1857—Paris
Benoît strode into the room, throwing the leather folder down upon the long table, the remaining sheets of music scattering across the smooth wood surface.
The visible eyebrow raised a degree, casually dismissing the irascible act. Lifting the sheet out of the way, his eyes fell back onto the book, and then back to the developing sketch beside it.
"Erik!"
There was a long sigh, and the young man looked up from his work. "Yes?"
Benoit glared at the poised face, catching the barest hint of his reflection in the dark surface, his image contorting on the false, unfeeling planes. Behind the ominous black mask, dark hazel eyes stared back, waiting.
"Where is the rest of it, Erik?"
The accused gave an elegant tilt of his head. "I have not the slightest inclination as to what you are referring to, Benoît."
Benoît could not help but pause as he heard his name spoken. There was no bitterness in the tone, no obvious threat…but even so, the smooth timbre of the voice, the gentle fall on the syllables never failed to unnerve him. If the spoken word could become music, it would be by this voice, and he hated to admit it.
"Look! Half the score is gone! How am I to practice if I don't have the cursed music!" His voice lowered a notch. "You are in that room more than anyone else."
Erik made no movement, his eyes darting from his accuser to the mess of sheets.
"Do you not see it?" There was no answer.
Benoît smirked. "Forgive me, I forgot that you still cannot read a single note."
He felt a small flame of triumph as he witnessed the rare twinge of emotion pass across his companion's face. Over the years, his father had seen that his beloved pet was equally trained in the same arts as his legitimate son. Erik had excelled in all tasks…save that of music. From the beginning, he would only stare blankly at the tiny black markings, lacking any noticeable comprehension of the phrases within. He refused to play an instrument, even after the bidding of countless tutors. It was an enigma, but after many frustrated sessions, they let him keep his silence.
Benoît's eyes narrowed. Undoubtedly, his father was pleased with Erik's inability in this one subject, forever bearing his incessant dislike of all things his true son did. Then again, it only served to affirm his real value. It was Erik and his abilities that his father wanted, needed. Music was of no importance to either of them. They shared a love for a world of beauty, but it was a world so unlike the one he desired. His could not be seen, but heard.
A page turned, snapping Benoit's attention to the artist before him. Even when Erik was not attending to matters at the opera house, he was secluded in some dark corner, poring over a volume that Benoît failed to grasp. His counterpart proved his superior in every other facet, and worse, he knew it.
Benoît frowned, hands clenched into loose fists.
Still, after all these years, Erik had said nothing, done nothing to assert his effortless dominance or his implicit proxy status. He simply was; unwittingly the strike that ignited the sparks of jealousy and loathing.
Benoit watched as Erik shifted his attention back to the book, his flawless posture somehow wilted a degree. The victory of the moment was stolen from Benoît in that proud, yet resigned movement, and even more so by the soft words that followed.
"As you pointed out, I would have no reason to take your music. I am truly sorry."
There was no lie in his tone, though Benoît hardly doubted that the voice that uttered such lovely sounds could tell equally beautiful mendacities. Sighing, he turned to leave the room.
"We shall miss your poignant serenading."
Benoit paused, his eyes darkening. Just as he drew a breath to retaliate, a servant entered, giving a short nod to both the young masters before he lay down the armful of sheathed swords on the far end of the table, recently polished. Erik did not bother to look up, absorbed in his work once more.
Benoît glared at him, the muscles of his jaw working. The servant eyes widened before he quickly exited the room, the door slamming behind him.
Erik simply continued his work as if there had been no interruption. He sat poised, long, elegant pale fingers following something on the page, his other hand at work with the pen and ink. Even in the most mundane actions, Erik demanded awe. And he received it. People saw him, though he was just an apprentice. His father saw him. Benoît had yet to hear his father say one ill thing about his protégé. In all things, the young man was exceptional, and in all things, the rightful son was a failure, a subject of mediocrity.
"Erik?"
The call was distant, muffled, the low voice of his father reverberating from the other end of the house.
Without a word, the youth gracefully rose from his seat, clutching the sketch and book in his hand. Benoit grabbed one of the swords off the table. His mouth was flat, his eyes betraying his serious intent. Holding the blade in an attacking posture, he effectively blocked Erik's way.
"Benoît…"
Even at the sound of the other's voice, the raised blade did not waver in Benoît's grip, affirming the challenge.
Hazel eyes narrowing, Erik laid the book and sketch down, selecting an épée. Casually adjusting his grip on the handle, he stood opposite his challenger, left eyebrow raised. He did not strike a defensive pose, his countenance almost jaded. Tilting his head in confusion, Benoît lowered his blade a degree.
The force of the hit reverberated through the length of his arm.
Erik moved gracefully around him, watching Benoît through the dark mask, providing the chance of recovery. His anger flared, Benoît lunged at his opponent, his repeated blows deftly cast aside.
Not once did Erik attempt a point, but all the same, he was not trying to. Feet moving in perfect form, he moved silently over the floor, dodging furniture, deflecting the menacing blows all the while.
In a swift movement, Erik twisted his blade around the Benoît's, tearing it out of his grasp. With a light clatter, the rapier hit the ground some feet away.
His breathing rushed, Benoît swallowed. Erik lowered his épée, his gaze steady. "Enough."
Benoît could not fight the stern command.
"Erik!" His father appeared in the doorway. "Oh, there you are." Erik gave a slight nod, his appearance devoid of any telling sign of the recent contest. Benoît scowled; the épée had mysteriously vanished from Erik's person.
His father continued, failing to cast even a single glance at his son. "The carriage is waiting outside."
His eyes sparkled as he regarded the youth. The corner of his mouth lifted, and he left the room.
Erik moved back to the table, the épée in his hands once more. Carefully, he laid it down with the other swords before picking up his own things.
He paused at the door and glanced back, remaining silent. Benoît looked away from the threatening mask, blind to the sad gaze behind it.
Author's note:
First, please let me apologize for the rather deplorable mistakes in the last chapter (and likely the preceding chapters as well). While I read through chapters over and over again, inevitably I will always miss something. However, I will do my best to be diligent as possible in making them flawless.
I was very apprehensive about jumping so far into the future—and no chapter I write is beyond revision. That being said (author cues music):
:clears throat: "Readers of Prelude, speak, I listen! Stay by my side, guide me! Readers, your words I seek, indulge me…write away dear readers!"
Hehe—thank God I am not a poet, yes? ;)