The gilded script of the Conservatory’s ledger might simply list him as ‘Thorne, Lysander: Cello, Fifth Year.’ But in the shadowed corridors, a different title clung to him, heavy as a velvet coat lined with lead: ‘Elara’s Keeper.’ He’d often catch the whispered designation, a subtle rustle of disdain and pity, and it would settle in his bones, colder than the Eldorian winter. It was a mantle he wore with an awkward grace, like a borrowed instrument he could not truly master. So often, it felt like an ill-fitting role. Years had unfurled, marked by the cadence of his shared burden. His days began with the austere discipline of practice rooms, the resonant hum of his cello, the meticulous pursuit of a fleeting perfection. But as twilight crept across the city’s spires, he traded the scent of aged wood and rosin for the sterile tang of the Sanatorium wing. Half his lectures went unheeded, his concentration fractured. The complex counterpoints of theory blurred into a dull drone as his mind replayed the day's tasks, preparing for the inevitable descent into Elara’s room. A familiar weariness pressed down upon him as he neared the heavy oak door. Then, with a creak, it opened. Elara would be there, poised as if caught mid-flight, a hungry intensity in her eyes. She’d launch into the day's inventory of woes, her voice a rapid arpeggio of frustration. “They’re talking about nerve grafts again, Lysander. Another incision. My wrist will look like a map of the catacombs. And the broth they serve here… it’s a cruelty. A punishment for existing! My stomach is perfectly capable, why must I endure this tasteless gruel fit only for the dying?” Her tirade spilled out, a torrent of raw despair. The delicate planes of her face, usually so expressive in musical performance, now tightened with genuine misery. She seemed no older than the day he’d first seen her, a slight figure with a violin held like a fragile extension of her soul. A quiet sigh escaped him. He reached into his satchel, the soft leather protesting faintly. A faint, cloying scent of roasted chicken and herbs already permeated the bag’s interior. His lip curled, an involuntary tremor of distaste. Still, it was preferable to carrying the unwrapped parcel through the Conservatory’s pristine halls. “What is that?” Elara asked, her voice hushed, eyes widening slightly. A tangible shift occurred in her expression, the stormy gloom giving way to something akin to startled hope. “Nothing much. Just a tart. And some potted fowl from the market, they said it was safe for a delicate stomach.” He kept his tone flat, carefully neutral. His carefully constructed detachment was paramount. No, he wouldn’t admit to the hours spent navigating the labyrinthine stalls of the Grand Bazaar, seeking out the precise purveyor known for their remedies and delicate comestibles, those deemed both nourishing and palatable for a recuperating artist. He certainly wouldn't confess to the almost desperate need he felt to offer her something beyond the prescribed, the sterile, the utterly joyless. His aim was simply human consideration. Nothing more. But even that seemed to be enough for Elara. Her uninjured left hand rose, fingers scratching restlessly behind her ear, a nervous habit. He glimpsed the skin, faintly flushed. His gaze drifted lower, drawn inevitably to her right hand. The bandages were gone, replaced by a simple, tight wrapping of silk gauze around her wrist and palm. But the fingers, the violinist’s precious instruments, remained stiff, slightly curled. A deformity, subtle but undeniably present. His face tightened. Why did those fingers haunt him so? Why couldn’t he tear his eyes away? A cold knot formed in his chest, constricting his breath. “Thank you, Lysander,” she murmured, her voice oddly subdued. She glanced at him, her eyes meeting his for a fleeting instant before she flinched, turning back to the food as if caught in a transgression. He watched her, a machine-like precision in her movements as she fumbled to open the box. Was it genuine embarrassment, or merely a performance of modesty? A desire to prevent him from seeing the raw gratitude etched upon her face? As she began to eat, the delicate morsels vanishing quickly, he leaned his exhausted body against the plush velvet of the settee. It was a messy sight. Crumbs scattered across the immaculate linen. Elara’s small finger, the ring finger, and even her middle finger on her right hand did not bend properly. It was difficult to ascertain the full extent of the damage, how much was real, how much residual stiffness, how much fear. Slowly, almost against his will, he shifted forward, gently taking the silver fork from her left hand. “What would you prefer?” he asked, his voice low. “Lysander?” “The tart? Or the fowl?” He needed, at the very least, to acknowledge her pain. To believe in the reality of her shattered instrument. To make her suffering real, if only to himself. Her lips, stained with the rich, savory filling, parted in a faint, almost imperceptible smile. It was a strange, unsettling expression, a fragile beauty blooming amidst the wreckage. He couldn't fathom it. This young woman, her career hanging by a thread, the ghost of an unplayed concerto clinging to her damaged hand – how could she summon such a smile? If it were him, stripped of his cello, his touch, his very purpose, he thought he might simply cease to exist. He selected a piece of succulent fowl, raising it to her lips. Elara chewed, eyes bright with an unreadable emotion, the smile still playing at the corners of her mouth. She always managed to disarm him, to puncture his carefully constructed shell of indifference. His visit to the Conservatory’s antechamber that morning, the place she’d occupied before her accident, had been the true impetus behind the lunchbox. --- This was the second time since Elara’s injury that he’d ventured into those hallowed, yet now silent, rooms. The pass, granting him entry as her designated contact, still felt like a brand upon his person. He had only truly interacted with her family twice since the incident. Once with her elder brother, Lord Valerius, and once with her distant cousin, Lyra. Lyra, in particular, adopted a saccharine demeanor around him, her gestures overly gracious, as if to commend him for attending to the duties she and her family had so readily, and quite obviously, delegated. Elara herself, when she’d been able, would simply rest her chin on her good hand, watching her cousin’s retreating back with an unnerving, vacant stare. He had merely come to retrieve some of Elara’s personal effects. A specific volume of sheet music, a favored music stand, a worn leather journal for her compositions. He wanted only to alleviate the suffocating boredom of the Sanatorium wing. That was all. He understood, intimately, the soul-crushing monotony of confinement. He had endured his own stretches of illness as a child, though never with such a devastating consequence. He knew precisely what one needed. He had convinced himself it was not pity. Certainly not affection. That day, instead of returning to his spartan dormitory room, he chose to commute from his family’s Eldoria townhouse, a grand but cold edifice. On his way, he paused at the outer gate of the Anciel Estate, the family name Elara also bore. The mansion’s iron gates, usually so imposing, swung open before him. But Lyra did not offer the same welcome. She leaned against the cool stone archway of what had once been Elara’s private rehearsal room, her voice dry, like rustling parchment. “Still hovering about Elara, Lysander?” Truthfully, he harbored no fondness for Lyra. How could she remain here, amidst the silent opulence, never once setting foot in the Sanatorium wing? Her own kin was ailing, her career possibly ruined. An instinctual, unbidden sense of moral judgment flared within him. He hadn't even realized he was doing it. It wasn't intentional. The moment of self-awareness silenced him. He clamped his mouth shut and crammed another book into his satchel. “Yes.” “She truly has latched onto you, hasn’t she? That fragile fool is consumed by you.” His hand froze. He turned, as if pulled by an invisible string. “Consumed… by me?” “What, does that please you?” “No. I merely sought clarification.” “One never ‘merely’ seeks clarification. You desired to know, so you asked.” A faint sneer touched her lips. He pretended not to notice. She stepped closer, invading his personal space, her disregard for boundaries mirroring the rest of her family’s. Lyra, Valerius, even the formidable matriarch—they all possessed a singular talent for ignoring inconvenient truths. “Tell me, Lysander, where did you disappear to after the Autumn Recital last year?” “I travelled.” The entire city-state likely knew already, he thought with a wry internal sigh. “It wasn’t as if I cared to inquire. But Elara… she erupted. That girl, who treats the Conservatory’s rules like divine commandments, suddenly started screaming and tearing at her hair. Not long after, she shattered the heirloom pendant her grandmother gifted her. Raged against fate, declared the Muses dead.” “Her pendant?” “Indeed. The one she used to wear always. Said it was a blessing. Then called it a ‘useless charm,’ a ‘hollow promise.’ Shut herself in for days, wouldn’t practice. Our halls were finally quiet, for once. She doesn’t even grasp who the true fool is. Pitiful.” Her voice, which had been laced with mockery, now softened, almost imperceptibly. Perhaps it was his expression. “What on earth? Your face is quite flushed.” “It is not.” “Oh, but it is. Do you truly harbor feelings for her, Lysander? Is that it?” “I told you, no.” “Merciful heavens.” She gasped, covering her mouth with one hand, as if genuinely aghast. “You are utterly mad. Seriously.” Why did she persist when he had explicitly denied it? Annoyed, he yanked the satchel’s zipper shut with an abrupt snap. He wanted to castigate her in return, to expose her own hypocrisy. “Why would you speak of such things to me? Your uncle, Lord Anciel, always spoke of Elara as his most precious protégé.” “What? What peculiar tangent is this?” A profound contradiction. Lysander knew it too. Valerius, ever observant in his detached way, once remarked, ‘Lysander, no matter your calculated intentions, you always find yourself enacting kindness.’ But now, he felt a justification. The faint, almost invisible scars mapping Elara’s injured hand. Just as Elara avoided his gaze when her affliction was mentioned, so too did he find himself unable to look directly at that fragile, broken limb. “Lysander.” “Yes?” “Then… may I believe in you?” Her voice, hoarse with unspoken emotion, drew closer. He feigned indifference. Yet he listened. “What in Eldoria are you speaking of?” “I won’t burden you with affection.” In that instant, his heart plummeted, a cold stone dropped into an icy abyss. His stomach twisted into a knot. Something tightened around his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. He almost asked—without thought. *Why not?* The words nearly escaped, a raw, unbidden confession. He realized, in that shattering second, the depth of his true, hidden thoughts. *Lysander Thorne, you are a damned fool.* He clenched his fists, knuckles white, and swallowed the treacherous impulse. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them. “Then instead, I’ll simply believe in you.” But Elara’s voice, a strange blend of sorrow and something akin to quiet rapture, continued. Like a fervent acolyte receiving a divine revelation. Was there any other way to describe her in that moment? He didn’t comprehend her words. And yet, he did not pull his hand away. He did not retreat. The suffocating weight pressing on his chest no longer just squeezed—it began to pierce him, a thousand tiny shards of ice. “The Muses have abandoned me. Honestly, you are far more vital to my future than any distant divinity.” “Silence, Elara.” This girl… “You blaspheme every single day.” “No, I assure you! I was raised with the utmost reverence for the artistic spirit, you know!” “Then what was that declaration just now?” Elara shook her head frantically, her unbound hair swaying. As if her very artistic life depended on his belief. Her tone was desperate, edged with the threat of tears. If he didn’t believe her, she might truly weep. Caught off guard, he found himself speechless. Then, as if making a profound decision, Elara suddenly slid from the settee, dropping to her knees before him. “Then I shall show you.” “Elara, what are you doing?” Her slender, uninjured left hand reached out, gripping his right hand gently but firmly. His instrument hand. Since he had been sitting, his long fingers had rested idly. Held captive now, his hand hung slightly in the air. Elara’s gaze fell upon a faint, pale line just below his thumb. An old, forgotten scar from a broken cello string, a sliver of forgotten pain. Her brow furrowed. And to his utter disbelief—her eyes brimmed with tears. He flinched, attempting to pull his hand away. Before he could escape, Elara lowered her head. “What are you—” “By the grace of the Unseen Maestro, the Spirit of Inspiration, and the Soul of Sound.” Her cold fingertips brushed against his wrist. A sharp ache shot up his arm, settling deep within his stomach. What in the name of Eldoria was this madness? He tried to yank his hand free, but his strength abandoned him, dissolving into a strange weakness. Elara looked up at him once, her eyes filled with an unsettling clarity. And then, with a face that showed not a single ounce of repulsion— Like a devout believer touching a sacred relic— “I greet the instrument of the heart.” She pressed her lips to the tip of his scarred finger. Her fine, soft hair brushed against his knuckles, a strangely intimate tickle. The gentle press of her lips rubbed against the faint, old wound. “Stop… this…” He raised his free arm, covering his face, trying to shield himself from the overwhelming intensity. Elara’s left hand tightened around his, her grip surprisingly resolute. And in that moment— He stopped resisting. Three fragile, barely functional fingers of her right hand, those that did not bend, now tapped lightly against his palm, a feather-light rhythm. The lips that had cursed the Muses now traced a slow, almost reverent path up his fingers, past the old scar, towards his wrist. And he did nothing to stop her. That was when he knew, with chilling certainty. This relentless, incurable malady— This haunting specter of an eighteen-year-old’s broken dreams— It was far from over.

The Requiem of Unplayed Notes