Meadowlark
Part: Andante
By: Loralei Fairhill
Rated: PG-13
Genre: AR


I hope you all are enjoying this story! And I'm certainly 
enjoying writing it! Please send me an email if you like 
it. My inbox is soooo lonely . . . *sob* 

Loralei1300@aol.com

'tay? ^_^ I love you guyz!

Standard Disclaimers Apply: basically this means I'm 
being lazy and don't want to write one . . . eh heh . . . ^^;;


*flashback*

     "A masterful symphony of words, this, truly inspiring, 
however . . ." he trailed off.
     "What's wrong with it?" she asked, concerned. The paper 
he held so lightly in his hands had taken her the better part 
of a year and her vast knowledge of musical history to write. 
She was desperate for feedback, but immensely afraid that 
her writing had deteriorated since her English class and was 
too awful for him even to grade it.
     "It's not in the content," he began, his brow furrowed, 
"the problem lies within the feeling. I'm being bombarded by 
history and description, but it's devoid of any emotion. I want
to know how Beethoven felt when his father compared him 
to something he wasn't destined to be. I need to understand, 
from your written word, what the Moonlight Sonata is truly 
about. I know you have it in you somewhere, this passion 
you hide so well; you are as gifted at writing as you are in music. 
But to comprehend and finally find what I think you've been 
searching for, you must first allow yourself to feel again."
     A terse "Yes," was all she responded with, and gathered her 
things together, shoving the red-marked paper unceremoniously 
into her bag. She left the room hurriedly, and the man sitting at 
his desk followed her movements with his eyes, smiling slightly 
at her perseverance and drive.
     The next morning she appeared before him, revised paper in 
hand. It had taken her all night, but she made the necessary changes 
and felt that she made her point well. She was proud of her efforts, 
unlike the previous draft, which she was afraid to have anyone read; 
she had learned long before that apprehension meant something 
was not quite right with her work. He read through it while she 
waited, his forehead creased in concentration, his red pen uncapped 
at ready in his dominant hand. He flipped back through it after 
finishing, and handed it back to her. She looked at him expectantly, 
frowning at his serious face and waiting for his reaction to the 
precious document.
     "Now that's what I had in mind, Serena!" he told her happily. 
"A work such a that," he pointed to the paper, "is to be commended. 
Tremendous job. Just wonderful. Thank you very much for re-doing 
it," he said.
     "No, thank you, professor. If you hadn't pushed me, I don't think 
I would ever have found it within myself to write." She smiled 
awkwardly. "So I pass?"
     He laughed at her unneeded question, white teeth flashing 
brilliantly. "Of course! What else could I do for you after 
such a masterpiece?"
     "Thank you! I'll see you in class tomorrow, all right?"
     "All right. Have a nice day, Serena," he said warmly.
     "You too, professor!" she responded.
     She was still ecstatic as she left the room and practically skipped 
back to her dorm. She was one step closer to finally realizing her 
long sought-after dream.


*end flashback*


     Sitting next to Darien on the piano bench, Serena felt the same kind 
of apprehension as she had when she'd turned in her music history 
thesis the first time. Darien was studying the keys, obviously ignoring 
her, frustrating her to no end. She sighed loudly, hoping to catch his
attention and get him to remove himself from the bench so her 
audition could begin.
     "Darien . . .?" she asked hesitantly.
     He grunted in response, still concentrating on the keys.
     "When do you want me to start?"
     He shrugged, not even glancing up from his perusal of the black 
and white chunks of wood.
     "Um . . . I don't have forever, you know. . . . I do have to be home 
at some point. I've got someone waiting for me. . . ."
     "What?" He suddenly snapped out of his alternate universe and 
stared intently at her. 
     "Need I repeat myself?" she sighed out. "Okay, slower this time. I 
just said I have to leave at a reasonable hour because there's someone 
waiting for me at home," she said, trying not to lose herself in the 
deep pools of midnight blue that were his eyes.
     "Oh," was all he said. Then, "Well, I suppose since . . . you have 
to . . . um . . . well, the piano's already here, and we're sitting at it, 
so you can start with it. . . ." he finished, unnerved and frazzled. He 
sat back in his place and waited for her to begin.
     "Darien?" She regarded his lazy form in an annoyed manner.
     "Hmmm . . .?" he asked distractedly.
     "You need to get off the bench if you want me to play," she stated 
firmly.
     He startled, then fell to the floor with an exaggerated "oof." "Right, 
I knew that!" He laughed off his clumsiness, then he gathered himself 
up and sat Indian-style on the patch of floor closest to the case and 
legs of the piano. 
     She gave him a "what the heck are you doing?" type of look and 
asked, "Why are you still on the floor?" apparently quite amused by 
his odd behavior.
     Haughtily, he answered, "I like it here. Please proceed."
     She shrugged his strangeness off. "All right . . ." she mumbled and 
arranged herself on the bench.
     She began with some simple scales, followed by several Hanon 
exercises as warm-ups. She knew, as an experienced performer and 
musician, that if she didn't start her hands out with the familiar motions 
they would hurt before she could make it halfway through a simple
Clementi sonatina. Clementi, although quite elementary, was what 
she decided to play for him first. She started the first strains of his 
fifth sonatina, playing only the first movement. She was careful to 
bring out the right hand's light, playful melody, while keeping the 
left hand's steady arpeggios to a background accompaniment. 
Then came the part where she pulled the left hand out and made it 
louder than the right. And the two parts started to chase each other 
through the various scales, trills and nuances that Clementi had written 
so deftly into the song. She performed it for him flawlessly, and 
joyously, knowing that if she could pull it off, she would be able to 
follow it with something much harder, like Beethoven or Brahms.
     As the last spritely chord sounded, Darien lifted his head to look 
at her. She was already beginning the third movement of 
Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata." His eyes followed the movement 
of her fingers as they trailed over the keys effortlessly. Truly, she was 
a wonderful pianist. He'd never heard anyone before that could 
make the keys sing in such a way, nor seen a single person who 
touched them, caressed them, as if they were a lover, and bent them 
to her will so easily. It was as if they knew what she was thinking, 
and she had but to have an inkling and they would obey her every 
command.
     Then came the part he loved the best. The musical horse's hooves 
pounded up and down the keyboard, spilling the moonlight created 
by the notes onto the floor around Darien. He was in ecstasy, flying 
through the night on the back of the beast that the man in the song 
was riding, fleeing through the misty darkness from the forbidden 
castle of his love after a night of romance. He smiled as she reached 
the middle that so wonderfully sounded in his ears; it was as if the 
composer truly knew what the night would be if translated into song. 
Soft, enticing, melodious . . . he couldn't even find the right word 
for it. And then he thought about the person forcing the piano to 
make the music. The song seemed to be just for her. And out of the 
blue,  he found himself imagining that if he were the man on 
horseback, she would be the forbidden passion that waited for him 
in the castle he was forced to leave behind. The thought greatly 
disturbed him, knowing that he was already fantasizing after 
knowing her for less than a day. But before he could sort it out, 
the song ended, the notes fading off into a silent oblivion. 
     Flowing and mysterious, Serena began a version of "Le Cygne" 
by Saint-Saens. It was more difficult, yet easier on the ear than the 
pounded, crashing notes of the previous song. Darien could see the 
swan's ruffled feathers, craning neck, outstretched wings as it took 
off out of the water and launched into flight. Short and pleasant, 
Serena knew that the deftly played tune would entice any listener to 
long for the song to go on forever. She had felt the very same 
emotions Darien was feeling as he listened the first time she herself 
had heard it. It was bewitching, and magical, and it cast its spell so 
quietly that it was all too easy to be drawn into the world of the swan 
after the first note had been hit, the first arpeggio played. She 
regretted it when she finished, but knew she had to move on to 
something more difficult, yet dreamier. So she began Debussy's 
"Reverie."
      Possibly the most beautiful out of anything she had played 
previously, the dream patterns that Debussy wove into his masterpiece 
were light and dark, loud and soft, and so full of mystery that it was 
almost as if the dream created was real. The difficult octaves and 
subtle chords made the piece especially hard for her because her hands 
were so small. It was a feat that she could even play it at all, knowing 
that it had taken her years to stretch her hands so that she could reach 
the keys in such a way. She hoped Darien was appreciating her music 
and would let her help him. 
     Darien, for his part, was so entranced that he never wanted her 
to stop playing. He was more than impressed with her obviously 
unparalleled musicianship, and wondered what ever made him question 
her motives to help him with the orchestra in the first place. He also 
pondered the reasons why he seemed to have to put a dam on his 
flooding thoughts of how wonderful Serena was, how beautiful, 
how attractive. He barely knew her, and yet he wanted her! He 
scolded himself for acting like a hormone-crazed teen. It wasn't 
possible to like someone that much after hearing them play a little 
piano and having them throw their talents around. Or was it? Darien 
wasn't quite sure about anything anymore.
     He was still deep in thought when Serena finished. She had 
completed the Debussy and went on to play Barber's "Nocturne (for 
John Fielding)" for her last piece. The chromatic and clashing ups and 
downs accompanied Darien's confused thoughts until he was the 
music and the music became him. It was an awesome experience, 
holy and uplifting, and he was enjoying the afterglow as Serena 
spoke, breaking his train of thought.
     "So . . . do I pass?" she asked nervously.
     "Hmmm . . .?" His emotions were still bouncing around like 
ping-pong balls inside his mind. "Oh . . . I. . . ."
     "Please, Darien, I need to know!" She looked at him imploringly, 
her eyes impossibly wide. As he gazed into their starry blue expanse, he 
lost himself again. It was as if her eyes mirrored her music; she was a 
temptress, and that was how she cast her enchantments.
     "Yes," he heard himself saying, although his voice sounded 
terribly distant from where he was in space and time. 
     "Yes?" she repeated slowly.
     "Yes. Come back tomorrow at ten o'clock. That's when we start 
rehearsal," his voice said of its own vocation.
     "All right . . . I'll see you then! Thank you . . . you have no idea 
how much this means to me!" She bounded off the bench and grabbed 
her coat off one of the music stands nearby. "Bye, Darien!" she yelled 
as she swirled out the door in a flurry of absolute joy.
     Darien sat under the piano in the same lonely position long after 
she had gone, piecing back together the fragments of the music she had 
played and fervently wishing that tomorrow would come faster.



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