Come the Dawn, Chapter One
Requiem et Resurrectio
In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: It goes on.
Robert Frost
He stepped out of the darkness, pushing aside the thick drapery that had obscured the passageway. It had been at least a full day since he'd heard any sound emanate from the cavern beyond. Before that, the underground grotto had echoed with the combined voices of the mob—shouts, jeers, mocking laughter, gasps of surprise as they discovered and plundered yet another of his carefully guarded treasures. He'd listened impassively as the mob had spent its fevered rage and bloodlust on the outward trappings of his life. Gradually, the shouts had died off, the voices had faded, and the sounds of destruction had dwindled into a hushed emptiness.
It was over.
He himself had escaped their wrath, stealing away mere seconds before they had burst into his home. He had no real worry that they'd find the entrance to the labyrinth of tunnels, grottos and caverns beyond the underground lake—mobs were not subtle in their methods. And he was proven right; his hiding place in the subterranean depths had remained undiscovered. There, he had waited—cold, hungry, blinded by the darkness, but protected from it all by a shroud of merciful numbness. Rage, anger, betrayal—they were meaningless, abstract concepts. He felt nothing. He distantly remembered the feel of emotion, of passion, but they were ethereal notions, better abandoned to the past, where they belonged. Whatever feelings he'd once claimed had been hacked from his soul and left to die in the darkness, along with his life's work.
It was dark; he felt his way over to where his desk had once stood, tripping only once over some unknown, broken artifact. The desk was where he expected—apparently the horde had been too weak or too lazy to bother moving the colossal piece of mahogany. In one of its drawers he found candles and matches, providing a feeble light with which to view the destruction.
It was bad. They'd sacked the place—much was missing, more was destroyed. What they hadn't carried off, they'd burned, or smashed, or thrown in the shallow lake. For a moment, a tiny plume of rage curled inside him, but he snuffed it out mercilessly. There was no room for anger, or hatred, or regret inside the shell of ice that had formed around his carcass. Likewise, there was no space for outrage, no fertile soil in which the pain of betrayal could take root. His soul was barren, lifeless, and he embraced the emptiness. He would not allow himself to feel.
There was nothing for him here, anyway. It would take but a moment for him to gather the few things he needed—clothing, provided some remained, a carefully hidden cache of currency, and a few possessions too precious to leave behind.
He picked his way through the debris, refusing to wince at the sight of the organ, damaged beyond restoration. The stage sets, the small miniatures of the cast—all gone, all destroyed.
He reached the smaller chamber that served as a bedroom—here, the damage was less, as though the mob had focused its attention elsewhere. Still, there was some disarray—drawers had been emptied out onto the floor, clothing had spilled from the wardrobe, but on the whole, this area had been spared the wanton destruction that marked the outer room.
The music box caught his eye. They had left it? Then again, who would place any value on such a thing? He walked over to the table and ran a finger over the miniature monkey, clad in its rich Persian robes, holding its tiny cymbals in eternal readiness. A stab of pain lanced his chest as he recalled crafting the little piece; with a sigh, he touched its mechanism and listened as the chiming melody began. Masquerade…
A muffled noise from behind him jolted his attention away from the music box. Had one of the plundering vultures remained behind? He spun about, glancing around the chamber, searching the shadowy corners of the room for a hidden assailant.
"Who's there?" he growled, brandishing the candle above his head and glowering into the dimness. He took a step or two further into the room, careful to keep his back to the nearest wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he searched for something that could be used as a weapon.
The noise came again, this time a faint rustling from the direction of the bed. He bent, picked up a discarded brass candlestick and walked a step or two closer.
"Show yourself," he demanded, scowling into the gossamer-shrouded darkness.
There was a sigh, and an abrupt blur of movement. After a moment, more rustling ensued and, with a whisper of silk, the curtains shrouding the bed lifted, and a soft soprano voice spoke from its depths.
"Mother said you'd return."