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bubbly-moonwarrior  asked:

Hey! I know i keep sending endless prompts (sorry) but suddenly i NEED an OQ + Classic Music AU with lots of angst, impossible love and a bit of hope, like a sad beautiful sonata with a soft ending. Could u do it, please?? Waiting is not a problem.

Coming Home

He stood stock still, looking up at the modest brownstone, ignoring the hustle and bustle of London as his fist clenched around the handle of the object that had brought him here. How odd that she lived so very close to him, he observed, a fact which somehow made him want to know her all the more, to hear her story, to make certain she was not only surviving but living in the aftermath of the war.

He’d seen far too many whose eyes were still hollow, whose souls still hid in the deepest recesses of what humanity had been left to them after years of systematic dehumanization. Their faces kept him up at night, played out across his subconscious when sleep finally claimed him, spurred him on in his quest to right at least some of the wrongs dealt them simply because they were born a Jew.

He could only hope she had fared better.

His feet pressed him forward, his fist turning the doorknob to reveal a rather dimly lit foyer with a staircase to the right. He knew she lived in Flat #3, and as he spied but two doors on the ground floor, he assumed that she must live upstairs. So up he went, spotting #3 on his left as soon as he reached the landing, raising his fist to knock, adjusting his Stetson with one hand, holding his precious cargo with the other.

He paused as the plaintively majestic melody of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor floated through the walls, smiling at the knowledge that the Jewish composer’s music could be freely performed not only in England but also in his homeland yet again. His stomach clenched, memories of Nazi atrocities at Bergen-Belsen too vividly tattooed into his memory to ever forget. Of course, things such as that should never be forgotten, not by the victims, the perpetrators, the survivors or the liberators. He’d been the latter, a fate he both blessed and cursed God for granting him as the place and it’s victims had forever branded his soul.

But the woman inside Flat #3–she was a survivor.

Regina Muller, Austrian Citizen, daughter of a Jewish banker, gifted cellist reduced to a number on a list who’d somehow managed to live.

He knocked, swallowing hard as the radio was silenced, clutching the handle in his fist as footfalls approached where he stood. He inhaled sharply as she opened the door, her petite form tugging on his heart, her dark eyes stealing his breath just as surely as they captured his soul She was beautiful, this Fraulein Muller, graced with features that could have been sculpted by Michelangelo himself.

She wore long sleeves, as did every survivor he’d met, even though it was warm enough to open the windows and enjoy the air of late spring.

“May I help you?”  

Her English was perfect, her inflection far more proper than his own.

“Regina Muller?” he questioned, watching her nod in response. “My name is Robin Locksley, and I believe I have recovered something that rightfully belongs to you.”

He extended the cello towards her, hearing her gasp as trembling hands reached towards the battered case. It was a genuine Stradivarius he’d carried with him from Berlin, one whose journey he’d spent time researching until he traced it’s last rightful owner to the flat in front of which he now stood.

She stroked it with reverence, tears filling her eyes before spilling over her cheeks as she knelt down on one knee, tracing the curves as if they were holy, whispering something in German under her breath.

“It was my opa’s,” she breathed, looking up at him. “My grandfather’s. He was…” A sob choked her words as she stood and wiped her cheek.

“A renown cellist,” he stated, smiling as she stared back at him in surprise. “I know. I’ve done extensive research to ensure that this work of art was returned to it’s rightful family.”  

She breathed in and out, her chin trembling as she wordlessly invited him inside. He smiled, his heart expanding as he toted the cello into her flat.

“Can I…can I get you something to drink?” she asked, but he shook his head, reaching out to steady her hands before he could second guess his decision.

“No,” he replied. “I’m not thirsty. But there is something you could do for me, if you would be so kind.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion mingling with gratitude.

“What do you want, Mr. Locksley?”

Her fear was warranted after what she’d survived, and he smiled to reassure her, gesturing to the instrument he still held as he extended it in her direction.

“Would you play it for me?”

She inhaled sharply, her eyes widening, her jaw falling open.

“I know that you’re also a cellist of renown,” he continued. “One whose career was halted in its beginnings. This cello has been in my keeping for months, but I’m not a musician, Miss Muller. I’m just a former soldier trying to right what little I can in this world.”

He paused to clear his throat, unexpected emotion hitting him out of nowhere.

“If you would play it for me, give it a voice, allow it to sing once more now that it’s been freed from imprisonment, it…it would mean everything to me.”

A hot tear trickled down the side of his face, and she reached out to touch it, wiping it away with her thumb and pressing it to her heart. He inhaled, feeling something pass between them as she accepted the cello from his keeping. She nodded then, opening the case, whispering words of reverence as she touched the instrument and breathed in the mingled scents of wood and disuse.

She carried it to a chair where she sat and placed it between her legs, stroking the neck, touching the strings, tuning it before tightening and resining the bow.

Her fingers began to dance as her bow cast a spell, and the notes of Bach’s Cello Suite #2 in D Minor began to swell from the instrument, taking on a life of their own that enchanted and haunted him in a manner he’d never before experienced. She looked ethereal, not of this world as she and the instrument became one, and he knew somehow that the music was healing parts of her sealed off until this moment, parts she’d locked away no human had been allowed to touch.

The beauty of it was that it was healing him, as well.

He sat on her small sofa, closing his eyes, opening his heart, feeling what it means to come home again, even if that home bore no resemblance to what it had before the world had turned upside down. The music of generations before them crossed over the bridges of time, and he knew her opa was here with her, that she felt his guidance as each note was voiced, as every rhythm was played. And as Bach morphed into Mozart and Rachmaninoff, a bond was formed between them, one that would grow over time into a life built from the ashes, a family born out of grieving, a love that would sustain them both until old age claimed them and the cello was passed down to yet another generation who would ensure that it continued to sing their song.

Submitted by Terrance McEsson

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It’s a lot, but can’t leave home without it…