[Thread] In Vain Do I Call
Characters: OU Erik, OPEN
Where: the graveyard
When: Late at night
Summary: Erik's just arrived, and is lost, lonely, and thinks he's died and gone to Hell
Warnings: Emo!Erik is emo?
Erik stumbled into the graveyard, having found it by pure chance - he'd been lurking in the shadows, as was his custom, and he'd found this cemetery, this land of bones and death. He fell to his knees before one of the headstones, choking on his tears behind his mask; lifting his head toward the sky, he raised the mask slightly, so that he could breathe freely. "Dead…" he moaned. "I am dead, and I am in Hell…" For he did not deserve Heaven, he knew. Not even Christine's love could save him, but the thought that she had loved him, the knowledge that she had cried with him, would sustain him even here, in the depths of this nightmare.
The touch of her lips lingered still upon his forehead, and as he sobbed piteously he imagined that her tears were once again mingling with his. Where was she, his Angel, his love? Flown, gone, far away. He'd let her go, he'd had to let her go because he loved her, and because she had cried with him, and because she loved him, and loved her Vicomte, and because she had consented to be his wife. Mad with grief, he clawed at the ground, letting the mask slip back over his face. His voice rose up in his throat, burst past his lips, in a mournful Latin requiem. If he was alive, he ought to be dead, and so he sang his own funeral, praying that death would come to him swiftly. Gradually his voice sank to a whisper, the merest breath of song, and his tears subsided.
Shivering, he pulled his dress-coat and cape about his skeleton frame tightly, and heard the rustle of paper as he did so. Curious, he examined his coat and found that his masterpiece, his Don Juan Triumphant, had come with him. Twenty years he had worked on it, and he had completed it, and had gone, as he'd told Christine, to his coffin to die. Why then, was he still alive? He had a vague memory of speaking to the Warden, but he'd been out of his senses at the time, and could not tell if the memory was real or imagined. And there was the matter of the strange bracelet about his wrist. Whence had it come, and what was its purpose? Did it matter? He would die in this lonely, wretched place, without his music, without his love.
He lifted his voice again, this time in a vengeful, jealous song, for he was jealous of the dead that rested in this graveyard. He had nothing now but his voice, and his masterpiece, and… what was this, in his pocket? The Punjab lasso… it too, had come with him. But that was all he had, apart from the curious bracelet and the little word-machine, which he'd glanced at once and then tucked into a pocket, and promptly forgotten. But his trap-doors, his secret passageways, his torture-chamber… he had none of those now.
Where: the graveyard
When: Late at night
Summary: Erik's just arrived, and is lost, lonely, and thinks he's died and gone to Hell
Warnings: Emo!Erik is emo?
Erik stumbled into the graveyard, having found it by pure chance - he'd been lurking in the shadows, as was his custom, and he'd found this cemetery, this land of bones and death. He fell to his knees before one of the headstones, choking on his tears behind his mask; lifting his head toward the sky, he raised the mask slightly, so that he could breathe freely. "Dead…" he moaned. "I am dead, and I am in Hell…" For he did not deserve Heaven, he knew. Not even Christine's love could save him, but the thought that she had loved him, the knowledge that she had cried with him, would sustain him even here, in the depths of this nightmare.
The touch of her lips lingered still upon his forehead, and as he sobbed piteously he imagined that her tears were once again mingling with his. Where was she, his Angel, his love? Flown, gone, far away. He'd let her go, he'd had to let her go because he loved her, and because she had cried with him, and because she loved him, and loved her Vicomte, and because she had consented to be his wife. Mad with grief, he clawed at the ground, letting the mask slip back over his face. His voice rose up in his throat, burst past his lips, in a mournful Latin requiem. If he was alive, he ought to be dead, and so he sang his own funeral, praying that death would come to him swiftly. Gradually his voice sank to a whisper, the merest breath of song, and his tears subsided.
Shivering, he pulled his dress-coat and cape about his skeleton frame tightly, and heard the rustle of paper as he did so. Curious, he examined his coat and found that his masterpiece, his Don Juan Triumphant, had come with him. Twenty years he had worked on it, and he had completed it, and had gone, as he'd told Christine, to his coffin to die. Why then, was he still alive? He had a vague memory of speaking to the Warden, but he'd been out of his senses at the time, and could not tell if the memory was real or imagined. And there was the matter of the strange bracelet about his wrist. Whence had it come, and what was its purpose? Did it matter? He would die in this lonely, wretched place, without his music, without his love.
He lifted his voice again, this time in a vengeful, jealous song, for he was jealous of the dead that rested in this graveyard. He had nothing now but his voice, and his masterpiece, and… what was this, in his pocket? The Punjab lasso… it too, had come with him. But that was all he had, apart from the curious bracelet and the little word-machine, which he'd glanced at once and then tucked into a pocket, and promptly forgotten. But his trap-doors, his secret passageways, his torture-chamber… he had none of those now.