A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed. I love Camille Saint-Saëns! I also love the violin. I just wish I could play it... Oh, poo. The title of this story is dedicated to Saint-Saëns, and his composition of the same name. Oh, and I'm sorry if you think I'm uploading this way too slowly. I have like a zillion and one paintings, commission and school wise, to do and they're completely eating my time. Gomen nasai!
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Chapter 2: Adagio
Adagio Music A slow passage, movement, or work, especially one using adagio as the direction
After the rather... unpleasant gondola ride, Eriol and the rest were delivered to one of the more lavish parts of the city. The houses were arranged in a circular fashion, large single and two-storey buildings rising from elaborately crafted gates. A little way off, kids were playing a jumping game, with chalk used as guidelines. If Eriol had to describe the scene with one word, he would have called it "antique". The quiet tranquillity of the place was a refreshing start for him, since he grew up in the heart of London, the metropolis of their era.
Nakuru led them to a vanilla-coloured bungalow with black iron gates. There was a red brick walkway twisting along the fashionably groomed garden that led to the door.
"Nice place you chose to settle in," Eriol commented, glancing at the spilling olive tree near the steps.
"I just couldn't resist the pull of this place," Nakuru replied. "The local gentlemen are also a nice bonus."
"Aa. That explains everything," Syaoran murmured to himself, though the sentiment did not go unnoticed by Eriol. The young lord grinned lopsidedly and chose a patch of very colourful chrysanthemums to look at.
It was true. Practically the only thing on this aunt's mind was the gentlemen and plots of luring them into marriage. She had sent him many letters describing this young man or another, asking what he thought of them. It was rather comical.
Before the trio could reach the front steps, a portly butler was opening the wide doors, greeting them coolly.
"Why, thank you Suppi!" Nakuru smiled amiably, if not slightly deviously, at the servant and moved deeper into the mansion.
Spinel, as he was actually called, cringed visibly but nodded his welcome nonetheless.
Eriol smirked almost furtively and greeted the butler in a friendly manner. "She still has you hooked around her little finger, doesn't she?"
The older man became visibly dourer. With a tired sigh, he nodded and forced on a smile. "I'm afraid so, sir."
"Amazing!" Exclaimed Syaoran in mock astonishment. "How do you cope?"
Before the elderly butler could get out a word edgewise, a shout from down the hall interrupted him: "He doesn't have a choice!"
Eriol laughed lightly while Syaoran snorted, following Nakuru's lead. When they were alone, he patted Spinel on the back and scrunched his face in mock condolence. "I feel for you. Truly, your pain is not unknown to me."
The young lord disappeared after Nakuru before Spinel could reply, only hearing a harried huff from the servant. Eriol allowed himself a small smile, not really caring who might see it. He still remembered the times when he was a boy. Nakuru would visit him during the summer and winter. She would drag him and Spinel everywhere, to the lake where they used to go fishing and up a large sycamore tree on his estate. And then Syaoran would join in, too. Poor Spinel, who had preferred to stay put and quietly read a book, was forced to build make-belief forts with them and play the "surrendering soldier". The battered, pitiful, little Spinel would then be bombarded with various treats; he had a small – err – problem with sweets. At one time, Nakuru had stuffed a souffle down his throat (quite literally, she was a rowdy sort), despite his vain protests. To this day, Spinel could never look at a candy without wincing and shuffling hurriedly away on his little feet.
Eriol was surprised that Spinel did not run away as soon as the opportunity was granted. Though Nakuru had never said anything to him, the lord suspected that both mistress and servant had become friends over the years. The curt and polite remarks had turned teasing, light-hearted in nature. She had become dependent on the portly servant, if not for fun, then for friendship. And albeit Spinel had huffed and puffed like a balloon, Eriol had the notion that he, too, could not part with his mistress. Eriol, the benevolent soul that he was, couldn't help but feel glad.
Right after he had left Spinel, Eriol was steered toward one room and another, where Nakuru was pointing out this tidbit and that, marvelling over the mantle piece and the grand piano (though she could not play one to save her life, so why the need for one?). Eriol followed his aunt obediently, nodding once in a while, just to seem as if he was paying attention. 'Where has Syaoran disappeared? Hide in the face of danger, eh?' he thought wryly and continued following Nakuru, though a bit destitute.
Later, another servant showed him to his suite, bowing respectfully before leaving. Eriol was used to this kind of treatment, after all, he himself grew up surrounded by wealth. He was the sole heir to the Hiiragizawa fortune, one of the most prominent families in all of Europe. When his great-uncle, Clow Reed, had passed away, he had entitled everything to Eriol, much to everyone's surprise. It astounded many people at the time to see a fourteen-year-old boy suddenly take control of such a large amount of money. Others thought money would corrupt the still growing lord, as it had done to thousands of dignitaries in the past. Eriol had sworn, almost from the first moment he heard of his uncle's death, that he would be responsible, that he would be a great leader.
And so, now at nineteen, Lord Eriol, or Viscount Hiiragizawa, was one of the richest people in all of the modern world. This, of course, gave way to some challenges. There had been angry family members who thought that he was too good for all that money. Others thought that he was simply too young. The first couple of years after he inherited the fortune, there had been huge lawsuits and meetings between family members. Eriol had thought those petty fights would break his family apart. And they did. To this day, he still did not feel completely comfortable with some members of his clan.
Also, being so young and so rich had posed some problems on his personal life. He was no longer a carefree boy, sneaking into the conservatory at Hellish hours of the night so he could read some of his uncle's more private novels. Eriol could no longer go out and play with other gents his age; there was tutoring and viscount training to think of. There was simply no more time to have fun; business affairs had taken care of that. The only joy in his life, it seemed, was those times when Syaoran would come over. He still remembered how the two of them would escape under the butler's nose, donned a cheap guise, to go to the public tavern on Main Street.
There were other problems, of course. Meaning that he was like a walking, talking moneybag, with good looks to boot. Back home, he hadn't been able to turn this way or that without having a lady throwing herself at him. That's why he tended to stay within the richly decorated walls of his manor, and as far away from social gatherings as possible. To tell the truth, he completely understood why Nakuru was so insistent on pushing him toward marriage. He had to admit it was rather sad seeing a young man of his status enclosed in the sanctuary of his mansion just because he was afraid of the prowling vultures in skirts.
No. He did not want to marry any woman that threw herself at him, like a degrading, wanton toy. He wanted someone who was able to challenge him, to not only captivate him physically, but also intellectually. He didn't want a wife he could buy, he wanted someone who'd he love and who loved him in return. Eriol, who grew up in the supervision of his great-uncle, had been enforced with the idea that love was the single ruling emotion in the world. And thus, he considered it the sole purpose of his life.
In no time, the sky outside began to darken; the vast expanse of it coloured with splashes of red and orange. Eriol, comfortably sprawled in a large, red, Victorian chair with a checkbook on his lap, began to hear distant calls and music coming from outside. Looking out a window, Eriol could see a million tiny lights flicker into existence. He had a good view of the Grande Canal and the waters seemed to come alive with the music and the lights.
"The night heralds the Carnival," a voice from behind him broke his reverie.
Not turning to face the intruder, Eriol replied, "The night heralds many things, Syaoran."
"Well, right now, it's Nakuru that's calling for you."
Eriol winced, and glanced at his friend. "What does she want?"
"We have a masquerade ball to go to later tonight, have you forgotten about that? Your aunt just wants to dress you up in pretty clothes and put you on display, like a cake."
The other youth got wearily to his feet and shuffled over to Syaoran, following him. "Since when has it become just about me? You are in this as much as I. Like it or not, she's gonna drag you along as well."
Syaoran huffed annoyingly and swatted at the air like he would at a fly. "Don't spoil my way of thinking, Eriol. There's still time to pretend otherwise."
Syaoran had led him to one of the grand suites in the mansion. Judging by the looks of it, it was a guest bedroom. The bed was pushed along the wall, as was the little writing table and the large dresser. In the middle of the room two dressing screens were set up, boxes piling about. A handmaiden was waiting for them, cloth draped over her arms.
"The mistress has requested for you to try these on," she said to the young gentlemen, handing the clothes to them.
Without an explanation, the two were rushed behind the screens, the door closing afterwards.
"Do you suppose we can trust Nakuru with the costumes?" Syaoran's voice reached the other's ears.
Eriol shrugged, then realized that his friend could not see him. "It's possible. She is, after all, the queen of clothes."
Eriol looked at the pile of clothes before him with a slight frown. There seemed to be an awful lot of white material. With tentative hands, he unfolded the cloth, holding it before him. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought it was a smock. 'How would one go about getting this on?' he thought warily. With another shrug, he peeled away his clothes and donned on the costume. It was only after he had pulled the billowy pants on and was buttoning the breezy shirt that he actually bothered to look at himself in the mirror. He blanched at the reflection.
The youth was dressed as Pierrot [1]. The cream-white shirt reached down to mid-thigh, pants from the same material showing underneath. The shirt's puffy, embroidered sleeves completely swallowed his arms and hands. A small dark blue hat sat atop his head. The worst parts of the outfit, he thought, were the overly large white buttons running down his chest. Eriol was appalled; he looked absolutely ridiculous.
"Hurry up, Eriol-chan, I can't wait forever, you know," Nakuru's voice broke his contemplation. "C'mon, I want to see how you look like."
"Too bad you'll have to wait for a long while," Eriol replied with a huff, "because I'm not coming out."
Nakuru giggled, and the boy could just imagine her stifling her mirth. "Oh, Eriol, don't be so childish. I'm sure you look good, after all, I personally chose that outfit for you. Now, just come on; show me before I'll take it upon myself to see."
She had a good point, he thought and imagined what that would be like. Nakuru had a tendency to become a three-headed beast when she couldn't get something she wanted. Extremely annoyed and flushed with embarrassment, Eriol moved from behind the screen, his eyes glued to the floor.
"Oh, stop brooding, Eriol, you don't look bad at all," his aunt said after a moment's pause, he could hear muffled laugher in her voice.
"Not bad?! It looks as if a lady's petticoat has been placed around my head. I have pompons on my shirt, for goodness' sake!" He exclaimed, waving his arms frantically. "And look, I'm wearing pantaloons!"
"You're worried about your pants?" Asked Syaoran, stepping from behind the screen. "Well, then look at me."
Eriol looked up and visibly cringed. Syaoran was wearing a sap green shirt, the collar of which was open, leaving a trail of pale skin. A leather belt was slung loosely around his hips, which led directly to his legs. Eriol nearly choked on a laugh when he saw the tights. A paler green in contrast to the shirt, the tights fit snugly to the boy's legs (thus called "tights"), which seemed go on for miles. Syaoran fidgeted nervously, tapping his stoking clad foot against the floorboards. A mortified flush spread along his high cheekbones, while a pout stretched on his lips.
Eriol whistled playfully, forgetting his own dilemma. "Wow, Syao-chan, I didn't know you looked this great in women's clothing."
"Oh, shut up, Pantaloon-Boy," Syaoran ground out irritably from behind clenched teeth, the red deepening on his cheeks.
"He's right, you know," Nakuru piled in, giving the distressed boy an appreciative glance of her own. "You look fantastic. Have you considered marriage lately? Because, you know, I'm always available."
Ignoring the less-than-innocent purr, Syaoran glanced at her own costume. 'Marie Antoinette, huh?' he thought, annoyed. Nakuru seemed to be the only one out the trio whose costume was somewhat tame, if you excluded the pompadour on her head. "What am I supposed to be anyway?" He asked, regaining some reign on his temper.
"You're a bard," she said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, pointing to the lyre in one of the boxes on the floor.
"How come he has an interesting costume, while I'm stuck as the clown?" Eriol asked, vexed.
"Oh, shush, you sour puss," said Nakuru dismissevely, primping up her skirts. "I frankly think you look rather handsome in those. Now, if you gentlemen will halt your whining for another time, I believe we have a party to get to."
She handed them glittering half-masks, as was the custom during the Carnival, and led them outside. It was much darker now, thousands of flickers of lights gracing both the heavens and the earth. There was laughter all around. The music was reverberating off the buildings and the water, amplifying, pulsing. Eriol was amazed. As he listened to the music, he could feel the rhythm seize him, pull him in, tantalizing him.
The ride to the party was an incomprehensible blur to him, only the sensation of floating, of music and of light reaching his consciousness. Before he realized it, he was moving off the gondola – since when has it arrived? – and to a maw of moving, dancing and laughing people. Everything seemed so unreal, so illusionary that Eriol had to shut his eyes and open them again in order to make sure it was, indeed, real.
Syaoran immediately took a position in a shadowed corner of the room, crossing his arms over his chest. Nakuru had fluttered to and fro, dragging Eriol to introduce him to this girl and that, each dressed in elaborate costumes. The young lord kept the conversations to a minimum, nodding politely and excusing himself at the earliest opportunity.
Hours, it seemed, later he came up to Syaoran, joining him on the sidelines. The initial wonder had dissipated, leaving Eriol empty and aching for more. These people seemed superficial, dolls dancing at a make-belief party.
"It's like I'm paraded about, being sold to all the available bachelorettes. It's sickening almost," Eriol whispered, though the sentiment was did not go unnoticed by Syaoran.
"Wasn't it you who told me to try to enjoy myself while here?" His friend asked coolly, his eyes trained on the crowd.
"Once upon a time, but yes. Why?" Eriol answered, perplexed.
"Then you should probably try to enjoy yourself as well," was Syaoran's reply.
Eriol felt like a hypocrite. Here he was, proclaiming how bored he was, how he wanted the evening to end, when not too long ago it was he who could not wait for this moment to come. He blamed that partially at the unfamiliarity of this city. Everything was just so new, so raw and strange, he felt dazed and lost. He was in a different country, surrounded by different people with different language and thoughts. How could he not feel this way? As a stranger to a foreign land, he was overwhelmed.
"The trip here was exhausting, ne Syaoran? How about we—"
Eriol froze mid-thought, the words dying on his lips. Across the room, hidden by the mass of brightly dressed people and partly shielded by Queen Liz I, was the most heavenly creature he had ever beheld. And that being had long, wavy blue hair and a pale cerulean dress. She was Malvina, and though she was just one person amongst a sea of lavishly costumed people, he could not look away nor stop his heart from hammering at his side. She was breathtaking.
(tbc)
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[1] Pierrot and Malvina are characters in the Russian version of Pinocchio, called Buratino. Both were dolls in a puppet theatre. Pierrot was ridiculously in love with Malvina, the girl with blue hair, but was afraid of telling her. And so, he kept on following her, protecting her from the sidelines. Malvina was, of course, his best friend and I personally think even more. I thought that suited Tomoyo and Eriol's characters quite well ^____^
Just out of curiosity, does anyone of you (the readers) who've read my other fics, think that I have a Mary-Sue or am one? Hmm... very peculiar...
