The foyer of the Cyrkensia Opera House was teeming with glitterati, opera and ballet enthusiasts, members of the press, and one Lord Xander von Siegfried, the newly minted peer of the House of Lords, after the recent passing of his aged and mentally-ill father.
He might be known as a peer, and will be referred as such in the society pages of tomorrow's paper, along with the many photographs that the journalists around him are taking, but this is not his most prized achievement. Garon might have rehearsed immortality, but no man is eternal and there are no ATMs in the afterlife. Therefore, it was inevitable for him to become a Lord, just as long he kept himself alive long enough.
There were no guarantees in raising through his corporate career, and he is proud of the work he put on to lifting his own construction company, far from the thumb and deep pockets of his father. It, along his three half-siblings, is the one thing he loved in the world, and he is immensely dedicated to its success.
It was a hard-earned position, he thought, ignoring the cacophony of voices around him. One he had pursued doggedly upon first completing his higher education in Economy and Business, then spending three years running around several positions in the sector before finally managing to raise enough capital and opening his own company.
Politics, on the other hand… If Xander lived on a democratic society, if he was not born to the right bloodline, he knows that he would never rise to the position of a member of parliament. It is not something that he cared about, and he is no good with public speeches and law-making.
In fact, he would feel more comfortable if any of his siblings could take that position for him, but, alas, he is stuck. Nevertheless, he hopes to do a good job on it, and has been dedicating himself into learning the ropes and pushing for his agenda.
Alas, he is tired and felt as if he deserved some vacations. When his work duties brought him to Nestra, especially on the premiere of the Summer opera season, he knew that he needed a ticket to relax to the sound of the best company in the nation.
He sipped champagne, his lips turning in distaste and, when no one was looking, poured the offending liquid in a nearby planter. He understood that this is a non-profit and he supposes he is glad that his money is spent in art rather than in parties, but the quality of food that they serve their benefactors is revolting.
As he waited for the start of the spectacle, he mentally reviewed notes on the property that they were considering for a late-year release and wondered if he would have time to drop by the branch office after the performance. He would like to have a bit more time to research the indicators before closing on the deal on Monday.
The lights flickered and the buzz around the room changed as guests made their way inside the theatre. Xander displayed his patron credentials to the attendant and proceeded to his seat near the front, just across from centre stage. The perks of knowing the marquee performer.
Tonight's premiere of Tchaikovsky's Iolanta and The Nutcracker opera-ballet harkened back to olden days when double billing was quite common. As an opera aficionado, Xander could not understand why anyone would want to ruin a good aria with dancers prancing about on the stage. Still, he was here to show his support for a friend.
He had met tonight's soprano, Azura von Valla, back at school, as he attended a higher grade than hers on a suburban academy in Windmire. They were close friends regardless, as her mother hung around often their home. She had introduced him to the world of opera, a passion of hers from cradle. At first, it was not something a proud young man would be interested in, but in time, it won him over to the point that he donates to most companies throughout the nation.
When the theatre lights dimmed and the curtain slid open, he found himself getting lost in the sheer artistry of opera, the drama, the music. When Azura glided on to the stage, he felt pride at seeing his friend at the top of her profession, her siren-like voice captivating as she sang of pain, loss, heartbreak and fragility of life. As the first act gave way to the second, he wished once again that the performance had maintained the purity of opera.
The second act opened on a birthday party. He inwardly sighed as the chorus of ballet dancers frolicked on to the stage, their lithe bodies waltzing to the romantic melody. He was about to run through a series of property statements and evaluations until intermission when his eyes fell on the principal ballerina who floated onto the centre of the stage.
Stage lights sparkled off the tiara anchoring her blonde hair tied back into a bun. Like a fairy covered with dust, she seemed to shine; her body flowing into complicated steps, portraying the excitement and nervousness of a first love and then loss of innocence as love was torn from her.
Mesmerized, his eyes followed her as she drifted across the stage, taking in everything from the delicate beauty on her expressive face to the evocative music that appeared to have been written with her in mind. When the theatre lights came on for intermission, he silently cursed, wishing he was back in the oneiric dark with her.
Not caring for company, he stayed in his seat, reaching inside the seat pocket for the program guide he had been handed earlier. He flipped through the pages filled with useless fluff until he found the list of performers. He devoured her brief profile, reading and re-reading the details, looking for any clues to who she was. The accompanying professional headshot highlighted rabbit-like pink eyes that seemed to stare through him.
Corrin Anankos. He had a name.