Chapter Text
Let it be never said that Julian Alfred Pankratz loves music, for this would be a lie so grievous the gods would have no choice but to punish the one who uttered such a thing, and with his luck, the ill-fate would likely fall on him regardless of who-said-what.
"What are you doing?!” Valdo Marx–wealthy musician, but quite talentless–snaps, yanking Julian’s head back by his hair. “If you have time to dally, staring blankly at a page, then clearly I have been too kind,” he hisses as he snatches his hand back.
His nails scrape against Julian’s scalp painfully. Regardless, Julian’s head remains where it is, too scared to lower it.
Valdo scoffs and wipes his hand clean on his doublet. “The King is expecting me tonight. Have something ready within the next three hours, Lark,” he sneers, swishing from the room.
Julian crumples, his forehead resting against the cool wood beneath his feet. With a sigh, he picks himself up and sets to work in his cramped closet of a room, littered by papers, ink, and backdropped by a single, imposing window opposite the door–only a candle to light the space.
His hands, covered in calluses, ache. They don’t work as they used to, he thinks absently as he writes. Truly, Julian doesn’t know what he’s writing. Valdo keeps him updated on what the latest trends are in Cidarian music, of course, but Julian has never heard the music himself, so he can only compose based on the general ‘feeling’ that Valdo provides.
He can’t afford to feel frustration, and so he writes.
A gathering–let’s see. His hands move faster, fervor imbued into their every move. Three hours. I have three hours, Julian reminds himself. First, he tests a song praising the King’s generosity; then, finding that one to be too on the nose–Not good enough–he writes of lovely women, noble women and their perfumes. A safe option, but one able to be expanded upon nonetheless.
He imagines a young man–strong and stocky with hands stained the color of the earth he works–finding himself infatuated with a lady far above his status. Always in his mind’s eye is she there with hair the color of wheat and eyes so blue they seem to reflect the sky itself. A love story will do well, Julian thinks absently, finishing up the lyrics. They tend to, at least. He hums a melody, melancholy and somber. The lady with golden hair dies too soon, he decides, and so the young man’s love is unrecognized. It eats him from the inside out, wrenching from his chest with such violence, he is torn apart by grief. Following your lover into death is quite popular these days, Julian contemplates. Of course, the lovers meet again in the afterlife, he tilts his head. No one likes a true tragedy. Glancing towards the window, he finds nothing there but the shutters blocking his view from the outside and sets back to work.
Valdo Marx, the most well-known and recognized bard of Cidaris, sips a glass of wine idly while reading his latest letter from the palace.
“Truly, how can the King expect me to work under such little notice,” he clicks his tongue.
In spite of this, he sets down his drink and rises from his plush, expensive seat. Valdo makes his way down the corridor of his manor–barely afforded by the funds of his lifestyle–stopping at a wooden door with a large, metal lock on the front. He huffs, key already turned, oak barrier swinging open.
"Where is my song?” He demands.
Half-covering his face against the onslaught of light from the corridor, Julian hands him the paper. Valdo snatches it from him and walks closer; his hand rests on top of Julian’s head–a shackling weight.
He reads the paper methodically. As always, the lyrics are ingenious and the story so vivid, Valdo can nearly see it as if watching a play. He smiles–all harsh lines and teeth–and pets the little thing that gives him such perfect melodies.
Julian cowers, frozen beneath Valdo’s hand. He hates this. He hates his touch. His presence. He bites his lip and tastes the metallic tang of blood as it floods his mouth.
Valdo pats him once more before pulling away. “Next time, be quicker,” he warns, leaving just the way he came.
Julian–for the second time–finds himself resting his head, this time against the worn table, face turned towards that blasted window–alternating between writing and waiting endlessly had unfortunately become his most amusing past-time. He can hear a bird twittering outside and wishes ferociously that he were that bird, living freely. But, Jealousy is a cruel mistress, so he pushes her away as best he can. It doesn’t always work of course, but the effort is what counts, even if he finds himself becoming quite annoyed by practice of trying.
“What a lovely song!” King Ethain–ruler of Cidaris–calls over the applause of his guests, Valdo Marx basking in the praise. “I was almost worried we would get yet another piece about my generosity,” he laughs.
Valdo smirks. “Now, my King, whyever would I do that? We all know of your abundant kindness already, no need to be reminded of it when we have the very perpetrator in front of us!”
The nobility laugh, haughty and high and intensified by alcohol.
Ethain claps Valdo on the back. His drink comes very close to spilling over the delicate edge of the glass. “Always a delight, Marx,” King Ethain grins.
"I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.” Valdo glances around, his eye looking for a particularly wealthy person to chat with this fine night. Funding was necessary for his continued lifestyle, after all, and court had been calling his name for some time. Not that he wouldn’t be paid for tonight, but only that a steady influx of coin would be quite helpful. He had already tried his hand with Ethain, but had found the King too aware to be manipulated–a minor setback, really.
At the corner of his eye, Valdo catches a flash of pure, unmarred white. He finds himself redirecting his attention, and there stands an intimidating man in all black. Odd, he muses to himself, raising a brow in cautious intrigue.
"Ah, has the Witcher caught your eye?”
His brow lifts impossibly higher. “Excuse me?”
“The Witcher–better known as the Butcher of Blaviken, but I’ve learned quite quickly he prefers Geralt of Rivia,” the King smiles.
Valdo watches the Witcher. “Why is he here tonight, my King?”
“Well,” he clears his throat, “it seems that we’ve had a bit of a drowner problem as of late–nothing he can’t handle, I’m sure.”
“And we are all safe?” he questions, heartbeat steadily climbing.
“Of course, of course! Everything is well. We have a witcher as guard,” he chuckles.
Somehow, Valdo possesses an inkling that says otherwise–especially when said witcher locks eyes with him, piercing gold meeting deceitful brown.