Remarkable. This Eric Northman remained completely frozen as the tune spun on. In his experience, the sounds Erik wrenched from the strings of a violin typically garnered a reaction from most within earshot. It was not pride that bit Erik, but curiosity. What experiences had this man behind him that "Orpheus" pulled nothing from him? It was not in Erik's nature to please an audience, but rather to ensure that what he did, he did to perfection. This truth turned his focus from the stone-like listener to the one for whom he was truly playing.
The music was for Mrs. Northman, who must remain an enigma. Of her, Erik could say only one thing: she must know that she was cherished. Perhaps forbidden trespasses would not resound as strongly with the man's wife. They were, after all, united -- not divided. But any love carried grief in its wake; one did not exist without the other in some form or another.
Drawing one last, final note long and taut on the strings, Erik simply said "Two," over the violin, and then moved into the next selection. This one had been written a few months after he'd caused the death of a certain stonemaster's daughter. "Luciana," he called it. He slid into a higher note, softly played. One by one, stronger notes twined in with the long, high note, then at once fell into a mindless madness of panic and fury and horror. He recalled having been lost to those waves. It had stayed with him for all his years - the sight of her falling, the sight of her blood and her brains on the stone far below. It was a trial for Erik to play this one, but it was powerful indeed, and it haunted as surely as anything would.
When the first flurries fell back again into that single high pitch of agony, he drew in the helpless grief with his bow, waves and waves of it, overlapping and overpowering, growing only stronger and stronger as the abridged piece progressed. He could feel his chest compressing under the blackness. It was the thought of Christine that kept him centered. This music had never been written for public performance.