Dying was exhausting.

Octavia didn't have the heart to actually do anything of merit for the remainder of the day. In retrospect, that likely did nothing positive for her mental state. What space she'd asked for was earned without issue, albeit paid for with wandering eyes and curious glances. She was fairly certain they were handling her with unnecessary care, and she wasn't fond of the idea. Murdered twice over as she'd been that morning, it was irritating that she couldn't fault them for it.

It wasn't particularly healthy to bind herself to her room, forgoing social comforts in full. At the very least, she skipped the sulking and self-loathing. Madrigal had recommended taking up a hobby. It hadn't been the worst idea she'd pursued in several weeks. Technically, it was the third time today she'd dealt with a knife.

Granted, it came bundled with a wonderfully square block of balsa. She'd never taken up wood carving at home, although the activity had been present enough in her household. Beyond Silver Ridge, it was nostalgic all the same, and pure little wood drifted with her through a sea of uncertainty. She made the first cut with more ease than expected. So, too, came the second, and the third in turn. The shapes she crafted were crude, although vaguely adjacent to the patterns she'd envisioned.

Octavia doubted her initial attempt would offer up a phenomenal work of art. It was still a better use for her hands than clinging to Stradivaria forever. She was no master artisan, and she surely couldn't fashion two masterpieces of cherry oak bound to either wrist. She could get there, one day. Following in her father's footsteps would've been a solid life plan after conquering the burdens of her Maestra responsibilities.

It'd be easier than following in her sister's footsteps, at least. She cut deeper. Ideally, she could carve out every weighted thought that plagued her just as easily.

Several hours of quiet comfort with soft wood and her two hands for company was pleasant. Still, what refueled peace followed her through sunset and into the night wasn't eternal. Her wet hair flat against the pillow was irritating, and peeking moonlight through gaps in her curtains did little to dry it. She would've been restless either way. There was the slightest hint of fear that came with the idea of sleep, for how she might carry death itself into true darkness once more. Still, there was more. Pulling the covers over her head did nothing. Pacing did nothing. They usually didn't, to be fair.

Talking was a crushing urge. Her options were limited. She straddled a wish for peaceful isolation and a plea for companionship. As to what she'd do once she had it, she wasn't sure. Octavia had one idea. It required an uncomfortable combination. A nightgown, wet hair, boots, and a violin in her arms felt awkward in conjunction. She chose the second floor.

It wasn't often that she went up there in the first place, nor did any of her companions. The upper story of the Vacanti household bore mostly stray artwork and barren rooms, somewhat mirroring those she could access easily below. She still wondered exactly how many of them were ever necessary in the first place, for how small the family who'd called it home had been. The upper floor came with a balcony, and that alone was different.

Octavia fumbled with the latches of glass doors with care, tentative steps leading her into the star-kissed night. The rush of cool air that greeted her skin was refreshing, if not somewhat chilling as it tangled with hair still damp. If she peered beyond the railing, she could claim Coda below with her curious gaze--asleep as it was. In the still of the silent night, with only the soft songs of insects for companionship, she had the world to herself. She had another song to herself, in turn.

She played.

She'd stolen the idea from Madrigal. It had been painted as bonding, and she'd somewhat envied it. The vast majority of times that Stradivaria touched her shoulder, it had been a byproduct of chaos and misfortune. In that way, she may have done him a disservice. Priscilla was a musician in every sense of the word, and he'd been by her side in many moments far brighter. Octavia had little to offer but misery and hurt, given what she'd dragged him through. She was a decent Maestra, ideally. She was an awful partner.

"Stradivaria," Octavia spoke aloud, as best as she could manage with his body pressed to her cheek.

What are you doing so late, Octavia? Do you not wish to rest?

"I want to talk."

We may always do so. Of this, I am certain you are aware. Why do you play?

"I just…want to."

He hesitated. Still, he didn't object. As you wish.

She played onwards, her hands moving of their own accord. It was absentminded, as always, and she didn't recognize the song that she spun into the open night. Still, it came with comfort in place of panic. That was new. She closed her eyes as she savored every note, swaying gently. "I have questions for you."

You always do.

Octavia battled a smirk. He almost sounded sassy. "I'm…gonna try to keep them light. I've had enough surprises for a while, but there's still things I want to know. Just…please don't drop anything massive on me again, okay?"

Only now did his standard hmm of amusement finally bless her with warmth. I will endeavor to provide the answers you seek. No more and no less.

"Okay," she murmured. With eyes still closed, she at least took solace in the feeling of her hair steadily becoming less congealed. Drying strands brushed delicately against her other cheek. With certainty, he wouldn't care. She was still self-conscious about having her braids down around Stradivaria, regardless.

"Can you…feel it when I touch you?"

That which you hold in your arms, then?

She nodded, an awkward motion in the midst of her song. "Yeah."

In this manner, I cannot.

Octavia breathed a far larger sigh of relief than she should've. It excused the caressing. "Does it ever hurt?"

Elaborate.

"When I play you," she specified. "Or, like…anything. I know I've been kinda rough with you sometimes."

This form cannot be harmed by mortal means. Fear not.

She tried not to count how many times she'd dropped him. She couldn't help it. That, too, was perhaps a symptom of an awful partner. "Why do you call yourself Stradivaria?"

He was silent for a moment. I believe you asked only for simple truths to simple inquiries.

Octavia groaned. "Is this not a simple answer? Seriously?"

Perhaps for myself. On a grander scale, it is perhaps not so for you.

"Could you, like, sum it up? Give me the general gist? Short answer?"

I could attempt.

"Then please attempt."

His pauses were always agonizing. Octavia was beginning to wonder if he was building suspense on purpose. An homage to craftsmanship unmatched, he finally answered. Before your time, in an age long prior to where you now stand. Knowing what I know of my own, you would appreciate that as well.

It was Octavia's turn to pause. "What do you mean?"

You are the daughter of a woodworker, are you not? With a fondness for the art, as such.

"No, not that. An age long prior, what does that mean?"

I say unto you again, I believe you requested only simple truths.

Her groan this time was far more exaggerated, and yet she never ceased her song. It was a relief that her annoyance didn't spill into her aimless melody. "I did, but now you've got me curious."

I warn you that this is a…sufficiently sizable truth. I would not fault your decision to defer to another evening.

Octavia rolled her eyes behind closed lids. "Out with it."

What do you recall of your encounter with Lord Ramulus?

She raised an eyebrow. "Wait, who's Lord Ramulus?"

I…apologize. You would know him by another name. Would it trouble you to remember Rani?

It did trouble her. It troubled Octavia enough that she nearly stopped playing, the bow slowing to a crawl across the strings. She'd clung to flashes of her encounter on surreal shores, mired in agony as they'd been at the time. For once, they were accessible, and his words were the key.

She fell. Violet claimed her. A child cleansed her pain, and a name was offered in a voice too different. There came a story, and a moniker for her partner in turn. She'd awoken in Viola's arms, enraged and betrayed. What bloody crisis followed her waking dream had been far more urgent. There was, if she strained, a Rani. Never once had she heard the name Ramulus.

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"I remember," Octavia half-lied. "A little."

To you, he told a story of great importance. Do you recall?

This time, she shook her head. The violin bounced uncomfortably against her face in the process. "I know there was one, but I'd be lying if I said I remember it."

Eventually, it is imperative that you hear it again. So, too, is it imperative that you learn it well.

"I mean, I've got the time. You might as well tell me now. Do I at least get to ask questions? Last time I was told to just stand there and take it."

You may ask whatever you would like, so long as you are prepared for the lengthy truths that you wished to avoid.

"You know, this is a lot of work just to explain where your name came from."

Then do you ask that I cease?

Octavia sighed heavily. "No, go on. Start from the beginning."

Stratos did as instructed, his voice soft and inviting. She took more comfort in the smooth warmth of his tone than she should've. She kicked herself for it, given that she'd asked the question in the first place. It took cognitive effort to focus on his actual words.

Where once was none came all. From nothing, light cut through the black and brought life into being. He of all above spread his reach far, his legacy a mark upon the world he created. The spirited winds ravaged the mountains so carefully crafted. Upon the green, fire raged with a will untethered. Atop the highest peaks, ice born of the soul coalesced. The lightning struck the earth, its essence a testament to shining grace. When they who remained sang, the strength of their sound could move the earth. Above all, the light of the heart watched onwards. From his blessing came those who would guard they who existed below.

That much was fine, almost. One part bothered her. "I'm taking a guess that 'he' is this Lord Ramulus guy? And this above and below stuff. If you guys live 'above', does that make us 'below'?"

You are correct in both of your assumptions. It is to our Lord that each of us answer.

"And the guarding part? Who's guarding what?"

It is the Heartful who are destined to act as the bridge between the realms of ourselves and your own. Such is your burden most of all, oh Ambassador.

Octavia nodded, her discomfort with the word 'burden' notwithstanding. "And that consists of…what, exactly?"

You already serve as a fine bridge. Fret not. Continue as you are.

Blushing beneath his praise was a reflex. It took extra effort to stifle it in favor of focusing. "There's more, right? Keep going."

He was quiet. Eventually, he relented.

Man flourished. Man blossomed into a force of its own, walking upon his world. From the hearts of their own came love, thrust upwards ever higher. Peace settled upon all. But it was she who brought the world to ruin, enamored with the charms of man. Malice in the hearts of--

"'She'? Who's 'she'?" Octavia interrupted.

Patience, he chided.

His tone was somewhat sharper than she'd expected. She winced, nearly blushing for a different reason entirely.

Malice in the hearts of few dragged her from the throne above, clawed to earth with powers unfit for this realm. In her sorrow followed the agony of men, given form. Splintered, they above could not remain, tears beating upon the earth as they fell to mortal hands. The ninety-six took refuge within, until the chosen time should come.

When he fell silent, the soft tones of her aimless melody felt out of place as she awaited his words. Octavia waited. And waited. And waited.

You may speak now.

Octavia cleared her throat uncomfortably.

"So, uh, I was asking, who is 'she'? This person, the one who…brought the world to ruin?"

Again, he hesitated, as he had so many times before. 'She' is--rather, was--one of our own, victim to an error of passion. In fewer words, this is…one who made a grave mistake. Now, in her stead, it is you and I alike who pay the price.

"That's…not good. Who is she, exactly? Have I met her?"

I assure you, you have not met her. Have you other questions as to the words of this segment?

"I mean, I figured out some of it awhile ago. 'The agony of men' is the Dissonance, right? 'The ninety-six' is you guys, and I'm taking a wild guess that 'the chosen time' is now, if we're doing all this. You were…dragged here? Pulled? From 'above'?"

His usual hmm, even in affirmation, was utterly devoid of warmth. She didn't like it.

"And then…you still haven't answered me. Who is 'she'?"

Octavia, he answered softly. Her name alone, unaccompanied, was confusing.

Octavia tilted her head, and the violin came with it. "Yes?"

There are pains that I know, with my heart pained in turn, that you do not wish to speak of freely.

Her stomach twisted into a knot.

There exists that which keeps you awake in the deepest hours of the evening. There is that which brings tears to your tired eyes. There are subjects you force into the depths of your soul, pressed into darkness where you pray prying gazes will not follow.

Her fingertips trembled against her bow. She still battled to play, cobbling together whatever semblance of stability she could offer her eternal melody. "Stradiv--"

Know that 'she' is one such subject to myself. I trust you to understand.

It was Octavia who fell silent. Curious words that had once eagerly clogged her throat now died on her tongue instead. She found no replacements. Instead, it was her violin alone that spoke on her behalf. Her song filling the gaps did nothing for her heart.

I shall continue, he spoke unprompted. It was more of a statement than an offer. Octavia didn't dare object.

But there are those below who would yet receive their grace. Upon them, the struggle may still meet its end. In time, their pain will be witnessed, and they shall return to the throne at last.

That much was simple, particularly in light of recent events. "No questions there," Octavia said.

With all I have said in mind, so much as it may be, I have not forgotten your earlier inquiry. I wish each day that passes upon this world that I alone could undo what wrongs have been done. Mortal destiny has so sharply drifted from the natural course it once carved. To you, if no one else, Octavia, my apology is true. Your world of old is not that of now.

She blinked. "What?"

Were we not to interfere, your world would be far different, following the path upon which it was intended to travel.

Octavia blinked again. It wasn't clicking in full. That was absolutely her fault, for how she'd granted permission to heavy truths. She was starting to regret it. "Stradivaria, exactly how long ago did all of this even happen?"

By your own measurements, I could roughly estimate two hundred years.

"Y-You've been down here for two hundred years?" Octavia stammered, nearly dropping the bow. "All of you?"

Octavia, you ask of my alias, and I answer to you that it is an homage to craftsmanship gone long before your time. I am not the only Muse to pay this tribute of regret and apology.

She wouldn't have the patience to ask the same question ninety-six times. She'd already given herself a headache simply asking the question once. She made a mental note not to ask him anything for a while, after this.

Now, Octavia, I offer a question of my own to you instead.

Her fingers stiffened against the strings. "What is it?"

When do you intend to open your eyes?

She'd forgotten that they were closed. For how long, she had absolutely no idea. His words triggered a reflex, and Octavia opened them instantly. It was to her detriment. The harsh moonlight and chilling breeze that beat down upon her dilating pupils was annoying. She was far, far more distressed about the interloper peering up at her from the doorsteps. Even one bouncy bow shorter and one plain nightgown richer, the silhouette was unmistakable. Octavia yelped, flinching as her absentminded harmony screeched to a halt.

"You didn't have to stop," Viola spoke, cradling her chin lazily in both of hands. With knees tucked up to her chest, she looked much too comfortable. Self-consciousness settled in immediately.

"H-How long have you been there?" Octavia asked, her voice harsher than intended.

"Ten minutes? I don't know. Didn't count. I got up to get a glass of water and heard music. Went upstairs. Came outside. Stayed for the light show."

Octavia raised an eyebrow. "The what?"

One casual finger unfurled from Viola's hand, pointing just above Octavia's head. Octavia followed the gesture. It led to sprinkling stars, soft and abundant. Gentle, pulsing golds flanked her on every side, hovering aimlessly as they rebelled against the darkened sky above. They were warm, and the tiny balls of luminescence birthed a comfortable heat so close to her skin. How she hadn't noticed them was beyond her. The twinkling lights were as peacefully gorgeous as they were confusing. She hugged Stradivaria to her chest.

"How much did you hear?" Octavia murmured.

"Like I said, about ten minutes."

"No, not the music. The other stuff."

Viola tilted her head. "What other stuff?"

Octavia blinked. If the question had to be asked, she wouldn't dare. "Nevermind."

With only a raised eyebrow of her own offered in return, Viola dropped the subject in favor of a shiver. "What are you doing out here? Aren't you cold?"

"It's nice, actually. I don't mind it."

"Couldn't sleep? Why'd you bring Stradivaria?"

Octavia smiled. "Madrigal gave me the idea a while ago. Worked pretty well. You should try it."

The look on Viola's face was disdainful enough to make her laugh. "No," she deadpanned.

Even so, Octavia's laughter was a deterrent for continued disgust. A fatigued smile instead settled onto Viola's lips. "Still not tired? We have warm milk, tea and honey, books, things that aren't freezing."

"It's seriously not even that cold. It's only August."

"I gave up a big, fluffy blanket to be outside in this flimsy little nightgown. It's cold. I promise."

Octavia sighed, albeit not without a smile of her own. "I…think I got everything out of my system, at least for now. I'll come back inside."

Viola's head flopped forward against her knees. "Oh, thank God, let's go. I miss bed."

Every step towards the doors left her haphazard stars crackling and bursting in her wake. At the very least, they were quiet about it. She was still somewhat embarrassed. Octavia never lessened her hold on Stradivaria, nestled closely to her heart as his accidental light fled the evening.

Fatigue was a shield, if nothing else, from whatever inexplicable truths he'd offered in return for one question alone. Overthinking was beyond her at the moment. Ideally, she was slightly less awful of a partner now. That would've been the sweetest truth of all.

Viola was swept up in the breeze, her clothes and hair in tandem rippling in the chill of the night. With her back alone given to the Maestra, she served to bar the path between exterior cold and interior warmth. Octavia waited for her to move. She was more or less blocking the way in altogether.

"Octavia."

"Yeah?"

Viola paused. "You look good with your hair down."

She hadn't noticed the way one hand had left Stradivaria, tangling absentmindedly in her freshly-dried hair. There were more important things to overthink, anyway.

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