Erik (i_haunt) wrote in we_coexist, @ 2015-03-21 17:58:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | erik, magdelene defoe, zz:status complete |
Midnight in the Garden (Magdelene)
He'd slept face down where he'd fallen, clothed still head to toe in suit and dress shoes. When he woke, he'd used the en suite to freshen up, then changed into the clothing that lingered in the guest wardrobe. After a second's pause, he realized that they were his clothes after all. The City, perhaps. No maid would dare enter his chamber - guest room or not - while he was in it. Hannibal might, however. The pianist was meddlesome as he was talented. Erik was still irritated with him.
With hair still damp from the shower, he walked back to the center of the bedroom, then turned aimlessly. There was no light coming in from the balcony door save that of the moon, and it was only then that he recognized that he was in the dark. The dark had become such a companion to him in the last few weeks that it seemed as nothing to walk in it, to breathe inside it. His unnatural eyes had never struggled to see in the dark, which is why he was so suited to living in the house by the lake under the Opera House.
Erik's mind and heart were full of contradictions. He wanted to end this wearisome existence - but at the same time, there was the voice that had kept him in this manor as well. He wanted his piano piece for Hannibal to be the last thing he wrote, and yet, he wanted to force that golden soprano into the shape of something designed just for it. He touched the band of gold on his left hand and shut his eyes. Above everything else, he wanted his wife back.
He found himself standing on the balcony, violin loosely in his grip. The violin... Had the City laid it out for him as well? That felt more like Hannibal. Meddlesome lad. Erik set the instrument firmly under his chin, but couldn't lift the bow to play. After a long few moments standing there, he finally sat down on the balcony floor and leaned his back against the stone wall of his manor. His eyes closed again. Music felt like his grief, amplified. He didn't know how to rise above it, and didn't know if he wanted to or if he should. It felt right to grieve.Ah, but it hurt. Anything he played would hurt, too.
So he was silent and still on that balcony. Still, until he heard the faint shish below, and knew it for a door opening. Erik lifted his head and listened more keenly.