the keys. I'm not good enough. I need to improve. Put more soul in that Cadenza!
Skob. He didn't come.
I clenched my fists until my nails drew blood. I'm enough, aren't I? You gave me your word… I won't accept you as another finger-crossing nobleman.
Dolores. He didn't come.
A broken laugh escaped me on stage, sharp and bitter. Maybe… maybe he's truly forgotten me? No. No, no, I was special. I was. Wasn't I?
Kentary. He. Didn't. Come.
Tears blurred the notes before me. My chest hollowed out. I was such a fool. So vulnerable. I gave everything my time, my heart to someone who sees me as nothing more than dust. Just like my hometown. Why did I ever think you were different?
Here I am now, in Korr.
I am tired. Aeschylus, Ynkwell, Mom… I'm sorry. I wasted so much time chasing a ghost when I could have been bringing you back, keeping you alive in my music. I am such a waste of talent.
This will be my last performance.
I can't keep forgiving him. Can't keep giving him excuses for his absence, as if he hadn't already stolen years from me. I know he won't be here tonight.
… I wish he were, though.
I need him. I need somebody, anybody, to understand what this piece means. Otherwise, what good is an artist who only makes beautiful but empty shells?
Perhaps as empty as our promise.
Do I let go now? My heels are frozen to the stage floor, the baton slick in my palm. A part of me doesn't want to step forward. I am at my limit. A song stretched so thin, its voice hoarse, frayed with strain.
This will be the last performance… of a musician from a nameless town.
———————————
Don't tell me… I've lost it now.
My final performance, and I may have gone mad.
But there. Amidst the blurred faces, the restless chatter, the meaningless sea of strangers—I see it. Black hair. Sweet crimson eyes. Fixed right on me.
My breath catches, baton trembling between my fingers. No. It can't be. Yet he sits exactly where I can't ignore him, exactly atop the VIP seat I had solemnly chosen. Once, I would spend hours—days—agonizing over the perfect placement, ensuring he would hear every note, every ounce of my soul. Now? I had given up. I pointed carelessly, and told the Concert Manager, "Anywhere." I didn't care anymore. Not after the tens of times I had wasted saving him a seat. The hours I would pour into where you can best hear me. You chose to sit there. Somewhere I pointed to so arbitrarily for the Concert Manager to place.
And yet—he chose it.
It's not even the best spot. The sound doesn't carry there. He won't hear the subtle swells of the strings, the gentle breaths between my cues. But his gaze… his gaze tells me he doesn't care. The music was never the point, was it?
My lips part, trembling. Is that what you meant all this time? You look like as if you don't care like the sound wasn't the important part but what I was expressing when I performed it. That it was never about perfection of notes, never about my rigid technique, but about me—what I was too afraid to give?
I feel heat rise to my cheeks, shame and fury tangling into something unbearable. Back then, when we first met, I had been apathetic, hollow. I considered abandoning it all—sinking into that chair beside you, letting my music rot in silence. But now… now I am brimming, boiling with frustration. Years of waiting. Years of broken promises. And yet—beneath the anger, a dangerous, fragile joy sparks in my chest.
My baton lowers ever so slightly, just enough for the audience to think it's part of the performance. But it's not. My eyes are locked to yours, unblinking and burning brighter than ever.
I hate this foolish heart of mine. How dare it betray me like this, how dare it swell and break all over again? After years of abandonment, years of screaming into an empty void, you dare pick me up now—at the end.
I bite down on my lip until I taste iron. My shoulders shake with rage, with longing.
"Oh… who cares," I whisper, the words never leaving the stage, only lingering on the edges of my breath.
Because you're here.
Finally—after everything—you're here.
Author's note:
Hello everyone, feel free to leave your collections, powers, reviews, and comments as you see fit. This chapter is a celebration for reaching 40 chapters and 100k wordcount I didn't expect to make it this far to be honest but it was fun I learned so many shit I didn't even know about. Phrolova is a difficult character to write, I tried to be eloquent as much as I can I hope I did good. And tried to express and show her perspective to the best of my abilities. Tell me in the comments if you likes this and let's continue on to the story. That's all; thank you for reading this fanfic, and I hope you have a good day.