Happy reading!
*-* Christine VIII – Going back
She drove home in the coming darkness, a bit numb from all she had experienced those last 24 hours. It'd been a dream, all of it.
His music, their music, had been more than she had ever expected, or even dreamt could happen, would ever happen. In those 24 hours, she felt she experienced more life than in the past year.
And ever since she'd left his side, she could feel the pull of his voice in her ears again, pleading for her to go back to him.
What was that? This magnetic pull she felt from him, even when he wasn't there? Those urges to kiss him, despite all her good sense and reason?
She both dreaded and anticipated the coming morning.
Her home was just as she'd left it, but it felt as if a veil had been cast over it. That big, open house, that had been a refuge from her grief when she had first come, was too silent. Night had come back, and she rushed to the roof, desperate for air, for something real, and her heart kept drumming in her chest, painfully reminding her of her loss and her prison.
Today had been the first time she'd felt freed from her grief, and now she was back in that sea of sorrow, drowning in it, despair overwhelming her. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, clawed at the tiles and moaned at the fading moon, tears running down her cheeks.
She fell asleep there, exhausted from too many feelings.
Morning light greeted her, soft and warm. Nothing like that cold empty morning from that cursed winter. But still it failed to soothe her heart. The sun felt harsh on her exposed arms. She felt the remains of her tears staining her cheeks, her skin tired and aching. Her hair was a mess of tangled curls on her back.
She got up, blinking at the sun, mocking her pain with all its warmth. She couldn't breathe again, and climbed down to reach her bathroom. The mirror greeted her, and her reflection was not tender. Ignoring it, she stepped into the shower and closed her eyes, washing the remains of her sorrow. The night hadn't calmed her, only briefly allowed her to let it all out.
For a night and a day, she'd lived again, thrilled by him and his voice and his music, but now the despair was back. She had to get out of this mindset.
For too long it had consumed her, and now he had tumbled into her life, to help her make the most of her talent. This meeting had not been just luck.
She had to look forward, and that meant getting dressed and driving over to him.
Slowly, she would build her life from the ground up again. And fight her depression every inch of the way.
After her shower, she noticed the clothes she'd kept. His clothes. She would wash them and give them back to him, but her heart could hardly bear it. Why was she so sentimental over so small a thing?
Yet these were probably some of the nicest clothes she'd ever worn. She caressed the smooth fabric, marveled at their strength and softness. They'd been dyed by hand, the color pure and deep within each thread. As an aspiring opera singer, she'd been fascinated with that world, and costumes were part of it. She knew how much care had come from making these. Had he bought them? Made them? They were new, never used. Why would he have those ready for her to wear?
The mystery around him always grew, and she was again drawn to him, almost desperate to discover each and every facet of him, if only he would allow her.
She didn't have to look up the way back to his house. Somehow, she knew it already, even after only gone up there once. Now she could see it from the bottom of the hill, even surrounded by the forest. It was mid-morning by the time her tires screeched on the red soil, and she closed her door.
Even after a single day spent there, coming back felt very familiar. And he was there, she knew it, opening the door before she could even reach the front porch.
Music. She heard him playing before she stepped inside.
"Please come in," he said gently from the living room.
She followed the beautiful sounds. Somehow, she knew what he'd been up to all night. Why, she couldn't explain it, but he felt tired and waiting for something. Waiting for her?
"Good morning, Erik."
He turned his head towards where she was standing in the opening of his door, not quite daring to enter the room. He was sitting all proper and relaxed in front of the piano.
He smiled through his mask, she noticed it clearly now.
"Good morning, my dear Christine."
She was prepared for it, she thought. But still she shivered when he said her name. Would she ever get over the gentle, adoring way his tongue twirled around the "t" and the "n", lingering just a little bit too long on the "s" sound?
If she dared, she would ask him to repeat it, over and over again, until perhaps she grew tired of it.
My dear Christine…
She would have to find a way to ask him about his past, one day. Sooner, rather than later, because who knew what mistakes she could still unwillingly make, by remaining ignorant of what triggered him?
But until then, she was content to relax by his side, while he continued playing, eyes closing to enjoy the music completely, untethered by mere sight, when his ears and fingers were so attuned to his instrument he only ever needed them.
She made her way over to him, keeping her arms and hands in check. She was dying to touch him, drawn to him, and the dark striking figure he cut in those clothes. Thin, but tall and elegant. And perfect posture.
"Would you sing again?"
Again, the words left her throat without her full consent. Without checking them. But he chuckled, a warm, deep sound reaching deep into her core, his fingers playing a much softer tune.
"As you wish. Please, have a sit."
She sat down in his sofa, right behind him. She heard him taking a deep breath, enjoying the electrifying silence from her waiting, the deep breath before the plunge, and finally his voice rang in the small, open room.
As before, the drapes were covering the windows, the air just a bit too warm, the lights dimmed to create a sensual atmosphere. The candles cast a lovely glow on his cheeks, golden to match his eyes.
His profile was handsome, too, as he appeared to her from the side of the sofa.
But when he began singing, everything around her disappeared, and only his voice mattered, the sweet, hauntingly beautiful melody he was weaving around her, enclosing her in a space of beauty and comfort and light.
Not blinding, harsh white light, but the golden, warm and flickering one from his thousand candles. The one so well reflected in his eyes.
His fingers stilled on the piano, and she barely noticed he had stopped, when he turned to look at her.
"Your turn?"
Even when it was supposed to be her lesson, her singing, he still asked her. To see if she was ready.
But was she, though? After last night's bout of crying on her roof, she wondered if her voice was not too throaty, too aching and sore.
And yet, there was only one way to tell.
She nodded, and he gestured for her to come near the piano, so that she faced him and he could see her properly.
"When you are ready, my dear."
She was focusing on breathing, in and out, and not on the way his lips had shaped the words my dear. So delicately. So full of warmth, again.
Going up and down the scales, to get her voice started, he was looking at her, observing her, his gaze intense and fixed on her face, her throat, her lips.
She began singing, softly, at first, again, to gauge how she felt, how her voice responded to her summons, and then reached deeper, as he guided her to yesterday's aria. She could remember his words with blinding clarity, and brought the memory to her mind's eye, to let it overwhelm her, guiding her through the emotions and the acting.
The notes escaped from her throat as though they were reaching for the sky, clear as pure water, strong as a mountain torrent, and so full of emotions…
He could almost believe she wasn't the one he taught yesterday. While she had struggled with her emotions, the day before, today she was a different woman. Her feelings were plain on her face, filling her voice until he was hardly breathing over the keys.
Nearly choked by how much joy she was radiating.
He would almost close his eyes from how beautiful she was, feel his own heart burst and swell from so much delight.
She wanted to live, and she would bring back the dead and the depressed to life, for such was the power of her song.
If he weren't a vampire, he would be crying, very simply. His body would not be able to endure so much thrilling glee.
When she finished, he was silent. He'd never admitted he was too sensitive, when of course he was, feeling everything much too deeply for it to be sustainable, and becoming a vampire had emphasized those traits. However, this meant nothing. Today, every human would have cried during her song. Every creature would have felt her voice reaching deep within their hearts.
That was perhaps the second time, in two days, he fell deeper within her spell. With so little guidance, she was creating miracles.