C L A I R
de
L U N E
-Stradivari-
:i:
Even now, as he looked back upon that afternoon, he could not cease to recall that first taste of something strange and exotic; unwelcome by his orderly life. It accompanied him in the Bentley, within his arms as they passed the cheery trees sweeping the avenue. The birches sang to the wind, oblivious to whom they dedicated this aria, not caring who their Lord was. And till this day, it was still there, as clear as it had ever been.
And like that, it was infinite, the gnawing sensation of loss, deep inside his chest. It was locked there now; a music box which played its song for the first and last time when he had opened it two years ago.
He would be drawn to them, his feet turning the corridors and his hand the handle of the door. The study lay dark beyond the frame of the entrance, the furniture still and silent. And then, at seven or so, he would come, immaculate in his customary suit, dark and serious-someone he had admired for so long. He could see him now, a tall figure behind the dark mahogany of the desk. He had the world at his fingertips, the world upon his shoulders, a world-upon which was a closed door, closed, to the scent of the sea.
He would come, as he always did.
He would stand there, several nights a week after he first left, up at the end of the pier where the moon shone silver against the steady pulse of the ocean waves breaking upon the torn sands of the beach. And the light would bring with it the breeze which bore the sea salt stinging his eyes like the soft kisses of winter frost, though it was barely summer. And afterwards, he would look down into the water and see himself as he did that afternoon. Yet now, there were salt upon his cheeks, spiraling patterns beneath his darkened eyes.
Endless stretch of ink. He imagined walking on this water, walking, walking. Perhaps then he could come to the place where she disappeared beneath its mirrored depths-mirrored, in which the reflection of the moon could not be found, her light equally absent in his heart.
It was as if someone had shot her from the sky, and she had fallen with her dress of a thousand stars, blinking out the fires of his mind.
Artemis. Artemis the hunted.
He could feel the afternoon sun on his skin, even now, when neither celestial light existed. They had both gone out, their flame destroyed in the smothering embrace of the sea, her voice, pining and sweet singing an unfinished serenade.
She was lost to him, a spirit which had left with the parting notes of the ship. Left, and continued to call with unrecognizing eyes.
He stood there now, solitary at the end of the pier, with only the moon and the sea to remind him of a father who would never know how much he missed him.
:i:
Author's Note: Ah! Bless excessive overlaying extended metaphors & unnecessary subtle details! Must be the shortest one-shot I've ever written. CC very welcome. Typos? I can honestly not see any this time. (This may pop up later as it is an extract of something I'm working on, tweaked, of course. :P)
Typos edited.
