[A/N: First of all, thanks muchly for all the kind reviews. They're more motivating that you'd probably think – actually, they're what inspired me to use what remains of my free time to do this! For the past week I've had all the spare time in the world. Tomorrow, the real work starts with term. I can therefore no longer update as quickly as I have before, but I will be sure to look in from time to time and not just vanish completely -- I've waited too long for this to do that now!
In order to make the most of what was left of my blissful time of having nothing to do, I thought I'd try writing a little something in first person, more specifically, from the twisted yet brilliant mind of Erik. I never realized how much fun it is to write like this, and I sincerely hope I've managed to convey correctly the thoughts and feelings which he must feel every time he sees and/or speaks to Christine, what the terrible knowledge that while he will always be close enough to speak to her, to touch her, he may never actually do so, would feel like.
Well, 'Stained Glass Windows' was, incidentally, another option for an English essay once upon a time, and although I never wrote on this topic, I always used to collect the topics for later use and I thought the two ideas would link very well. Hope I was right. So anyway, here it is. Please R&R and remember, helpful crit is always more than welcome – we do all, after all, always wish to improve.]
Stained Glass Windows
The kaleidoscope of colours plays it's way across the ground, livening up the stern grey floor with it's ever-changing patterns. The tiny pin pricks of late afternoon sunshine trickle like liquid gold through the window and somehow, inside it's intricate panes, are transformed into a shower of exotic and fascinating shades which dance upon the floor like coloured diamonds.
There is something captivating, something mesmerizing about that ethereal Lichtspiel. There is beauty in it's complexity, and complexity in it's beauty. Although I am an expert on how such feats of beauty are performed, not once does the display fail to amaze me. I never tire of watching one of nature's simple yet eternally intriguing entertainments.
Nature. I will never understand it. Friend and foe. Ally and adversary. Mentor and tormentor. Nature is warm, yet cruel. Caring, yet vengeful. Beautiful, yet ugly. Mother Nature. That one is an outright laugh, a paragon of irony. It seems to me that I have had very bad luck in my life so far, as far as mothers are concerned. Nevertheless, I have learned to appreciate irony; you have to, when you are Nature's best and most outrageous practical joke. It is the only way to survive.
I turn my attention back to the source of the spectacle - that which I am currently standing behind, the stained glass window itself. It fascinates me more than the light. Fashioned in the old mediaeval Gothic style, the window has two panes set close to each other, separated only by a delicate strip of masonry down the centre. Above the vaulted frames, many tiny frames are arranged in intricate patterns to form the classic point of the typical ecclesiastical window. My trained architect's eye takes in the ornate carving work on the upper parts with appreciation - I myself know exactly to how much effort the master mason went in order to create something of such aesthetic precision.
But it is the pictures in these two panes that inspires my imagination most. Two figures adorn the vertical, transparent mosaic, one in each segment. A man and a woman, both reaching out for each other, separated from each other by nothing more than a thin strip of plaster, no more than an inch wide, yet it is enough to part them for the rest of eternity. There is some old Roman anecdote or legend which tells their full story which I once knew but have now forgotten. In either case, it is of no consequence what the exact details were - the pictures utilize their thousand words well and speak eloquently enough for themselves. My attention is taken from the riveting still scene by a more lively one. It is what I have been waiting for: she has entered the room beyond the window.
I watch, my breath caught in my throat, as she gracefully sinks to her knees and bends her head in an attitude of prayer. A fitting sight: an angel in a chapel. Mesmerized, I watch as the plethora of coloured specks play across her small form, setting her auburn hair alight. With her graceful head bent and still in prayer, and her large expressive eyes closed, I am afforded the opportunity to watch and appreciate the sheer perfection of the Great Mason's stunning masterpiece. I, His greatest mistake.
She has been crying, I realize. The now dry paths of tears still remain on her flawless face, yet they do nothing to compromise it's beauty. I feel my heart wrench as surely as if cruel, unseen hands were wringing it. She has been crying. She is unhappy still, I can see it. I know every emotion that crosses her lovely countenance by heart, have memorized every giveaway tremor that betrays her true thoughts. My arms ache to take her in them, hold her close to me, take away her pain, fight away her fears; but the glass separates us. That fragile, tangible barrier of glass - and an immeasurable metaphysical void which nothing in this world can ever hope to bridge.
I cannot bear to see her like this, miserable, and remain idle. It takes every single ounce of my awesome self-control, honed through the years by a life of constant trial and hardship, to stay where I am and remain silent as fresh tears course silently down her porcelain cheeks. The instinctive cry of "You are not alone!" is strangled in my throat by an impressive display of sheer willpower, and I remain silent - and useless. Helplessness is the worst emotion I can be asked to bear. I must do so now, and I will, but it comes at a cost. My entire being aches and my soul cries out desperately as she stands up and bravely dries her tears and turns to leave.
For one brief second that masquerades as eternity, she turns and looks my way. My breathing halts and my hearts skips a beat. Has she seen me? Have I betrayed myself with a careless sound or movement? As anxious as I am in that moment to remain unnoticed, I secretly harbour a silent wish to be discovered. Just for once, to not be walked past as if I were as ethereal as my soubriquet suggests. Just for once, to be regarded as the human being that I in truth am.
Then she turns away and leaves. I exhale softly in relief, yet at the same time naïve regret gnaws at the back of my mind - it is the one solitary weakness of emotion that my stentorian self-discipline allows me, but it is fatal. My gaze refocuses from the now empty room which mirrors the state of my tortured soul to the window. The images of the doomed lovers swim foggily in my vision, their images obscured by a veil of salty tears which spill over down my cheeks. The image is seared into my memory, a cruel reminder underlining the fact that I will never be allowed reprise, be allowed to forget. Forever I will be forced to endure the matchless agony of so near and yet so far.
A/N: Whew, OK. That was intense. I think perhaps next time I should publish something a little more light-hearted. What sayeth you?