Open Post / TFLN overflow

[bedazzledoperacape]

[ you know the drill ]

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@sopranosongbird

[bedazzledoperacape]

[from here]

Were you not one to point out that I am, in fact, a man?

[sopranosongbird]

I was. For months, however, that is not how I thought of you.

[The paper shows a few marks of hesitation, dots of ink marking the page where the fountain pen had touched the page but no words formed.]

Why did you pretend to be my--the Angel of Music?


[Hesitations or not, it is a much easier question to pose when it isn't face to face.]

[bedazzledoperacape]

You would not have agreed to allow my instruction had I done otherwise.

[aka: people don't like his face and run away in terror.]

[sopranosongbird]

You cannot have known that as you made no effort to come to me as a man. You do not know what my reaction would have been to flesh and bone.

[Her feathers. You have ruffled them, sir.]

[bedazzledoperacape]

I am familiar with human nature, mademoiselle.

[Forgetting history and doom and all of that.]

[sopranosongbird]

Ah, so it is best to judge all of mankind so harshly, monsieur? Is there no room for individuals to differentiate themselves?

[bedazzledoperacape]

In the beginning? Yes.

[sopranosongbird]

It saddens me to know you think so little of your fellow man.

[And of her, but she won't acknowledge such a sentiment in so tangible a way as ink on paper.]

Surely, there must be some redeeming quality to the masses. You find such beauty in the work of their hands.

[Music, of course. But art too. She has been to his lair, after all. Although she did not spend long there, it is clear that the man has an appreciation for fine works and craftsmanship.]

[bedazzledoperacape]

Perhaps had they shown these redeeming qualities you speak of, my initial opinion would not be what it is.

[sopranosongbird]

I must confess that I marvel at how you produce such beauty when your outlook is one of such bitterness.

Perhaps, monsieur, you care to explain why it is you find humanity so displeasing?

[bedazzledoperacape]

[He doesn't know how to answer the first part.]

It is an unpleasant topic for discussion, mademoiselle.

[sopranosongbird]

[Christine does not understand this man. He shows no hesitance in dissecting the works of Verdi or Wagner, in picking apart the latest production at the Populaire. His opinions on a great many things are vast and yet on this he is reticent. She cannot help but be frustrated. It seems unfair that she should know so little of someone who has been privy to some of her darkest moments.]

Then you will have to forgive my inability to understand your position. As much as I do wish to do so, I find it impossible without your insight. Of course, this may well be of little concern to you.

Given your low opinion of mankind, however, it surprises me that you ever deigned to befriend a mere ballet girl.

[bedazzledoperacape]

The subject is painful for me, mademoiselle.

[Really the best he can do without going into more details that would be painful to discuss.]

Why do you think yourself no more than a 'ballet girl'?

[sopranosongbird]

[Upon reading the first line of his reply, her frustration all but abates. The statement is a simple, but there's vulnerability in the admission. And a reminder that his life experiences have most certainly been very different than her own. His face, well, it certainly wouldn't go unnoticed among a crowd and had not she reacted negatively to his appearance just days prior? She feels foolish, chastened, even though there had been no reprimand in his reply.

She considers her own reply carefully before setting pen to paper.]

I am sorry, Angel. I meant no harm and beg you forgive me my imprudence. I wished only to get to know you. Surely, you see how strange the situation is in which we find ourselves, do you not?

You know much of me, and I so little of you. I am most curious to learn and it seems that curiosity is not as harmless as it is intended. Again, forgive me. Perhaps, in time, you will find it easier to share. If so, know that I am prepared to listen.

[The apology is, surprisingly enough, easier than the answer to his question, and, again, she ponders for a moment before writing her reply.]

I do not. But what else would you have seen when you first came upon me? I know quite well that I was no great dancer and my voice was rough from disuse. As we have just discussed, you are inclined to presume the worst upon an initial meeting, so I do not know what would have drawn your eye to such an unremarkable creature.

[bedazzledoperacape]

Potential is not always immediately apparent to the uneducated or inattentive. I recognized talent yet to be developed.

[Did he conveniently skip over the unpleasant stuff? Well, of course he did.]

[sopranosongbird]

[Does she notice? Yes. Is she a little disappointed in his lack of response? Also, yes.]

Well, I am certainly grateful that you observed such potential in me, Sir. It is because of you that music has returned to my life.

[bedazzledoperacape]

Music never left you, angel. It is not something that can disappear.

[sopranosongbird]

I am not so certain. It was as though my very soul had left me. And you returned it.

[bedazzledoperacape]

Music cannot die. At most, it may hibernate for a time.

[sopranosongbird]

[Speaking with him as a man is infinitely more frustrating than when she had believed him to be an angel. That may be, though, that she was loathe to question his stance on a matter, to question his logic, when she had thought him to have the wisdom of the supernatural. Now, though, it seems she has nothing but questions and he nothing but vagaries and avoidance. She advances, he parries. It's maddening. And does absolutely nothing to quell her curiosity.

Her next note moves on from the current conversation entirely. Perhaps the abrupt change of subject will seem strange to him, but she thinks he's far more likely to be relieved.]

Angel, might we meet earlier than scheduled for my next lesson? I have been struggling with the aria for the new production.

[While she isn't lying, she also thinks he won't be able to be quite so cagey in person. Or perhaps he will. He is a strange man.]

[bedazzledoperacape]

We may. How much extra time do you believe you will need?

[sopranosongbird]

I think the usual hour may suffice, though it is possible you will think differently. I trust your wisdom in all such matters. You have yet to mislead me.

[Regarding her voice, at least.]

[bedazzledoperacape]

Very well.

When would you like to have our practice?

[He has writing to do, but his schedule isn't particularly full of appointments.

It doesn't occur to him that her goal may be to spend time with him.]

[sopranosongbird]

It has been barely a month since the evening of her debut in Hannibal--and since she so foolishly snatched away his mask. She had almost expected him to disappear after that, but he had returned to her within a matter of days and their lessons had resumed, a little formal, a little stiff, neither of them addressing what had happened. It was only very recently that some of that had fallen away and they had started to see a return of the rapport they had established before he had revealed himself to be not an angel, but a man.

Of course, the easing tension had just given room for her niggling curiosity to grow. Perhaps there should be apprehension, too, and maybe, on a small scale, there was some small amount of hesitation. He was, after all, a stranger, a man who had deceived her for months. But he had done her no harm, had, in fact, been a friend to her, a confidant and comforter. Even in his moment of rage, she had not feared he would harm her, not intentionally.

So it is the curiosity that wins out, all but plowing over whatever warnings her mind might see fit to conjure. Instead, her head is filled with questions. Who was this man? Why did he choose to make his home beneath the opera? What had spurred him to cloak himself in the cover of a ghost? Was there a story behind the garish scars on his face? Each question spurring a half dozen more and almost as many possible scenarios to answer each one.

And so Christine is secretly quite pleased in her small ruse--and the opportunity it presents--and dashes off her reply quickly:

This evening after rehearsals would work well, if that is convenient for you, Master. Tomorrow morning would also do as we do not have rehearsals at all and I am free until an evening outing with Meg.

His reply is short but he agrees to see her that evening and she makes her excuses after rehearsal, begging off of Meg and Jammes' invitation to dinner and returning to her dressing room. She locks the door and takes a seat at her vanity to wait, faintly nervous in a way she hasn't been before and knowing it's because of her not-quite-a-plan to learn more about her secretive teacher. But there's excitement, too. She's always had an appreciation for the mysterious and dark, and clandestine lessons with a masked stranger certainly qualified. A little excitement was to be expected, was it not?

[bedazzledoperacape]

An outing with Meg should not invoke feelings of... well just feelings. Christine can enjoy time with her friends. Her fellow performers. The company should try to get along - though he knows they won't.

He occupies his time before their lesson working on his fanfic opera. The music is coming along to fit the story and he may actually finish writing it soon.

At the ascribed hour, he leaves his caverns and goes to the secret door in Christine's dressing room. There's little need to hide, though he is cautious in his approach. Finding the meddlesome viscomte around would irritate him.

"Angel - are you ready for your lesson?" he asks from behind the mirror.