The Temple Pianist
A Model 1098 Steinway piano stood alone within the Temple of the Master. It was made in 1956 and belonged to Rondo.
Rondo, in his black moretta mask and plain clothing, wasn't much of a figure in the Proxy gathering. Not as a person; he was smallish and quiet, and didn't hunt much, and may not have actually killed anybody. Everyone knew him, though.
He slept in a room between the 2nd and 3rd floors of the Temple, branching off from the stairwell. It was bare except for a mattress and the piano. The piano was as much the center of Rondo's life as the Master. Whenever he was tracking or raiding, he would only steal—unless told otherwise—sheet music and supplies to maintain the piano. When he was in his room he would either be sleeping or playing under the large, stained window that faced the water.
As far as anyone else knew, how to play the piano was all that Rondo remembered from his past life. Rondo never mentioned that he remembered who taught him and what had become of that person. The others were grateful to whoever had taught him, however. The mindless ones were calmed by the sounds of his playing echoing throughout the Temple, and it eased the Agents' minds when they were waiting to serve.
It was a Hallowed instrument, too, blessed by the Master. Rondo had been playing late one night when His right hand suddenly landed on the keys, playing a savage, alien chord no human could have coaxed from any Earthly instrument. It had scared Rondo and hurt his ears, but it had been an important moment: it had given him his Role.
Now it was late in the afternoon. The world outside Rondo's window was a misty gray sky with a burning red heart, hovering over calm waters. He was playing "The Song of the Volga Boatmen," letting the powerful dirge flow through his finger and into the air. He heard others walking the stairs behind him, occasionally stopping, but he never turned around. He finished the song and wondered what to play next from his library.
Rondo jumped at the sound of clapping from behind him. He turned and saw a tall, dark figure framed in the doorway. Not the Master, Rondo thought with some relief. Zanna. His relief became uneasy.
"Very nice," Zanna said. Her gloved hands were fiddling with a Hunter's Short Sword with blood still on the blade. There was some dripping from the back of her neck.
"You... you're hurt," Rondo said.
"Yes." The way Zanna smiled made Rondo nervous. He knew the smile from the faces of Berserkers facing cornered quarry; without sanity or compassion. "I've traveled a long distance," she continued, walking toward him, "and I was hurt on my way back here. Now I would like to hear more of your music."
Rondo shrank into his seat as she stood over him, face as calm and impassive as her mask. The blood was running down her black trench coat and onto the floor, and Rondo noticed some staining her flaxen hair. She admired the long blade of the Hunter's Short Sword she was twirling very close to Rondo.
"W- what do you want to hear?" he asked.
"Anything. I haven't actually listened to music in a long time, and I'm a bit tired. Please, just play." Zanna sighed as she ran her fingers over her blade. "It's nice, isn't it? Very shiny when I clean it, but you can't see with all this blood. I had to kill someone with it earlier." She casually placed the cold blade against Rondo's neck. "I'm not too tired to do it again, but I'd be sad if I had to."
Zanna frowned at Rondo. "You wouldn't want Zanna to be sad, would you?"
Rondo tried not to cry as he shook his head vigorously.
"Good. Now, play me a song, damn it."
Rondo launched into Schumann's "Aufschwung" from memory. He played it harder and faster than he had played anything before, and didn't relax even when Zanna took the blade away from his neck. It was not long till he had finished it, sweat pouring down his face and his hands still trembling. Zanna was in a reverie, leaning against the wall with an expression of pure ecstasy on her face.
"SchÓ§n," she whispered. "Absolut wunderbar." She wiped some blood from the wound on her neck and looked as if she was only noticing it for the first time. "I should clean this up." Zanna swept out of the room with a warm and casual "Thank you."
Rondo slid out of his seat and lied on the ground, considering what had just happened.
I saved my own life, he thought. Maybe others. I helped someone, for sure. I must be doing the right thing.
He climbed back onto the seat and began to play once more; Beethoven's "Pathetique Sonata (No. 8 Op. 13)." It was nighttime when it ended and he was asleep upon the keys, dreaming of daylight and music.
