[Gift writing for Sonata-who wrote for The Priest. I really hope I don't fail at Chopin's character. :<]

It seems that everything is a song in its own right, a beautiful coalescing of long strings of melodies. Life is nothing but a song to weave one's own music to.

And that is exactly what he did.

Chopin, ever polite, ever the gentleman, loved music. It was his soul, his being, his true self. Music came with ease to the handsome dark blue deer. It tapped through his hooves, ran with him as his hooves beat hard upon the forest floor. He moved to its rhythm and it moved to his.

Tap-TAP, tap-TAP, tap-TAP. The sound of running hooves startled him from his reverie, and he looked up. Red eyes studied the figure as it approached, closer and closer, the drumbeat of hooves growing to a crescendo. Then it was gone in an instant, passing him by without a glance. He didn't mind; he just kept the lovely sound a moment longer, before returning to his own thoughts.

Chopin closed his eyes, letting the world's music surround him. He could hear the wind rushing through the willows above his head, the quiet lapping of the waters below. He could hear the far-off cries of others, the light melodies of birds intertwining with those deep notes. Oh, this music was so different than...than music in other places. It was wild here, untamed, notes falling in a random yet beautiful order. It was music, yes, music he had mastered, had learned to play with his own body. He had come to this place with no expectation of hearing something so precious again.

Chopin had been given a second chance.

[AGH. I think I just killed his character. ;; I'm sorry.
[e:] It's shoooort. ;;]