[ She watches him attend to his instrument, curious at the particulars. She can see it's in good condition, and he's thorough and familiar with how he handles it, which makes sense if this is his life, livelihood, and passion.
Passion is something she'll always admire, even when it's ill guided or disastrous. She can admire what she likewise finds stupid. It thankfully has no place here and now, and she straightens up as he stands. Ave Maria is a meaningless pairing of sounds, but she knew and expected that, finding herself anticipating the unknown in a way she did not always enjoy.
He plays... ah, she's not so insensible to most the world around her not to see he plays with the emotions he feels. She can feel it in the music, a novel experience when most the music she hears here is background music that has managed to do little past dull her to the constant noise. There are no words she can correlate, having never heard the song sung, and the sentiment, if she'd know the words, would have also been odd, in a way provoking thought.
It is different, hearing it like this for a first time, hearing the trumpet produce softer sounds, and it isn't motherly love that she gets from any of it, because there's no concept of motherly love in her life. It's a sense of unconditional something, affection and tolerance and acceptance and a plead to what leaves to remember where it came from, and who was there. She wonders, briefly, who he's playing for in the same way she wonders who any of the people she meets are motivated by the people they've known, but it's a passing thought, swept aside in the unfamiliar, almost haunting melody.
When he finishes, she has her cup clasped in her hands, resting in her lap. Annie is perfectly still, the breeze teasing at the loose tendrils of her hair the only movement about her at first. Lute has likewise gone still, head tipped to the side, as if he'd been listening to a melody he couldn't quite make out. It'd been present, and overflowing, and in a sense overwhelming, only not chasing after any of the things she knew.
But she can identify the longing, if not his, than her own. For her father, for that last goodbye, for the life she'd never have and had said goodbye to as a child. Bertolt manages to eke out his happiness. His slice of life. She thinks Reiner would have done well with that, too.
The music finishes, and Annie breathes, until she bows her head forward and closes her eyes and swallows with a dry mouth to say: ]
no subject
Passion is something she'll always admire, even when it's ill guided or disastrous. She can admire what she likewise finds stupid. It thankfully has no place here and now, and she straightens up as he stands. Ave Maria is a meaningless pairing of sounds, but she knew and expected that, finding herself anticipating the unknown in a way she did not always enjoy.
He plays... ah, she's not so insensible to most the world around her not to see he plays with the emotions he feels. She can feel it in the music, a novel experience when most the music she hears here is background music that has managed to do little past dull her to the constant noise. There are no words she can correlate, having never heard the song sung, and the sentiment, if she'd know the words, would have also been odd, in a way provoking thought.
It is different, hearing it like this for a first time, hearing the trumpet produce softer sounds, and it isn't motherly love that she gets from any of it, because there's no concept of motherly love in her life. It's a sense of unconditional something, affection and tolerance and acceptance and a plead to what leaves to remember where it came from, and who was there. She wonders, briefly, who he's playing for in the same way she wonders who any of the people she meets are motivated by the people they've known, but it's a passing thought, swept aside in the unfamiliar, almost haunting melody.
When he finishes, she has her cup clasped in her hands, resting in her lap. Annie is perfectly still, the breeze teasing at the loose tendrils of her hair the only movement about her at first. Lute has likewise gone still, head tipped to the side, as if he'd been listening to a melody he couldn't quite make out. It'd been present, and overflowing, and in a sense overwhelming, only not chasing after any of the things she knew.
But she can identify the longing, if not his, than her own. For her father, for that last goodbye, for the life she'd never have and had said goodbye to as a child. Bertolt manages to eke out his happiness. His slice of life. She thinks Reiner would have done well with that, too.
The music finishes, and Annie breathes, until she bows her head forward and closes her eyes and swallows with a dry mouth to say: ]
Thank you.