Here's another chapter to celebrate the end of Nanowrimo! I hope you like it, this is one of my favorites.
*-* Christine XII - The Stage
After she showered, dressed and had breakfast, she drove back up to his home, giddiness slowly rising as she climbed the gentle slope between the trees.
Would she one day tire of this drive? Ever feel like she wasn't stepping into another world every time she passed his gates?
Her heart was beating faster, excitement and butterflies mixed within her chest. Goosebumps on her arms.
The door was open, and inside, he was singing. Such glorious, beautiful singing, from deep within the manor.
She had no words for it. He wasn't saying anything in a language she knew, but the pure joy he radiated was intoxicating. The joy from a man who had known so little of its wonders. Joy from a blind man discovering he can see again for the first time. From a wanderer dying of thirst in the desert, finding an oasis after making his peace with death.
Intoxicating. It felt like gold and warmth filling her veins, creeping back to her heart with their liquid bliss. It felt like glimpsing Heaven.
How was it that every time she thought she knew what his music was capable of, he was yet again surprising her with new heights? How did he manage that miracle, every single day she saw him?
A tender feeling in chest.
Was she the one who kept inspiring him? Or had he been the one finding new resources deep inside that had nothing to do with her?
Both, she guessed. She wasn't blind or shy or modest enough to believe she wasn't at least a bit responsible for the way his music soared. But his talent was unmatched, and he'd been the one shaping his voice, cultivating it carefully so that no one ever had that impact on her, with only a few notes.
She entered his house, following the sounds to a new room. It halted her heart. It was a theater. With rows of red-velvet seats, red curtains, golden statues and proscenium surrounding the stage. A chandelier illuminated the room, a beautiful crystal and gold antique. Electric light, for once.
He was singing on top of the stage, not facing her.
Did he have the mask on? From there, as she went up the aisle, to the small stairs at the base of the stage, she couldn't say.
His song turned questioning.
Do you still want to see me? Do you still trust me? Was yesterday no dream from either you or me?
He wouldn't see her, if she nodded. And if she spoke, she would disturb his song.
So she sang her reply, bright and clear as the sunlight. Stronger, she let it fill the theater, the whole house. The acoustics were exceptional, as well. She could feel her voice reverberating on every corner of the room, filling every seat, every square meter.
Please show yourself to me. I am not afraid. I will never be afraid of you, or forsake you.
His hands were not trembling anymore, when he reached up to take off his mask, and faced her. Still, fear shone in his eyes.
She flinched, the slightest move, but held fast, didn't break her song. She climbed up the stairs, and went to him. Took his hands. And at the apex of their duet, she kissed him.
There.
No more fear.
It had surprised her, just an instant, but now, she would get used to it again.
"Good morning, Erik."
"Good morning, my darling Christine."
She smiled as she looked up, losing herself in his eyes.
The fear had gone.
"What do you think of this room?" he asked her. "I thought it best to get you to practice in real conditions."
"It's very thoughtful of you. Thank you, it's perfect."
"I can't rent the opera for you to go and try out your voice, but this will do, in the meantime."
Small smile up his lips. The irony of his words was lost to her, but in time, he would tell her everything.
Would she hate him more for being a vampire, or a murderer, as well? He hadn't thought of that. But he could hide it to her forever, so that she never needed to know who he had been. There were no people around who could tell her of who he had been, ever. What he'd done to those who disagreed with him, or were merely in the way.
Most of them had deserved it, of course. He'd let anger get the best of him, many times over. But that man was gone, vanquished by his old Christine's compassion, and love.
She had loved him, he knew that now. In her own way, and her own conditions.
Now it was up to him to share that new man with someone he was caring about so much. Someone who was his new Angel.
Once again, he would do right by her.
And that started with making her a theater room to achieve her dreams.
"I never expected so much, Erik, I mean. You had it before, right? You didn't spend the whole night making it?"
It was impossible. Or wasn't it? With him, she could never be sure. So many tricks, each for her benefit.
"No, my dear. I always had it. Let's just say I have a flair for the dramatic. I just tidied it up a bit."
A flair for the dramatic. What an understatement, on his part. But he was so giddy, himself, so glad she liked his new gift, so happy she still wanted to look at him, be with him, now that his face had been revealed… He didn't care about the rest.
What a change.
"Would you like to practice?"
"Yes. I would very much like to."
He nodded, and left her center stage, while he went to the piano behind her.
"Are you ready?" he asked, hands on the keys.
She felt dizzy. A stage. She hadn't stepped on one of those in months. There were no people, no crowd expecting her to fail, ready to criticize every word that left her mouth, every gesture she made, but she could still see them all, imagine their jeers and their pitying glances.
She was trembling, legs shaking, heart beating so fast it would leave her chest. She took a deep breath, but it wouldn't work. Wouldn't calm her nerves.
He noticed straight away something wasn't right.
"You are afraid."
He stood and approached her. He should have known this wouldn't be as smooth as he'd expected it to be. But deep inside, despite the anger he felt at seeing her so small and frail, and lost, alone like this, hating those who had driven all the joy of performing from her heart, he was glad he'd thought of that before sending her up there alone to audition. He would have some time to shake her fears away.
"Listen to me. Close your eyes."
He took her hand. It was cold and clammy, from too much nerve.
"Concentrate on your song, will you? We will start with vocalizing. Just Ah-ah-ah on our scale. Warming up, together."
"Together," she nodded, her voice timid.
"Start now, my dear. Soft and slow, just like we did before."
She took another small breath, and slowly began her warming up.
"It is only us two, for now. Focus on me."
He corrected her posture, set her in front of the stage.
"Go on. Very good, very nice, slow and gentle. Like that."
She followed his instructions, letting his voice and the familiarity of their rehearsal wash over her.
Slowly, eyes closed, she forgot where she was standing.
He squeezed her hand, and let her go, going to the edge of the stage, down the steps.
"Sing for me, my dear. Stronger now, I cannot hear you as well over here."
His voice was still as strong and soft, as if he were still standing beside her. She directed her thoughts to him, eyes still closed, and projected her voice as he was guiding her, letting it fill the space.
He was at the back of the room, now.
"You are exquisite, and the others will see it too. Sing again, now, my dear. Let your voice climb up and over each seat, to the wall. To me!"
She did, letting go of the weight on her shoulders.
Her last note was vibrant and powerful, her vibrato so perfectly controlled it would have shattered any windows.
She stopped.
"Open your eyes."
She did. Saw him on the box over the back rows, like a royal circle in a real theater. She hadn't noticed it coming inside. A private box, right in front of her and her sightline.
She could hardly see his face over there.
"Now, it is still us two. Nobody will judge you here. This place belongs to you. A temple for Music, the seat of Sweet Music's throne. And when you sing, I will listen. We will start with another duet, to keep you at ease. I shall sing from up here, and you will direct your voice to me, and only me."
It was easy, to fall back into his old teacher role, especially in this place he'd fashioned both as a shrine to what he'd lost, and a masochistic way to remind him of what had been, to keep the pain and the memory alive.
But he would fill this hole inside. Fill this place with her warmth and her light and her song.
First, the lively duet they'd practiced the day before. It was warm and joyful, to keep her mind off her fears. Just celebrating them together.
Then, they would perform Lakmé's duet. He could play each and every part of it, and the Flower duet was an old favorite of his. The Love one, which broke his heart every time he heard it, he would steer clear of for now. It would be hard to bear her singing those words to him, for now, not yet, knowing they were false.
In time, they might become true.
He started, a cappella, to let her get a feel of what this could sound like. And she repeated it with him, joining his music.
With each note, she started to let go of her apprehension.
This stage was just another room for them to practice in, perhaps a bit more beautiful and larger.
At the beginning, she kept glancing everywhere, her voice fluttering on some notes, the way she hadn't done before. But as his voice kept reminding her of who was there, and all the ones who weren't, grounding her in this moment, she forgot. She settled in herself, back into her body, and wielded her voice like a weapon, between her and those seats.
A wall to keep their hate off of her.
"You are keeping me at bay," he softly told her as they ended the duet. "This is not about protecting yourself in a cage and letting your voice fly to the roof. You must reach the seats, the patrons there. You must let them hear you, the real you."
He climbed down, and sat down in the first row, in the middle. Right in front of her eyes.
"Sing to me. Make it reach me. Enclose me in."
Starting again, slowly, gently, pushing her voice not as a sword, but as a hug, encompassing all around her.
"That's it, my dear, go on."
He joined her again, and urged her, to let her voice swirl around him, like the sea, like a tidal wave, gently capturing all hearts with her power. Delicate, but determined.
Then he let go on alone, on Lakmé's first song, and had to stand up, at the far end, just to hear her.
It was beautiful. There were some little things to correct, of course, but the spark was already there. If she went on like this, no other soprano would ever reach her.
He smiled.
And that gave her the courage to launch into a different song. Carmen's opening, in her native French too. Hearing her sing those words he knew so well, in her most wonderful voice, playful and charming, he shivered.
She was singing just for him, and he went back to the stage to accompany her on the piano, just to join her song and let her be used to the feeling of performing for him even when he wasn't in the box or the stalls.
He closed his eyes, losing himself on the keys and the voice he so lovingly accompanied.
She herself was feeling light-headed. Her voice didn't seem to tire, just like his, fueling off the energy he gave her.
The piano followed her, helping her reach new heights, and at last, at long last, she opened her arms, facing the nonexistent crowd, imagining in her mind's eye how wonderful it would feel, to feed off the spectators' energy, how they would finally see her, like her, listen to her voice, and she could hear the applaud, feel the energy and she shivered, tears on her face as the piano built up, again, and again, and she threw her voice on the last note, holding it, so long, so long, it felt as though he was urging it out of her by his sheer will.
She went silent, as did the piano.
She couldn't move.
He was still, sat at the piano, himself in a haze. What thrills they would both have, when the house was ten times bigger than this theater, filled with thousands of people chanting her name, and she was dressed in a gorgeous gown designed just for her, full warm lights on her elegant form?
She turned to him, and he wasn't startled to see her cheeks sparkling. If he'd had the ability, his own would be tear-stained as well. He stood and strode to her side, seizing the hands she so lovingly held out to him.
"Thank you for this," she whispered. "I felt… I felt…"
"You were an Angel. A Prima Donna like the world has never seen or dreamt of."
She smiled, and even through her tears, she was beautiful. He loved her. And she kissed him again.
He wasn't startled, despite not yet having initiated the gesture, but in time, he would. She was desiring his touch, and while it still amazed him, he wouldn't deny her anything, even his cursed body and the scarred flesh, and his hideous face. If she wanted him, she would have all of him.
He brought his arms around her body, softly caressed her cheek, to dry her tears. And she hugged him, so tightly, as if afraid he would disappear. It was still a chaste kiss, lips caressing one another, but it was igniting something else, too. The prelude to a brand new desire, to much, much more. But he would never rush, just satisfied to let her kiss him that way, as tenderly as he could.
This was still more than he'd ever hoped for.
Four kisses. Would he count each she gave him, as if afraid they would end, at some point?
Because they would.
No matter what happened, she would die, one day.
He drew back.
"What is it?" she whispered, her arms around his neck to pull him back to her, closer to her still.
"There is something else I must tell you."