And Always Will - Oneshot
It's been two hours.
Two hours since everyone's woken up, since they've discovered the horrible truth, the events of yesterday's ball. Everyone in the castle, enchanted. No longer human. Turned into household objects, but have still regained sentience. That makes it even more terrifying, as feather-dusters fly through the air, chairs, carts, even a coat-rack all scramble through hallways, cries of despair emitting from them. Madness. Chaos. Follia.
And was it the work of irony that drove the witch to give him a form such as this one? For his life's work, his profession, the instrument that he'd given his heart and soul to since he was but a youth…for something that valuable to be turned against him in such a cruel, haunting scheme…
If Cadenza had his way, he'd be hiding from this mania elsewhere, running his hands through his wig in an attempt to calm himself. But even an action so simple as that has been taken from him as well. Numerous times, he's attempted to raise his hand to wipe his brow only to find that it's just phantom pain. He doesn't have any of those luxuries now. And never before have they seemed like luxuries. Now…what he'll give just to stand up straight, clench his fists, cleanse his mind of this panic. It had started out slow, but now it's spreading through his head like wildfire, and he doesn't entirely know why, when the rest of him feels…nothing.
Nothing at all.
Oh.
This new revelation should send his heart racing, but no such thing occurs. There is no heartbeat, no whoosh of breath. There is only something muted, hollow, in its place. Somewhere inside him, strings are being pulled taut against their pegs; some are straining, threatening to break. He tries to inhale, exhale, and there's a rattle of keys each time he tries. It's breathing, but it's not, it's not the same, it doesn't feel…it's. not. right.
He has nothing but wood and metal where flesh and bone should be. Why should there be breathing involved, or feeling? All of these reflexes he expected were just the leftovers of instincts, expectations that he had when he was human. Not even a day ago, still human…
He's close to tears, if that's possible anymore. That'll be the tipping point, if he hasn't already lost his mind. Not being able to cry. He wonders if his love might be in the same sort of—
Suddenly the panic is overwhelming. Two hours and he has not seen her amidst the chaos and the despair. Will she even be recognizable to him, cursed as they all are? Will she still be able to sing her arias, her gorgeous refrains? God forbid she has been silenced; Cadenza will not allow it, he will move heaven and earth to hear her sing again.
…but is that real, too?
No. Stop.
But the thought seems to echo throughout the ballroom, not just in his head. The sorceress claimed that until the prince learned to love another, no other love would matter, would count towards anything good.
In this new world without breath, nerve, of muted emotion and nothing to feel…is his love for his wife forfeit, as well?
How dare he think like that.
Memories spring into his mind to eradicate the thought. Memories of her laugh, her figure, the way her dresses twinkled in the candlelight, the expressions she made when they exchanged glances during a performance…he saw his love for her echoed in those looks. He can never forget his love for his beloved wife. It has made him who he is.
And at last he feels something. It's dull, and it's faint, but there's some warmth, a slight surge of exhilaration. When he thinks about her smile. Her eyes. Her voice.
And notes come from within; he wills them into existence through string and key. If he closes his eyes he can picture her standing there, singing her soul to the world, while he accompanies her. If any servant comes into the ballroom now, they will hear her. She is not absent. She is here with him. And he is feeling.
Because his love will never fade, it will live on regardless of what he's become, and the witch—she thinks she knows everything—she's wrong. She knows nothing of him, nothing of his dear one. Therefore, she knows nothing of love itself.
And so he plays on, clinging to the echo of the Madame's song, determined not to let it fade.
