Work Text:
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
"Song," Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
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The sweet singing broke through his sleeping consciousness. "Bonne nuit, cher trésor, ferme tes yeux et dors." Gentle rocking and a feeling of movement, with the soft sound of sweeping skirts against a stone floor. "Laisse ta tête, s'envoler, au creux de ton oreiller." The voice continued softly, melodically, against his ear. A gentle touch upon the back of his head, fingers stroking fair hairs at the base of his neck, as the movement of feet and the sweeping of skirts continued. The voice quieted for a moment, offering small bounces and vignettes of affection. The sweetest endearments and the softest of kisses to his cheek. "Un beau rêve passera, et tu l'attraperas," came the voice again as a calm settled over him. Who did this voice belong to? He struggled to remember -- struggled to grasp and see the face but -- the singing continued as his brain struggled. "Un beau rêve passera, et tu le retiendras ... "
Soon, his lungs were constricting and he was struggling to draw in every breath. The thundering drum of his heart was loud in his ears, as it struggled to beat with the dead blood running through his veins; his gaze fought to keep up with the hurried movements around him while his body was dying -- dying -- was this death? "We are connected by a chord you cannot see -- " his vision swam red as he looked around for his Louis but he was blinded by the hand of the Grim Reaper. " -- you cannot see it but it is very real -- " he was weeping now, openly, for what is, what was, and what was coming next ... as his beloved unsheathed the knife. The very instrument of his love would bring about his final fate. "I have loved you with all of myself," he spoke quietly, the words but a sigh upon dying lips. A soft exhale of breath left him and he dropped his head, hands on the floor, his body trembling in the effort to fight the unfightable.
He felt his lover's arm go around him, a hand at the base of his throat, drawing him back. Such a loving touch, the most loving touch -- and it made him ache as he rested his hand over his forearm, just for the joy of touching him once more. There was a time, a time even still, that he would go wherever that hand lead him. He closed his eyes and waited for the killing blow. He had hopes that his love would at least be swift, and merciful, even if a God that doesn't exist grants him that mercy he didn't deserve. "Je suis content que tu sois avec moi à la fin ... "
The clanking of a bottle and joyous laughter rang in his ears. "Oh my Lord, Wolfkiller," came the soft lilted voice laced with levity and a brilliant smile in his direction. There always lived a heavy sadness in the eyes of the man who spoke now. "It is impossible. You speak of sin and abomination," more levity and he could feel a smile pull at the corner of his lips.
"Is it sinful to love?" he heard the words from his lips, his eyes on the lovely face before him. The caramel of chocolate with the darkness of sadness, and the melancholy of the world on his shoulders. He leaned in close so only his love could hear him. "Is it sinful for me to love you with my whole heart? I would shout this on every rooftop in Paris ... " His comment was met with a derisive shoulder shrug and a flippant wave of a hand, earning him a torrent of wild laughter.
His love always found his exuberance so overwhelming and he did not care, for he loved him so. He reached for the violinist's hand, pressing a kiss to the palm, joyful to be met with a bright smile that it could light the darkest street; he had the most beautiful of smiles. How could he feel anything but love bursting out of every seam when he saw that smile? He leaned forward and pressed kisses on pointed places up his love's arm between words. "Play for me, my dearest Nicki, the hour is early still!" The young man stared at him with wide eyes and opened his mouth to -- what? Admonish? Deflect? He placed a finger over perfect lips. "No! I wish to speak no more of sin, but only of joy and love and freedom and you and me and Paris -- "
"Sleep, mon cher," the most melodic voice spoke in his ear. Fingers moved through his fine hair, lulling him to sleep. --
A feeling of flying --
Of screaming --
Of exquisite pain and fear -- he was screaming and screaming and screaming and his voice was raw with it. The cutting and biting of the winter air tore at his skin as though claws were ripping through his flesh.
Fear, oh the fear!
"Ah, my brave Wolfkiller -- " No, God please, not this. His heart hammered in his chest, his fists beating against his captor, tears blinding his vision. "Yes, be afraid," petting his hair, gentle fingers caressing him with malice in his intention, and the pain. A soundless scream at the burning, stinging pain in his throat --
"Steer! Mon dieu, Claudia -- eyes on the road, ma chérie!" The peals of sweet laughter were next to him as the pungent and sweet-smelling breeze blew their hair. There was joy in her laughter, and a light in her eyes, that he remembered vividly. He would treasure this small memory for all his days.
"But we're immortal, Uncle Les!"
"Yes, my belladonna beauty, but you can still crack your pretty little head and need dull months of recovery -- eyes on the road!" his hand flew out to rest on the dashboard, and his apprehension was met with more melodic laughter ...
The killing blow came swiftly, his throat splayed open with a tenderness that could only come from a lover's care and a lover's hand. My love, my Saint, my Louis -- I do not deserve you, I have never deserved your love -- be my absolution, set me free --
His eyes flew open with a gasp, as faces of memory swam before him in the darkness; all the pain, the joy, and the fear intermingled in a macabre dance for his benefit alone. An emaciated hand pressed against the gaping wound of his throat as blood-red tears leaked down his cheeks.
He was alive.
So very much alive. And so very fragile.
FIN.
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TRANSLATIONS:
Bonne nuit, cher trésor, ferme tes yeux et dors. = Good night, dear treasure, close your eyes and sleep.
Laisse ta tête, s'envoler, au creux de ton oreiller. = Let your head fly away in the hollow of your pillow.
Un beau rêve passera, et tu l'attraperas. = A beautiful dream will pass, and you will catch it.
Un beau rêve passera, et tu le retiendras. = A beautiful dream will pass, and you will remember it.
"Berceuse de Brahms," Johannes Brahms.
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Je suis content que tu sois avec moi à la fin = I am glad it was you with me at the end.