At the Opera House

Irony (One shot)

One shot, taking place ten years before the events of this story.

The irony did not escape me during that first meeting.

It was hardly a surprise, that years after I accepted that no women could love me, that I decided happiness was found in solitude and quiet, that I hear her.

Karma, perhaps, had decided to push me towards my doom whilst laughing like one of those infernal monkeys that I had seen in India.

Oh yes, there was irony.

That was a particularly bad night, nothing satisfied me, not even the beautiful wings of music that normally surrounded me. No matter what I pounded or played out, it felt empty, like nothing.

I sat, languishing in my apartment until I could no longer stand the accursed silence. I donned a cap and cloak and fled to the upper levels, where the enormity of the rooms kept the air flowing, the occasional creak of wood-

The soft steps of a human.

I turned from the shadows where I stood and saw her.

I watched in mild interest, vaguely wondering what the newest ballet instructor seemed to be doing. Wandering around at midnight was hardly an honest enterprise.

She was a pretty thing, a heart shaped face, and luxurious brown curls that were tightly pulled back into a tight knot. Nothing exceptional but enough beauty to admire.

She stared round the stage, as if in a dream, as if trying to decide what she saw was real. Her eyes stared at it, like it was the very ghost the Opera House so feared.

I waited impatiently for her to leave, for a few moments I debated whether frightening her off would be effective at all. She seemed less gullible than the average Ballet dancer, not easily scared by a few whispered words and fallen prop.

But then she sang.

And oh, she sang.

All annoyances vanished on the spot. I had never heard a voice like hers, my ears, my heart, my mind aligned on one plane and basked in the beauty of it's sound. My whole being shivered at it's power and piercing noise.

She sang as if she would never do so again, she sang as if God himself listened, she sang-

No, she did not merely sing.

She poured her soul into her song, laying her every flaw, her every tribute out to the world for all to see and tear apart, and was unashamed. For one long glorious moment, I felt as if I was being lifted above into the heavens, basking in the beauty of the voice-

And then she stopped, letting her voice echo into the auditorium. It's power still ringing through the room.

I stood, slumped against the wall, chest heaving, tears leaving streaks down my face, still not comprehending what I had heard. How could such beauty exist, let alone be heard by one such as myself?

I watched, and realized I was not the only one with tears. They glistened in her eyes as she smiled and cried. She laughed, the kind of joy filled laugh that spread it's feeling to all. She spun round, more tears streaking from her eyes, but she smiled.

She was so very different from the bewildered, haunted women from before. Somehow, that song had changed her, had released some hold from her.

Finally she calmed herself and left, wiping her eyes, but not the joyful free expression they held.

She passed by me, not noticing my form in the shadows.

Slowly her footsteps faded.

I fell, my legs no longer able to sustain me, I slid down the wood paneling and tore off my mask, my tears exposed to the cold air. What was she? I thought feverishly. This women who had the voice of an Angel. Who could make such beauty?

And yet... I realized as the first shock faded. It had lacked..... something.

Her voice was trained, that much was obvious. but it sounded as if her confounded tutor had not realized how much farther she had to go. Her range, for one, was so short of it could have been. And her technique.... it was unlike anything I had heard, not unpleasant, but odd. It would need to be smoothed out in places, and her breathing had obvious flaws.

There were other problems, countless other little things that held her back from her potential. My fingers twitched instinctively, her tutor deserved to be strangled.

It would be an enormous task to train the flaws from her voice, years of habit would not vanish overnight. Years of practice laid ahead. The teacher would need a perfect ear, the knowledge to carefully recraft and polish her voice. Yet who could do it? Who had such knowledge that could teach her?

No.

No it shouldn't-couldn't be me.

I tried to reason with myself, she had to know what she was capable of, I thought. A voice like hers needed to be exposed.

But I wasn't really thinking of her, not then. I was only desperate to hear her voice at it's peak, to know it's crystalline sound at it's highest. Otherwise I would go mad hearing it in it's almost perfect form over and over in my mind, until the rusting pieces of it would fade into nothing.

It was decided. She would need to be taught, and I was the only one who could teach her.

Yet, how?

I do not give off the aurora of trustworthiness, you see. Not then, and not now.

There had to be a way.

It would have to wait for the time being, I decided. But I would find a way, I always do in the end. I'm rather persistent that way.

Oh I did not love her yet, rather, I felt that I had stumbled upon an instrument of all compare. A voice perhaps as good as mine. But with her voice, she would neither entice nor deceive, as I had. No, she would spread music to the world, soar in ways I never would, never could.

Ah yes. The irony was delicious.