Chapter Thirty Nine: Hot Guilt, Cold Hope

Ever read a confusing chapter in a fic and think to yourself, "Self, someone ought to put a warning label on that for possible brain strain!"? Well, I have, hence this warning:

Please read the first section of my chapter notes before attempting to understand the chapter. This update is rather mysterious and question evoking even if you do read the explanation, so please obey the authoress. It's for your own mental safety.

Eric

The gas lamp above me flickered fretfully, threatening to go out all together.

Its tiny flame sent shadows dancing across my hurried scribbles. The sooty little thing was the only illumination in my clammy bedchamber, save for the dying fire.

"I suppose she'll have to be a mezzo after all." I mumbled to no one in particular. "No soprano will be able to hit these notes with enough emotion."

Running an aching hand through my sparse hair, I surveyed my most recent labor with a weary but critical eye. I began to sing the latest bit of Zerlina's aria lightly under my breath, at a lower octave, as I played through the finished verse.

…Mis manos gritan fuera
Sus nombres,
De los hombres
Para sus sangre
Se ha manchado
Ha manchado
Ha manchado
Mis manos-

The organ hit a dissonant chord as the tender muscles of my hand spasmed with pain. Removing my throbbing fingers from the ivory that spanned the length of the key board, I found that I could barely bend them. As if my agony were not enough, an infuriating noise began to buzz about the room.

In my irritation, it required several minutes for me to realize that I still had one foot on the pedals.

Rid of one annoyance, I turned my attention to the more pressing matter. My fingers continued to radiate bursts of pain at the slightest movement. It had been several months since they had been quite this bad.

"How long have I slaved over you this time?" I vaguely addressed the ever growing heap of parchment that was my masterpiece. Seeking an answer from a more intelligent source, I shuffled into the parlor. I nearly tripped over my robe several times before consulting my aged calendar clock.

"Three days …" I pondered aloud. "I suppose I ought to find something to eat."

My stomach agreed most heartily with my decision.

My robe, on the other hand, did not. I came close to falling flat on my poor excuse for a face before catching myself on the worn ottoman.

"Morceau de merde!" I yelped, possessed by the desire to destroy the dratted thing. But in the face of having to wander about my den stark naked and cold, I chose to let it live another day.

"You ought to be glad that I am too lazy to find something else to wear right now." I groused absently at the unhappy garment while fixing a light dinner. Experience had taught me not to eat ravenously after many days without food.

Even my beloved spices were out of the question after such a long fasting period. Wistfully gazing at the glass bottles of cilantro and ropes of garlic, I soberly compiled a small plate of cold chicken and slightly stale bread. I knew that enduring a few bland meals would keep a stomach ache away.

Unfortunately, there would be no such escape from the swollen joints of my fingers. While I could spend days at a time playing any of my instruments, recording the music I created always proved to be my undoing. Writing had been a source of frustration and cramping for me since the first time I picked up a pen.

I sat down at the wobbling, dilapidated table to eat, slouching in the only chair in the small kitchen while memories stirred at the mention of a long ago moment. The day that I had first learned to write held a strange place in my heart. One might have even said that I looked upon it with some semblance of fondness, if such a word could be applied to any part of my life.

I was fourteen at the time, and it had only been three years since I had thrown in my lot with De Tham. I remember it as having been a warm, sunny day, with nary a cloud in the bright sky. My morning chores done, I had observed De as he scribbled in a leather bound journal. As silently as I knew how, I had crept closer, intrigued by the mystery of the written word.

I managed to convince myself of my stealthiness for only a few brief seconds. De calmly turned his head, stared me up and down, and dryly grumbled "Stop your staring and come here then."

In all my travels, I have yet to encounter a demeanor anything like that of De Tham.

And in all my years, the time I spent in his crew was perhaps the most life altering. In fact, it had been due to my life style then that 'Don Juan Triumphant' had been born.

For if I hadn't joined the crew of Vanora, I would never have met Mitra.

Though Vanora would always remain the first love of my heart, Mitra would surely continue to be its center until the day I died. She had been all that her name implied, and its antitheses all at once. Who would have guessed that one singular woman could fly you up to heaven and condemn you to hell in a solitary breath?

Mitra…

Even after all these years, the mere thought of her was still enough to bring me to my proverbial knees. In the silence of my damp kitchen, emotions poured through me like the waters of every sea I had ever sailed. Loss, envy, longing, pain, even love.

As I cleaned my chipped dishes and tried to forget her face, I inwardly buckled under the depth of my loneliness. How long had it been since I had been near a woman that way? Years, I was forced to admit to the cold, soapy surface of my tea mug.

True, the occasional masque ball afforded me some merciful time in the company of the fairer sex a few times each year, but I yearned for just a bit more.

"Would it be so much to ask to have a lady on my arm for once?" I burst out, railing against God.

"But what woman would consent to such torture, Eric?" I made the question rhetorical. I could not counter such straightforward logic. No woman had ever willingly remained in my presence, excepting Azadeh. Hell, even that little dancer had run from me.

I had been restless four nights ago, and ventured above ground for some distraction. Hearing her heated prayers, I had felt compelled to do what I could to help her. For God's sake, I had maimed the stupid child! I had hoped to make amends by posing as a heavenly messenger one last time. After all, what would it hurt to answer one final prayer?

Despite the best of my intentions, the girl had only taken one look at me before fleeing in terror.

I spent the rest of the day agonizing over what to do and regretting my guilt. At one point I had left a lengthy letter near Leah's door, but I later removed it. I had been unable to concoct a suitable explanation for my presence at that hour in such a strange location. Irritated, confused, and guilt-ridden, I had immersed myself in 'Don Juan', seeking to block my failure from my mind.

Mon Dieu! The chit hadn't even seen my face!

How could I hold out any hope of one day keeping a woman in my bed if I could not keep some half-pence former dancer in the same room with me? Was I doomed to this lonely existence for the rest of my weary days?

I longed to lie down and die, but a tiny fragment of my soul refused to admit my sure defeat. I had not utilized every resource yet, had I? There was still a chance that could ensnare a willing bride, a companion. Someone who would touch me, lead me into the light of day… How I longed for such a miracle!

"We will not give up! Eric will have what he seeks!" I determined resolutely.

Surely there were other avenues left for me to explore. I would try with that Leah girl. She would be an easy experiment, young and new to her faith, unsure and in need of a bit of guidance. She would be the best candidate to perfect my wooing on.

If I could win her, then there was still a chance for me to find a real love.

If not… No, I would win this battle. I would not even entertain the idea of failure.

This would be easy! I had conquered the great minds of Siyamak and Berk. This girl would prove to be no trouble at all after such awesome feats.

Heartened by my strengthening resolve, I began to strategize. She had a male 'friend' of sorts, I remembered. Comte something or other. He could be handled without any trouble. I would simply procure another companion for him.

"As for me," I mused, "I shall have to become her ideal. What about the Comte attracts her? What does he have that I need?"

Power? Wealth? Well bred manners? After reflecting a little longer on the matter, I chose my course of action, sure of the outcome.

It appeared that I had some shopping to do.

Authoress's Notes: The song is of my own invention. What can I say? It's kind of an offshoot from the symphony I've been writing this past year. I've actually written lyrics and basic melodies for two pieces from Eric with a c's 'Don Juan Triumphant' (I'm a big believer in Tolkien's thoughts on writing background stories, if that gives you any indications.) and I have a vague idea for a plot line for the opera. (Oh look, I'm going all ALW and creating imbedded works. Arg.) The song is written as an aria for Zerlina. (A character from Mozart's Don Giovanni, I believe, in which she is a past lover that desperately wants Don Juan back, despite the fact that he wants nothing to do with her.) She sings this after killing some of Don Juan's enemies, and in it she laments the fact that she has taken lives. She mourns the loss of her innocence and is devastated because Juan has rejected her again, despite all that she has done for him. The excerpt in this chapter is only part of the aria, and the translation goes something like this. (And I apologize for any grammatical errors, as I am not a native speaker.)

'They Are Stained'

…My hands cry out loudly
The names,
Of the men
For their blood
Has stained
Has stained
Has stained
My hands…

So, anybody have any guesses about who De Tham is? Vanora? Mitra? (Cackles maniacally)