Fire can be a dangerous element, vital, but absolutely terrifying. Yet fire cannot live without its oxygen; it cannot be started without a spark over an already impressionable substance. That was how he felt, how he saw himself as…or use to at any rate. He had his oxygen, the spark was there the moment they crossed paths, locked eyes. Steely gold against inquisitive blue: absolute perfection. They were opposites in almost every way imaginable, but that was more fuel for the ardor between them.
Then she came along, prancing, parading, destroying; and what was he left with? Heat? Building passion rising for a dramatic explosion? Non, mon dieu, how he wished. No, he was left with a cold flame, smoldering on the ashes of what may have been at another time…another life.
His muse was gone, she drove the boy away with her overwhelming presence, and who was he to argue with such greatness? Who was he to encourage this blaze between his apprentice and his own person if it was at the cost of selfishly denying his diva anything? Was he not responsible for his muse, his trainee, leaving? Was he not the very person who insisted on having she? Was he not the only responsible man in the entire fiasco? And still, the icy queen came with her storm of promises and left him colder than he had ever felt before.
He attempted to pour himself some more wine, uselessly, poetically trying to drown the remains of what was lost. Dismay alarmed him when the bottle was empty; no more Pinot Noir, how tragic. The glass fell the short distance unharmed as a sob tore through the silence of the sanctuary.
"Mon ange, mon ange…" the hopeless pleas reached the unfeeling statues that surrounded the man. No more would a soft hand be upon his brow whenever he drank too much. No more would that hand drift slowly downwards to tenderly stroke his lips when the boy thought he was unconscious. He reached forward, desperately trying to gain a hold on what was his life, determined to show the world he would make it.
Yes, he threw away his muse, yes, he gave up what he believed to be his soul mate, but he could still live…right? He damned that girl and her voice, her body, her ability. He damned the sun and its brightness, the moon and its mirrored light. He damned the boy for abandoning him, agreeing to finally leave, because of something he didn't mean to say. Most importantly, his damned his horrid self; he loathed his being, despised looking at an image that he created only because it ignited in him memories of fiery moments with the boy. He cursed everything that caused him to remember the actress; how he wished he had listened and understood that she really was only a cruel-hearted wench, out for his money and his name.
He had fire, he used to be fire, but now he was just a numb existence trapped within the sorrow of now instead of in the burning future of what could have been.