As promised, another chapter before this weekend is over :) This one was a pure delight to write, I love Erik's POV so much, so here's more of our lonely, desperate, beloved vampire! Happy reading!
*-* Erik V - Lost in the Music Once More
Now that she was so close to him, another temptation had arisen. He had forgotten the potency of her blood, and how the warm pulse at her throat beat for him, even when she was silent.
As he sang, he tried to focus on something else, but his throat was becoming painful. Thirst was growing inside him, the need more unbearable every passing second.
He kept his eyes open and fixed on the candles, focused on their delicate, enticing dance, trying to forget her presence altogether.
But he couldn't ignore her, and every so often his eyes trailed back to her. She was now lounging in his sofa, her face pleasantly relaxed, eyes half closed. Her skin was radiant in the soft candle light, a different shade than what he'd seen the last time in the moonlight.
She was as lovely as one could ever be.
And how her warm blood was calling him, her scent the promise of hot days wandering the fields, lost in the vines, splashing in the lazy rivers and springs.
He'd never been so sad not to be able to feel the sun on his skin, when she offered him such a potent reminder.
His song changed, grew from powerful and joyful, to tender and quiet. And so did her scent. Extraordinarily, he'd forgotten how a human's scent could reflect their emotions. He'd never stayed long enough near one to witness such a fact since her.
Now she smelled of the night. Of the wind, coolness and moonlight on her hair. And if possible, it was even more appealing than before, and he had to stop his song, to breathe her in…
Beneath the mask, his nostrils would have flared, if he had ones. Oh, the temptation, delight and curse and flame all together. Would he resist charming her to get a small, careful taste of her blood? She wouldn't feel a thing, wouldn't remember it, and she could be on her way home in the following hour…
No.
Vampire he may be, but he had manners. He had invited her into his home, and she would be safe as long as she remained inside. He always drank outside, hating to leave the smell of blood lingering in his hallways. It slowed and stopped his composing.
But now, with that scent… He felt whole duets and arias rise in him once again, glorious, beautiful melodies and the whisper of lyrics to accompany them.
If only she could stay, so that he may indulge in his passion, in ways he had lost since his only love left?
That thought sobered him, and drove all temptation away from his mind. He'd never drunk from his Christine's blood, despite how potent it had felt to him then. At the time, her very scent had sent him into a frenzy of words and melodies.
It was with her perfume in his heart that he'd composed his Don Juan Triumphant. And what a mockery of love it had been… Tonight, a hundred years later, if he allowed himself to drink from her… Who knew what he would do?
He wouldn't risk it.
She had to leave, now that she was satisfied, and never return. He would forget her song, the temptation of her blood, her scent, and return to his silence.
Her eyes were closed. She was breathing evenly, deep and slow.
She'd fallen asleep.
Panic flared inside him as he rose to his feet. That hadn't been part of the plan! He paced around her, trying to come up with a solution that didn't involve actually touching her, but…
He approached her. Kneeled by her side.
How serene was her face, in sleep! How prettily she smiled, even unconscious!
He sighed.
Ever since his Christine died, he'd banished all thoughts of loveliness from his gaze. There was no more beauty, no more good in this world, when she'd left it. Only darkness, silence and pain. But here, right in the heart of his home, lay the loveliest of creatures.
He could almost feel the warmth of her skin, the softness of her hair, how beautifully golden it was in candlelight.
He could see her rosy cheeks, her pink lips. And always, her delicate throat, how his fangs were appearing now, aching for just a taste, just the smallest bite from the curve of her neck.
Another pure, gentle Angel had come to his home. And once again, he'd fallen helplessly under her spell.
He went to retrieve his cloak, and as carefully as he could, arranged her legs on the sofa and covered her sleeping form. A small curl had fallen over her eyes, and he couldn't help his hand from delicately tucking it to the side.
There.
Just by her song, and coming to chase him onto his doorstep, she'd bewitched him.
He sighed again.
Very well, he thought. Starved from touch and love and beauty, he would accept the very first hint of it. Tomorrow, he'd see what the future held for him, and for her, but that night belonged to him, as he whispered a lullaby in her ear.
This night belongs to us, my love.
Sleep, and let your sorrow behind.
I will watch over you, shield you from harm,
And let the moon soothe your aching heart.
He let her sleep and returned to his chambers. He remembered what had happened the last time he'd had a woman sleeping in his house. But this time, she had actively sought him out. Had wanted to hear him.
What about the next morning? He should have new clothes for her, and breakfast, too… He should eat, as well, just in case he felt his resolve leaving him.
In a few seconds, he'd sent an email to the old lady who did his shopping, asking her to bring what Christine would need the following morning, and then he'd donned another cloak and was out, floating down the hills.
His meal was quick and not nearly as appetizing as her blood felt, but it was good food, still, and half an hour later he was back in his room.
Clear-headed, for once, thirst appeased, and with a new sense of purpose.
She had reached out to him. The knowledge would delight him if he weren't so scared he'd only bewitched her.
What would he do now?
She had reached out to him. He'd done it right, though, hadn't he? She hadn't gone yet. Had trusted him enough to fall asleep right in a stranger's house. Or had his powers flared too strong and filled her with a misplaced sense of safety? He could never be sure, and the fear of her reaction the next morning returned to claw at his heart.
Melodies were coming back.
He'd almost forgotten how it felt, to be filled with the music once more, to feel the notes dance in his brain and beg him to write them, to play them, how the first lines grew and the background appeared to join them, in a harmony he thought he'd never hear again.
His favorite piano was in his living room, where she was sleeping, and therefore unreachable. So was his harp, which had always allowed him to relax, the sound clear and sweet and soft.
That only let him with his preferred violin, in a case next to his bed.
In that old house, the walls were well-built and sound-proof. He'd never needed that before, but that was just how he operated. Things had to be well-done. Things and buildings were never afraid of him. Never rejected him.
They didn't leave, nor die.
Until today, his walls had never been used to the extent of their designs, but now he could see that he'd done well. When he closed the door to protect his new protégé's sleep from his instruments, the whole house turned silent. Even his good hearing could barely hear her slow breathing.
Pleased with the soundproofing, he gathered a few sheets of composing paper and his favorite, oldest red pen, settled at his desk and began writing.
If he had tears, he would have wept.
It felt like greeting an old friend. Or so it would have, if he'd known what that was like. The end of a long darkness, of his long silence.
Notes and words were coming back, and his hand could hardly keep up with their onslaught. They sprang and jumped and greeted him with their vibrancy, their delight and their love.
Almost like a lover's caress.
We've missed you, the music seemed to whisper.
Time had no more hold over him, but there and then, it was even more obvious. He was living again. Not merely existing, out of place and time, for beauty had claimed him back. And that was all thanks to her, his new, dearest Angel.
If for nothing else, he would be forever grateful to her.
And now his mission appeared clear and bright once again.
Whatever had been her dream and ambition, he would help her to achieve it.
He would ask for nothing else in return, would never even share the new, secret wish of his heart. His old Christine's kiss had felt like redemption. He would prove to her, now, even in death, that she had been right to forgive him. He would be worthy of that.