"Something happened tonight," Gwyndolyn told herself. She was working at her laptop while stretched out on a seat in the main room, but her mind wasn't concentrated on her work.
She was running over in her mind every moment of the strange story-telling encounter with Erik. Together their voices had molded something beyond the simple imagery of the ancient tale and a kind of understanding had passed between them. She stared into the empty hearth, absently fingering the small cut on her hand. What would have happened if she had not clumsily interrupted...?
What made him leave so abruptly? She sighed and looked toward his closed door. It had stayed closed, rejecting her, for over an hour. What about the easy companionship they had shared?
Abruptly a harsh minor chord shattered the silence and Gwyndolyn jumped. A winding, plaintive melody worked its way around the original notes. Her hand flew to her throat and she pushed the computer away. That melody, an extension of herself- her heart ached to her it, her very soul wept.
Before realizing it she was standing before the door, which was somehow open. She realized, like looking through water, that she'd opened it herself but didn't remember doing it.
The music continued, wrapping around her a solid cocoon of emotion, of loneliness and longing. In a moment she saw the world, black and cold, hanging like a remote jewel in its orbit among the stars. Hollow emptiness spread from her chest through her body. Her throat quivered, pleading.
She was standing behind Erik now, who stroked the keys of an immense pipe-organ. She drew a shaking breath into her yearning lungs, fighting the instinct to raise her voice in song with the music that was shaking every fiber of her being.
"Sing," he whispered entreatingly, never pausing the haunting tones.
"Sing!" He commanded.
Powerless to resist, Gwyndolyn opened her mouth. Voice met organ in a note of exquisite pain. Never before had she made a sound like this. She took up the melody, slightly muted with surprise. Though she'd never heard it or anything like it before, the music was her, part of her.
Erik turned his head, still playing, and looked at her briefly. Behind the black mask his yellow eyes burned. He played accompaniment now; she let her soul dictate this music of her heart. As one they changed keys and both began faultless variations that twined intricately together. Without words there developed feelings of power, darkness, yearning for something undefined. Again they together changed keys back to the original and both knew that the end of this bizarre communion was nearing.
Gwyndolyn's was the only sung voice of the two souls that lay naked and bare in the underground house. Her eyes closed as she pulled deep reserves of strength from her protesting body. She ached from extended breath support and began to quiver both from rapturous singing and the mere effort to remain standing.
All at once the organ stopped but she continued to resolve the melody. A few seconds that seemed like years passed where only her voice echoed from the stone walls. And then, he sang.
Gwyndolyn's eyes snapped open in shock to regard the source of this voice. "Truly the voice," she thought, "of an angel."
The physical strain was too much, her wonder too great.
As her vision blurred, save for the two burning bright lights of Erik's eyes that coolly observed her, and darkness began to close in, her last conscious thought was, "The angel of music..."
~~
"Oh, child," Erik moaned as she swooned. "What have I done to you?"
He caught her before she reached the ground. From a time apart something pricked at the back of his mind. What was it? "Tonight I have given my soul to you, and I am dead."
Now Gwyndolyn lay, as Christine had once done, fainting in his arms. He never should have allowed this. He voice had obviously never been worked so, and, he looked at his watch, they had created this music over the better part of an hour.
Tears pricked at his eyes and he held her limp body to him.
"I am so truly sorry," he whispered into her hair. He lifted her and carried her to her room, where he gently laid her atop the bed. He would not have wished such music upon anyone, so strong were the feelings it evoked.
"Rather," he mused bitterly, "like my Don Juan Triumphant."
This was a young woman of infinite surprises, he realized as he regarded her now-sleeping form. So ironic and cynical, but in an instant whimsical and full of vitality. Tonight had revealed yet another side of her personality, one that had as yet only been hinted at. It was a side of darkness- or perhaps only shadow.
Expression such as she'd revealed could not possibly be empathy. Such feelings, he knew from long exprerience of life and operas, could not be simulated. He stood at the foot of her bed and found himself smiling gently at this newly revealed Gwyndolyn.
He wondered if the works of Poe had endured through the generations for this individual to read, and if she knew anything about architecture. He was suffused with a warm glow of eagerness, and could hardly wait for her to awake so that he could begin sharing with her his world.
"My world." The warmth drained from him abruptly and was replaced with cold.
"This experiment has gone on far enough," he told himself sternly and withdrew from the room. "I wondered if what I have already achieved was possible. It is. I am done. There is no reason for me to continue living in this world; it is no better than how I last saw it."
Unbidden, the thought came. "Except for her. No!" He was reeling with inner turmoil as he uneasily paced the length of his bedchamber. "I never meant to get attached to this girl!" He was pleading to a god he had long ago ceased to believe in.
"She was only meant to show me the ways of this time. Never would I have wished upon her the slightest affection nor friendship of a creature such as I!" Tears were coursing down his face now, and he had removed the mask.
"I will tell her to leave tomorrow," He resolved, and climbed into the black coffin that served his living corpse as a bed.
He could not know that night that the next day would come and go without doing such, and as he lay in the darkness in and out of troubled sleep, his tortured thoughts were filled with the memories of a young diva named Christine.
~*~Author's Note: Living corpse? Creature? Dagnabit, Erik, you *don't* suck! Heh. That was my "don't flame me I don't really think that" disclaimer. Poor Erik. And for that matter, poor Gwyn! What's up with her now? And, hey, she doesn't seem like the fainting type! What am I THINKING?? ;) Guess you'll have to wait and see, eh?
Europa: Well, I kind of have a system. If you're inside my brain and you concentrate really hard, the chapter names kind of make sense. Keep in mind that I have a bizarre (to say the least) sense of humour and naming things intimidates the heck out of me. Allow me to demonstrate (I love that phrase).
Chapter 1: Gwyndolyn *was*. 'Nuff said.
Chapter 2: The plot, such as it is, was doing some developing, plus I think that saying is funny.
Chapter 3: I think this saying is HILARIOUS for what it means. Gwyndolyn was weirded out by the crazy guy in a Phantom 'costume' who was prowling around. She thought she was in deep crap.
Chapter 4: Not only were Gwyn and Erik wandering (or at least she thought so) around, so was I in a more figurative sense.
Chapter 5: Je m'appelle is "my name is" (or something like that. Sorry, I'm a first year French). My character FINALLY named herself. :)
Chapter 6: I felt this was a really choppy _transition_ from one bit of time to another (told ya I get intimidated by naming things)
Chapter 7: Stole (or adapted) that from the Wizard of Oz. I was feeling like that chapter was kind of weird, though very typical of something I'd imagine.
Chapter 8: Continuing on the Wizard of Oz tangent, this chapter marks the beginning of the promised 'other woman' theme. (And yes, just in case anyone was wondering, Gwyn either is of age, or she will be soon. She hasn't confided that in me yet.) Christine is the pretty, Raoul is Toto, the fop.
Chapter 9: Well, he *does*. And I know just the person to give it to him. *grins, then scampers off to go glomp a certain Phantom*
Now, aren't you afraid to ask me any more questions for fear of an excruciatingly detailed response? ;) I had better shut up now, for my a/n is in danger of becoming longer than the chapter. Until next time!
She was running over in her mind every moment of the strange story-telling encounter with Erik. Together their voices had molded something beyond the simple imagery of the ancient tale and a kind of understanding had passed between them. She stared into the empty hearth, absently fingering the small cut on her hand. What would have happened if she had not clumsily interrupted...?
What made him leave so abruptly? She sighed and looked toward his closed door. It had stayed closed, rejecting her, for over an hour. What about the easy companionship they had shared?
Abruptly a harsh minor chord shattered the silence and Gwyndolyn jumped. A winding, plaintive melody worked its way around the original notes. Her hand flew to her throat and she pushed the computer away. That melody, an extension of herself- her heart ached to her it, her very soul wept.
Before realizing it she was standing before the door, which was somehow open. She realized, like looking through water, that she'd opened it herself but didn't remember doing it.
The music continued, wrapping around her a solid cocoon of emotion, of loneliness and longing. In a moment she saw the world, black and cold, hanging like a remote jewel in its orbit among the stars. Hollow emptiness spread from her chest through her body. Her throat quivered, pleading.
She was standing behind Erik now, who stroked the keys of an immense pipe-organ. She drew a shaking breath into her yearning lungs, fighting the instinct to raise her voice in song with the music that was shaking every fiber of her being.
"Sing," he whispered entreatingly, never pausing the haunting tones.
"Sing!" He commanded.
Powerless to resist, Gwyndolyn opened her mouth. Voice met organ in a note of exquisite pain. Never before had she made a sound like this. She took up the melody, slightly muted with surprise. Though she'd never heard it or anything like it before, the music was her, part of her.
Erik turned his head, still playing, and looked at her briefly. Behind the black mask his yellow eyes burned. He played accompaniment now; she let her soul dictate this music of her heart. As one they changed keys and both began faultless variations that twined intricately together. Without words there developed feelings of power, darkness, yearning for something undefined. Again they together changed keys back to the original and both knew that the end of this bizarre communion was nearing.
Gwyndolyn's was the only sung voice of the two souls that lay naked and bare in the underground house. Her eyes closed as she pulled deep reserves of strength from her protesting body. She ached from extended breath support and began to quiver both from rapturous singing and the mere effort to remain standing.
All at once the organ stopped but she continued to resolve the melody. A few seconds that seemed like years passed where only her voice echoed from the stone walls. And then, he sang.
Gwyndolyn's eyes snapped open in shock to regard the source of this voice. "Truly the voice," she thought, "of an angel."
The physical strain was too much, her wonder too great.
As her vision blurred, save for the two burning bright lights of Erik's eyes that coolly observed her, and darkness began to close in, her last conscious thought was, "The angel of music..."
~~
"Oh, child," Erik moaned as she swooned. "What have I done to you?"
He caught her before she reached the ground. From a time apart something pricked at the back of his mind. What was it? "Tonight I have given my soul to you, and I am dead."
Now Gwyndolyn lay, as Christine had once done, fainting in his arms. He never should have allowed this. He voice had obviously never been worked so, and, he looked at his watch, they had created this music over the better part of an hour.
Tears pricked at his eyes and he held her limp body to him.
"I am so truly sorry," he whispered into her hair. He lifted her and carried her to her room, where he gently laid her atop the bed. He would not have wished such music upon anyone, so strong were the feelings it evoked.
"Rather," he mused bitterly, "like my Don Juan Triumphant."
This was a young woman of infinite surprises, he realized as he regarded her now-sleeping form. So ironic and cynical, but in an instant whimsical and full of vitality. Tonight had revealed yet another side of her personality, one that had as yet only been hinted at. It was a side of darkness- or perhaps only shadow.
Expression such as she'd revealed could not possibly be empathy. Such feelings, he knew from long exprerience of life and operas, could not be simulated. He stood at the foot of her bed and found himself smiling gently at this newly revealed Gwyndolyn.
He wondered if the works of Poe had endured through the generations for this individual to read, and if she knew anything about architecture. He was suffused with a warm glow of eagerness, and could hardly wait for her to awake so that he could begin sharing with her his world.
"My world." The warmth drained from him abruptly and was replaced with cold.
"This experiment has gone on far enough," he told himself sternly and withdrew from the room. "I wondered if what I have already achieved was possible. It is. I am done. There is no reason for me to continue living in this world; it is no better than how I last saw it."
Unbidden, the thought came. "Except for her. No!" He was reeling with inner turmoil as he uneasily paced the length of his bedchamber. "I never meant to get attached to this girl!" He was pleading to a god he had long ago ceased to believe in.
"She was only meant to show me the ways of this time. Never would I have wished upon her the slightest affection nor friendship of a creature such as I!" Tears were coursing down his face now, and he had removed the mask.
"I will tell her to leave tomorrow," He resolved, and climbed into the black coffin that served his living corpse as a bed.
He could not know that night that the next day would come and go without doing such, and as he lay in the darkness in and out of troubled sleep, his tortured thoughts were filled with the memories of a young diva named Christine.
~*~Author's Note: Living corpse? Creature? Dagnabit, Erik, you *don't* suck! Heh. That was my "don't flame me I don't really think that" disclaimer. Poor Erik. And for that matter, poor Gwyn! What's up with her now? And, hey, she doesn't seem like the fainting type! What am I THINKING?? ;) Guess you'll have to wait and see, eh?
Europa: Well, I kind of have a system. If you're inside my brain and you concentrate really hard, the chapter names kind of make sense. Keep in mind that I have a bizarre (to say the least) sense of humour and naming things intimidates the heck out of me. Allow me to demonstrate (I love that phrase).
Chapter 1: Gwyndolyn *was*. 'Nuff said.
Chapter 2: The plot, such as it is, was doing some developing, plus I think that saying is funny.
Chapter 3: I think this saying is HILARIOUS for what it means. Gwyndolyn was weirded out by the crazy guy in a Phantom 'costume' who was prowling around. She thought she was in deep crap.
Chapter 4: Not only were Gwyn and Erik wandering (or at least she thought so) around, so was I in a more figurative sense.
Chapter 5: Je m'appelle is "my name is" (or something like that. Sorry, I'm a first year French). My character FINALLY named herself. :)
Chapter 6: I felt this was a really choppy _transition_ from one bit of time to another (told ya I get intimidated by naming things)
Chapter 7: Stole (or adapted) that from the Wizard of Oz. I was feeling like that chapter was kind of weird, though very typical of something I'd imagine.
Chapter 8: Continuing on the Wizard of Oz tangent, this chapter marks the beginning of the promised 'other woman' theme. (And yes, just in case anyone was wondering, Gwyn either is of age, or she will be soon. She hasn't confided that in me yet.) Christine is the pretty, Raoul is Toto, the fop.
Chapter 9: Well, he *does*. And I know just the person to give it to him. *grins, then scampers off to go glomp a certain Phantom*
Now, aren't you afraid to ask me any more questions for fear of an excruciatingly detailed response? ;) I had better shut up now, for my a/n is in danger of becoming longer than the chapter. Until next time!