Many times in his life, Erik had heard of the concept of deafening silence. Silence so heavy and blanketing that it was nearly unbearable to hear, silence that engulfed you, body and soul and seemed to pulse with its own existence. It was often the subject of whispered confessions of women hiding in the eaves of the opera house, women who had experienced the sort of attentions only wealthy, handsome patrons appeared capable of giving... their excited retellings of the prior night's ominous meeting, the flirtations, the wine, the slow build up, the blissful neglecting of reserve, the sweet release, and the expected gifts and proposal soon to come. All of the events unfolding under the heavy hanging clouds of this anticipative silence.
He'd never believed it possible, to experience that sort of void. That sort of absence of sound that made your heart catch in mid-beat, that caused your fingers to go quite rigid, grasping at something unseen but highly desirable. With his own hands now clenched into claws, fingers long grown sensitive from the cold pallor of his accommodations screaming from the pain, Erik was a man enlightened. He didn't notice the complaints of his possibly arthritic hands. He no longer heard the thunder of blood in his ears. The quiet static of the candles' gutter, the way the hall behind him always held the faint seashell sound of wind, the strange gasping breaths she admitted on the other side of the glass were all muted, dampened below the level of his comprehension by the overwhelming cacophony of the thick moment they shared. Like an impenetrable fog of fervent energy, that silence lingered until it had dissipated nearly completely, dissolving away and bringing back the simple sounds of her dressing room, the steady thudding of his own heart, and the ragged, expectant breathing she was making no attempt to control.
Here he stood, as if he were one of those ridiculous chorus girls, someone capable of being held in thrall by the effervescent expectation, the giddy fear of what's to come. One hand raised, he pressed his fingertips against the glass she now stood dangerously close to, his eyes drifting closed as she whispered, close enough to cause the skin of his wrists to tingle, as if they could feel her breath.
"Whose is that voice which consumes my mind and body? Whose is the voice I need? Has the angel of music at last graced me, an unworthy mortal?"
Each word seemed a reverent prayer, welling within her and tripping over her tongue, pushing past teeth and lips and becoming an offering to him, laid bare on an altar. In frustration he pulled the gloves from his hands and again placed his fingers against the glass, soundlessly tracing the line of her collarbone as she stood frozen in her breathless, ardent adoration.
His hushed reply twined words with lyrical flight, focused and muted at first, projecting it away from his presence, lest she become aware of something all-too tangible standing so very close. The soft, tinny song slowly increased in volume and clarity, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, his words sadly and sweetly spoke of cradling and protecting her, that he would not leave her alone, beckoning she stay close with an undercurrent of pulsing power, demanding obedience. The voice told her that it needed her, that she needed it, that it existed only for her, and in its unspoken terms it assured her she would certainly waste away without it. It promised care and comfort and whispered of darker affections in the same breath.
Oh, he had calculated his life up and until this point so effortlessly. He had been a prudent and cautious man, he could see that now. He'd laid out all of his plans, put so many of them into action, hoping beyond hope that his work would endure a hundred, two hundred years. Maybe further. That his genius would exist in places and memories the way his name and face never could. That it would be his mark left on the world, the monument to who he had been as a man. That thereby he would truly conquer the world that had shunned him.
How the unexpected so intrudes.
It was madness to think, to even dream, yet there she was... blushing and trembling at the sound of his voice, aching and yearning for him to continue. To tell her what to do. To make I worthy. As if she were the lesser creature. The mad part of him, sinister and seductive, quietly reminded him that she would likely do whatever he asked. The rational part won out, responding with a flash of anger to the ludicrous suggestion. This was not to be a clandestine arrangement. There would be no services rendered. With his knowledge, with his means, he could elevate her to the level of diva. He could bring out of her the ability to make grown men weep and women faint. He would construct her into an awesome and terrifying instrument of music. And that was how he would obtain his release. He would find no greater ecstasy in this life than to cultivate her talent.
At long last, he knew this is why he'd been put on this earth.
"Tonight," he heard the words coming from his lips, but did not believe he had spoken them. "Tonight, after the lights have gone down, after everyone is gone, after it is cold and dark. Rehearsal space six. Do not be late."
With one last raking glance at her, he turned and made his way back below. He feared, above all else, that waiting for her reply would have trapped him there for the rest of the day, well into the evening. He would have watched her dress without a thought, would have wasted away his hours worshiping her.
Behavior hardly befitting her heavenly-appointed guardian.
No, it would have to wait. He would have to wait.
Until tonight.