Disclaimer: I think you know by now that I own nothing. Literally. Nothing.

Erik Destler

"A letter for you, from Paris," Nadir called to me in Persian. I made a sound of acknowledgement, not bothering to look up at him. I was busy making amends to the score of my opera, which was to premier at a small but tasteful opera house in a matter of weeks. It was my first opera to be performed publicly, and it had to be perfect. Perfection was what I strived for, in myself and in –her.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts of Christine. I had completely submerged myself in work, to stop my thoughts from wandering towards her. But as I composed, I often, in my mind, heard her sing the arias I wrote, her voice accompanying the melody of the piano, the soprano mingling with my tenor in passionate duets. Every piece I wrote was for her, from the shortest verse to the greatest opera. Her grace, her kindness, her love, her spirit, was written into the twists and turns of the melody. I had once promised her a glowing career on stage; now that I had failed her in that, I must do the best I could to make amends. If Christine could not take centre-stage, she would serve as the muse behind the music that would enchant the world in her place.

Armed with this motivation, I had strived towards my new life, with the performance of my music as my aim. It is for her, I told myself each time I was stuck; each time I was dispirited; each time I felt that there was no end to the discouraging responses. For Christine. I could consider her not as the woman I loved and who loved me back, nor as a real woman of flesh and blood, for that was too painful; but as my muse, an immortal deity whom I would worship and glorify with my music – thus, and only thus, would the thought of her not be accompanied with pain and longing.

I had no doubt that she thought of me, though it was probably not with the same ardent love with which I thought of her. I liked to believe that her memories of me were happy ones. The most I could expect of her was to recall me with the same gentle fondness she did her father. To her, I was nothing more than an artefact of her childhood, yet another exhibition in the gallery of her memories, lost and discoloured among countless other more exuberant ones.

She must be creating new memories, too, with that boy. Loving ones; beautiful ones; intimate ones. I could not imagine him running his hands over her body, tasting her soft lips, eliciting from her the sounds that she had made for me. Did she compare him with me? Would she, in her mind, judge that her young, handsome husband was a far better lover than her first? Would she be secretly relieved that my death had freed her, so that she was not bound to this monster for life?

It was dangerous to leave the shrine of Christine the goddess and indulge in memories of Christine the woman. They were separate entities now, the one that inspired me and the one that haunted me. I could not afford to converge them into the same being.

The staves and notes on the paper before me were beginning to swim into a blur of lines and dots. I had been working for more than three days with no sleep; it was clearly taking its toll on me.

"Erik?" Nadir's soft, accented voice pierced into my attention.

"Hmm?" I ran my hands over my tired face. Thankfully, Nadir did not mind that I was maskless in our home, and I was past caring whether he saw my face or not.

"You must rest," the Persian insisted. "Think of your health, Erik! I didn't save your life to have you work yourself to death! Have you no concern for your wellbeing?"

I chuckled, pushing my chair back to stand. "Why would I need to, when I've got you for that?" I said, clapping him on the shoulder. He sighed, clearly not in the mood to banter with me. "Where is that letter you were talking about?"

Nadir handed me a pale cream envelope, with Erik Destler written over my address. I recognised Antoinette Giry's handwriting. This piqued my curiosity, as I had not contacted her for months, not since the production for my opera was underway. Antoinette would not write to me unless necessary, though the matter was not urgent, for if it was so she would have telegraphed me. I was too tired to trouble myself with whatever problems the letter would entail, and thus decided that it could wait until morning, after I have replenished my energy with much needed sleep.

"Don't wake me tomorrow," I called over my shoulder to Nadir before walking down the hallway to my room. I heard him mutter under his breath that I was an obstinate idiot.

Sleep rarely came easily to me, but tonight I was tired enough that it washed over me like a comforting wave of darkness. I dreamt of Christine, as I often did. Even if I could keep my conscious thoughts free of her, my subconscious betrayed me. When I was asleep, the threads of dreams spun in her image, envisioning in my mind the luscious chestnut curls, the carefree laugh, the exact shape and shade of her eyes as they danced with emotion.

I could not remember the dream when I woke, for the dangerous musings of dreams were kept strictly under lock and key when I was awake. It was only when I composed, or when I drew, that a gate was opened to emotions to infuse my mind and work, and even then it was only for the purpose of creation. Nothing else.

This night, however, one last image lingered in my head after I woke: Christine, her expression open in an unguarded moment, so young and vulnerable, looking up at me as though I made her world complete simply by existing. It was the way she looked at me when she woke at my side as my wife. Unlike the normally hazy quality of dreams, I saw this image as clearly as though she had been lying there at my side –a fantasy that could never be again. I held the image in my mind, turning it over, allowing myself to indulge for a moment longer, before carefully storing it away as one would a priceless heirloom.

The clarity of the last threads of my dream had given me a certain contentment that I had not felt in a long time. I was almost lighthearted as I pushed open the door to my study. As I entered my study, the envelope laid on top of the disarrayed mess of my desk caught my eye. The sight of Antoinette's unexpected letter brought my spirits crashing down. There was nothing that could dampen one's spirits such as the tedious problems the letter would entail. Nevertheless, I reasoned that no good would come from putting it off, and so I opened the letter. I pulled out a page sporting neat lines in Antoinette's handwriting.

I scanned over their contents quickly. About a quarter of the way down the page, my eyes picked out Christine's name. My heart almost stopped.

It was not possible.

I read the letter again, slower, more carefully this time. Surely my eyes had deceived me, tricked me into reading a message that could not possibly be true. My descent into madness was complete. I was envisioning things that I wished to be.

I read the letter once, twice, three more times. I slowly sank into the chair, for my knees were curiously shaky all of a sudden. I was suspended on a thin wire between hope and incredulity.

It was not possible.

And yet it was.

Author's note:

So there you go. How many of you have guessed it? ;]