black notes on white paper and black soul on white skin
/du-ende/ n. (Spanish)
¬the mysterious power of art to deeply move a person
¬the feeling of powerful awe experienced when viewing a piece of art, watching a performance or listening to music th...
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In fact, Abraxas' thougts about the probability of finding Nikita have been right - he hasn't found him. But somebody else has, somebody with mysterious eyes and skin as pale as the moon.
However, Nikita doesn't know that he's found, he doesn't even know that he needs to be found. The Slytherin is consumed by his music, arpeggios stroking his skin, staccatos piercing through it, a tritone making him shiver - there's a reason why it's called the devil's interval after all.
Maybe the foreign presence is nobody but the devil himself with glowing eyes and a cruel smile on his blood-tainted lips, who's come because he's been called, the tritone like blood for a shark, liquor for an alcoholic or immortality for Tom. But why would the devil come to a boy of Nikita's age? To offer him a deal of course, his soul for expression, his tongue for a smile, his heart for passion.
But Nikita's heart is bleeding golden with passion, godly fingers tearing to release it, and Nikita wouldn't trade with the source of the all too long craved product which is offered him, he isn't dumb after all, he isn't in Slytherin to strike a bargain recklessly but to gain benefits others maybe wouldn't because their heart is too pure and the price too high. But Nikita's heart is a wound, ichor's pouring out of it, leeking out through his pores, streaming down his bone-white skin, tinting it in a slightly golden hue, soaking his clothes - Nikita's heart is a wound and his pockets are filled with liquid gold. No price is too high and he's ready to trade.
But there's no contract to sign and no diabolic laugh to hear, there's only the black and white of keys and scores, forever imprinted in his head, and there's music, darker and at the same time richer than any black could ever be.
But it isn't white, it never truly is, it isn't pure enough to shimmer in the colour of clouds and snow and death and angel wings, but the reason is very likely Nikita's choice of pieces to play. Or perhaps the devil's already got a grip on him, innocence for talent.
Because you truly can't play like this without talent, you can't come that far - but he could have gotten even further, the road wouldn't have ended for Nikita yet even thoug it eventually would have because the passion which is filling him so hotly now, filling every single note has been missing.
If you have talent, people will respect you, but if you have passion - emotions -, people will love you and they'll forgive you your mistakes because you're playing with their heartstrings.
Emotions, Nikita, atmosphere! They write your playing is lifeless, boy!
Where's you passion, Nikita? Passion?! Have you never heard of it or what?
Smile, Nikita! Smile and show emotions! Smile, smile, SMILE!
(What a pretty smile you have, my little boy. - Thank you, mama.)
Every endeavour has an end just like every lie and every life and every love, and eventually Nikita's fingers don't move swiftly across the keyboard anymore but lie down on it, devilish cramps nagging on them causing Nikita to hiss in pain but also satisfaction because his flesh wouldn't cry if it hadn't suffered - and Vasili has taught him that practice means suffering.
