A/N: I really don't appreciate comments remarking on how this story has gone unfinished; I hate to be a buzzkill, but I've got other obligations outside of fiction writing. This past year has been the worst of my life (thus far). I'm sorry that I can't write and post as often as I'd like to. Muses whither, writing goes unwritten. That's just the way things are. I'm sorry.
My writing style has changed over the past year, so you'll find that the descriptions and such may be different than how I normally write. If you're looking for a more updated story, check out my newer story "The Mad and Wretched".
EDIT: After watching parts of the movie over again, I have decided to reupload this chapter as an edited version. :)
Chapter Four
Before anything else, for her there was his music.
It was all around her—winding, lofting, lilting. Its melodies bespoke nothing like she had known before: something strange, something whimsical, something evocative. She was breaking from the watery membrane of normalcy, into the thrilling newness of his voice.
Oh, God, his voice!
Christine sighed as she listened to his dying notes, her lungs shuddering as a damp, saccharine air poured down her throat. She exhaled, her eyes fluttering; that white mask—so blaring and peculiar—subsumed her vision, caused her heart to lurch. She felt the impress of his glove upon her palm, felt nothing more than the sensation of him before her.
A glint of candlelight caught in his gaze, causing it to flare like twin flames. Her lashes fluttered. He seemed to be urging her, probing her, demanding something of her. An instinct coursed through her brain; her mouth parted.
And she sang.
She sang of him, of his presence in her dreams, in her thoughts; she sang of his voice which haunted her soul, her being. She sang everything, as she did every moment, for him.
His fingers relaxed in hers as a pleasured sigh escaped his lips. The tiniest hint of a delight, like the suggestion of a ghost, quirked the right globe of his lips into a smile. She felt his pulse burn with hers as their voices began in a crescendoing duet.
And so they went: down, down, down. Further still, till she lost track of the steps, till the garish life above gave way to humble earth, till the light mingled with dark. Slowly, the air begin to thicken and grow cold. Christine felt a breeze caress the length of her neck as her skin exploded with the coming chill. Her dark escort turned round. His dark brow furrowed in concern at her obvious shudder. Something filtered through his gaze— what it was, she knew not—and he pressed the broad length of his hands to her quavering back, urging her forward.
Together, their voices guided them through the labyrinth—down a neverending stair, across a dark steed's back, along a placid girth of water—to her mentor's intent.
When the gates rose, they crossed the threshold to what Christine could fathom only as Eden. At his command, her voice soar high above, gracing the stone arches to ricochet back across their ears. The glow of a thousand flaring lights dripped across the length of the cavern. Christine's eyes absorbed each minute detail: the lapping shoreline, the draping folds of the Persian rug upon the floors, the endless green-blue waters that rippled and gurgled alongside them. In her short life, Christine had seen much of the world: cramped, musty garrets to spacious, roiling hills flaked with snow; from great, towering edifices that captured the glitter of morning, to the grandest spread of rocky beaches. Sights and glories be trumped!—this, her guardian's domain, was by far the grandest thing she had ever seen...
When the boat made a slow and peaceful kiss with the shore, the dark specter alighted with the dexterity and fluidity of a wild cat. He sprung to the other side, whirling to face her. In the distant, gauzy light brushing through the creaking portcullis, she could see, for the first time, the awe and splendor that he embodied. He was grand. Regal. His face, chiseled yet sloping to subdued, framed a set of intense, narrow eyes that seemed trained to every fascination of her being.
"I have brought you...to the seat of sweet music's throne...to this kingdom where all must pay homage to music..." he urged as he strode, his voice fading to a vehement hiss. "Music..." He leapt atop a series of steps, coming to rest at a massive, gleaming organ. "You have come here, for one purpose and one alone..." He spread the length of his long fingers across the keys in the silence, and within a throbbing, heated moment Christine yearned to be the pliant instrument beneath his fingers. She found herself flushing madly as he turned round slowly and purred, "since the moment I first heard you sing, I have needed you with me, to serve me, to sing"—his lips trembled in a glorious smile, his head bobbing in a certain nod she couldn't refute—"for my music...my music..."
They faced one another then, breathless and gloriously enraptured. Christine regarded him anew, eyes wide and knees slacking in her curled hands. She felt a rapturous featherweight ascend to embrace her chest; her eyes flickered back.
At her relaxation, he approached, silently, his lips parted and a hypnotic glow to his eyes. He descended the steps he had so effortlessly climbed, arms outspread and an uncanny smile playing upon his fine mouth. His long torso stretched as he leaned forward to offer his hand. Christine took it without hesitation.
A sigh fled from her lips as he began a different tune—a tune crafted of the finest mechanisms of music. A melody that poured fire through her soul like it was nothing more than water. A song that caused something unfamiliar to catch the sweet, blazing kindling of his words.
"Turn your face away from the garish light of day. Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light. And listen to the music of the night..." His words reached her ears, curled round her mind like smoke. His voice swelled and released in a beautiful vibrato, a voice she'd heard a thousand times before, but grew grander every time she heard it.
Slowly, gently, he opened his world to her. It enfolded like a dream: mystic, powerful, weightless. He led her with a gentle hand, coaxed her through the winding tumble of his creations. And she wanted to see it all.
He began to circle round her, his eyes never once wavering from hers. "Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind, in this darkness that you know you cannot fight…"
Though safety beckoned, Christine felt the pull of his unknown grow. It flourished, warm and glowing and golden, from the core of her heart to the flesh of her fingertips. She felt the draw of his gravity to hers.
"The darkness of the music of the night…"
Night. What mystery and thoughts the notion holds. Such blindness, such fright. Such naked fragility in those that dwell within the black pages of shadow, never knowing what may lurk beyond the tendrils of gloom. And yet, with him beside her, the night became something courageous, something beautiful, something free.
She was no longer scared.
A great joy swelled within her heart, causing a smile to leak across the canvas of her face. She faced him, her curls bouncing and her breath reeling, as his voice exploded above the loud silence. How she wished to throw her arms wide, to shout to the heavens in her ecstasy! To touch him, embrace him! To be held by only him!
His voice began to rise above them, past the shaky, excited sound of their hearts, beyond the galaxies that whirled and waltzed round them.
Oh, God, she could drown in his voice. In him.
He watched her through the haze of a dozen flickering candles, moving along with a liquid stride. "Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world. Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before. Let your soul take you where you long to be…!"
This was where she longed to be.
Her pupils dilated; her cheeks flushed. She felt her skin erupt, prickly and rough, as they faced one another, separated by a mawing hush. Chests heaving. Eyes glistening. Lips parted.
"Only then can you belong...to me..."
Then his body was flush with hers, his hands were ghosting above her bodice. She knew, then, that she was supposed to deny his touch, but found that she couldn't, didn't want to deny him. They were floating, falling. Flying into some place she had never been before. She reached forward on her toes, tilting her head to his. He drew back quickly, smiling lightly through her chagrin. "...Savor each sensation…"
He drew her along once more, down a brief flight of stairs. Christine felt the cold press of stone against her stockings, felt the warmth of his body—a heady juxtaposition. He guided her before him, his breath circulating round her ear. A contented smile flashed across her face as he reached forward, drew back a curtain, and begged of her to look into herself.
A thrill ripped through Christine. Her eyes widened, then collapsed. She felt the press of his world against her, black and riveting, as her knees gave way and that very blackness consumed her vision. She could hear only his voice. And how pleading it was! How quiet and tender!
"You alone can make my song take flight...help me make the music of the night…"
When she woke, it was to the sound of music.
It was always music—no matter when or where her head found its rest, she'd sleep and wake with the same thing: music. It was always provided by the same source, her Angel of Music: no longer a spirit, as she had so often thought, but a man! Flesh and blood! To most, this morning signal would be considered a nuisance, something akin to the sound of a cockcrow to start the day's labor. To Christine, it was something magical. Something she couldn't live without.
Music...
The rush of tiny, distant cymbals faded into the blackness of her eyes, causing her to blink them open in a dazed stupor. Her eyes wide, she sat up and inspected the source: a diminutive monkey donned in Persian garb, banging monotonously upon a set of tinkling little cymbals. Christine smiled. For really, it was quite a sight she hadn't expected out of her host—something so unassuming and innocent.
She pressed her feet to the floor, shocked to find them bereft of her stockings. She drew back onto the bed with a gasp. As the cymbals slowed to a halt, a new and loftier melody subsumed the quiet.
"I remember there was mist," she recounted hazily, slipping past the stone threshold of the bedchamber and out into the cavernous room. A throne room. "Swirling mist upon a vast, glassy lake. There were candles all around, and on the lake there was a boat. And in the boat there was a man…"
Her head turned to toward the man in question; his torso twisted to face her. That mask faced her, always facing her. It mocked her. As a great curiosity filled her soul, she felt her fingers twitch in impatience. She must know what lurked beyond that mask. Beyond that man.
Christine stepped forward lightly, grinning. "Who was that shape in the shadows? Whose was the face in the mask?" She flickered behind him, a white, glowing specter at his side. Gently, she pressed her fingers to his bare cheek as he reclined into her touch. Her vacant hand traveled up, up, up, till it ghosted above the smooth, pallid surface of that strange mask.
The man flinched. His nostrils flashed, his mouth seethed. As if sensing her intent, his muscles coiled beneath her fingertips. With a growl, his hand snapped up to hers. He encased her tiny wrist in a steadfast grip, all the while facing the looming organ. "I would advise you not try anything of the sort, my dear, lest you regret your insolent decision."
Christine gasped. She darted away as he rose above to face her. Though his entire being was on display, all she could see was that mask.
That mask.
"I trust you had a most pleasant slumber?"
At the low, rumbling timbre of his voice, Christine found a startling warmth flush the length of her body. Her throat tightened. Words fled. She nodded, her eyes darting to the floor as he inspected her.
Any confidence from the night before had died with the morning. Christine felt the air shift and crackle between them as a weighted silence hung itself up to dry. She folded her trembling hands behind her back.
"Good. Very good," he said brusquely. He whirled back round to face his instrument, wherein he strode to the bench and took a measured seat, the tails of his robe flicking nonchalantly behind him. He plucked a quill from its inkwell and began to scrawl upon the parchment with slow, melodic strokes.
"M-Maestro?"
The scratching quill stalled, blotting ink upon the page in a dark clot. "What is it?"
She shuffled forward. Her words strained out meek and vague. "What happened to my stockings?"
At this, he turned around abruptly, his arms aloft at his side. His face relaxed into amusement. "You're implying that I tampered with them. And I don't appreciate blame."
"Well, it's only that…"
"Only that what?"
What had overcome him since the previous evening? What caused him to act so suddenly brash, so callous? Had he not treated her with delicacy and warmth mere hours before? Christine blinked, stupefied. Her brows quirked as she cleared her throat. "Well, Maestro, it's only that you were the only other being, that I am aware of, that dwelled here whilst my sleep. It's only logical to assume that, well, my being in my unconscious state, you had something...to do with...their disappearance…"
His chest reverberated with the sound of an icy chuckle. "My dear, you will find no need for such contrived formalities here. I removed your stockings because they were riddled with holes and mire from our journey, and I couldn't have you wander around without proper attire. I had another set of hosiery sent for you. When they arrive, you'll find them of far better quality than what that tawdry dressing room supplied to you. If you are so concerned and sentimental about the old pair—" he swept beyond her into a separate chamber she hadn't noticed before, returning with her former stockings. He pressed them into her palms. "—Then here they are."
She thanked him somberly then said, "you...simply removed my stockings? Nothing more?"
"Yes. Quite relieved, aren't you?" His eyes glittered with dewy malice.
She was supposed to feel relieved. That was what decorum dictated, didn't it? And yet, deep within, she knew she wished for something more. A blush creeped along the contours of her body. He regarded her strangely, his arms drawn back. He straightened quickly, snapping from a trance as he noted her watching him, and returned to the long bench.
"When...when shall I leave, then?"
He began to write upon the paper again, his eyes never wavering from the score. "Whenever I feel is best."
A gasping shock scintillated her senses, causing her to rear back in alarm. What gall! "Oh, but surely you don't mean..."
"Yes, I surely mean it. You may leave now, Christine."
And so she fled from the room, back to the chamber, further still into his domain where light was banished and music ruled.
A/N: I hope ya'll liked this chapter. Reviews are greatly appreciated! :)