La fin de l'attente

Take a look at my body
Look at my hands
There's so much here
That I don't understand

He moved through the silent, dark underground passages with ease. Like the ghost moniker he was gifted with, he made no sound as he ascended the staircases leading to her dressing room. He was tall, slender, dark, masked and gloved. The darkness enveloped him like a cloak, and he arrived at her mirror unseen.

He was glad to be on this side of the mirror. Avoiding them at almost all costs, there was only one in his house on the lake, and that was in Christine's room. His angel, his torment, his joy and his sorrow, Christine was at once his reward for any good he had ever done and his punishment for all the evils. She was his white rose, like the one in the story he'd told her. He wondered briefly if she had understood the allegory. It was difficult to understand her...she was the most unnerving puzzle he'd ever tried to unravel. Yet still, he waited for her. But he was growing weary of waiting.

Your face saving promises
Whispered like prayers
I don't need them
I don't need them

She'd promised to avoid the boy, but he had caught her with the young Vicomte more than once. Oh, it was innocent enough...a few words in the hallways, an bouquet of flowers offstage...but it enraged him, and piqued his sense of jealousy. Her promises were little more than farce...a saving face to keep him at bay while she dallied with the boy. He didn't need her twisted promises, he didn't want them. He only wanted her. Completely.

I've been treated so wrong
I've been treated so long
As if I'm becoming untouchable

He mused now, as he waited for her. Throughout his life, he'd come to accept that he was an outcast. But Christine...she'd made him believe that things could change. He had hoped that with her love, he could become a normal man. But again he'd been betrayed.

Contempt loves the silence
It thrives in the dark
With fine winding tendrils
That strangle the heart

The darkness comforted him now, behind that mirror. She could only see him if he allowed it, though he would never betray her trust in him. Waiting, he imagined all the things that could be keeping her from meeting him. The boy. It always came back to the damned boy. His hatred and contempt grew, overshadowing his love for her and poisoning his thoughts. Her little hand held his heart and she was crushing it completely. And she knew it.

They say that promises
Sweeten the blow
But I don't need them
No, I don't need them

She rushed in, closing the door firmly behind her and pressing her forehead against the doorjamb, dark curls cascading over her shoulders and down her back. A deep sigh escaped her, and he stilled instantly behind the glass. Turning, eyes glistening, she knelt before the mirror and told him exactly what she knew he wanted to hear. Promises, apologies...lies. They were sweet, and endearing, but they were still lies. And he was done with them.

I'm a slow dying flower
Frost killing hour
The sweet turning sour
And untouchable

He was killing her, he knew. Twisting her mind and dragging her into the abyss with him. She was trying to free herself, but his voice was an addiction she gladly gave into. She needed it, just as he needed her. A moment of regret passed over him, remorse for the delicate rose he was killing with the coldness of his single-minded intent. But the memory of her in that boy's arms put an end to his pity.

O, I need
The darkness
The sweetness
The sadness
The weakness
I need this

The sight of her, repentant, trembling, submissive before him sent a quiver through his body now...the only movement he had made. Without shame he realized he enjoyed this power over her...the power to make her weak, to turn her away from the light and plunge her soul into darkness. He needed that power.

I need
A lullaby
A kiss goodnight
Angel sweet
Love of my life
O, I need this

Sing for me, he entreated. It was his way of distracting her...of giving her a second chance. She sang, offering up her apology and her soul to him. She was his white rose, but when she sang, the nightingale as well. He loved her...God, he'd forgive her anything when she sang. She fell silent, then, blue eyes still glistening, cheeks wet with her tears. He believed her lies...he always did. This dance was nothing new to them. He opened the mirror for her...offered his hand.

Do you remember the way
That you touched me before
All the trembling sweetness
I loved and adored?

Before that damn boy, she was devoted to him. She never shirked from his hand or avoided his eyes. She'd seemed innocently terrified of him then, anticipating in some way an event her young mind could not name nor conjure up...but awaiting it all the same. With hindsight tinged with dark irony, he mused that he should have pressed his advantage when he'd had the chance.

Is it dark enough?
Can you see me?
Do you want me?
Can you reach me?
Or I'm leaving

In the darkness, she reached for his hand. He led her down the familiar route with a distinct resolution. She could feel the change in the air between them, and let out a ragged breath. This would end tonight...he was tired of waiting. A nightingale can only beg for divine love for so long. A man will only tolerate a rival until he reaches his breaking point...until he becomes desperate.

You better shut your mouth
Hold your breath
Kiss me now, you'll catch my death
O, I mean it.

She tried to speak...tried to say something, anything to quell his anger, but it was too late. She'd erred for the last time...she realized it the moment he abruptly stopped in the darkened passageways...too far underground for anyone to hear her scream. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she wondered, not for the first time, why her terror of him excited her so much...why she longed for it. She backed away from him, skirts pressed into the arched stone supports. The action spurred him on, and he stepped intently forward, pressing a finger to her lips and shaking his head slowly.

O, I need
The darkness
The sweetness
The sadness
The weakness
I need this

The realization came over her, as he pulled her into his arms, that this was what she wanted. No more games, no more uncertainty. She needed his darkness, needed to surrender to him completely, lose herself to his will. She had always known, though never admitted it to herself, the way the story should end. He'd told her how, the white rose had given herself to the nightingale.

He only hesitated a moment, long enough to tip her chin up and draw her face closer, before claiming her mouth with his. How had he ever longed for the light when the darkness was so much sweeter?

And they both realized, as they parted, that they were at the end of waiting. The darkness had claimed them.