𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐄 ? the query towards him, in its silence and unpleasant vigilance, is not as simple as he would have it. she sees a man — no, not a man, a monster — holding a violin whose soul is older than his own. a creature of the night who seemed more shadow than flesh, that the taut sinews of his body and gnarled complexion had seen more of the dusk than of the dawn. an angel, who had torn his own wings apart for the sake of love, and who had plummeted down to the depths of hell in foolishness he would have lived over and over again, for a glimpse of her as he fell. a phantom, in solid form, but not tangible enough that a touch would not render him a coil of nothingness ? a man, however twisted that word sounded in his mouth ?
𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑. it is a sensation like death, in parts so equal in agony and ecstasy : the flight of freedom, accompanied by the putrefaction of regret. it is not dread or excitement that causes his fingers to tremble upon the fingerboard and nearly causes him to miss the first chord, but it is a sensation foreign to him. there had been echoes of it before the court of the shah, but it had never felt this… unholy. sacrilegious, a violation of the natural order, as had been his birth and the gift of his genius. the chaconne is a hymn of the lonely, isolated, a song to be heard by the silence of a room and nothing more. could she listen, and hear ?
𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄, 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐌 reverberating from deep within his throat. it is not a laugh, but the air it escapes with masquerades its scent as sweet, almost honeyed. the underworld is no place for such warmth, the same fire that spreads across his skin like brimstone at her remark. there is no throne made from flowers or perfume, only the crude bones and dissonance of him. ❝ in all my life, all I felt was the cold. ❞ a beast does not smile, but he grins, flashing teeth as a wild animal would bear it to threaten. fear is built into every machination of his movements, but he would tear himself apart and rebuild every tendon in his body if it could be made for her. ❝ then I heard you sing. ❞
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐘 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘 from staves and positions, from the stops and notes. nothing remains, nothing breathes or moves within the range of death’s violin ; there is only silence and the sensation of music. each stroke shatters the air, every chord pounding and soaring, dipping bellow the clouds and down into the earth with a ferocity that the stars could not bear to witness. heaven is not the warmth of the sun or the brightness of the world ; it is here, sitting before him, golden - haired and rosy - cheeked, upon a throne that is not a throne, fearful and to whom his music serves. reality blurs into fragments that numb him, wrenching from his soul the sorrows of his heart, the rotting carcass of his grief sewn into each crease of him. eyes close, and his fingers find their way across the darkness, shifting and breathing with him, back and forth, seeking warmth, seeking solace. sighs catch — then fall, then rise, then curse, tracing along a body that with each stroke of his hands, sings in his arms. and how carnal in its misery, that song — how he wishes to bury himself in the soft satin of it, never to wake or open his eyes. what is she seeking, against his movements ? what must he find, to please her ?
her eyes settle upon him, as if trying to make out his expression --- if it could quite be called one --- for erik was always displaying a myriad of emotions; a conflicting amalgam from which it was difficult to extricate a particular feeling to focus upon. a steady course, a point that did not tempt deviance: such footholds weren’t ones christine possessed any longer, when her life was made forfeit to grief, loss, and the will of others. yet somehow she’d found one tonight, by asking him to play for her. it broke through the wall he’d erected from the day she first woke in the underground house, and showed her a glimpse of the man behind the facades he so often wore. furthermore, what she found behind it didn’t appall her: it beckoned her, like some beguiling spark beneath the ashes, glittering so dimly her eye couldn’t at first catch it. the soprano attempts to find her way through the quagmire of her emotions, and all the more difficult she finds it to keep her own expression unreadable, lest she further inspire his rage, or break the peace between them.
for whatever peace this is, it can only be a tentative one. a veil has fallen over the night, rendering the bitterness and fear she is normally keen to in a miasma that is difficult to penetrate; and truth be told, christine would rather not contemplate what she ought to feel, and would instead allow herself to be lead astray. at this moment, it is not so dreadful to be tempted. oh, mad christine ! her mind would beat against it, were it not so tired --- and perhaps it is the magic of the night, the illusion that the daylight’s cold rays would sever when she woke again in the louis-phillipe room. a frail sort of smile manifests in her mien, radiant despite the pallor surrounding it. ❛ are you cold now ? ❜ she asks him, before biting down on her tongue and regretting the query as it slips away. what is it about that voice, that terrible entity that weaves the sweetest refrains, capturing her up in a state of rapture, so that all she should want is to hear it again ?
he must be a terrifying man indeed, to wield such power over her: and yet the power is not all his, not even when she closes her eyes and allows herself to sink dangerously deeper into the music, a willing victim to the rising tide that swallows her whole. it is a soft glide against her ears, that somehow seems to trace her skin; it crawls up her spine in a tantalizingly slow melody, then swells in her chest, then plummets deep in her abdomen like a throbbing weight, the lowest of notes. as the key pitches higher and higher, so does her heart pound in her chest, until a sheen breaks out against her forehead, glimmering in the dim light of their surroundings. when she comes to, the music has stopped, and the man with a monstrous face is all that remains. christine knew that a part of his soul, however small, had returned this sacred gift she’d given him. that the power she held over him was one far more terrifying.
she cannot help her reverence for something godlike, even within this devil of a man. but nights ago, she’d seen a creature in the place of her angel --- yes, a monster. the tremulousness of his bearings now conjures a different sentiment entirely, and she can but savor the power of her knowledge and rippling current of tension in the empty air, a silky silence, as smooth as the voice that would speak, were he to. ❛ oh, that was beautiful. ❜ dread eclipses her pleasure, for the moment the music has died out, the terror of divinity, as palpable as when she’d first heard the voice, wells within her. she does not miss how he fails to find her eyes, as if separated by an unbreachable distance between them. ❛ --- and terribly sad. i cannot tell if i am more sorrowful to have heard it or to hear it stop. ❜
yousharknotpass
gracieabrams
turnnoffyourmind
gummygunk
2087
