Work Text:
Alone La Lune
Cassandra likes the nighttime. Sheltered by the dark, she can move freely. This is when she finds some semblance of peace. The eyes of a painted woman follow her as she drifts through the hall. The woman looks oddly familiar, but she can’t quite place it. Luckily, that gaze fades into the shadows as Cassandra walks. Gentle light beckons her to the drawing room, and she follows the glow to a wide window. No one is awake. No one will disturb her. The inky sky envelops her mind. Her thoughts can wander as they please.
…
Sylas also likes the nighttime. He’s a very contemplative sort of person. Delilah doesn’t appreciate being kept up with his pacing, so he cruises around the castle instead. There’s been a lot on his mind as of late. A new home. A new life. A new chapter for the books. The amount of bloodshed leading up to this point was unfortunate, but violence is something one must grow accustomed to when leading a life such as his. A month or so has passed since the overtaking, and he’s not seen hide nor hair of the one surviving child. He can’t say he blames her. Being shot through the chest and dragged back to life can’t be pleasant. The latter point is one he can confirm. Lucky for him, he never required the complex medical follow up that Cassandra must contend with. When she’s not engaged in a screeching bloodbath with Dr. Ripley, she’s passed out. That’s during the day. She rises when the sun has set. He knows about her late night roaming. The floors creak in an unfamiliar pattern. A new shadow appears along the walls. Curtains are left open when he’s certain they were closed. The little ghost dances just out of reach and sight, leaving him with a soft sort of curiosity. Maybe she’ll step out of the darkness one of these days. One of these evenings would probably be more accurate, come to think of it. They are both creatures of the night, after all.
No matter what path he takes, Sylas always seems to end up in the same place. It’s really nothing special. It’s not even that big. Some call it the drawing room, some call it the sitting room, others still call it the study. Any of those labels could work, but he calls it the piano room. The name is not particularly fancy, but it is accurate. Music has always provided him with an escape. He started taking lessons before his tenth year. Cello and piano proved to be his instruments of choice. Whitestone has a few pianos throughout the rooms, but this one is his preferred space. Much more private than the foyer or the music hall. The main draw is the window, which turns the night sky to a swirling panorama. He is a pianist. The stars are his audience. In that moment, he can forget who he is and what he has done. He can find peace. He’ll do some thinking there tonight. Just as he comes to the doorway, he stops short. Someone else is here. Her face is turned up, watching the sky with dark, deerlike eyes. Moonbeams stream through the glass and surround her in ethereal illumination. If one did not know any better, she could easily be mistaken for a ghost, or a faerie right out of a stage play. For a moment, he simply observes and thinks about what to say. What if he scares her? He can’t keep standing here staring; that would be very strange. She’s bound to turn around any second now. Looking out towards the ether, he elects to comment on what appears to be a shared interest.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
A smooth baritone breaks the silence as the lord of Whitestone makes his presence known. Cassandra jumps, wide-eyed and red-faced. “My apologies. I was not trying to frighten you,” he tells her. Sylas is terrifying, and he knows this very well. The girl standing before him could not be any more different. She can’t be older than fourteen, and she is very, very small. He could crush her with one hand. He won’t, of course, but Cassandra does not know this. All she can see is this ox of a man towering above her. Does he look angry? He doesn’t think so. A smile likely isn’t the best choice, considering his… condition. Perhaps there is an issue of personal space. She is quite literally backed into a corner. He notices her gaze flickering to the grand piano, dust dancing in the spotlight made by the moon’s rays. Striding over to the bench, Sylas waves Cassandra over. “Do you play?” A shake of the head serves as a response. “I’m not quite sure,” she whispers. That’s the first thing she has said tonight. Her voice is soft. Hollow, almost. “Dr. Ripley told me that my recall was affected heavily after the… accident . She does not know when my memory will return. That is, if it returns at all.” Nodding sympathetically, he decides to leave the invitation open. “Sometimes the body remembers what the mind cannot. Give it a try.” No, no, that’s too commanding. “If you would like to, that is. I won’t force you.” For a moment, she only stares. Maybe she wants to leave? “You can go if you want. Though truthfully, I wish you wouldn’t. My wife believes you belong here with us. You should not have to live in a state of fear.” The absurdity of the statement is obvious, but if she does not remember the circumstances of the coup, why encourage the divide? Both Briarwoods wanted a child. Before the tragedy, they had planned to conceive. Sylas was never entirely sure about talking to younger children. Teenagers were a bit easier, provided they were not petrified of him. Babies were very cute, and he’d held the infant son of their old friends before. People were often surprised by his calm. They did not expect such a large, intimidating man to treat tiny things with such gentleness, as if he were afraid he would break anything he came into contact with. Now, those fears were not entirely unfounded. He mostly keeps away from the small ones, especially if he is hungry. Luckily, Cassandra is past the chicken nugget stage of life. Delilah holds fast to the prospect of this newly orphaned child becoming their daughter. Sylas won’t lie to himself; he wouldn’t mind a shred of domestic normalcy either. A family would be a truly wonderful thing to have. Hands coming to rest on the ivory keys, he waits for her to make her choice.
Just when he thinks she’s going to run, she settles on the very end of the bench. “Won’t the noise wake the others?” she asks. “It’s a large castle. I’m sure the sound carries, but it’s not going to disturb anyone. Delilah is a heavy sleeper, and the servants never seem to mind a bit of music.” That might be stretching the truth, but nobody is going to stop him. Tentatively, she places her fingers over the keys with a sort of practised grace. “It appears that you have experience with this. If I had to guess, I would say you've played before.” This was correct. All De Rolo children had taken piano lessons at some point in their short lives. Cassandra had only taken an interest a year prior, but she was progressing rapidly. Well, she had been. When things were somewhat normal. “Go ahead and try.” Slowly and softly, a familiar scale spills forth and echoes off the walls. “Ab major. Very good. Do you know any songs?” “Sometimes Dr. Ripley sings this song about a willow garden when she thinks nobody is listening.” That earns her a laugh. “I meant on the piano, but I certainly appreciate the information. She breathes like a singer. Maybe she’s been trained,” he speculates. That gets Cassandra chattering. “What’s her story? She’s so… strange. I can’t pretend I’m anywhere near normal, but she’s… I don’t know.” Idle notes drift through the air, giving sound to silent thoughts. “Doctor Ripley… is a mystery indeed. I do know she was not as fortunate as Delilah and I were growing up. She worked very hard to earn her title. I’m not too fond of her in terms of personality, but I can certainly respect her drive.” Cassandra seems to accept this.
“Maybe she’ll sing for us sometime.”
“I would pay a great deal to see that.”
For a while, they just play. Sylas points out which note is which, as opposed to physically guiding her hands, with the assumption that any sort of contact would scare her away. Starlight dances across the floor and bounces off the cover of the songbook on the piano’s music desk. He opens the book. Neat cursive spells out ‘Alone La Lune’ at the top of the page. Quavers and semiquavers waltz with the treble clefs and half rests methodically strewn across the paper. In smaller print, lyrics follow the staff. It all appears to be handwritten. The ink is dreadfully smudged, but Sylas reads it quite easily. “I think this is a fitting piece for tonight,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. “Did you write this yourself?” she inquires. A smile spreads across his face, though he is careful to keep his fangs concealed. “Only in part. The tune mostly comes from a song or two I heard in my youth. I wrote the lyrics with some help from an old friend. They change from time to time, depending upon my mood.” Cassandra’s eyes are a little brighter. She sits a little straighter and is far more engaged. Much more so than one would think, given the situation. “Well, what’s it about?” Nobody ever asks him that, not with genuine interest anyway. “What do you think?” he asks her. He’s curious to know her impression of him and what he does. After a minute of silence, she admits that she cannot read the smeared letters. “That’s perfectly fine. I wrote this when I was lonely. The moon was full, much like it is tonight, and I started to think about what it must be like to be in her place. Coming out only when the people beneath you are sleeping. Sure, they know about you. They know you’re there, but few take the time to properly appreciate you. What a thankless job,” he muses. “It’s not as though she can quit.” Taken aback by the sharp response, he pauses for a moment. “Well, no. I suppose not.” Before he can elaborate, she speaks again. “I don’t think she minds it. If she had a problem with the situation, she’d probably let us know. Put up more of a fuss. Besides, she’s not totally alone. She’s got the stars. Except for when the stars explode. Did you know that stars explode sometimes?” He does, and he thinks about it often. If he can see some of himself in the moon, then he sees his wife in the stars. So bright and beautiful. They have spoken about mortality. One day she will die, and he will be truly alone. The solution to this, of course, would be turning her into a vampire as well, but that is a very hard thing to do. Being a vampire is better than being dead, but Sylas remembers the perks of mortality. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to bring himself to take that light and life away from her. Not even if she wants it.
“Sorry, have I done something wrong?”
“No, not at all. Simply lost in thought.” He’s quick to reassure her. Last thing they need is a wrench thrown in the gears. “What about?” she asks. “Uh…” he’s not going to talk to her about that. She’s young, and it’s not her burden to bear. “What you said about stars exploding. Have you seen one fall? If you can remember, that is.” Her eyes glaze over as she tries to recall. Perhaps he shouldn’t encourage any sort of subconscious uprooting. “I’m sure it will come back to you in time. Shall I show you how to play the song now?” Just like those stars, her eyes glimmer back to the present and she gives an eager nod. Pointing out the notes and demonstrating proper hand position, they begin.
The melody starts off high and sweet. Cassandra follows along. She’s hesitant at first, but quickly falls into rhythm. Then Sylas begins to sing.
“You know, I know you do… How it feels, for I’m alone like you…”
His voice is deep, dark, and calm. It reminds Cassandra of a seabird diving down to catch a fish, gracefully skimming the surface of the water.
“The stars, well out of reach for you,” If she squints, she can make out the lyrics. Some of them, anyway. Her soft croon joins his low tone. “And Earth, taunting and teasing you too.” A fresh and curious quality weaves and blends with the song’s jaded, somewhat dejected theme.
“You know, I know you do… Tout seul, avec la lune…”
Cassandra doesn’t understand that last part, but Sylas quickly translates during the instrumental break. All alone with the moon, he tells her.
“Lost, out in the black of space… You’re lost, I can see it in your face! You watch how we on Earth run around, you look, but there’s no friend to be found…”
This line is one Cassandra feels deep in her soul. She cannot remember explicitly, but she knows how it is to have a kindred spirit slip through her fingers, drifting away with the wind. Sylas knows this, too. Almost everyone he meets now will either die or be used as a tool in some form or fashion. That isn’t to say he’s completely alone; he has Delilah and there are one or two people in a similar situation who he might consider close, but one can understand why he may miss the simplicities of an average mortal life.
They play the chorus again, and Cassandra finds that she has a knack for the foreign pronunciation. “Alone la lune…” Just like they are. Alone with the moon, and alone with each other. The music melts into the next verse, guiding their focus back to the lyrics.
“You wait at isolation’s door… you fear you’re just a cold and lifeless orb. Oh moon, oh, I know you… moi voici, avec la lune,” To Sylas’s surprise, Cassandra makes her own attempt to translate. “Me here, with the moon?” She asks him. “Very, very close. ‘Here I am, with the moon.’” She looks mildly pleased with herself, and he gives her a close-lipped smile of approval. He doubts that she would notice his fangs, but there’s no reason to risk it. Not when things are going so well. By this point, they are both quite familiar with the final lines. Cassandra decides to include a sort of echo effect, adding to the melody’s dreamy feeling.
“Me and the moon… (me and the moon…)”
“Alone, la lune… (alone, la lune…)”
“Me and the moon… (me and the moon)”
“Me and the moon… (me and the moon)”
“Me and… the moon… (me and the moon.)”
She ends the song on an ascending note. Sylas isn’t sure if she can read the sheet music like that, but her addition certainly isn’t on the page. It sounds good, though.
“Lovely touch. You have a very nice voice.”
“Oh. Thank you. You do as well.”
They sit in silence for a while. Now that the song is over, neither of them seems to know what to say to the other. Cassandra is not as frightened as she was before. This isn’t to say that she’s completely at ease, but there is a noticeable change in the atmosphere. Both of them find it easier to breathe. The crushing weight of mutual anxiety has lifted ever so slightly. Maybe things will be alright now. A door has opened, but he will not push her through. He could charm her, he could lie to her, he could threaten her, but none of those things can make them a family. Not really.
“Thank you for playing the piano with me tonight. I quite enjoyed it.” He figures that he ought to express appreciation in some form or fashion. It’s the polite thing to do. “Me too,” she tells him. “Sorry for uh… barging in here. I didn’t know you came here at night.” He squashes that thought immediately. “No need to apologise! This is your house, too.” A dark part of him laughs at the accuracy of that statement, but falls silent fairly quickly as he waits for her response. “...I should go to bed,” she blurts out, turning towards the door. “I don’t usually stay up so late.” “Of course not. Sleep well, Cassandra.” Hearing him speak her name causes her to linger for just one moment. Then she slips away into the shadows, leaving him with the subtle feeling that no one was ever there at all. He turns his attention up at that dark sky, choosing to lose himself in the stars instead of his usual celestial companion.
Before he knows it, an hour has passed. The sun is slowly rising and the moon eases down beyond the hills. Struck with an idea, Sylas flips to a blank page in his book. Notes flow with the ink of his pen as he composes his latest song. He writes with a fervour rekindled until finally, with blackened fingers and smudged keys, his mind sinks into oblivion.
…
The mid morning sun hangs in the sky, the piano and its patron casting shadows that stretch down the hallway. Still clad in her housecoat, Delilah Briarwood peers into the room. An endeared smile spreads across her face upon seeing her sleeping husband. A piece of paper is trapped under his hand. Ink is dripping down the side of the piano. He must have knocked the pot over during his rest. It wouldn’t be the first time that she’s found him passed out over one of his projects. Gently sliding the page out from underneath his palm, she holds it up to the light. In the flourishing script that she had come to love so dearly, swirling letters spell out one single word.
“Dawning”
…
In time, light will take the place of darkness, and the years of isolation will make their departure in a bright and blinding supernova.