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He had been a shell by the time he'd arrived in Paris. A hollowed out husk, devoid of inspiration. The burning drive had once suffused him, the desire to create, to pour out his soul into each work of art, each edifice and sonata, each invention and artifice. But now...now that was all gone.
What had once burned hot was now cold and dull. Flickering rage and weary spite.
They had taken from him, as though he were a bottomless well, kings and peasants alike. Each dredge drawing more and more, each command a little deeper.
He had welcomed it before. As though with all they took from him, he might finally disappear, finally become the ghost—a shade—the living death they had deigned him to be. But he hadn't accounted for the pain. The betrayals.
The soul wrenching agony as they took what was his and twisted it into forms it should not take. They didn't understand—could not see—the destruction they wrought. It did not matter if he pleaded, if he tried, they only saw their greed. Their greed…and his face.
And so he vanished into the halls, into dark corners, and, when that failed, into himself. Other men bowed after his symphonies, took coin for his tricks. They kept themselves away, afloat on the glory of another's excruciating genius.
Until it began to crumble, to dry up as every last drop of light was struck from it, until his creations grew cold, tarnished and crumbling under grasping hands.
Then they would come. Some with flattery and praise, others with lashes and barbs. They all had but one goal in mind. Sing! Craft! Dance! Create! More! More! More...
And he had given what they had asked. It was what he'd wanted, after all. Was it not? Ha! Such fools they were, so pitiful, so unable to see what lay shimmering in the air at their fingertips. Such a fool he was for showing it to them.
Now the air around him lay dead. Dull and stagnant, it left a bitter taste on his tongue. And still he worked. Directing stone, pouring concrete, but for once the inspiration was not his own.
An opera house, a palace of the arts and, for him, a most fitting tomb. He built it, hiding away, his fingertips holding fast to that thin thread of life. It flickered with a promise, he would be free, free to rest at last. Free from taunts and jeers. Free from grasping fingers and desperate mouths.
And it was. Quiet, and alone, he had accomplished his dream at last. A home, his own.
The deep well within him had nearly run dry, but there was still a trickle, a trickle which flowed then rushed. Fueled by the great conduit of the opera house, parts of him began to return. He watched performances, sequestered in the flies or hidden in the traps. His fingers began to itch, catching on minute sparks that occasionally shimmered in the air.
Hours passed at the organ, the threads of his opera spinning into shape. All because he had dared to seize, to steal away a few of the sparks. To use them for himself, as he once had before, so long ago. He kept himself hidden away for he knew, he knew the pull, the majesty of this palace of arts would eventually crown a king.
It would not, could not be him. He was no ruler, not of such beauty as this. And besides, a king was no good without a queen at his side.
He had burned the first time he heard her, like ice shoved under his skin. Her voice hooked its claws inside and dragged him back. Dragged him to the days where he had been worn thin. It left him gasping, tugging at his hair. For he had known this pain—this horrid, insensate agony. This young singer, barely come into her own…she was a shell too.
He had promised himself, had sworn he would not get involved. Not again. But a need drove him on as he sent out his voice, as he let her know her sorrows had been heard.
Despite himself, he returned. Day after day, and despite all good judgement, he came to her. He captured light and held it out, bid her notes take root until they blossomed at staggering heights. He let her draw from the well—his well—and relished as she flourished, breathing life into song once cold and dead.
Perhaps...perhaps one day he might yet have a queen.
He took a salary. It was only fair, a king taking a commission from his lords, the lords in turn instructing the peasantry A private box as well, as befitted such a leader of the arts. He was a benevolent king—he kept his subjects in line, rewarding the loyal and castigating the faithless.
He ought to stop. To leave the artless and undeserving to their fate. But how was he to tolerate such poor craftsmanship in his kingdom? How dare they question him, their king? How dare they place themselves above their stations, interfere where they did not belong? How dare they make a mockery of his face? He ought to focus on Christine, ought to remain a distant monarch, aloof and inviolable. But he deserved more , did he not? After all he had endured...
And the music, the music that drove his beating heart... Without his guidance, its beauty would die even as it hit the air! If Christine were left adrift, if that wretched prima donna were left to her own devices… Such an insult to the arts it would be! If they persisted yet in their maddening deafness, only he could restore the majesty his kingdom deserved!
The people were thankless, his lords rebellious—the new managers would not listen! Ignoring his instruction, disobeying his commands… They even sold his box! The sheer audacity! He would make his wrath known. They could not stop him. This was his kingdom, and his alone.
And soon...soon he would take his queen, they would reign over it all, sovereigns of music, and finally, finally true genius would be known.