♪ — How could Erik ever know what this woman was?
How could he know her struggles, the truth of her kind and the fact that she,
like him,
Was alone?
The music that found its way into his voice again was brought to his tenor, lifted to a range comfortable for him. He sang it with soul, from memory of his childhood. And in places, it truly did sound like a plea. A plea, for forgiveness, for that dear Mother Maria to show hm love and mercy.
That perhaps he’d be loved.
“Ave Maria, Gracia Plena
Maria Gracia Plena…”
And the words like notes from heaven, falling and spiraling, floating and descending all at the same time. An unearthly tenor seemed to fill the emptiness the darkness offered. Oh, yes, it warmed the cold and sent the Opera Ghost’s mind into a tender state of focus.
He could relax at last, even despite the threat of unwanted company…
And when the song ended, when the words and the melody drifted away, there was only the silence left again. The silence, and a painful loneliness.
When the Opera Ghost spoke again,
it was with wearied heaviness, with an almost unmistakeable grief.
He’d exhausted himself, drained his countenance of all calmness, and now only yearned for peace.
He’d sung, and now, he half expected to have to take off his mask, awe the crowd.
“………Please, Mademoiselle……
The Opera Garnier is closed…..
Please, leave me in peace.”
Music, how she loved it. All of her long life music was a way to call to her. Princess’s would sing for her, prince’s would sing of her and birds would sing around her, mingling within her flowing mane. But she could never sing, if even in a human form she was of a different grace. A grace that spoke of time and wisdom, of a loneliness that had never been felt until the very end when she was no longer alone.
But the voice grew and now she swayed, how she wished to simply lay and to finally rest confined within the notes and pitches,
R e m e m b e r i n g.
It was in the silence that soon fell, his notes fading softly into darkness that she removed herself from her thoughts. Large doe-like eyes reopening to look unto the darkness that did not feel heavy. Appreciation seeped from those sad eyes that could only remember. She had been given a song, a sweet song that had enchanted her. In all these years she had wandered aloof, watching, unseen from most for that was how she wished to be and when she had finally asked for something, she was well received. Amalthea had almost forgotten the dulcet tunes a life could hold.
The woman stood, long billowing hair fell to her hips as if it were sea foam washing against the shore. She mirrored perfection except for the mutilation upon her forehead to which she would always have when in this form.
“Monsieur,” she called softly as she walked to grand stairway, “I cannot tell you the service you have gifted me.. ”
She wished to remain, she wished to listen and wait until his voice began once more. Whether in the next hours, days, weeks or years. She wished to stay and relive her memories. To recall those faces of those she wished never to forget. Where would she go? Her woodlands destroyed, her kin diminished, her love a relic. She was a wanderer, she brought spring wherever she walked. She had slayed dragons, saved a king from poison but she could not belong anywhere. She would find a meadow, and she would rest upon soft grass wet with dew drops and she would tell the rabbits and the birds of what she remembered and of what she heard.
Her hand rested against a wall as his voice sundered within her mind. She did not wish to leave yet. He had given her a gift and received nothing in return. “Will you be here in the ‘morrow?”