Bertrand composes the song fully

It was a long day. Bertrand deserved this rest, as far as he knew. The attack of the knights was something that he anticipated, yet... He was never truly prepared for it.

For how long would he have to keep up? The lie, the fact that he was not really an actor. Just a street performer, who preferred the name other than anything else. It made him feel less... Dirty. Actors were respected. Everyone wanted to see their plays.

No one wanted to see a clown, a juggler, or so he thought. Crowley was an outlet for some of his most exquisite illusionary tricks, but here, in his newly acquired house, he could let his true talent bloom. Where no one else could judge, he could continue what was started back in that single reunion at Agrien's house.

He could start playing the Harpsichord, and not stop until he could fully play a music with it. He had been practicing, but his ways of doing such were more brute than anything else. The way he exaggerated on each tug of the strings, each hit...

It often had him resort to trying to fix the melody with his own air magic. Causing the air to ripple around the places, to help each time his strikes found a target, a beautiful note to echo. He wanted everything to become a beautiful melody, be it a concept, a cause, a living person, or even a dead one. Everything was liable to change.

It only took creativity.

"Mh..." His voice unsettled, perhaps trying to add to the tone. Even if he lied about the true career, more often a revolutionary with a foolish, abrasive stance, Bertrand had his voice practiced. It often boomed out, beckoning for attention from those nearby.

And this time it was no different. It wasn't because he was alone that he should not play. What good would that be? It'd only spare his own ears from what could be a beautiful, or a terrible melody.

One by one, he took the notes in his head again. Never formally taught, Bertrand was... Slowly, trying to grasp the concepts of how the harpsichord worked. Everything he knew on the lute came from his own strokes, and attempts to fix the sounds that came from the impacts.

Now, it was time for him to fine tune it all.

Stroke after stroke, he concentrated. To use the air to stop it a single moment, or perhaps to make the sound echo louder than before - This way, he could fully play sounds that would mimic another instrument. His own voice came to accompany it.

A folk song.

Humming, only, but soon enough, he tried to force his own magic. To deliver himself fully into the song, made out of the sheer rush at the protest.


"Do heroes die young?
Save your tears
And wait for a new horizon
We are an army, bonded by blood
Signed and sealed, our pact will live forever"

"The final ordeal will arrive
And it's coming down
Our heaven can wait
Because we have so many more battles to win"

"Ride towards the sun
Surf on the clouds
No reason to stay here lonely
Days will come, days will go
Save the show, enlighten us"

"Heaven can wait
Because we are not ready to lay down and die
Now that we have seen a new world
There is no turning back
Rise, rise
Children of Utopia"

"We are walking on the glory road to victory
And there is no paradise with peace and joy
Our struggle goes on without misery
Yet our future looks brighter than ever
On our road to victory"



Each stroke of a key came accompanied by a slow drum, the sound of his own fingers tapping onto the wooden pieces that composed the piano. Perhaps for now, Bertrand had lost the fear that he could be heard. The song was indeed beautiful.

Why not make use of it, in the end?

It was almost instinct for him to continue playing, repeating the verses one by one and searching for a perfect combination of notes. Ones that he could hold in his own head, and still play later on for the next time he had to.

His voice always continued to keep up. It was, perhaps, the sound of most of Bertrand's magic; His own voice was boosted by a faint modification of how the air left his own throat, but it also reached forth to encompass the entire environment, and...

At the very least, fill the house with his newfound joy.

The joy of a musician.
(Bertrand Volgin)