Author's Note: I need to get a different chair. This one hurts my bum. I'm also trying a new format! Yay for me.
~Ch 8~
Diana spent the rest of the day cleaning up the rooms, instead of working on the wall. When she cleaned up the other bedroom, she decided she like it. The décor was rather dark and off-putting, but since most of the furniture and decoration were broken, that was easily remedied. She took out the coffin and managed to split it up for braces for the wall. Then she hung the hammock between the posts that made the canopy. She did think it was kind of weird---Erik had made himself a coffin for a bed, but still had a draped canopy above it. It was a strange cross between normalcy and morbidity. But the torn silk from one of the wall hangings that made up the hammock looked rather cheery against the severe room.
When she was really bored, she cut up some more of the shredded decorations around the 'house' and made herself a window. But that didn't help her during the next panic attack.
She just finished taking the empty tray out of Erik's room, when she stumbled and had to put a hand against the wall to steady herself. Her eyes slid up to the fallen wall, with only a tiny hole in it that showed at least a week's worth of work. The thought hit her: she was never going to get out of this place. She was going to die, trapped under a building, alone, without ever seeing her family or the sky again. She would never feel the air in her hair, the grass under her feet….
The tray hit the ground with a crash that seemed to come from far away. Her breath came short. Never get out, never get out….her vision began to blur at the edges, and she sank to the ground suddenly, her legs too weak to hold her. This was a bad one---she hadn't had one like this for a while. Her arms wrapped around her body as she squeezed her eyes tight, but it seemed like she couldn't feel anything. Not her hands, nor the floor beneath her. Her breath hitched, coming quick and shallow, and everything seemed to get a lot closer, a lot tighter up against her body.
A feeling started tugging on the end of her senses. Another person, another arm around her….. She vaguely heard a voice, but her own thudding heartbeat stopped her from hearing it fully. Two arms around her now…. Were they her own? She felt something hard press against her side, and fighting through the fear she remembered her pipes, still in her skirt pocket. But they were pressing into her, squishing her, closing in on her, squeezing her against the walls that were coming closer… Suddenly they were moved, and she breathed a little easier. There was silence, then, the pure silence of death, and she could hear her own gasping breath in it as she clenched herself tighter. Then the sound started.
It began low, low and soft, almost hesitant, but soon it began to grow, louder and fuller, like a flower slowly unfurling. She barely recognized it as her pipes: the tones that were coaxed from them were sweet and miraculous. Not even her father's playing could have come close to the heavenly sounds that were coming from the pipes. The music was unfamiliar, but clean and crisp, sounding of hope and love and freedom. That's what it was, she thought, as she focused on just the music surrounding her. Freedom. The song soared into upper registers that required more skill than merely placing fingers over the holes and blowing, and Diana got a feeling of a bird, some nameless heavenly bird, cartwheeling and airborne on the wings of the wind and its song. The bird was free, singing its joy to the sky, singing the hope of the free wind and sky forever. She lay back and let the music wash over her. As the song wound down, the bird relaxed its song and found a perch on a branch, singing its knowledge of the sky. This is not the end, the bird sang. This is not the end.
Diana's eyes fluttered open as her breath resumed its normal breathing. She found herself leaning against the wall, weak as the proverbial kitten, right outside of Erik's door. Sitting only a few feet away from her was Erik himself, slowly lowering her pipes from his mouth. He watched her carefully, looking for signs of something she couldn't name.
"I've never heard anyone play like that," she said quietly. Her voice felt hoarse and scratchy to her ears. "Not even my father, who made those pipes."
"Are you feeling better?" he asked.
She nodded, looking down, suddenly feeling exposed. The tray had fallen and scattered across the floor, and she frowned at it. "I need to pick that up," she said, struggling to move. But she didn't want to crawl to the strewn silverware, so she was glad when he stopped her.
"You need rest," he said, his low melodic voice full of some hidden emotion. She almost laughed at the role reversal. "Those can take a lot out of you," he went on.
That made her react. She jerked her head up (rather slowly). "How do you know?"
He gave her a look that was heavily laden with irony. "I've had some experience with fear attacks myself," was all he said. "Have you had many in here?"
"A few," Diana admitted. "It's the closeness," she said. She didn't catch the relieved expression that crossed his face for a second. "I can't bear to be in closed spaces. It's probably because I've traveled all my life. This is the longest I've ever been in a building, and I can't get out, and we're under Paris itself, and-"
He placed a hand on her shoulder, calming her down. "Easy, child."
Wrong thing to say. Her eyes flashed at him, exhibiting some of her fire the first time since she collapsed. "Child?" she mimicked icily. "I am no child. I am twenty-two, you know. I'm practically an old maid, if you go by the gadjo standards. Besides, age means almost nothing. I was fourteen when I killed my first man." She left out the part that it was a drunken farmer. That sort of this doesn't impress.
A brief sparkle of humor lit his eye momentarily. "All right," he said, holding up his hands. "You say your father made these?" he said, changing the subject safely, examining the pipes in his hand. He held them up to the light, investigating the bindings and the cleanliness of the holes. "They are quite well-made."
She smiled shyly. "I'm sure my father would thank you. It's high praise coming from someone who plays them so well; I'm sure you know quite a bit about what you're doing."
He nodded. "I have studied hard."
She shook her head in response. "Yes, but you also have that rare skill that is hardly ever seen. A gift of music, if you will."
Erik shifted uncomfortably. "Perhaps."
Seeing that the conversation had taken a lull, Diana stood up shakily. "I think you're right," she said, placing one hand on the wall. "I think I do need rest."
"Allow me to help you to your bed," Erik said, placing a kind hand under her elbow. Together they made their way, weaving back and forth like a couple of drunks, into his old room. She felt his surprise at her changes to his room, but he said nothing and helped her into the hammock.
She glanced at him sleepily. "Will you make it back to your room?" she asked quietly.
He nodded. Comforted, she let her eyes slide shut and sleep claim her. But as he left, she could feel him pause at the doorway, standing there silently. Then he left, humming the song he had played on the pipes under his breath.
Ooooo…. Finally a new chapter!
~Ch 8~
Diana spent the rest of the day cleaning up the rooms, instead of working on the wall. When she cleaned up the other bedroom, she decided she like it. The décor was rather dark and off-putting, but since most of the furniture and decoration were broken, that was easily remedied. She took out the coffin and managed to split it up for braces for the wall. Then she hung the hammock between the posts that made the canopy. She did think it was kind of weird---Erik had made himself a coffin for a bed, but still had a draped canopy above it. It was a strange cross between normalcy and morbidity. But the torn silk from one of the wall hangings that made up the hammock looked rather cheery against the severe room.
When she was really bored, she cut up some more of the shredded decorations around the 'house' and made herself a window. But that didn't help her during the next panic attack.
She just finished taking the empty tray out of Erik's room, when she stumbled and had to put a hand against the wall to steady herself. Her eyes slid up to the fallen wall, with only a tiny hole in it that showed at least a week's worth of work. The thought hit her: she was never going to get out of this place. She was going to die, trapped under a building, alone, without ever seeing her family or the sky again. She would never feel the air in her hair, the grass under her feet….
The tray hit the ground with a crash that seemed to come from far away. Her breath came short. Never get out, never get out….her vision began to blur at the edges, and she sank to the ground suddenly, her legs too weak to hold her. This was a bad one---she hadn't had one like this for a while. Her arms wrapped around her body as she squeezed her eyes tight, but it seemed like she couldn't feel anything. Not her hands, nor the floor beneath her. Her breath hitched, coming quick and shallow, and everything seemed to get a lot closer, a lot tighter up against her body.
A feeling started tugging on the end of her senses. Another person, another arm around her….. She vaguely heard a voice, but her own thudding heartbeat stopped her from hearing it fully. Two arms around her now…. Were they her own? She felt something hard press against her side, and fighting through the fear she remembered her pipes, still in her skirt pocket. But they were pressing into her, squishing her, closing in on her, squeezing her against the walls that were coming closer… Suddenly they were moved, and she breathed a little easier. There was silence, then, the pure silence of death, and she could hear her own gasping breath in it as she clenched herself tighter. Then the sound started.
It began low, low and soft, almost hesitant, but soon it began to grow, louder and fuller, like a flower slowly unfurling. She barely recognized it as her pipes: the tones that were coaxed from them were sweet and miraculous. Not even her father's playing could have come close to the heavenly sounds that were coming from the pipes. The music was unfamiliar, but clean and crisp, sounding of hope and love and freedom. That's what it was, she thought, as she focused on just the music surrounding her. Freedom. The song soared into upper registers that required more skill than merely placing fingers over the holes and blowing, and Diana got a feeling of a bird, some nameless heavenly bird, cartwheeling and airborne on the wings of the wind and its song. The bird was free, singing its joy to the sky, singing the hope of the free wind and sky forever. She lay back and let the music wash over her. As the song wound down, the bird relaxed its song and found a perch on a branch, singing its knowledge of the sky. This is not the end, the bird sang. This is not the end.
Diana's eyes fluttered open as her breath resumed its normal breathing. She found herself leaning against the wall, weak as the proverbial kitten, right outside of Erik's door. Sitting only a few feet away from her was Erik himself, slowly lowering her pipes from his mouth. He watched her carefully, looking for signs of something she couldn't name.
"I've never heard anyone play like that," she said quietly. Her voice felt hoarse and scratchy to her ears. "Not even my father, who made those pipes."
"Are you feeling better?" he asked.
She nodded, looking down, suddenly feeling exposed. The tray had fallen and scattered across the floor, and she frowned at it. "I need to pick that up," she said, struggling to move. But she didn't want to crawl to the strewn silverware, so she was glad when he stopped her.
"You need rest," he said, his low melodic voice full of some hidden emotion. She almost laughed at the role reversal. "Those can take a lot out of you," he went on.
That made her react. She jerked her head up (rather slowly). "How do you know?"
He gave her a look that was heavily laden with irony. "I've had some experience with fear attacks myself," was all he said. "Have you had many in here?"
"A few," Diana admitted. "It's the closeness," she said. She didn't catch the relieved expression that crossed his face for a second. "I can't bear to be in closed spaces. It's probably because I've traveled all my life. This is the longest I've ever been in a building, and I can't get out, and we're under Paris itself, and-"
He placed a hand on her shoulder, calming her down. "Easy, child."
Wrong thing to say. Her eyes flashed at him, exhibiting some of her fire the first time since she collapsed. "Child?" she mimicked icily. "I am no child. I am twenty-two, you know. I'm practically an old maid, if you go by the gadjo standards. Besides, age means almost nothing. I was fourteen when I killed my first man." She left out the part that it was a drunken farmer. That sort of this doesn't impress.
A brief sparkle of humor lit his eye momentarily. "All right," he said, holding up his hands. "You say your father made these?" he said, changing the subject safely, examining the pipes in his hand. He held them up to the light, investigating the bindings and the cleanliness of the holes. "They are quite well-made."
She smiled shyly. "I'm sure my father would thank you. It's high praise coming from someone who plays them so well; I'm sure you know quite a bit about what you're doing."
He nodded. "I have studied hard."
She shook her head in response. "Yes, but you also have that rare skill that is hardly ever seen. A gift of music, if you will."
Erik shifted uncomfortably. "Perhaps."
Seeing that the conversation had taken a lull, Diana stood up shakily. "I think you're right," she said, placing one hand on the wall. "I think I do need rest."
"Allow me to help you to your bed," Erik said, placing a kind hand under her elbow. Together they made their way, weaving back and forth like a couple of drunks, into his old room. She felt his surprise at her changes to his room, but he said nothing and helped her into the hammock.
She glanced at him sleepily. "Will you make it back to your room?" she asked quietly.
He nodded. Comforted, she let her eyes slide shut and sleep claim her. But as he left, she could feel him pause at the doorway, standing there silently. Then he left, humming the song he had played on the pipes under his breath.
Ooooo…. Finally a new chapter!