There was no relief at the bottom of the glass, despite the hope that there could be. Erik let the empty vessel dangle over the side of the arm of the chair, his loose grip barely enough to save it from a shattering end on the library floor. Let go. Let it go.
He'd tried. Since Inferno, he'd kept his distance from her, giving her only polite regard when they ended up crossing paths... He'd stopped writing music. He'd stopped playing, though the lack of it wounded him. To play, to write, meant to open himself to her -- because that is what would happen -- and Erik had fallen too deeply into those fires before. He did not believe he would survive those flames again.
It was obsession. He and that particular madness were old acquaintances by now. He could stand toe to toe with it and know it for what it was. He wanted her so badly, it felt like need. She haunted him, his perfect ghost, with a voice that never needed his tutelage. If only it were just her voice that called him.
But Magdelene was more than beauty on the air. She was grace and kindness. She was strong steel and gentle yielding. She had remained herself despite his own corrupting presence. His grip shook briefly before he tightened it.
Even now, the madness of his heart demanded that he seek her out. Break into her sanctuary. Soak in her presence. But that was something he could not bring himself to do. There were ways. So many easy ways. Yet, he found that he couldn't bring himself to violate her privacy. He respected her. He wished he didn't. He wished for the simplicity of taking her over, of winning her will and molding it to fit his own. But deep inside, he knew he could never be satisfied with that.