XVIII: To This Moment
"I here and now, finally and forever, give up knowing anything about love… I believe it doesn't exist, save as a word: a sort of wailing phoenix that is really the wind in the trees." –Lawrence
The blood was still red on the blade when Erik set the sword down on the piano, its keen tapered edge half-gleaming through the stains, pure silver against black, still unsheathed. He swept off his long black cloak and draped it over the piano bench, sitting beside it.
For a long moment he merely stared at the keys. He didn't touch them, just looked, lost for a while in silent thought. He had not written since Don Juan. A soft mwerr made him look up with the ghost of a smile at the white Persian cat regarding him with golden eyes.
At last his long deft fingers settled over the ebony / ivory keys, first tapping gently, then hammering more forcefully…perfect fourth, minor second twice, whole step, perfect fifth… "Past the Point of No Return" echoed across the lake.
The cat's eyes closed at the familiarity of the vibrations humming up from the fine dark wood beneath it. Even as it listened, though, the chords modulated; the tone darkened and became fuller—true maestoso—black and haunting, rippling with overtone series in minor keys… Fma7, Em, Cm…
Abruptly it ceased, and Erik's fingers hesitated. Then, with astonishing delicacy, his fingers closed over the pen. With five swift strokes he dashed off a staff, curled the cleff, and blotted a single note. A note which grew into a chord, and the chord into a song…
FIN
