Well, Alara, here is an answer to your fanfic challenge.  Jaya Mitai 
presents a piece named 'Piece.' (I'm just chock full of creativity, eh?  
Read it, then you'll understand.)  And not only is it probably something 
no one has ever written (cross fingers - did Jaya have an original 
idea?) but it stars your fave guy, Alara, and he's not insane, not mean, 
and not evil incarnate.  What more could you ask for?!

	Disclaimer : Andre Previn and the London Symphony Orchestra belong to 
themselves.  Eric Magnus Lensherr (the name, anyway) belongs to Marvel.  
Feedback to jaya_gm@hotmail.com or however people give feedback around 
here (this is my fourth day as an Outsider - newbie (cringe!)).  This is 
my first OTL post and second X-related (ever so vaguely) fanfic ever 
written, so cut me some slack, kay?  Here's to hoping I submitted this 
right . . .


Piece

	The doors opened at seven-thirty sharp, and thousands poured into the 
hall.  Ushers pointed the way while the orchestra began to warm up, 
bathing the audience in a medley of tones and scales, chaotic, yet 
somehow melodic.  The strains were beautiful, teasing the audience, 
tossing bits and juicy pieces of the music yet to come for those in 
their seats to capture and examine, building the tension in the hall.

	The eager audience filled that place to capacity, a rainbow of evening 
gowns and male ensembles ranging from tuxedos to a rather stylish 
Frenchman in a leather suit.  They sat, talking quietly, leafing through 
the program, tapping fans in their hands, waiting, waiting . . .

	The lights dimmed, and with it the noise, until the faint coughing of 
one of the musicians was heard clearly.  The audience roared to life as 
the concertmistress took the stage, giving a short bow before stepping 
onto the conductor's podium.  The clear tone of the oboe, A 440, rang 
out onto the stage, and the woodwinds, brass, and strings fined tuned 
themselves, making tiny adjustments to shining horns.  The timpani 
player was the last to silence, tapping a final time on the head, making 
sure of the pitch.  Their performance tonight had to be flawless.

	There was a ten second interval of complete silence from musicians and 
audience alike, and the conductor and the soloist stepped onto the stage 
to thunderous applause.  The conductor bowed, indicated the man beside 
him, bowed again, and turned to his orchestra.  The soloist took his 
place to the left of the conductor, seating himself carefully and 
settling his cello onto the pad.  When he was satisfied, he nodded to 
the conductor.

	The conductor merely raised his baton, and every musician instantly had 
their horn to their lips and their bow on the string.  With almost an 
imperceptible gesture the music began.  Solo violin, high, plaintiff, a 
child crying in a corner.  The theme traveled to the viola, lamenting, 
older than the child, more regretful, obviously remembering things best 
forgotten, yet never erased.  The soloist bowed his head, his fine white 
hair spilling around the shoulders of the black suit.  He remained 
absolutely still as the flute began, trilling away merrily, surprising 
after the sobbing of the strings.

	The flute burbled away gleefully at play, running about the hills, 
stopping at a brook.  The clarinet wandered up, a bumbling animal, and 
inspected the flute.  The flute found the bungling clarinet too 
fascinating and moved too fast! startling the clarinet, sending it 
scampering away into the woods.

	Then the oboe began, in duet with the bassoon, two lovers watching the 
trees move in the breeze, conversing in small phrases traded back and 
forth between the two, promising love.  The strains were beautiful and 
clear, peaceful, almost hopeful.  The music was as gentle and soothing 
as it could be.

	The oboe and bassoon continued their conversation, and the flute 
continued to flounce about without a care in the world.  But now there 
was a new element.  The french Horns were discordant, yet very quiet, 
over the hill, far enough away that the lovers and the child did not 
need to fear.  The basses soon joined the horns, the discord growing.  
Trumpets added to the medley.  The horns and basses were on the march.  
The war was coming.

	The violins and violas began again, crying out.  The flute became 
frantic, trying desperately to find a safe place.  The two lovers were 
separated, the phrases answered less and less quickly till they merely 
cried out to each other in vain, neither answering the other.

	The soloist moved.  He lifted his head slightly and positioned the bow.  
In a tiny cloud of rasin, he screamed out in defiance against the army 
behind him.  Trombones, tuba, and horn rang, answering his challenge, 
while the trumpet began to chase the oboe.  The oboe ran, seeking 
shelter and still calling for the bassoon, in vain.  In a flurry of 
fast-spiraling downward notes, the oboe brokenly disappeared beneath the 
glorious discord of the trumpet.  The solo cello continued in unison 
with the rest of the orchestra cellos against the army while the trumpet 
chased the flute, ending with the same downward spiral and a final 
plaintive cry from the piccolo.  The trumpets rang in triumph, and the 
rest of the brass followed while the strings began to brokenly weep, and 
the solo cello still cried out defiance, yet quieter, less strongly.

	The timpani began to thump rhythmically, pounding, a machine.  The 
brass screamed out orders that the strings and solo cello had no choice 
but to obey.  The woodwinds became rather stiff and pompous, carrying on 
a conversation beneath the brass.  Abruptly there was silence.

	The solo cello began again, speaking of all the joy that had been.  He 
repeated the themes of the flute, oboe and bassoon, and the clarinet, 
remembering the happier times.  Then the cello sobered, looking around 
at the surroundings, seeing the situation for what it was.  Every other 
phrase the cello would again repeat the defiant cry, each time just as 
strongly, with the same amount of conviction.  The soloist's hair flew 
as the bow danced on the strings, calling out against the brass.  Sweat 
or tears dripped from the soloist's face.

	And the brass replied, loud, commanding, and the defiant cry continued, 
covered by the weeping of the strings and the commanding scream of the 
brass.  The timpani beat out its steady railroad rhythm, and now a 
marimba played a parody of the Ride of the Valkyries.  The woodwinds 
continued their conversation, now and again faintly challenging the 
brass but always backing down agreeably.

	Then came the flurry of strings, crying, screaming, dying, and the 
woodwinds reacted, finally, strongly against the brass.  They screamed 
back and forth, the timpani's steady drone broken now into mortars and 
shrapnel.  The conductor danced and gesticulated wildly on the podium, 
torn in the battle between the two.  And underlying it all, the solo 
cello still spoke of the way things had been, and still held the defiant 
theme, and the hope, quickly diminishing.

	The battle went on for a long time, the brass slowly being beaten back, 
further and further, till it was just the horns and the basses, still 
showing fight.  The strings now were reduced to whimpering, pitiful 
things and occasionally the piccolo and flute would raise a head and 
give out a cry before falling beneath the battle again.

	And the solo cello played on, less obstinate, less forceful, the 
soloist using less and less of the bow with every stroke.

	Finally the woodwinds were victorious, and the french Horns and basses 
faded farther and farther.  As they did, the strings gradually lost 
their strength, as well, and the solo cello ground down to a halt, not 
finishing the theme of resistance, holding the leading tone, wanting to 
resolve to the first yet never getting there.

	And then, there was silence, save the quiet, ponderous step of the 
timpani, now marching back to the hills, to the home.

	And the cello began to play, trying so hard to remember the happier 
times, yet the flute's theme would not be played all the way through.  
The hill had been destroyed.  Always was there an accidental, a 
disagreeable clash in the theme, making it minor and uneasy.  The 
bassoon called out once, hesitantly, yet the oboe did not answer.  A 
viola cried out for an reply that never came.  One by one all the 
instruments fell silent.

	The soloist took a deep, quiet breath and began to play, alone.  The 
sad, colorful tone rang throughout the hall, asking the audience how 
they had allowed this to happen.  The cello asked the bassoon what had 
happened to its lover, and the bassoon did not reply.  The cello queried 
the mother viola, but she too did not answer.  The cello called out in 
turn to each of the instruments, even the bumbling clarinet, yet all was 
silent.  The cello was as alone as the soloist that played it.

	And the cello tried to cheer itself up, tried to remember the flute's 
carefree trilling.  Another wrong pitch in the glee, another uneasiness.  
The cello tried to remember the lovers, and failed.  The cello began to 
sound lonely, and plaintiff, and called out again.  No one answered, 
except for an echo of the horns and basses.  The cello tried to scream 
out defiance, and forgot, stopping in the middle of the phrase.  It 
tried again, forgot again.  The soloist used wide vibrato, giving a 
color to the tone that hadn't been there before.  The color was despair.

	The cello began to cry.  After a moment or two, a violin called out 
hesitantly.  The cello didn't hear it.  One of the woodwinds began to 
talk in that same stuffy tone that had been heard earlier.  Still the 
cello didn't hear over its own sobs.  The music itself was so pure, so 
heartwrenching, that there was not a dry eye in the theater, including 
the ushers, that had heard the rehearsal.

	The cello began to gain volume, gradually changing from the pure, 
grief-stricken tone to a muddled, clouded, hard sound, a shell building 
around what had been a soft center.  Several of the instruments tried to 
get the cello to open up, but it ignored them.  It grew and grew in 
intensity, screaming, the soloist's arm swinging in wild abandon as he 
flew up and down scales and arpeggios, chromatics and sevenths.

	Some of the other instruments began to worry, rallying to their 
sections for support, and soon the united orchestra called out to the 
frantically screaming cello.  The musical crescendo grew still further, 
until it seemed as loud as all the voice of the world, calling, begging 
for the cello to stop its insane shrieking -

	There was a sudden silence.  The cello continued for a moment, as 
loudly as the instrument was capable of, then suddenly realized that it 
was playing alone.  It stopped, surprised, then called out hesitantly.

	The carefree trilling of the flute answered him, running up and down 
new hills.

	The lovers watched new trees in the place of the old ones, still 
promising their love to one another.  The cello began to question them, 
trying to go back to the mad dance it had begun, yet the beautiful, 
melodic strains of those behind gradually leached away the frantic 
noise, until the cello began to open up its hard shell.  The other 
strings welcomed it back with wide arms, and they began their theme 
anew, united again, ending on a beautiful tutti cadence.  The conductor 
cut them off with a grand waving of his arms.  Yet he did not lower the 
baton.

	The basses and horn murmured nearly silently, and the timpani whispered 
rumors of marching feet.

	Silence reigned.

	The cello called out its theme of defiance, hesitantly, and the horns 
and basses did not respond.

	The clarinet bumbled out of the woods, then tumbled down the hill with 
a bump, nearly covering the whisper of the timpani, the stealthy feet on 
the march.  After a moment, the hidden army skulked behind a new hill, a 
further one, and gradually faded, never quite ending till the conductor 
softly gestured, and lowered his baton.

	The cello began to cry out, gently, then stopped as suddenly as it had 
begun, asking a question.

	The audience felt that question, and watched the horns and basses, lips 
still to mouthpiece and bows still to string.  Was that the end of it?  
After what seemed an eternity, they relaxed, and the soloist finally 
dropped his bow and sagged, as though the performance had taken 
everything from him.

	Then the audience broke into such thunderous applause that the janitors 
tens of yards below the theater could feel the foundations vibrate.  The 
soloist stood, taking a deep bow, then indicating the conductor as they 
took a bow together.  They left the stage, returned for another bow.  
And another.   And another.  The crowd stayed on its feet, applauding, 
for nearly half an hour.

	After it was obvious that the perform did not have the strength for an 
encore and he wanted to speak, they settled, and the soloist crossed the 
stage now strewn with roses, stuffed animals, and various trinkets.  He 
looked at the crowd as though appreciating a garden, and remained 
proudly upright despite his obvious exhaustion.

	"I wish not to tell the tale of this piece.  I believe that it spoke 
for itself.  The orchestra will tell you that we never played like we 
did this night.  I wish to thank the London Symphony behind me, for 
without their becoming my family and my enemy, the piece would have been 
merely an hour of chords and rhythms.  I cannot thank you enough.

	"I have little else to say.  I would thank those that gave me my 
inspiration, yet I cannot to their faces, and the thanks would seem 
empty.  My music in no way compensates for the suffering and loss of my 
people.  I hope it will serve as a memorial to them, and the bitter 
struggle and end that so many faced in their lives.  If it touched you 
to the very core tonight, then perhaps there will be one more voice 
screaming defiance at the monster, and their deaths were not in vain.  

	"Please, if you felt anything from the music tonight, share it with 
someone."  He smiled.  "But don't share the recording of it as well.  
Please, we are starving musicians . . ," he began plaintively, spreading 
out his hands, and the audience tittered.

	He nodded to them, regal and tall, still slightly out of breath from 
his performance, his stage makeup smeared from moisture.  

	"Thank you all."

	Then he bent and picked up a limp, ragged looking teddy from the myriad 
of gifts on the stage and studied it with an unreadable expression, 
before bowing once again and leaving the stage to the PR director of the 
hall.

	"That, ladies and gentlemen, was Eric Magnus Lensherr, renown German 
cellist, hailed the finest of our time, who gave a unbelievable 
performance that you can now own for just . . . ."

	The man could not be heard over the applauding and clamoring of the 
audience.

	Andre Previn, conductor of the London Symphony, came up and warmly 
shook Eric's hands.

	"I have never heard playing like that in my entire life.  You brought 
out more in my orchestra than I though possible.  I was expecting 
brilliance after the rehearsal today, but that was truly breathtaking.  
Thank you."

	Lensherr nodded, and smiled sadly as Previn was pulled away by several 
men in business suits. Wiping the rasin dust from his cello, he replaced 
it in its case and secured the latches, still studying the worn teddy, a 
remnant from some child's past, given to him.  A gift without value.  He 
tucked it inside his suit pocket and made his quite escape through a 
side door to the waiting vehicle, not bothering to wipe away the tears.

	Tonight their music brought out more than anyone had thought capable.  
War always does.


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