And the song rose up [Angharad/Coma]
Oct. 6th, 2018 03:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roesslyngTitle: And the song rose up
Fandom: Mad Max: Fury Road
Characters/Pairing: The Splendid Angharad/Coma the Doof Warrior
Rating: 0+
Length: 1.8k
Summary: Entertain them, Immortan had said. Play music for them.
Other: Drafted this in 2016, I think. When I first came across the idea of this pairing, the person who mentioned it phrased the appeal thus: "Angharad, sick of being treasured for her beauty, would find some appeal in a blind man who would treasure everything but her looks". So, I decided to give it a try.
And the song rose up
He learned their names quickly, and more importantly, he learned their voices.
Cheedo. Capable. The Dag. Toast.
"And you?"
There was someone else. He'd heard five pairs of feet.
"I am Angharad."
He'd heard the name before. Always accompanied by a title. Impressive, that one, or so people said.
"Splendid?"
"No. Angharad."
Fair enough. "All right," he said. And he began to play.
The notes rang through the vault, filled it up. It was an empty space, and the song echoed, and his fingers flew and sent the notes flying to the ceiling.
Entertain them, Immortan had said. Play music for them.
Play music? Fair enough. He could do that. He liked to do that.
But these women were the toughest audience he'd ever known. The notes flew, and there was nothing else. There was silence surrounding the song. He played a few hits, the crowd-pleasers, the songs of war and death and Valhalla that normally brought cheers.
Tight-lipped silence. That was all.
His hands stopped moving. The chords stopped ringing. The notes stopped singing. He lifted his head and pointed his face toward where she had been sitting. Where he thought she was.
"What do you want me to play?"
Pause. Wait. Listen. Sound of shifting fabric, sound of whispering, sound of words that he knew he wasn't supposed to catch. "I don't know if he –"
"Might as well ask, anyway."
Then the question came.
"Do you know any old songs? From the old world."
He did.
"Fine. Play something like that."
Old songs from the old world. He knew them. He'd learned them.
Played his fingers to ribbons until he got them right.
"Keep playing," his mother had said as she taught him, her voice low, firm, patient.
It didn't hurt after a while. After the songs sank into his mind and the chords and notes and words came as easily as breathing. She praised him with a kiss to the forehead and hands on his small shoulders.
These were the songs the women wanted. And he hesitated. Then his fingers found the chords, as if they had minds of their own and wanted to play. Never mind if he wanted to or not. His hands knew best.
He played "Michael", he played "Fare ye well", he played "Whiskey in the Jar" and "Hey Jude". He played "Waltzing Matilda" and felt his breath catch as he heard them join in one by one, singing. They knew the words to that one. They sang along. There, that was the right note, right there. He picked out the voices. Cheedo, the Dag, Capable, Toast.
Angharad.
Later, when he was telling Joe how it went, he mentioned, "Your girls like to learn old songs. They like stuff that plays better on a wood guitar. Acoustic, like."
He didn't mean anything by it. An observation, that was it. He knew what his ears told him.
There was a guitar in his hands two months later.
He ran his fingers along it, took in its shape. Where had they dug that up? Who had the warboys stolen it from? He didn't care. It wasn't perfect, like everything else it had seen finer days, but he could fix it. He could make it sing.
At the edge of his awareness, he could hear Immortan say, "Teach them to play."
Was it his sight? His lack of it. Was that the reason they took to the lessons? That they were more comfortable with him, since he didn't have eyes that could wander?
He asked himself that, once.
Then he forgot about it. It didn't matter. The notes mattered.
"Who first?" he asked on the first day that he was ready to introduce him to his new darling, that sweet-singing salvaged guitar. "Who wants to have a go first?"
Whispering. "I'll try it. Please?" Cheedo.
"Right. Sit with me, then. And the rest of you," he turned his head in their direction, "You might pick it up if you watch. And listen."
Rustling fabric. She came, and she sat beside him. He turned to her, and for a moment he paused. The guitar was in his hands, and his fingers knew where the notes should go. That wasn't a problem.
He'd never taught anyone before. That was the problem.
His mother. How had she done it? Calm patient words. She played, he listened. He played, she corrected.
These women had an advantage that he'd never had.
"Right," he said. "We'll do it like this. Watch my hands, and listen. Then I'll pass it to you. Deal?"
"Deal! Now, show me. Please?"
The notes weren't perfect, far from it, but that didn't matter. She strummed away, and the music was hesitant, but there was joy in it. Did I sound like that at first? He wondered that as he listened. Was this what my mother heard?
They tried it, one by one. Watched. Listened. They passed it around.
"We'll save songs for next time. Better to get good at getting sound out of it first, right?"
"We have a book on it," Capable said. She picked out some notes, slowly, with care, as if she were learning by sound, too. "It might help."
"It'll teach you how to play?"
"No," she relied. "But it will be good for practice. Teaching is what you're here for."
The Dag listened to his instruction without comment. When he passed it to her, there was a long pause; then she strummed, copying his chords almost exactly, the sound bright and confident and almost - but not quite - right.
"Good." What was that warm feeling swelling up in him? Satisfaction, maybe. "Keep going."
"A melodious fascination," she muttered. "I like it."
And she kept going.
"I'm not one for music." Toast carefully picked out the notes, taking her time.
"Then why learn at all?"
There was a pause and a sound of shifting fabric, as if she had shrugged. "It's something to do."
He couldn't argue with that.
There was one left.
Silence, at first. Then he could hear footsteps moving away, and voices speaking quietly, hushed so as not to interrupt, as the other wives went on with their learning. But there was one left.
He could feel the air change in front of him. And there was the sound of bare feet, quiet, almost silent.
He turned his head toward her.
"So you'd like to learn too, then?"
There was a quiet moment, as if she wasn't sure, or maybe there was another reason. "Yes," she said. Angharad. The voice wasn't where he was looking, not quite.
He turned himself to face the right direction. "Were you watching when I was teaching the others?"
"I was. Could I try it?"
"Sure." He held the guitar out for her. She took it gingerly, slowly, and even if she didn't say it, she understood that she knew what she was holding was a rare thing, something that needed special care.
He waited.
There was no music. He heard her taking in a slow, deep breath.
The words were on the tip of his tongue. Do you want me to show you? He almost said it. But maybe that wasn't it. He licked his lips and waited.
Then the sound came. First, one chord, then a pause as if she was taking it all in. Like she was listening to that sound that came from her fingers, coaxed out of the wood and strings. Then another chord. Another. And then she began to play.
It wasn't good. But it was something. It had feeling. He listened, letting the music sink in. There was as much feeling in that as there had been in any of the others. Maybe more. Or maybe he was imagining it.
Maybe he imagined it every time they met. Every time he came into that vault to teach her. Maybe he was.
He still played songs for them. He played the old ones, played the ones they asked for. Their reception wasn't so cold, then. He sang; they joined him, learned the words, call and response.
One would accompany him on their guitar. They took turns at it.
He sang for them. But really, he sang for her.
"Do you know how to play the piano?" she asked him one day. She had been playing it, and she paused, letting the chords fade out before asking that.
"Never touched one," he admitted. "Dunno if I'd have a hand for it."
"I could teach you."
"I'd like that. But I'll have to ask."
Angharad said nothing to that. All he heard was an intake of breath, a tight-lipped pause. Then, without saying a thing, she started the song again again, striking the chords sharp, playing the notes fiercely.
There was frustration in that, and words or not, she wasn't hiding it.
He did ask, later. Brought it up. Broached the question with the Immortan.
"She wants to teach me," he said. "Splendid, that is. She thinks it would be fun."
"...'Fun'?"
"Well. I mean. Sounded like she'd find it entertaining. Can be a good way to get better at things, too. When you're teaching somebody."
Permission granted.
The keys were cool under his fingertips. He brushed his fingers over them, feeling but not pressing. Feeling them out. Not playing a single note.
A hand touched his own, and he tensed.
"Place your hands here," she said, slowly moving his hands to the right place, arranging them on the keys.
He could barely breathe. Close. She was close, sitting like that, beside him on the bench. He could smell her, fresh and clean. Her hands were soft and warm.
They were being watched. He couldn't see, but he knew.
Swallowing harshly, he took in what she said. Let her touch his hands. Let her move them.
"This is C..."
Press.
The note rang out in the stillness, and in that moment it was the clearest, smoothest he'd ever heard. Beyond the crisp coldness of chrome. This was a sound with warmth to it.
"And this is D..."
She was calm. Patient. Taught him the notes, let him feel out where they were. Got him playing a scale after a time.
"You'll have to memorize the notes for the songs," she said. There was a hint of doubt in her voice.
"Don't you?" he asked, pausing the scale, letting the note ring.
"We read sheet music."
"Ah. Well." He licked his lower lip, allowed himself a smile. "I have a good memory."
He did have a good memory.
The notes echoed in his mind, ringing, singing. Hours after each lesson, always. The songs followed him, clung to him like her scent.
They played over in his mind and he tried not to think of her.
In time, his hands knew the keys, and the songs sank into his mind, and they came effortlessly.
He did not ask why she taught him without fail, why she sat close enough to him that he could feel the heat of her body, though they did not touch.
He listened to her voice, her instructions, and he played.
Fandom: Mad Max: Fury Road
Characters/Pairing: The Splendid Angharad/Coma the Doof Warrior
Rating: 0+
Length: 1.8k
Summary: Entertain them, Immortan had said. Play music for them.
Other: Drafted this in 2016, I think. When I first came across the idea of this pairing, the person who mentioned it phrased the appeal thus: "Angharad, sick of being treasured for her beauty, would find some appeal in a blind man who would treasure everything but her looks". So, I decided to give it a try.
And the song rose up
He learned their names quickly, and more importantly, he learned their voices.
Cheedo. Capable. The Dag. Toast.
"And you?"
There was someone else. He'd heard five pairs of feet.
"I am Angharad."
He'd heard the name before. Always accompanied by a title. Impressive, that one, or so people said.
"Splendid?"
"No. Angharad."
Fair enough. "All right," he said. And he began to play.
The notes rang through the vault, filled it up. It was an empty space, and the song echoed, and his fingers flew and sent the notes flying to the ceiling.
Entertain them, Immortan had said. Play music for them.
Play music? Fair enough. He could do that. He liked to do that.
But these women were the toughest audience he'd ever known. The notes flew, and there was nothing else. There was silence surrounding the song. He played a few hits, the crowd-pleasers, the songs of war and death and Valhalla that normally brought cheers.
Tight-lipped silence. That was all.
His hands stopped moving. The chords stopped ringing. The notes stopped singing. He lifted his head and pointed his face toward where she had been sitting. Where he thought she was.
"What do you want me to play?"
Pause. Wait. Listen. Sound of shifting fabric, sound of whispering, sound of words that he knew he wasn't supposed to catch. "I don't know if he –"
"Might as well ask, anyway."
Then the question came.
"Do you know any old songs? From the old world."
He did.
"Fine. Play something like that."
Old songs from the old world. He knew them. He'd learned them.
Played his fingers to ribbons until he got them right.
"Keep playing," his mother had said as she taught him, her voice low, firm, patient.
It didn't hurt after a while. After the songs sank into his mind and the chords and notes and words came as easily as breathing. She praised him with a kiss to the forehead and hands on his small shoulders.
These were the songs the women wanted. And he hesitated. Then his fingers found the chords, as if they had minds of their own and wanted to play. Never mind if he wanted to or not. His hands knew best.
He played "Michael", he played "Fare ye well", he played "Whiskey in the Jar" and "Hey Jude". He played "Waltzing Matilda" and felt his breath catch as he heard them join in one by one, singing. They knew the words to that one. They sang along. There, that was the right note, right there. He picked out the voices. Cheedo, the Dag, Capable, Toast.
Angharad.
Later, when he was telling Joe how it went, he mentioned, "Your girls like to learn old songs. They like stuff that plays better on a wood guitar. Acoustic, like."
He didn't mean anything by it. An observation, that was it. He knew what his ears told him.
There was a guitar in his hands two months later.
He ran his fingers along it, took in its shape. Where had they dug that up? Who had the warboys stolen it from? He didn't care. It wasn't perfect, like everything else it had seen finer days, but he could fix it. He could make it sing.
At the edge of his awareness, he could hear Immortan say, "Teach them to play."
Was it his sight? His lack of it. Was that the reason they took to the lessons? That they were more comfortable with him, since he didn't have eyes that could wander?
He asked himself that, once.
Then he forgot about it. It didn't matter. The notes mattered.
"Who first?" he asked on the first day that he was ready to introduce him to his new darling, that sweet-singing salvaged guitar. "Who wants to have a go first?"
Whispering. "I'll try it. Please?" Cheedo.
"Right. Sit with me, then. And the rest of you," he turned his head in their direction, "You might pick it up if you watch. And listen."
Rustling fabric. She came, and she sat beside him. He turned to her, and for a moment he paused. The guitar was in his hands, and his fingers knew where the notes should go. That wasn't a problem.
He'd never taught anyone before. That was the problem.
His mother. How had she done it? Calm patient words. She played, he listened. He played, she corrected.
These women had an advantage that he'd never had.
"Right," he said. "We'll do it like this. Watch my hands, and listen. Then I'll pass it to you. Deal?"
"Deal! Now, show me. Please?"
The notes weren't perfect, far from it, but that didn't matter. She strummed away, and the music was hesitant, but there was joy in it. Did I sound like that at first? He wondered that as he listened. Was this what my mother heard?
They tried it, one by one. Watched. Listened. They passed it around.
"We'll save songs for next time. Better to get good at getting sound out of it first, right?"
"We have a book on it," Capable said. She picked out some notes, slowly, with care, as if she were learning by sound, too. "It might help."
"It'll teach you how to play?"
"No," she relied. "But it will be good for practice. Teaching is what you're here for."
The Dag listened to his instruction without comment. When he passed it to her, there was a long pause; then she strummed, copying his chords almost exactly, the sound bright and confident and almost - but not quite - right.
"Good." What was that warm feeling swelling up in him? Satisfaction, maybe. "Keep going."
"A melodious fascination," she muttered. "I like it."
And she kept going.
"I'm not one for music." Toast carefully picked out the notes, taking her time.
"Then why learn at all?"
There was a pause and a sound of shifting fabric, as if she had shrugged. "It's something to do."
He couldn't argue with that.
There was one left.
Silence, at first. Then he could hear footsteps moving away, and voices speaking quietly, hushed so as not to interrupt, as the other wives went on with their learning. But there was one left.
He could feel the air change in front of him. And there was the sound of bare feet, quiet, almost silent.
He turned his head toward her.
"So you'd like to learn too, then?"
There was a quiet moment, as if she wasn't sure, or maybe there was another reason. "Yes," she said. Angharad. The voice wasn't where he was looking, not quite.
He turned himself to face the right direction. "Were you watching when I was teaching the others?"
"I was. Could I try it?"
"Sure." He held the guitar out for her. She took it gingerly, slowly, and even if she didn't say it, she understood that she knew what she was holding was a rare thing, something that needed special care.
He waited.
There was no music. He heard her taking in a slow, deep breath.
The words were on the tip of his tongue. Do you want me to show you? He almost said it. But maybe that wasn't it. He licked his lips and waited.
Then the sound came. First, one chord, then a pause as if she was taking it all in. Like she was listening to that sound that came from her fingers, coaxed out of the wood and strings. Then another chord. Another. And then she began to play.
It wasn't good. But it was something. It had feeling. He listened, letting the music sink in. There was as much feeling in that as there had been in any of the others. Maybe more. Or maybe he was imagining it.
Maybe he imagined it every time they met. Every time he came into that vault to teach her. Maybe he was.
He still played songs for them. He played the old ones, played the ones they asked for. Their reception wasn't so cold, then. He sang; they joined him, learned the words, call and response.
One would accompany him on their guitar. They took turns at it.
He sang for them. But really, he sang for her.
"Do you know how to play the piano?" she asked him one day. She had been playing it, and she paused, letting the chords fade out before asking that.
"Never touched one," he admitted. "Dunno if I'd have a hand for it."
"I could teach you."
"I'd like that. But I'll have to ask."
Angharad said nothing to that. All he heard was an intake of breath, a tight-lipped pause. Then, without saying a thing, she started the song again again, striking the chords sharp, playing the notes fiercely.
There was frustration in that, and words or not, she wasn't hiding it.
He did ask, later. Brought it up. Broached the question with the Immortan.
"She wants to teach me," he said. "Splendid, that is. She thinks it would be fun."
"...'Fun'?"
"Well. I mean. Sounded like she'd find it entertaining. Can be a good way to get better at things, too. When you're teaching somebody."
Permission granted.
The keys were cool under his fingertips. He brushed his fingers over them, feeling but not pressing. Feeling them out. Not playing a single note.
A hand touched his own, and he tensed.
"Place your hands here," she said, slowly moving his hands to the right place, arranging them on the keys.
He could barely breathe. Close. She was close, sitting like that, beside him on the bench. He could smell her, fresh and clean. Her hands were soft and warm.
They were being watched. He couldn't see, but he knew.
Swallowing harshly, he took in what she said. Let her touch his hands. Let her move them.
"This is C..."
Press.
The note rang out in the stillness, and in that moment it was the clearest, smoothest he'd ever heard. Beyond the crisp coldness of chrome. This was a sound with warmth to it.
"And this is D..."
She was calm. Patient. Taught him the notes, let him feel out where they were. Got him playing a scale after a time.
"You'll have to memorize the notes for the songs," she said. There was a hint of doubt in her voice.
"Don't you?" he asked, pausing the scale, letting the note ring.
"We read sheet music."
"Ah. Well." He licked his lower lip, allowed himself a smile. "I have a good memory."
He did have a good memory.
The notes echoed in his mind, ringing, singing. Hours after each lesson, always. The songs followed him, clung to him like her scent.
They played over in his mind and he tried not to think of her.
In time, his hands knew the keys, and the songs sank into his mind, and they came effortlessly.
He did not ask why she taught him without fail, why she sat close enough to him that he could feel the heat of her body, though they did not touch.
He listened to her voice, her instructions, and he played.
