A/N: I am extremely sorry for the late update but my computer had a MAJOR system crash. In fact, every file I had is completely destroyed. This means that every story I was writing was erased, and this includes future stories (oh Gawd, there was like ten of those! I'm going to go cry again. Why, oh why?!) Anyways, despite the delay, I hope you like this chapter.
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Chapter 4: Cantata
Cantata: A short lyric form dealing with either secular or sacred subjects
That night, Eriol dreamed of the girl, Tomoyo. He knew what Nakuru told him of her, knew that he was caught breathless for a moment in time, and he knew her name. He smiled to himself; one foot was in the land of the dreamers, the other, the dreamer part of him, was still in the land of the waking. Tomoyo. To-mo-yo. He breathed her name into the darkness, testing out the way it rolled off his tongue, liking how mere three syllables could feel so nice.
In the dream, she had flown to him on iridescent wings, bearing a smile on her face, a promise of an embrace. She whispered to him, murmured soft, incoherent words into his ears, the sound itself too ethereal. Her hair tickled his nose, his chest, and he reached out his hand to touch it, to feel the silky strands between his fingers, and when he did, they were as soft as air. She, in return, reached out to him, a soft blue dress swirling about her slender form. And suddenly he found himself crying; Eriol did not remember feeling sad, nor was he feeling cry-worthy ecstasy. Tomoyo held him, smiling, stroking his hair and cooing softy into his ear.
Her eyes and smile were almost luminous, and as the wakeful world began to greet him, this image installed itself on his mind.
When he opened his eyes, sun was streaming through the gauzy curtains, and the birds were chirping almost in tandem with laughter of children not too far away. The day was in full swing, and he had almost missed it. Eriol sat up in his bed and stretched languidly; it has been a very, very long time since he last had the privilege to sleep in, it felt nice. He had forgotten what it could be like to relax for once in his life.
There was a knock on the door, though it didn't open. Victorian modesty and all.
"Sir," came the voice of a maid, by the sounds of it, she was probably still in her teens, "Mistress requests your presence at the breakfast table, if your Lordship won't be bothered too much."
"Tell your lady that I'll be down in a minute," he called back.
A faint 'yes, Milord' was heard before the servant left. Eriol sighed and got to his feet. Nakuru would most likely demand a bit by bit description of last night, seeking out the juicy details. If Eriol was truthful to himself, and he preferred to be, he enjoyed himself very much at the masquerade. It bothered him that he was being displayed like a meaty piece of steak in front of hungry customers. That aside, though, the music and the rhythm had sucked him in, left him weak and merciless in its wake. Eriol enjoyed the feeling of just existing without thought or reason, to be alive for the sake of being alive. It gave him a sense of freedom and security, though those were fleeting.
And he also saw her last night. She was definitely the highlight of the trip. To have one glance of her, to know her name and whisper it to himself softly during the night, when not one soul could hear him, was an almost sinful pleasure. Eriol had seen her from afar, a mere observer on a rare and wild beauty, a trespasser caught in her snare. He wanted to know more about her, to see her again, to hear her voice from her mouth, to see whether she was as fragile as she appeared to be last night.
As soon as Eriol thought of this, he felt instantly ashamed. What right had he to think such thoughts about a person he had barely – or more accurately, never – met? She was a complete, beautiful stranger, too far away from his world. 'Further still, she must have a gigantic list of wannabe suitors,' Eriol thought despairingly. 'Besides, it's too soon, too dangerous. What if something like last time happens? Would I be able to live through that again? And if I would, I'd be too crushed...'
He frowned and pulled on a clean shirt, systematically lacing the ties. He was so used to dressing himself, to performing this manual chore, it was like an automatic, a thoughtless action. The frown on Eriol's face remained even as he pulled on dark blue pants and a light overcoat of the same colour. He was still grimacing when he left the room and as he settled into a seat opposite Syaoran.
Unknown to Eriol, who was adding the sixth spoon of sugar to a tea-less cup, Nakuru and Syaoran were sending darting glances across the table. It was like their own way of communicating, telepathically maybe. The topic of their silent conversation was Eriol, of course, and the ugly look on his face. The two considered themselves to be the only people in the young lord's life that he could depend on. And, grown to read him over the years, Nakuru and Syaoran were very much worried about the usually cheerful Eriol.
One of Eriol's biggest flaws (if you considered it a flaw) was that he cared too much about other people. He'd always considered the thoughts and feelings of everyone around him, rather than the turmoil going on in his own heart. Syaoran supposed it was a way for him to redeem himself, to gain enough confidence. Eriol had once admitted to having this fear of never being good enough, of never reaching certain demands. And so, he tried to please other people too much to consider how he truly felt. Eriol always had a smile on because he never wanted anyone to be worried or sad for him, he always joked around and laughed as if he was born to do it. But Syaoran knew better, sometimes, when they attended Eaton (1) together, he would hear Eriol weep softly to himself during the stark hours of the night. He never dared to interrupt; opting instead to remain silent and pretend that he heard nothing. Still, it crushed the chestnut-haired lad to see his friend suffer.
"So, what did you think of last night?" Nakuru decided to break the ice, sending another encoded look to Syaoran.
Eriol double blinked, which was typical if you had just awoken but seemed rather odd if you'd been up for quite some time. "I must admit, it was a lot more than I had anticipated," he answered after taking a moment to comprehend the question. He smiled almost benevolently at Nakuru.
"Was it as fun as said it would be?" She asked back, leaning closer to him across the table.
"Fun?" Eriol thought for a moment. "Yes and no. I had enjoyed the momentary lapse. It's nice to just let yourself go once in a while. But I did not enjoy being auctioned off, Nakuru," he said this last with an almost accusing glare in the mentioned aunt's direction.
"Is that why you look so gloomy today?" She asked.
"I'm not gloomy."
"And what do you call that look on your face?" Syaoran stepped in, mimicking a fair rendition of Eriol's frown. "Couldn't tell you apart from one of those gargoyle statuettes Nakuru has as paperweights. Seriously, I'd thought you had a hernia or something."
"Gee, thanks, Syaoran, I'll take that as a complement. Coming from you, it should be worth a lot," Eriol replied darkly, though not without his own share of humour.
Syaoran grinned almost imperceptibly at the other boy, and said coyly, "You honour me."
Eriol brought the cup of sugar to his lips, intending to take a sip, when Nakuru's voice stopped him. "Eriol, I just want you to be happy."
"I know," he answered solemnly, avoiding her eyes.
"I just... just think that you need to have something take your mind off matters," she continued. "It surely won't do you any good to if you overstress yourself. You're my little Eriol-chan, and I don't want to see you suffer. Neither do I want to see you locked up in a proverbial castle, brooding. Don't you know that your happiness means that I, we, can be happy, too? Just... promise... no... just be careful what you get yourself into."
Eriol nodded, staring into the cup and for the first time realizing that it was full of just sugar. He found it rather comical, but somehow, he couldn't find it in him to laugh. And so, he just nodded, letting the silence be his answer. He could tell that Syaoran felt very much the same, and he appreciated the concern though it was rather hard for him to admit.
"Now, come on, hurry up and finish with breakfast," Nakuru said in an overly zealous voice. "It's almost noon and I want to go the bazaar. And Syaoran wanted to go to a higher elevation to see the Grande Canal better."
"What for?" Eriol asked, feeling more like his usual self.
"I wanted to do a study of the water and how the sun and the city would reflect in it," replied Syaoran. "I've been considering doing a landscape. For memory's sake."
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Later that evening, the trio bound again toward the festivities. Syaoran, a true aesthetic, had thought it was magic. The sky was black velvet, the stars dancing with the tiny flickers of light here and there on people's doors and in windows. There was a pure artistic drive in him that told him, quite threateningly, to capture the night, the music and the magic. He found his hands twitching as if in anticipation of holding a brush, smearing great blobs of paint over canvas.
They were going to a different place this time, Nakuru was reciting the patron's history as they walked the noisy streets. Syaoran didn't pay much attention, though, nor did Eriol, he suspected. He grinned and nearly doubled over with glee at the pouty look on the lord's face. He almost wanted to say something scorching, to make Eriol feel as much pain as he did the previous night. The Little Wolf, as was his nickname from his school days, had to bite down on his tongue to keep from laughing out when the other lord rubbed a hand over his goose pimpled arms.
Eriol was wearing an Aladdin costume, from one of the tales of Shaharizad. The raven-haired boy resembled more a Harem, rather than a lowlife waif. Eriol walked with almost painful steps, wincing visibly when the little bells around his waist and turban jiggled. The outfit itself was of fine craftsmanship. A deep blue satin-like material was used for the billowy pants; Nakuru commented on how nicely the cloth had made Eriol's legs stand out, especially when he stepped into the light and the material became almost transparent. There wasn't much of a tunic, only an ivory vest with gilded vein design that was just long enough to leave a scandalous amount of skin exposed.
As if on cue, Eriol turned to Syaoran with a glare, "Don't you dare say I look ridiculous," he said, biting off every word.
Holding his hands in mock innocence, the other boy replied: "You said it not me" at which Eriol growled and moved ahead of Nakuru, muttering very un-gentlemanly curses under his breath.
This party took place at an open field, with hundreds of miniature lights dangling from trees and suspended along the fence. A food table and an orchestra were set up along the sides. Upon arriving, Syaoran left the other two, as if pursuing a quest of his own, which could have been rather humorous, seeing as he was dressed as a crusader. His eyes scanned the crowd anxiously, darting from one masked face to another. He was looking for something he had a glimpse of last night, a fleeting flash of colour, the sway of soft honey hair. He had an impulse last night, an almost primal call that made him search the crowd of faces. And then he saw her.
After nearly two hours of fruitless searching, the Little Wolf was about to give up and look for Nakuru or Eriol, his tail tucked between his legs (no pun intended). Just then, the same instinct that made him lift his head up yesterday turned on again. He scanned the mass with more vigour, more desperation, as if he would die there and then if he did not at least try. And then, he saw her.
She was a proverbial beacon of light, of safety and mystique, of unknown territory and ethereal beauty. He'd saw her the previous night, practically glowing in her fairy costume. Her hair bounced with miniature lights, seemingly alive. She was flushed and smiling, which accented her honey bob of hair quite nicely, he thought. She was dressed as a Greek lady today, though Syaoran could barely tell the difference between her and a goddess, descended from one of Keats' poems. She exerted so much light, so much vivacious energy and radiance, he was pulled in. Unwillingly almost, he found his feet moving in her direction.
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Eriol had been feeling extremely awkward that evening. He felt transparent – or maybe that was just the clothes? –, he felt almost as if every person in the crowd was looking at him, laughing at him, could see right through his soul. Nakuru and Syaoran had long since disappeared, leaving him stranded. He did wonder for a bit what could be so important to his friend to actually make him want to join in the festivities. No matter, he would find out soon enough. And while Eriol was fidgeting under imagined scrutiny, he could not help but wonder and hope that perhaps Tomoyo would be here, too. The possibilities were favourable on his side, though he yet to catch a glimpse of the girl who'd plagued his dreams that night.
Almost ready to give up and head home, Eriol was suddenly jolted out of his reverie when he caught sight of a pale, white almost face amongst a sea of faces. Didn't Nakuru say something about Tomoyo always wearing a porcelain mask? Could his mind have been playing tricks on him? Eriol shook his head; it must have been the music and the wine. And then he caught another fleeting glint of white, just at the corner of his eyes. Warily, he moved closer, seeking the face again.
(tbc)
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(1) Eaton was (or still is) a prestigious college especially for boys at the time this story takes place. Though I still like Oxford better. Oh, and there's nothing perverted going on between Eriol and Nakuru. I have very little taste for incest, thank you very much.
And after such a long wait, 'yes,' you do have my permission flame.
