His fingers moved quickly over the white smoothness. Gently he caressed the ivory, mind completely on his task. His eyes were closed, for he didn't need to see. He knew where every part of her was. Suddenly he picked up speed, and she laughed and sang with his rapid movements. Here, and then here. A smile lifted the edges of his lips. A little more and... pain!
He jumped back from the piano as his body screamed. He doubled-over on the wooden bench and stayed hunched in that position until the throbbing in his wrists receded to a dull roar. Using his shoulders to wipe the tears away from his eyes, he looked back up at her. The ivory keys seemed to beg to him 'play me, play me'. He lifted his arms to finish the song, but the sudden movement brought the pain back and he barely managed to strangle a scream before it escaped his lips. He looked desperately at her, and it looked back at him, the knots in the wood her eyes, gazing sympathetically at him. 'I'm sorry I hurt you...' it whispered. He attempted a smile, and then left to sleep.
At the dinner table his mother scolded him. He knew he wasn't to play to the piano anymore. He knew how much it hurt him. His tennanitis was far to bad for this! Just as it was getting better, he'd always play that horrid thing and re-injure himself. He only half listened to his mother rants, instead gazing at his lover. She sat in the corner of the room, calling to him. Begging her to once again sit on the oak and leather bench, to bring cheerful melodies from the creamy keys, to call forth dark and haunting ballads from the ones of ebony. His mind was only brought back from her at his mothers threat to burn his love. He stood up from his chair and threw his plate onto the ground, ignoring the agonizing pain in his arms founded by this action. He screamed it would not happen, he shouted and hollered, tears streaming down his face. Finally he got to his knees and begged his mother to not hurt her. His mother turned and called his love a pointless obsession that would destroy him. Besides, if he were to destroy his wrists this young, how would he ever be able to handle the family business of mercenaries? He had a strong family tradition to uphold. He glared at the woman who patronized him so, then spit at her feet. He spun out the door, his grip on his fathers sword. He would show her. He would use this sword just fine. She would see how strong he would be, and then still be able to play her.
And so he ran into the woods, far beyond the point where anyone could find him, and took out the sword. His mother would see. Would see that he could be strong, that he could do anything, that he could still be with her. Again and again he slashed out with his sword, forcing his thoughts off the wrenching pain snaking up his arms to his shoulders and back. He thought of her. Of the lovely tune he would play when he got home, to show them all that he was strong enough to stay with her. A noise behind him distracted him from his fury-driven work. A soft minor jingling. As he turned, he unconsciously thought out the keys to play that note. He recognized the man behind him. Words were exchanged between them, but he didn't pay true attention. The man offered strength, and strength he needed. To make his wrists strong so that he might play at her all day. He agreed...
He trudged home the way he came, his transfigured form lumbering through the trees. He walked into his family's small house, ignoring his parents as they fled in terror. His fingers moved slowly across the keys. It would all be worth it if he could play without the pain. He touched the keys gently, and a tune escaped his fingers. It was slow, in a dark minor key, and he played the song through without a single gasp of displeasure. And then he looked up at her, and asked her what she thought. But the keys were cold and gray, dulled with age. The sound that came from her was just that, sound. It had no life, no spirit. He tried again, a happier tune, trying to cheer her. But the song was hollow and empty. He sat back on the bench, hunched over, but this time in pain of heart. She had rejected him. His big powerful hands were clumsy on the white keys. He played too hard now, even when trying to play soft. He hurt her. His dark body got up from the piano and walked away. As he exited the door of his childhood a last time, he turned to look at her. Somewhere within that knotty would, to eyes looked at him, and begged for Zelgadis to come and take away the monster. He turned away again and left.