As promised, here's another one for the weekend! =D
*-* Christine X - Dreams, Food & Song
There was music, in her dreams, slow and gentle. Swimming through a warm, calm sea, running in a sunny meadow, the clean and earthy smell of the grass in her nose.
It surrounded her, playful and soothing.
She wanted to stay in that prairie forever.
And there was a voice, too. Like liquid flowing, lava through her veins. Desire, burning flame. Purring in her ears. She wanted to lose herself in that voice, please the voice, kiss the voice.
A man's voice, tender and sensual, singing words of devotion, of never-ending love. Everlasting music. The two entwined, in her mind, until she could no longer separate the two.
It was leaving her, as she woke up.
"Don't go", she pleaded.
But to no avail.
"I'm here," he kept whispering.
"Here…"
"Here."
The echo haunted her as she fully awoke, in a strange unfamiliar room. The large curtains darkened the windows.
She could hear the birds singing in the trees, the wind in the forest. And yet, no music. She was sure she'd heard some, though. Erik had been playing, she knew it.
But there were no sounds coming from the entire house.
Stupid of her to believe such a wonderful architect wouldn't soundproof his home, and especially the bedrooms, but… Had it only been in her dreams, that voice and the music that so well accompanied it?
The after effects of his symphony of the day before, perhaps.
She would never be over it, goosebumps appearing on her arms with the very memory of it.
Slowly she got up, to open the curtains. Just an inch, to see what it looked like outdoor. She wasn't disappointed. The view was superb. In the soft morning light, everything was bathed in rich orange, pink and red, trees with leaves of gold glittering, and the ground a sea of blood. Rather than turn her stomach, it amazed her, the color so unusual.
There was no place like this in the entire world. Perhaps that was why, of all the places he had visited over the years in his travels, he'd chosen this one to build his home. It felt poetic and dramatic enough for this man she still knew so little about.
When she had her fill of this beautiful, magical sight, she turned back to her room. There were a few candles of course, but what she hadn't noticed were the vases and how many were filled to overflowing with flowers. Perhaps that was why she'd believed she was in a forest, with their light perfume filling the air. Each one was freshly cut, the arrangement stylish and graceful.
A few paintings on the light blue walls, watercolors of ballet and dancing, of Provence, colorful but soft.
With every detail she uncovered, she was reminded of how much of an artist he was. No area remained out of reach for him to experiment on and become more than adequate. A real renaissance man, he felt like to her.
And cursed with a mask for a face. Balance, perhaps? To have so many gifts, he had to forsake the entire of humanity?
She would push a little more today, after their lesson. Just an inch, to test him. By no means would she ask for more than he was ready to divulge. She knew how it felt to be pressured for questions she wasn't ready to answers.
She went into the bathroom, a replica of the one he had downstairs, except for the mirror over the sink, and the absence of his products.
There were others, made for females, some he'd put there just for her. Or had there been other women?
No. They were all new, never used. He had loved another woman, a Christine like her, and she had broken his heart. That much she'd figured out from every clue he'd left. But no other, not recently, anyway.
She shook her head. Today, she would hear some more of it, if she had to beg him for it. She wouldn't have to, she believed, but with such a strange man, she could never be sure.
And yet he'd opened so many parts of himself, the day before. Admitted he wore a mask. And why. It had cost him, to confess that, she knew it. But it had been worth it, in the end, as he seemed more at ease with her.
And their conversation.
She could replay his answers and his thoughts in her head, the careful way he chose his words. His pronunciation, so precise.
And how she nearly fell asleep and had to stay there, again.
He'd put his handkerchief in her bathroom, by the sink. Clean and as silky as she remembered. Was it another one of his gifts? Thinking she might need to cry some more because of him? Still, she appreciated the thoughtfulness, and put it back into her pocket.
The nightgown she wore, too, was a priceless work of art. Simple in its design, and yet the material was rich and expensive, lace in parts of the bodice and the sleeves, and the hem, too.
He wasn't that old, and had surely come from a wealthy family. And yet, he had taught himself, not even wanting a tutor. With his face, if it really was as terrible as he'd said, it might have been hard to find one willing to teach him.
For each question answered about his life, several more appeared.
And she was determined to answer them all.
After she had showered and dressed in another set of beautiful, simple clothes, not feeling the fatigue from a few nights spent barely sleeping, she came down to the kitchen, following the smells of the food he'd been preparing for her.
She had barely entered he'd looked up and smiled at her, so brightly, so warmly.
"Good morning, my dear Christine."
Would the shivers ever stop?
"Good morning, Erik. Thank you for letting me sleep here, and for the food."
She wouldn't comment on his strange food habits, for it truly wasn't the most peculiar thing about him, and she had a lot more pressing questions.
"You are most welcome."
As last time, he put a warm plate in front of her, filled with freshly baked pastries, an open jar of Nutella, and a big glass of water.
"I trust your night was pleasant. Was your bed comfortable? Did you have everything you needed?"
There wasn't you in it, she almost blurted out, before catching herself and keeping the damning words to herself. As if she hadn't been obvious enough by now, how much she wanted him at times. How sometimes the tension just skyrocketed and she was left wondering how it would feel to have his lips linger on her own, after their much too short kiss. And the mask… Was that why he'd freaked out? Why he couldn't have born to have her touch him?
Still, she would wait. Hope he would come to feel as she did.
"Very well, thank you."
This time, despite his obvious wishes not to watch her, his gaze kept returning to her, and she felt the warmth and intensity of his eyes on her face more times than she expected and it thrilled her. She might be blushing too, but so far she couldn't tell. It was too warm still.
Sometimes, their eyes met, and she had to stop eating, losing herself in those swirling pupils of gold. It felt as though the entire world could be contained in his eyes.
He was still impeccably dressed, still sat straight and tall in his chair, his hands folded over the table.
How she loved his hands.
She ached to reach out and grasp them again. Feel those fingers over hers, both strong and so gentle on the keys, on the strings of the harp.
"Our lesson?" she asked, wanting to distract herself from all those lingering feelings.
He seemed just as "relieved" as her to be able to focus on something else.
"Yes, it is time."
In the piano room, he settled down at the keys in his usual manner, and began warming her up. As before, she felt an ease in those preparations she had rarely felt without him.
From arias to arias, they went, and she lost herself in those songs, letting his advice wash over her. In his music, she was reborn. Stronger, more emotional, her own gift thriving under his careful, gentle guidance.
With every song they rehearsed, she heard herself and could hardly believe the changes in just a few hours of work. But she had become the role. Shed her skin as if shapeshifting, as easily as one might lose hair.
When they were rehearsing, there was never any judgement from him, never the urge to hold back and keep some part of her to herself, precious and hidden. She wanted to reveal all of herself to him, make her character her own, meld the two so closely Christine was no more, only becoming Marguerite, Lakmé, Juliette, Pamina, Carmen.
These women were her, now, sharing her skin.
And through him and his help, she could let them out. With him, they felt so real.
When it was over and he called it off, she was spent. Exhausted, almost emotionally distressed. Returning to her own body, to the present, felt strange and unfamiliar. Her own struggles were too obvious now. Dimmed, and yet thrust in a different, unforgiving light.
More painful.
"Are you alright?" he asked her.
She must have looked as out of place as she felt.
"Just give me a minute, I will be fine."
He nodded, joining her on the sofa she'd thrown herself upon.
She had been perfect. A different level from yesterday still. This time, she had become the character, her voice and acting perfectly tuned to whoever she was during the song.
At times, he almost had to look at her to remind himself of the young singer underneath the character. He had never heard someone sing like that. Just the slightest word to help direct her was enough to launch her into a memorable, unforgettable rendition of the aria.
And yet, despite that, he could still see her. Hear her, the Christine who had come to mean so much to him. Her perfect instrument, her lovely, clear voice, and how powerful she could make it when it needed to be. But she was giving it her all, now, and no one could miss it.
His heart could barely resist her. He'd been having repeated goosebumps all over his body ever since she's opened her mouth, and her emotions had nearly caused his fangs to appear, drawn by the rich, deep flowery scent she gave out.
But he could see how taxing it was on her. She would need to build up more stamina to endure the length of a full show. He would help her as well. And in the fall, she would be able to have her first auditions. He would bet his entire fortune she would get accepted this time, no threats or letters needed.
She was an Angel, a gift to Music and Humanity.
The world would see it.
No doubts of it.