He is still wearing his night shirt and dressing gown. His limbs were too heavy to go to the effort of dressing. There is nowhere for him to be, no guests who might call and dressing…dressing just felt such a terrible effort. Still feels such.
It is almost more than he can bear to hold the stem of the wine glass between his fingers, the bottle sitting on the floor by his chair. The pinot noir simmers dark in the low light of the fire, darkness enshrouding him, muffling the crackling of the flames.
How woefully decadent it is, to sit by a fire in a wingback chair still dressed for bed sipping red wine. Or, how woefully decadent it would be, if he were any other man.
A heavy sigh, drawn from deep in his lungs. He has not the strength to get upset or muse over his unfortunate face. He has not the strength for much of anything, really, except sitting here.
(He cannot even play his organ, or his violin. He tried, earlier, and shuddered at the discordant melodies. Even his fingers are betraying him now, his reliable fingers. And no matter what he did, where he let his thoughts stray, he could not will them to produce beauty.)
There is a hollowness inside of him that he cannot fill. It is not hunger, or thirst, or even tiredness. It is simply a hollow, as if something essential has been pulled out and he is left to haemorrhage into the void, hardly able to breathe around the aching heaviness.
How easy it would be to just let himself go, how very peaceful. But he made a promise, he thinks, not to hurt himself, and so he must bear it, and hope this stillness and wine staunches the blood-flow.
He cannot care about his voice, not now. Let it rust, and crack, so that he might never have to speak again. The words come too heavy to his tongue as it is.
(She is gone. And if she were here, then surely he would not be like this. But she could not be happy here, better off with de Chagny. He sent her away for her own sake, her own happiness. His matters not, not now.)
Everything is too heavy – his tongue, his stiff muscles, his eyelids. All so heavy and worn, bone-weary. Age, a snide voice whispers. Age. You are not the man that you once were.
The wine glass slips from his fingers, so very numb, and crashes on the rug, the wine a blood stain. He watches it seep in, and cannot stir to pick up the shards, to mop so that it does not stain. The numbness stirs, so very heavy, and he cannot even blink it away.
The tomb could not be as quiet, as hushed. Surely it is merciful for the dead, the truly dead. They do not even have to know that they are numb.
A finger of cold licks at his hands, and he draws the dressing gown tighter around himself. If he covered his face it would be a shroud. He would not have to do anything, simply not move from this chair. Let the fire die and the cold leech the heat from his bones. He would die, sooner or later, without having to stir a finger towards a blade or his rope or any of a multitude of poisons. The cold would do it for him. How merciful that would be.
He pulls his legs up, and curls himself into a ball, stiff muscles protesting. He has been sitting here far too long, yet he has not the strength to move. And he is not tired, but his eyes are so very heavy and if he closes them then maybe, maybe there will be some relief in the land of dreams. A respite from the numbness, an angel to sing softly in his ear, and cocoon him with her song. And if he simply does not wake, then it is hardly a loss, is it?