Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera. That makes me sad.
*Sob!*
Author's Note: This is NOT a sequel to my prior story through Ayesha's point of view. The POV has changed, and once again, I shall say no more as to the identity of the speaker. That being said, do enjoy this!
Fordgirl Status Note: My other stories shall both be updated this weekend, for those that are interested in them. (Yes, Estella, at Jose's insistence!)
Feedback: Please!
I lived in a realm of genius; a place where the only light was cast by the burning of the magnificent, and horrible, music that my master played almost unceasingly. Sometimes, I doubted that his existence beyond that music; it seemed terribly easy to believe that he had chosen to devote himself entirely to his singular pursuits, and had cast himself into a hell of his own making.
In many ways, he was more a slave than I; but his chains were ethereal, made of harmony and verse, and the discord that he carried about within his soul. The music owned him, dominated him, abused him and always left him cold, yearning for more. He breathed it, and in his mind, I think, it held court over all his senses, and made him act in an often-horrid fashion.
Yes, it would have been easy to believe that he was possessed only by the music, only by the songs that come like torrents of pure power and raw emotion, and fill this house with an unnatural, exultant light.
But then, the tears come; and all at once he would seem purely, and tragically, human.
You see, my master was somehow beyond simple, crude humanity. Yet, he longed for it with an unremitting desire. He cried, he wept, he lamented and cursed the day he was born. He often fell to his knees, invoking passionate, pathetic pleas to the angels above, and to one in particular, he always saved the most profoundly sad plea of all.
I still remember the name, as it fell sullenly from his defeated lips, "Christine. . ."
I watched silently, helplessly, as he withered away to nothing. The music faded away, too; it was as if the essence of the man who had made it live was gone, and, therefore, it could find life no longer. I longed for the days when he was completely entranced with his delicate, enthralling melodies, when he would effortlessly cast the lyrics out with an angel's voice that made me feel so completely alive.
I longed for the days, when his song would bade me to play my own, as a counterpoint, a perfect counterpoint to his own.
Yes, I remember it well. He would come and pick me up, taking me gingerly in his hands. I adored him when he came to me, and bid me to play for him. Always, I complied to his entreaties, and I would begin my own, simple tune.
He would sing with me, too, and it was thrilling. The words were always the same: 'Masquerade, paper faces on parade, masquerade. . .'
And I would applaud him, my mysterious virtuoso, my gilded cymbals coming together in praise of the genius who filled my world with song. Sometimes, he would shoot me a backwards glance as he walked back to his pipe organ, as if he yet longed to hear the applause.
As if he yet longed to feel loved.
Oh, how I pitied him then and in the end when the music ceased altogether. It was so empty in the house, with out the song, without the light which I had known for so long. Eventually, he simply lost the strength, the will, to carry on. In his death, the silence seemed overwhelming, and if I could have wept, I surely would have.
Then, a faint voice permeated the darkness, a small torch lighting its way. A woman, I had seen her before, if rarely, came, and found my master there, in his coffin, lifeless. She cried over him, she prayed for him, she sang to him and implored his forgiveness for some unknown sin. She called his name only once, with terrible grief, "Erik. . ."
I watched as she placed a small gold band around his finger, looked at him once more, regretfully, it seemed, and walked away, closing the lid of the coffin over him forever.
I, too, died that day, though I carry on still. I play now, though the spirit gone from my music, for an elderly man who, I believe, is called Raoul. He bids me sing once in a great while, his ancient, trembling fingers winding me up as I soullessly begin to sing. A smile lights up his face, as if he had triumphed, and his hands come together in union with mine.
"Sing, monkey. . ." He commands, and I obey, wishing that I had never been taken from my master's home, his temple to music, and that I was with him, yet.
~Fin
Author's Note: This is NOT a sequel to my prior story through Ayesha's point of view. The POV has changed, and once again, I shall say no more as to the identity of the speaker. That being said, do enjoy this!
Fordgirl Status Note: My other stories shall both be updated this weekend, for those that are interested in them. (Yes, Estella, at Jose's insistence!)
Feedback: Please!
I lived in a realm of genius; a place where the only light was cast by the burning of the magnificent, and horrible, music that my master played almost unceasingly. Sometimes, I doubted that his existence beyond that music; it seemed terribly easy to believe that he had chosen to devote himself entirely to his singular pursuits, and had cast himself into a hell of his own making.
In many ways, he was more a slave than I; but his chains were ethereal, made of harmony and verse, and the discord that he carried about within his soul. The music owned him, dominated him, abused him and always left him cold, yearning for more. He breathed it, and in his mind, I think, it held court over all his senses, and made him act in an often-horrid fashion.
Yes, it would have been easy to believe that he was possessed only by the music, only by the songs that come like torrents of pure power and raw emotion, and fill this house with an unnatural, exultant light.
But then, the tears come; and all at once he would seem purely, and tragically, human.
You see, my master was somehow beyond simple, crude humanity. Yet, he longed for it with an unremitting desire. He cried, he wept, he lamented and cursed the day he was born. He often fell to his knees, invoking passionate, pathetic pleas to the angels above, and to one in particular, he always saved the most profoundly sad plea of all.
I still remember the name, as it fell sullenly from his defeated lips, "Christine. . ."
I watched silently, helplessly, as he withered away to nothing. The music faded away, too; it was as if the essence of the man who had made it live was gone, and, therefore, it could find life no longer. I longed for the days when he was completely entranced with his delicate, enthralling melodies, when he would effortlessly cast the lyrics out with an angel's voice that made me feel so completely alive.
I longed for the days, when his song would bade me to play my own, as a counterpoint, a perfect counterpoint to his own.
Yes, I remember it well. He would come and pick me up, taking me gingerly in his hands. I adored him when he came to me, and bid me to play for him. Always, I complied to his entreaties, and I would begin my own, simple tune.
He would sing with me, too, and it was thrilling. The words were always the same: 'Masquerade, paper faces on parade, masquerade. . .'
And I would applaud him, my mysterious virtuoso, my gilded cymbals coming together in praise of the genius who filled my world with song. Sometimes, he would shoot me a backwards glance as he walked back to his pipe organ, as if he yet longed to hear the applause.
As if he yet longed to feel loved.
Oh, how I pitied him then and in the end when the music ceased altogether. It was so empty in the house, with out the song, without the light which I had known for so long. Eventually, he simply lost the strength, the will, to carry on. In his death, the silence seemed overwhelming, and if I could have wept, I surely would have.
Then, a faint voice permeated the darkness, a small torch lighting its way. A woman, I had seen her before, if rarely, came, and found my master there, in his coffin, lifeless. She cried over him, she prayed for him, she sang to him and implored his forgiveness for some unknown sin. She called his name only once, with terrible grief, "Erik. . ."
I watched as she placed a small gold band around his finger, looked at him once more, regretfully, it seemed, and walked away, closing the lid of the coffin over him forever.
I, too, died that day, though I carry on still. I play now, though the spirit gone from my music, for an elderly man who, I believe, is called Raoul. He bids me sing once in a great while, his ancient, trembling fingers winding me up as I soullessly begin to sing. A smile lights up his face, as if he had triumphed, and his hands come together in union with mine.
"Sing, monkey. . ." He commands, and I obey, wishing that I had never been taken from my master's home, his temple to music, and that I was with him, yet.
~Fin