luxken27fics | Inuyasha | Rhapsody in Eight Movements

Title: Rhapsody in Eight Movements
Author: LuxKen27
Fandom: Inuyasha
Universe: Alternate (modern day Japan)
Genre: Mystery, Suspense
Rating: T
Warning(s): Mentions of death, the treatment of mental illnesses
Summary: When a mysterious man washes ashore on Halloween night, it becomes a race against time to uncover his identity – and the circumstances that left him there.

Author’s Note: Further author's notes for this story can be found here.

Dr. Kagome Higurashi folded her arms as she gazed through the two-way mirror that ran the length of the psychiatric ward’s music room. Beyond the doubled panes of Plexiglas, her now-infamous patient sat at the piano, his back ramrod straight, his head bowed, his fingers dancing across the keys with masterful precision. This was the only way he would communicate with the outside world, and she desperately wished to understand what he was telling her.

Unfortunately, these days it seemed as if she was the only one still interested in hearing what he had to say.

It had been nearly a month since his unusual arrival at their facility, and yet they were no closer to discovering who he was than they had been at the start. Between the pressure from the hospital’s administration and now the added scrutiny of the media, it had become a competition amongst her fellow physicians to be the first to uncover his identity. The hospital considered him the ultimate liability; all medical personnel associated with his case believed that unlocking his brain would be their ticket to fame. It was disgusting, really, to see such snobbery and ruthlessness in action, tingeing every aspect of this patient’s care.

Had they all forgotten the reason they were there in the first place?

Could they truly not see past their own blind ambition?

Kagome frowned as she regarded her patient. Why am I the only one who cares about him? she wondered with frustration, tightening the brace of her arms across her chest. Why am I the only one who seems to feel his pain, who can see how much this is torturing him?

Over the course of the last week, he had narrowed his repertoire of the classical Western canon down to one piece, which he played over and over and over again in the same grueling manner. He would play it interminably, for hours at a time, sometimes until he was literally dragged away from the piano. He’d long since lost his audience of curious onlookers; most of the time it was only she who was there to observe him, to listen to this agonizing, repetitive, maddening song. It obviously meant something to him, that he kept playing it over and over again, but his expression was forever blank and impassive, even as he wrung such disparate emotions from his instrument.

She’d listened to it so much that she now heard it in her sleep, the music haunting her dreams. There was such anguish, such sorrow, such demanding, exacting perfection as each movement of the piece flowed into the next. Whatever was going on in his head, whatever was blocking the healing and reintegration of his identity, it had not been able to keep him from expressing such passion, such torment, such grief, and yet, such determination.

“Frédéric Chopin.”

Kagome looked up sharply, feeling the entirety of her body tense as she eyed her patient. He had stopped playing, his hands hovering over the keys, his gaze locked onto the partially opened lid of the piano.

Could it be? she thought, her heart beginning to thud in her chest. Did he actually…?

“Frédéric Chopin,” he repeated, as if it was a personal revelation.

She bolted away from the mirror, her heart pounding in her ears as she edged her way through the hall. At the door of the music room, she stopped, taking a moment to breathe deeply before she crossed its threshold. She didn’t want to startle him, or draw attention from any of the other medical staff lurking nearby on the ward.

She eased the door back into its frame, leaning back against it, careful to keep her eagerness at finally hearing his voice to herself. He didn’t move, or turn, or indeed, acknowledge her existence at all, his focus exclusively on the exposed space between the lid and lip of the piano.

“Yes, it is Chopin,” she said quietly, answering the question he hadn’t asked. Her mind raced as she struggled to place the accent accompanying his words, his voice gravelly and rusted from disuse. French? German? Italian?

She stared at him as he sat in half-profile to her, noting the way his long, silvery hair seemed to curtain him, shielding him from her scrutiny. She hoped her silence would prompt him to speak again, giving her another chance to hear his voice.

When he didn’t comply, she lifted herself away from the door, taking a tentative step towards him. “What does this piece mean to you?” she asked, slowly crossing the room to where he sat at the piano.

“Scherzo #1 in B-minor,” he murmured to himself, as if he hadn’t heard her. “Opus #20. Frédéric Chopin.”

Russian? Polish? Hungarian? “Did you have to learn this piece for a certain reason?” Kagome mused aloud, moving carefully into his field of vision, leaning back against the mirror with her hands folded beneath her. “At the conservatory, perhaps?”

He closed his eyes, still not acknowledging her presence. “Finally,” he whispered, something akin to relief sweeping over his expression. “I’ve played it perfectly.”

He curled his hands into fists, dropping them into his lap as he bowed his head, further obscuring his face from her study.

“Who are you?” she queried softly, unmoving from her position. “What’s your name?”

“Finally,” he whispered, so quietly she almost couldn’t hear him. “It will stop torturing me.”