ANGELS WE HAVE HEARD ON HIGH 3/?
Hey peeps, here's the third chapter in my pseudo-epic. First foray into the world outside one shots and uncharted territory, wot? Yeah, and me with my non-existent sense of direction. Damn. Have changed the names of the titles to things that actually fit well. Whoever can tell me the translation and the context first will get a Rider-fic or Them-fic of their choice (pairings included) ^_^
A/n: Same old, same old, feedback requested and bribes offered, no rotten tomatoes or veggies, cuz I can't eat them, the celestial beings are not mine, GNeil probably rolling in his...not-grave in hysterics over characterization and bad plot. So don't sue me cuz I'm a starving underage musicienne in the land of Oz.
~LUX AETERNA LUCEAT EIS DOMINE~
The light caught and broke into prisms of dazzling rainbows on the necklace that spread its tendrils over the white bosom of Lady Elenora di Nicostrato, sitting in the balcony. One hand rested on her fan of jewel-toned peacock feathers while the other fluttered like a vain butterfly, landing in well-calculated places; where to best show off a dark beauty mark on fair skin, to brush a saucy curl back into place, the dark hair so sleek and smooth against a slim finger.
The gallants in her booth, deterred only the slightest by the presence of Papa, were entranced and showed their infatuation with the witty remarks that dropped from their lips, extolling her loveliness and grace. Handsome Danilo with his dancing dark eyes shot looks sharp as Apollo's arrows at Fantone, lounging in the corner, wicked mouth curling at a corner, words smooth as dark chocolate and twice as intoxicating. Many times the words would turn barbed and grow little hooks like rose-bushes, the charm and intellect more engrossing because of the pointed wit. Both would sometimes turn on Bruno, who belonged to the Pace household, rich as a king, polite as a courtier, but dull and uninteresting with his labored recitations of his visits to his summer villa and his account books. It was great fun to prick the dullard, Danilo and Fantone both agreed, unspoken and watch him try to retaliate clumsily or have the subtle slices simply go unnoticed.
The balcony, high over the head of others, was reserved for the best and those with the fattest waistcoats. Elegant columns of white marble had vines trailing delicate leaves climbing over them in carefully pruned designs. Each little room was furnished for a king, silk curtains and velvet couches, maidservants and pages outside the chamber door. It was circulated amongst the gentlemen that certain rooms had certain pretty maids who would offer...other services, should proper incentive be given. Even less talked about, and thus more well known was that a few select rooms had youths who would offer the same, and were rumored to be even more skilled than the maids.
Underneath the balcony niches were the seats of those with enough money to come to hear the music, but without the clout of sufficient money or family to earn a private chamber. The benches lined the floor, shining softly in places where the scattered candlelight shone on polished wood. There had been a fire once in this building, and the owner had sold it, wishing it good luck and good riddance. The new owner, a shrewd man of many talents had seized upon the magnificent structure and built it into a palace for music and dance and acting.
The opera house was open.
The whispering and occasional flirtatious giggle wove in and out of the sounds of the rustling of clothing that filled the domed building. Fresca Ingloridi clutched her shawl closer to herself, moving closer to her son who was talking to his wife. The loud sounds of men shoving each other to get a better seat frightened her, as did the flames that flickered in the dripping white wax bowls.
A fire, her mind complained, one little touch by some lout and the seats, ah, the seats and the stage and the people would burn. She remembered the first fire quite well, the building dancing with the hot red-gold flames that seared the eyes and the sky with heat and ominous black roils of smoke. She coughed a bit, wondering why she had listened to her son and came here. A singer, he had said, music like God Himself. She sniffed quietly, a singer indeed-probably a little tart with a better figure than voice.
In a corner where the shadows met the polished wood floor and the stone walls had no tapestries of silks covering them, a young mother stood, cradling her little girl in her arms. It had taken a month's worth of savings to gain entrance, but as she looked down at that sweet little face, so thin but unfaltering in its faith and love for her, she knew it was worth every night, bending over the candlelight, needle flashing like a silver fish, her eyes burning with tears unshed. Her darling was dying, she knew, withering away as the pain ate her inside.
The doctors had told her, eyes fearful, already knowing, that her child had no hope. So she had asked the little girl what she could like to see. "To see Momma in a dress like the ones the grand ladies leave. Carla would like to see that..." The tears had burned their way to her eyes, as she had clasped the child to her breast and tried to hold onto that fading little light. As she stood in the corner one day listening to the ladies gossip over the cloth she had labored over, she had overheard the praises for the mysterious singer with a voice like nothing on earth. Her mother's heart had seized upon this, and her greatest wish was to give her child the finest before the beautiful blue eyes faded away.
From their vantage point they could see and giggle softly at the shiny bald plate of the man in the front row, rotund and sweating in his opulent, poorly chosen red velvet. No doubt Merchant Ulrico thought himself as debonair and rich, but his ungainly weight, crushed by the masses of those in summer silks looked like a sickly turkey in a group of delicate songbirds. Perhaps, and at this he leered internally, he could catch a pretty singer to "sing" at his house in the middle of town. Those with old money and Houses of repute, bloodlines shaped by the hierarchy within the city and the breeding that came with the names, looked upon those like Ulrico as the "new rich;" pampered peasants little better than their cousins in the fields.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The light within the opera house dimmed as candles on the far sides of the building were put out by manservants in dark livery, candle-snuffers long and silvery in the impeding darkness. The many oil lamps on the stage provided a bright golden light for those on stage-an altar that the audience below worshipped with their wide eyes and held breaths.
The orchestra began to play softly as the first singer glided across the stage, her dark-kohled eyes and long purple robes proclaiming her an exotic storyteller. The tiny silver stars and moons sewn on the violet silks glimmered like secretive eyes as she opened the tale with a question.
"What is love?" She sang, notes dipping and gliding like magnificent birds. Throwing out her arms, a question to be answered by a wise man or a fool, thin bangles sounding their bell-like chords. She turned to the audience beneath her, then to the balconies, then to a face or force unseen in the background, eyes unfocusing to dreamy dark pools.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The girl walked slowly onto stage, emerald eyes with the soft luster of a maiden in love. A soft breeze blew through the building, rippling the ribbons in her hair and the folds of soft cloth that drifted gently behind her. Her sweet high voice hummed a simple melody that wafted to the silent audience.
A young man entered from the opposite side of the stage, pausing as he saw the lovely maiden in her reverie. The slight smile on his face was that of a man seeing the dream on which he based his life upon come to existence, singing gently the song of youthful spring. In a quiet, strong tenor he joined in her gentle melody, weaving his richer, deeper strands within her notes.
The tale was simple: that of a maiden and her lover, separated by fate and families. The bass roar of her father, eyes flashing and black beard bristling like an angered king, and the throbbing contralto of her mother spoke of tradition against her willful love. They beseeched her to reconsider, begged her to offer her hand to the one to whom she was betrothed to, and then ordered her to leave the one she had bound herself to.
The maiden wept as she took leave of her anguished lover, who clasped her hand and then tried to embrace her shaking form. Her lowered head and feeble attempts to struggle spoke louder than words. Letting her go, like lifting his heart out from his bared chest, the man turned away. "So you shall give yourself," he sang, broken-hearted. With a swirl of his short cape he left, head bowed in defeat. The maiden crumpled to her knees, crying out her everlasting sorrow.
The wedding was alive with the sound of bells and drums, black-tressed girls dancing in time to the beat, painted lips and sparkling eyes shining from thin gossamer veils of blue and saffron. The groom was tall and handsome, clad in the rich purple that signified his rank, waiting eagerly for a glimpse of his lovely bride. The drums and the music started to crescendo, becoming more frantic and welcoming. The bride's carriage opened to reveal a sad figure in white, the shimmering silk and lustrous pearls paling in comparison to her walnut-dark hair, yet unable to hide the sorrow that emanated from her veiled face.
The groom seemed taken aback, yet welcomed her in a baritone voice that reveled in its dark, rich notes. Her sweet melody, which had shifted in key to a melancholy minor reassured him. The music continued in its climb, and dancers started their dances.
Dances swirled, peacock dances, harvest dances, dances of a thousand fans...yet the most spectacular was the last dance, one of a masked and veiled man, covered in silken cloaks that swirled around his swordplay, flashes of dark amethyst and sapphire cloth around a silken dangerous silver blade. The candlelight shone on the wickedly sharp steel, reflecting its slashes and beaming off of a spin that turned the single blade into a bright disk of singing silver.
The blade caught on a fold of the outermost cloak and sent the material floating away. One by one the coverings were thrown off, piles of silken fabric like languid lakes of gems, until only one remained, black as night with sparkling gems sewn on as violent stars. The blade had never stopped its perilous journey, twisting and dancing into shapes each more convoluted and complex than the last, striking the air with such speed that the very air thrummed and hissed like a living thing.
When the sword spun the last cloak into the air, a piece of night sky, no one heard the bride's pained gasp over the cheers of the other dancers. Her lover stood panting, in tight black pants and bare-chested, slim silver steel still held in one white-knuckled hand. His eyes were the blue of despair and there was no life in his voice as he sang his song of triumph and pride in his art.
With a soft scream that pulsed through the audience the bride stood in all her white. Tearing the veil from her face she turned so that all could see her pale face that bespoke pain and sorrow, her huge eyes dominating like bruises, the crystalline tears trailing down her cheeks. Transfixed in their places, the wedding guest did not stir as she sang her song. At the climax, when her lover had fallen upon his knees and held his head in his hands she produced a bottle, sleek, with its sleek dark lines proclaiming death.
None dared stop her as she tilted her head and tipped the contents into her mouth, singing that she shall "stay my love's wife in spirit until the sea itself shall burn." None dared moved, one and all frozen like marble statues as she sank slowly down in a graceful sigh of virgin white. And none stopped the youth as he broke the spell and crawled to her dying body.
He held his love in his arms, kissed her forehead and face with desperate passion, as if his vitality could keep her alive. Live, he seemed to scream with the haunted look of a knowing man, live, and prove these eyes of me wrong, revive this lump of dead flesh throbbing in my chest. Live, I beg of you. The girl smiled, pale lips opening as in supplication, and whispered a note of love so sweet that the man, cradling her in his arms wept like a child.
When her head fell back and her small hand grew limp in his, the youth rose to his feet, old within moments, still cradling the body of his love. Like the old men of a million races his back was bent and his eyes had become ancient as the skies.
"Forever I shall sing!" He screamed to the skies, not a song but a sacred hymn of death.
From the scabbard on his waist he drew his sword again, and the audience drew in their breath with the horror of what he was about to do. The blade shimmered silver in the light, edge as sharp and thin as spite and malice before it disappeared within his body. Like the sand slipping slowly down an hourglass he sank to his knees, holding tenderly the one he loved beyond life, beyond death. They lay intertwined, hand in hand as the lights around them went dark.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He stood, face in profile, nose and lips kissed by the dim light of oil lamps far to his left, long lashes catching the amber light and reflecting it. Eyes, closed as if awaiting an unheard, unseen sign; fringes sweeping curved cheeks. Light and dark brought out the planes of his face, the smooth unbroken surface of brow and cheek, the delicate eye, the mouth, slightly open.
He stood with his body facing the audience, sloped shoulders worthy of the loveliest maiden or stag, disappearing into sleeves like clouds, lace breaking in waves over small hands, ivory carved with their smooth backs, delicate fingers tapering from rounded palms. His hands gave the lie to his remaining masculinity; they were the hands of a girl, some rounded, curvaceous Juno (1) with her silken couch and amethyst tinted grapes. They should not be clutching the shoulders, fluted collarbones like a swallow's flight displayed by the frame of ivory-clad arms in some horrifyingly beautiful statuesque pose of pain. The dim light sharpening the image of Orpheus in his frenzy (2), Apollo as his Hyacinth fell (3), never softening this tableau that was consecrated, made holy through its agony.
Golden hair was burnished, left free in this wild scene, some unseen breeze letting wisps fly, a halo that swept a neck bared like a sacrifice, a chiaroscuro masterpiece of hollows and white hills. Tendrils dancing across folds of silk white as virgin snow, slim hips clad in wine-dark velvet. He was magnificent. And when he opened his mouth to sing, the lamps flared in a burst of fiery light so bright it dazzled the mind and blinded the eye. It was so perfectly timed, to the second when the first note burst out that to those watching, it was as if he had sung the flames to life, he had willed the sun to come out into the shadows with the power of his voice.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Perhaps, thought the dark shadow lounging in the shadows, he did. Or maybe, he was the sun itself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With his golden hair the shade of molten Earth-blood, copper underlying the molten gold, he was no pale rose. He was the flame that consumed Orpheus when Eurydice disappeared under the frozen ground blazing pain incarnate. He was Apollo in his golden grief, shining with his agony, ten-fold strong. He was the Earth herself, weeping tears of molten gold and fire when her sons were cast down. He was the light that prevailed in times of sorrow and horror, living against the darkness of death and banishment, standing against the dark bowels of cold iron and brittle shallow stone.
But it was his eyes, the magnificent mystery of his eyes that held the audience in his thrall like a chain forged of love or blood. Even covered, for in their original glory, wrought with passion and pain and indescribable music they would have drowned one in one blaze of perfection, they beckoned. Beyond that stark black, eyelids woven with pale blue veins flickered in flashes of blue.
And when he sang, the ghosts of tears could be seen on his cheeks. Music, it was true, was the bridge from this plain dark earth to both Heaven and Hell. The notes soared higher than they should have, beams of sunlight lancing the muted gray silence. They touched the darkest corners of the theater, dust gathering in forgotten mosaics of faded stone and glaze. The old man who swept the streets paused outside to listen.
The tears on his grizzled cheeks were real as the cobblestones beneath his feet. His rags and tattered broom a parody of the Baroness of Bianco Chigno(4), bosom covered with forest-hued gossamer fabric, bedecked with pearls, opera glasses tiny and exquisite with detail. There were tears on her cheeks, no more crystalline than the street sweeper's, despite the powder and grime that covered respective cheeks.
Such was Assiraphio's legacy. Every night that he sung, the music once again brought men and women to their knees before God and his messenger. They were, one and all, the speechless shepherd, terror and veneration warring in their hearts as an angel came to tell them of the birth of the Son of God. Earthly riches and pride were cast away. What mattered was the purity of heart, and that was revealed in a voice that scoured men's hearts and let them see the glory that was to come.
The performance two nights past was a tabernacle of gold, of love so deep and sweet that it was rumored that roses grew out of the sides of the opera house the next morning, where barren stone used to stand. The market women whispered that they were unearthly in their beauty, so white as if glowing, so sweet that their perfume intoxicated the wanderer who chanced to smell them. No one dared to pick them, not even the poor lovers who picked through the wilted bouquets of the rich in the hopes of finding a still-blooming plant. It would have seemed like sacrilege.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Long fingers sheathed in snow white linen caressed the slender stem. Corners of a sensual mouth lifted in a secret smile as the owner nibbled on a petal silken as a cloud. Sacrilege indeed. It mused on the finer points of philosophy. /Fools go where angels fear to tread/ And what about the realms that a fool feared to tread, even a fool greater than any in the mind-robbing, sense-stealing haze of love? Laughter danced in eyes hidden by a dark hood. The answer lay in the combination of the two riddles, and the desecration of a virgin rose.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But the philosophers held no candle to the beauty that shook the house tonight. Tonight was an altar of sorrow that sobbed a nightingale's tears. No less beautiful because of its pain, it spoke of love lost, regained, and lost again through folly, more painful with the glimpse of possible light.
They had long given up trying to find a partner for their brightest star, and so tonight was a soliloquy built on a single man's grief, relieved by no friend. Anguish had condensed to fill this single slight figure with its hair of earth-gold and ancient eyes, Agony was his name and Love was his bane and he shone with the purity of his pain.
The last note stretched on, echoing through the reverberations of each heart.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Carla smiled a tear-streaked smile sweet as the rosy dawn. "Momma, my dearest Momma..." she whispered, eyes just as blue, just as intense as Assiraphio's brimming eyes behind the cloth. Her mother bit her lip as her darling wound arms fragile as a bird's wing around her neck.
"I have seen the glory, Momma, and I am glad. An angel, Momma, an angel of God just sang. Carla is sad to be leaving Momma, but the music..." a sigh that whispered of a visitor's dazzled eyes of the Gates of Heaven. And the realization that this, truly, this was home.
"Carla loves Momma, forever and ever and ever."
And the smile, oh, the smile...the smile was worth a thousand slow deaths, the young mother bit her lip to keep from crying out. Her darling's vagabond father who stole away one night, the illness that stuck like a famine to the young body, sucking the vitality and spark of youth-all sorrows were wiped away in the brilliance of that one final smile.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was silence before the applause shook the building. That second, or seconds when understanding transcended bourgeoisie acceptance. It was true sorrow that man had long since purged the blood of angels from their veins, or some would have seen the moment for what it was. They would have written about it, fought battles for it, and gone home to the dank darkness that smelled of plain living, and reached for a decanter and a blade. Yet the age of madmen, lunatics and prophets was past, and all remained was honest admiration coarse in its commonness as the figure that moments before stood on stage with all of his glory given to him by God, disappeared, silent as a shadow, to the back of the stage.
A similar figure, perhaps a little darker, a little taller, slinked off as the first wave of sweetly nauseating bouquets flooded the stage. Only the ripple of a burgundy curtain marked the passage of air.
No one saw a dark figure leap to the open window on the third floor of the plaza. The old street sweeper claimed he saw Sin itself fly on muted wings into a room of light. They dismissed his ramblings as that of a man befuddled with age and hard living; knowing in their minds that no man living could have accomplished such a feat.
They were right-
-Angeamor selected a chair, and waited for light. His hands were covered, as was his face. In one hand he held a rose, burgundy dark, a single white petal defiled with the imprints of sharp teeth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(1) Juno was the wife of Jupiter, queen of the Roman gods, presiding over the home, gentler version of the Greek Hera, still renown for her white arms.
(2) Orpheus, the harper, son of one of the Nine Muses, in the Greek legend Orpheus and Eurydice. Went down to Hades to bargain with the God of Death for his dead wife. Failed to follow directions, and looked at his wife the moment before she stepped into the sunlight and would have been alive again. She went down to Hades to stay, he went mad (some say) and died later, torn to pieces by followers of Dionysus, who were angered by his melancholy.
(3) Hyacinth, one of Apollo's many lovers was a very beautiful youth (all the Greek gods were bi-sexual, really). He was killed when they were discus-throwing, cuz the North Wind, also a bi-sexual god, was jealous of Apollo, but couldn't hurt him. Relationship dynamics in bi-sexual Greek mythology=fascinating.
(4) Bianco Chigno=White Swan. If anyone speaks Italian, could they tell me if the adjective goes in front of the noun (I took the name from Il bianco e dolce cigno or like French, in which the majority of adjectives go after? More language mutilation on my part.
***************************
Good? Bad? Suspense? Don't worry, the going-at-it-like-weasels will come! A bit of feedback and/or encouragement might help it...*blatant signwaving* /R&R requested!!!/
Hey peeps, here's the third chapter in my pseudo-epic. First foray into the world outside one shots and uncharted territory, wot? Yeah, and me with my non-existent sense of direction. Damn. Have changed the names of the titles to things that actually fit well. Whoever can tell me the translation and the context first will get a Rider-fic or Them-fic of their choice (pairings included) ^_^
A/n: Same old, same old, feedback requested and bribes offered, no rotten tomatoes or veggies, cuz I can't eat them, the celestial beings are not mine, GNeil probably rolling in his...not-grave in hysterics over characterization and bad plot. So don't sue me cuz I'm a starving underage musicienne in the land of Oz.
~LUX AETERNA LUCEAT EIS DOMINE~
The light caught and broke into prisms of dazzling rainbows on the necklace that spread its tendrils over the white bosom of Lady Elenora di Nicostrato, sitting in the balcony. One hand rested on her fan of jewel-toned peacock feathers while the other fluttered like a vain butterfly, landing in well-calculated places; where to best show off a dark beauty mark on fair skin, to brush a saucy curl back into place, the dark hair so sleek and smooth against a slim finger.
The gallants in her booth, deterred only the slightest by the presence of Papa, were entranced and showed their infatuation with the witty remarks that dropped from their lips, extolling her loveliness and grace. Handsome Danilo with his dancing dark eyes shot looks sharp as Apollo's arrows at Fantone, lounging in the corner, wicked mouth curling at a corner, words smooth as dark chocolate and twice as intoxicating. Many times the words would turn barbed and grow little hooks like rose-bushes, the charm and intellect more engrossing because of the pointed wit. Both would sometimes turn on Bruno, who belonged to the Pace household, rich as a king, polite as a courtier, but dull and uninteresting with his labored recitations of his visits to his summer villa and his account books. It was great fun to prick the dullard, Danilo and Fantone both agreed, unspoken and watch him try to retaliate clumsily or have the subtle slices simply go unnoticed.
The balcony, high over the head of others, was reserved for the best and those with the fattest waistcoats. Elegant columns of white marble had vines trailing delicate leaves climbing over them in carefully pruned designs. Each little room was furnished for a king, silk curtains and velvet couches, maidservants and pages outside the chamber door. It was circulated amongst the gentlemen that certain rooms had certain pretty maids who would offer...other services, should proper incentive be given. Even less talked about, and thus more well known was that a few select rooms had youths who would offer the same, and were rumored to be even more skilled than the maids.
Underneath the balcony niches were the seats of those with enough money to come to hear the music, but without the clout of sufficient money or family to earn a private chamber. The benches lined the floor, shining softly in places where the scattered candlelight shone on polished wood. There had been a fire once in this building, and the owner had sold it, wishing it good luck and good riddance. The new owner, a shrewd man of many talents had seized upon the magnificent structure and built it into a palace for music and dance and acting.
The opera house was open.
The whispering and occasional flirtatious giggle wove in and out of the sounds of the rustling of clothing that filled the domed building. Fresca Ingloridi clutched her shawl closer to herself, moving closer to her son who was talking to his wife. The loud sounds of men shoving each other to get a better seat frightened her, as did the flames that flickered in the dripping white wax bowls.
A fire, her mind complained, one little touch by some lout and the seats, ah, the seats and the stage and the people would burn. She remembered the first fire quite well, the building dancing with the hot red-gold flames that seared the eyes and the sky with heat and ominous black roils of smoke. She coughed a bit, wondering why she had listened to her son and came here. A singer, he had said, music like God Himself. She sniffed quietly, a singer indeed-probably a little tart with a better figure than voice.
In a corner where the shadows met the polished wood floor and the stone walls had no tapestries of silks covering them, a young mother stood, cradling her little girl in her arms. It had taken a month's worth of savings to gain entrance, but as she looked down at that sweet little face, so thin but unfaltering in its faith and love for her, she knew it was worth every night, bending over the candlelight, needle flashing like a silver fish, her eyes burning with tears unshed. Her darling was dying, she knew, withering away as the pain ate her inside.
The doctors had told her, eyes fearful, already knowing, that her child had no hope. So she had asked the little girl what she could like to see. "To see Momma in a dress like the ones the grand ladies leave. Carla would like to see that..." The tears had burned their way to her eyes, as she had clasped the child to her breast and tried to hold onto that fading little light. As she stood in the corner one day listening to the ladies gossip over the cloth she had labored over, she had overheard the praises for the mysterious singer with a voice like nothing on earth. Her mother's heart had seized upon this, and her greatest wish was to give her child the finest before the beautiful blue eyes faded away.
From their vantage point they could see and giggle softly at the shiny bald plate of the man in the front row, rotund and sweating in his opulent, poorly chosen red velvet. No doubt Merchant Ulrico thought himself as debonair and rich, but his ungainly weight, crushed by the masses of those in summer silks looked like a sickly turkey in a group of delicate songbirds. Perhaps, and at this he leered internally, he could catch a pretty singer to "sing" at his house in the middle of town. Those with old money and Houses of repute, bloodlines shaped by the hierarchy within the city and the breeding that came with the names, looked upon those like Ulrico as the "new rich;" pampered peasants little better than their cousins in the fields.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The light within the opera house dimmed as candles on the far sides of the building were put out by manservants in dark livery, candle-snuffers long and silvery in the impeding darkness. The many oil lamps on the stage provided a bright golden light for those on stage-an altar that the audience below worshipped with their wide eyes and held breaths.
The orchestra began to play softly as the first singer glided across the stage, her dark-kohled eyes and long purple robes proclaiming her an exotic storyteller. The tiny silver stars and moons sewn on the violet silks glimmered like secretive eyes as she opened the tale with a question.
"What is love?" She sang, notes dipping and gliding like magnificent birds. Throwing out her arms, a question to be answered by a wise man or a fool, thin bangles sounding their bell-like chords. She turned to the audience beneath her, then to the balconies, then to a face or force unseen in the background, eyes unfocusing to dreamy dark pools.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The girl walked slowly onto stage, emerald eyes with the soft luster of a maiden in love. A soft breeze blew through the building, rippling the ribbons in her hair and the folds of soft cloth that drifted gently behind her. Her sweet high voice hummed a simple melody that wafted to the silent audience.
A young man entered from the opposite side of the stage, pausing as he saw the lovely maiden in her reverie. The slight smile on his face was that of a man seeing the dream on which he based his life upon come to existence, singing gently the song of youthful spring. In a quiet, strong tenor he joined in her gentle melody, weaving his richer, deeper strands within her notes.
The tale was simple: that of a maiden and her lover, separated by fate and families. The bass roar of her father, eyes flashing and black beard bristling like an angered king, and the throbbing contralto of her mother spoke of tradition against her willful love. They beseeched her to reconsider, begged her to offer her hand to the one to whom she was betrothed to, and then ordered her to leave the one she had bound herself to.
The maiden wept as she took leave of her anguished lover, who clasped her hand and then tried to embrace her shaking form. Her lowered head and feeble attempts to struggle spoke louder than words. Letting her go, like lifting his heart out from his bared chest, the man turned away. "So you shall give yourself," he sang, broken-hearted. With a swirl of his short cape he left, head bowed in defeat. The maiden crumpled to her knees, crying out her everlasting sorrow.
The wedding was alive with the sound of bells and drums, black-tressed girls dancing in time to the beat, painted lips and sparkling eyes shining from thin gossamer veils of blue and saffron. The groom was tall and handsome, clad in the rich purple that signified his rank, waiting eagerly for a glimpse of his lovely bride. The drums and the music started to crescendo, becoming more frantic and welcoming. The bride's carriage opened to reveal a sad figure in white, the shimmering silk and lustrous pearls paling in comparison to her walnut-dark hair, yet unable to hide the sorrow that emanated from her veiled face.
The groom seemed taken aback, yet welcomed her in a baritone voice that reveled in its dark, rich notes. Her sweet melody, which had shifted in key to a melancholy minor reassured him. The music continued in its climb, and dancers started their dances.
Dances swirled, peacock dances, harvest dances, dances of a thousand fans...yet the most spectacular was the last dance, one of a masked and veiled man, covered in silken cloaks that swirled around his swordplay, flashes of dark amethyst and sapphire cloth around a silken dangerous silver blade. The candlelight shone on the wickedly sharp steel, reflecting its slashes and beaming off of a spin that turned the single blade into a bright disk of singing silver.
The blade caught on a fold of the outermost cloak and sent the material floating away. One by one the coverings were thrown off, piles of silken fabric like languid lakes of gems, until only one remained, black as night with sparkling gems sewn on as violent stars. The blade had never stopped its perilous journey, twisting and dancing into shapes each more convoluted and complex than the last, striking the air with such speed that the very air thrummed and hissed like a living thing.
When the sword spun the last cloak into the air, a piece of night sky, no one heard the bride's pained gasp over the cheers of the other dancers. Her lover stood panting, in tight black pants and bare-chested, slim silver steel still held in one white-knuckled hand. His eyes were the blue of despair and there was no life in his voice as he sang his song of triumph and pride in his art.
With a soft scream that pulsed through the audience the bride stood in all her white. Tearing the veil from her face she turned so that all could see her pale face that bespoke pain and sorrow, her huge eyes dominating like bruises, the crystalline tears trailing down her cheeks. Transfixed in their places, the wedding guest did not stir as she sang her song. At the climax, when her lover had fallen upon his knees and held his head in his hands she produced a bottle, sleek, with its sleek dark lines proclaiming death.
None dared stop her as she tilted her head and tipped the contents into her mouth, singing that she shall "stay my love's wife in spirit until the sea itself shall burn." None dared moved, one and all frozen like marble statues as she sank slowly down in a graceful sigh of virgin white. And none stopped the youth as he broke the spell and crawled to her dying body.
He held his love in his arms, kissed her forehead and face with desperate passion, as if his vitality could keep her alive. Live, he seemed to scream with the haunted look of a knowing man, live, and prove these eyes of me wrong, revive this lump of dead flesh throbbing in my chest. Live, I beg of you. The girl smiled, pale lips opening as in supplication, and whispered a note of love so sweet that the man, cradling her in his arms wept like a child.
When her head fell back and her small hand grew limp in his, the youth rose to his feet, old within moments, still cradling the body of his love. Like the old men of a million races his back was bent and his eyes had become ancient as the skies.
"Forever I shall sing!" He screamed to the skies, not a song but a sacred hymn of death.
From the scabbard on his waist he drew his sword again, and the audience drew in their breath with the horror of what he was about to do. The blade shimmered silver in the light, edge as sharp and thin as spite and malice before it disappeared within his body. Like the sand slipping slowly down an hourglass he sank to his knees, holding tenderly the one he loved beyond life, beyond death. They lay intertwined, hand in hand as the lights around them went dark.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He stood, face in profile, nose and lips kissed by the dim light of oil lamps far to his left, long lashes catching the amber light and reflecting it. Eyes, closed as if awaiting an unheard, unseen sign; fringes sweeping curved cheeks. Light and dark brought out the planes of his face, the smooth unbroken surface of brow and cheek, the delicate eye, the mouth, slightly open.
He stood with his body facing the audience, sloped shoulders worthy of the loveliest maiden or stag, disappearing into sleeves like clouds, lace breaking in waves over small hands, ivory carved with their smooth backs, delicate fingers tapering from rounded palms. His hands gave the lie to his remaining masculinity; they were the hands of a girl, some rounded, curvaceous Juno (1) with her silken couch and amethyst tinted grapes. They should not be clutching the shoulders, fluted collarbones like a swallow's flight displayed by the frame of ivory-clad arms in some horrifyingly beautiful statuesque pose of pain. The dim light sharpening the image of Orpheus in his frenzy (2), Apollo as his Hyacinth fell (3), never softening this tableau that was consecrated, made holy through its agony.
Golden hair was burnished, left free in this wild scene, some unseen breeze letting wisps fly, a halo that swept a neck bared like a sacrifice, a chiaroscuro masterpiece of hollows and white hills. Tendrils dancing across folds of silk white as virgin snow, slim hips clad in wine-dark velvet. He was magnificent. And when he opened his mouth to sing, the lamps flared in a burst of fiery light so bright it dazzled the mind and blinded the eye. It was so perfectly timed, to the second when the first note burst out that to those watching, it was as if he had sung the flames to life, he had willed the sun to come out into the shadows with the power of his voice.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Perhaps, thought the dark shadow lounging in the shadows, he did. Or maybe, he was the sun itself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With his golden hair the shade of molten Earth-blood, copper underlying the molten gold, he was no pale rose. He was the flame that consumed Orpheus when Eurydice disappeared under the frozen ground blazing pain incarnate. He was Apollo in his golden grief, shining with his agony, ten-fold strong. He was the Earth herself, weeping tears of molten gold and fire when her sons were cast down. He was the light that prevailed in times of sorrow and horror, living against the darkness of death and banishment, standing against the dark bowels of cold iron and brittle shallow stone.
But it was his eyes, the magnificent mystery of his eyes that held the audience in his thrall like a chain forged of love or blood. Even covered, for in their original glory, wrought with passion and pain and indescribable music they would have drowned one in one blaze of perfection, they beckoned. Beyond that stark black, eyelids woven with pale blue veins flickered in flashes of blue.
And when he sang, the ghosts of tears could be seen on his cheeks. Music, it was true, was the bridge from this plain dark earth to both Heaven and Hell. The notes soared higher than they should have, beams of sunlight lancing the muted gray silence. They touched the darkest corners of the theater, dust gathering in forgotten mosaics of faded stone and glaze. The old man who swept the streets paused outside to listen.
The tears on his grizzled cheeks were real as the cobblestones beneath his feet. His rags and tattered broom a parody of the Baroness of Bianco Chigno(4), bosom covered with forest-hued gossamer fabric, bedecked with pearls, opera glasses tiny and exquisite with detail. There were tears on her cheeks, no more crystalline than the street sweeper's, despite the powder and grime that covered respective cheeks.
Such was Assiraphio's legacy. Every night that he sung, the music once again brought men and women to their knees before God and his messenger. They were, one and all, the speechless shepherd, terror and veneration warring in their hearts as an angel came to tell them of the birth of the Son of God. Earthly riches and pride were cast away. What mattered was the purity of heart, and that was revealed in a voice that scoured men's hearts and let them see the glory that was to come.
The performance two nights past was a tabernacle of gold, of love so deep and sweet that it was rumored that roses grew out of the sides of the opera house the next morning, where barren stone used to stand. The market women whispered that they were unearthly in their beauty, so white as if glowing, so sweet that their perfume intoxicated the wanderer who chanced to smell them. No one dared to pick them, not even the poor lovers who picked through the wilted bouquets of the rich in the hopes of finding a still-blooming plant. It would have seemed like sacrilege.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Long fingers sheathed in snow white linen caressed the slender stem. Corners of a sensual mouth lifted in a secret smile as the owner nibbled on a petal silken as a cloud. Sacrilege indeed. It mused on the finer points of philosophy. /Fools go where angels fear to tread/ And what about the realms that a fool feared to tread, even a fool greater than any in the mind-robbing, sense-stealing haze of love? Laughter danced in eyes hidden by a dark hood. The answer lay in the combination of the two riddles, and the desecration of a virgin rose.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But the philosophers held no candle to the beauty that shook the house tonight. Tonight was an altar of sorrow that sobbed a nightingale's tears. No less beautiful because of its pain, it spoke of love lost, regained, and lost again through folly, more painful with the glimpse of possible light.
They had long given up trying to find a partner for their brightest star, and so tonight was a soliloquy built on a single man's grief, relieved by no friend. Anguish had condensed to fill this single slight figure with its hair of earth-gold and ancient eyes, Agony was his name and Love was his bane and he shone with the purity of his pain.
The last note stretched on, echoing through the reverberations of each heart.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Carla smiled a tear-streaked smile sweet as the rosy dawn. "Momma, my dearest Momma..." she whispered, eyes just as blue, just as intense as Assiraphio's brimming eyes behind the cloth. Her mother bit her lip as her darling wound arms fragile as a bird's wing around her neck.
"I have seen the glory, Momma, and I am glad. An angel, Momma, an angel of God just sang. Carla is sad to be leaving Momma, but the music..." a sigh that whispered of a visitor's dazzled eyes of the Gates of Heaven. And the realization that this, truly, this was home.
"Carla loves Momma, forever and ever and ever."
And the smile, oh, the smile...the smile was worth a thousand slow deaths, the young mother bit her lip to keep from crying out. Her darling's vagabond father who stole away one night, the illness that stuck like a famine to the young body, sucking the vitality and spark of youth-all sorrows were wiped away in the brilliance of that one final smile.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was silence before the applause shook the building. That second, or seconds when understanding transcended bourgeoisie acceptance. It was true sorrow that man had long since purged the blood of angels from their veins, or some would have seen the moment for what it was. They would have written about it, fought battles for it, and gone home to the dank darkness that smelled of plain living, and reached for a decanter and a blade. Yet the age of madmen, lunatics and prophets was past, and all remained was honest admiration coarse in its commonness as the figure that moments before stood on stage with all of his glory given to him by God, disappeared, silent as a shadow, to the back of the stage.
A similar figure, perhaps a little darker, a little taller, slinked off as the first wave of sweetly nauseating bouquets flooded the stage. Only the ripple of a burgundy curtain marked the passage of air.
No one saw a dark figure leap to the open window on the third floor of the plaza. The old street sweeper claimed he saw Sin itself fly on muted wings into a room of light. They dismissed his ramblings as that of a man befuddled with age and hard living; knowing in their minds that no man living could have accomplished such a feat.
They were right-
-Angeamor selected a chair, and waited for light. His hands were covered, as was his face. In one hand he held a rose, burgundy dark, a single white petal defiled with the imprints of sharp teeth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(1) Juno was the wife of Jupiter, queen of the Roman gods, presiding over the home, gentler version of the Greek Hera, still renown for her white arms.
(2) Orpheus, the harper, son of one of the Nine Muses, in the Greek legend Orpheus and Eurydice. Went down to Hades to bargain with the God of Death for his dead wife. Failed to follow directions, and looked at his wife the moment before she stepped into the sunlight and would have been alive again. She went down to Hades to stay, he went mad (some say) and died later, torn to pieces by followers of Dionysus, who were angered by his melancholy.
(3) Hyacinth, one of Apollo's many lovers was a very beautiful youth (all the Greek gods were bi-sexual, really). He was killed when they were discus-throwing, cuz the North Wind, also a bi-sexual god, was jealous of Apollo, but couldn't hurt him. Relationship dynamics in bi-sexual Greek mythology=fascinating.
(4) Bianco Chigno=White Swan. If anyone speaks Italian, could they tell me if the adjective goes in front of the noun (I took the name from Il bianco e dolce cigno or like French, in which the majority of adjectives go after? More language mutilation on my part.
***************************
Good? Bad? Suspense? Don't worry, the going-at-it-like-weasels will come! A bit of feedback and/or encouragement might help it...*blatant signwaving* /R&R requested!!!/
