[Requiem-Theo] Evolution of Silence (long)
How did they go for so long between torpors and the comforting disassociation that cut the edges off of memories? Even more now after his death than before, memories were mirror bright, sharp edged, stalking up to him unawares to catch him. So long without the peace of true sleep, even now that he had the leisure of enforced sleep for hours there was no peace there.
The Academies were nightmares of memories or things so close to memories that at times it felt as if there were nothing but memories while walking through its halls. It had not been so bad; at haven with Amon, there someone to serve directly needs to anticipate, to dull the sensations. The need to adjust to life as a Vampire, subtly different than the half-existence as a Ghoul in a hundred thousand small ways. And each step to a new coil, each moment of change increased those differences yet further.
The alchemist was at it again - the undercurrent of smoke on the air, cloying and sweet and so without fear for the beast. But man was a different matter.
Clarinet. Deep, warm velvet tones of the bass. Higher, sickly sweet of the soprano.
The bitter opium tea had made his eyes heavy, so much that he almost feared to close them that they may never open again. But it sent a warm, languor through his young body, a rising soothing bliss that did not seem to have an end. 'And this must be what heaven will be like when I go to the presence of our Lord.' he had thought. The only part that was not warm were his hips and legs, just now removed from water that had been chilled by ice and snow from outside. 'A better technique' the man had said, 'just now in use.' The bright gleam of a sharp blade...
Kettle drums, pounding like an arrhythmic heart. The Clarinets now separated by a scant few notes, but clashingly atonal. Rising louder, higher.
The screaming continued only a moment, before they forced more tea down his throat. Swallow or choke... the choice had been so simple and the young man had swallowed. 'Preserve your Angel's Song forever' his mother whispered in his ear as the world spun away and eyes, screwed tight against the pain, refused to open again. To serve the Lord was suffering in a fallen world.
The clarinets were replaced by a single note from a flute that faded to silence so slowly it was hard to tell when the sound stopped and became nothing...
Two mirrors hung in the hallway, giving the illusion of infinity in the ever decreasing reflected images. The careful sterility of the Academy means that he alone stood out in the reflected images, a hundred thousand times reflected as he had stood all day and night once before. Watching himself learn what She had made him understand.
Harpsichord. Staccato at first then shifting to Legato as the notes took control and lead the piece rather than simply kept pace with the piece.
The look She had given him, as his explanation continued, without stumbling despite the sick, gnawing fear and feel of failure. Piece by Piece she laid out instructions and dictated a handful of notes to be taken to others to deal with the obstruction he had inadvertently caused. As the shape of it formed, he had almost wept, seeing finally the great web laid out and understanding how badly he had upset plans by trying to show initiative to please her. Failure, disappointed his Regnant, the sin of presuming he knew as well as She did. Breathing came shallowly, chest tightened against the pain of shame, he did not weep. She did not care for tears.
Tin whistle. Rolling in D. Gradually matched by the Harpsichord till the notes blended together for a time.
No death waited for him, sparing him the terror of death but consigning him to live in the memory of the failure, of so terribly misunderstanding his place in the world. So had Lucifer fallen, in his hubris. They were merciful and terrible and greater than the old ghoul deserved.
"Sing." The soft words were like a whip crack to him, uttered in a throwaway tone. Here was something that was simple, something to excel at and please with. That it was still desired took away the cold hands from his heart and replaced them with warmth and joy.
And he sang, beginning with wordless notes and scales rising to the ceiling and beyond. And sang. Nothing came through his bond to her. She finished her letter and stood, leaving the room without a glance back. Empty silence of the heart, no tugging or caring. He stood staring straight ahead, into the mirror before him, watching the quirk of reflection that gave a skewed infinity from the mirror on another wall. Androgynous features looked back, posture perfect from years of Conservatory training, light green eyes that took in the thousand small details required to be aware, to know before they knew what was to be needed or wanted.
She and her consort had gone to a gathering thrown by a Daeva recently. Within earshot She had commented upon a piece performed, and with sweet smiles and the name of a tailor who did not question creating clothing for someone who never showed or did only at night, he wheedled the piece out of the performer’s ghoul. It was not a complex work, leaving so much in the hands of the singer. An adequate singer would look good at it. A good singer would pass on it as being too simple. An excellent singer would see beyond it, beyond the ink on paper and feel the music and turn it into a work of wonder. Theodoric sang it, playing with its tempo and range for he was an excellent singer.
Tin whistle rising gaudioso, harpsichord fallen silent and still. A fiddle joined in, softly, faintly, more an echo of notes seeped in sadness and the past. Two plain instruments twined together, completed with each other, becoming more than country fare but instead graceful and from the heart.
After variation on variation the sun rose, illuminating the room as it broke the horizon and it reminded him of a morning in Wales long ago. A hearth song then, song of Waking and greeting the day. Simple tune and words, the Gaelic coming easily, a walking song learned from someone else's ghoul. From one to another, the songs of the past in Gaelic and English learned in travels, bartered with other music lovers for information His Lady had required to further her genealogical studies. Walking song and lament, song of land and sea, of love and loss.
Plain words to greet a day and new beginnings. A lesson, not death, for a failure. A subtle reminder that like any maestro She had the right to require perfection, ceaseless effort to move beyond merely okay and to achieve the heart of what it was to serve.
She slept and he sang, watching until the sun had burst full over the horizon, till the pinks and purples of dawn faded into pale blue. Tiny rebellion born of love moved his feet, measured stride that did not disrupt the song, moved treacherous body to just outside the door to the bedroom of the lodestone of his existence. There had been no command to wait in one place, to sing only to the empty hall. Surely day sleep would be more pleasant if it was clear her command was being followed.
Fiddle morendo, leaving only its echoes.
There had been love in Wales, untamed and wild and imagining and curious. Good but not pure and now stained with grief for its loss.
She had tamed his loving nature, bound it distant and clear as crystal, pure and chaste. Fitted to his cut body, to the perfect love of a servant for a master. Molded and made over bit by bit into her image like an unending chrysalis towards the perfection of purpose She embodied.
Theodoric sang for forgiveness through Grandi and Monteverdi. Sang for love of her in Scarlatti and Mozart. Sang for joy in Vivaldi and all three Bononcini's.
The sun passed zenith and slipped towards the horizon. A note reached for and missed, giving only strangled silence. Imperfection in the Angel's Song. Failure.
Stillness so sudden it was crashing, like the whole world had been muted.
Hand trembling, the ghoul stole away from her door, lowering volume and taking refuge in simpler songs and softer melodies of works unfit to be sung to her in sleep. Softly, slipping around the faded notes carefully so that none but other musicians might know that it was a lack. Imperfection.
Where music demanded pauses, silence, he sipped at a cup of watered wine, swallowing nervously. Was that a burr in tone? A skip in the transition from note to note? As terrifying to a singer as palsy to a painter. For perfection, Theodoric gave up sleep. For perfection, he'd stood in the dead of winter, outside, because it had been commanded. For perfection, he bore the scars of heart and body proudly. For the love of perfection. Without voice... without perfection... failure.
Lacrimosa dies illa,
qua resurget ex favilla
judicandus homo reus.
Huic ergo parce, Deus:
pie Jesu Domine,
dona eis requiem. Amen.
No instruments, only voices, a dozen voices accented in a dozen languages, weaving in and out of song, prayerful, worshipful, fearing. An orchestra rendered from the human throat, words held until their meanings were lost and become only notes, only sounds raised to the skies.
By the end of Dies Irae there was no mistaking the missing notes, the ragged quality. His mouth kept going dry, and his hand shook without ceasing. The bond churned in him, pushing harder and harder to try to live up to the command but everything hurt. Legs and back from standing for so long, even pacing did nothing but cause new aches. Eyes red and dry, She cared not for tears, only results. His throat itched and burned with each breath, each note reached for and so often missed. By the end of Agnus Dei the sun had slipped below the hills and the first stars began to come out. She would awaken soon and terror that he would be less than perfect nearly silenced him.
Theodoric, pale and shaking, choked down water and then inhaled deeply, stretching as he had once so long ago in Naples. His skin was clammy and cold, sweat trickling down his back. Fear electrified him, surely she would wake soon and he could not be silent when found. Sick with desire and shame, the urge to throw up tightened his diaphragm. Unacceptable. Reaching deep into the last reserves he had left, he stilled his shake and made his chest and throat loose. Using the precious vitae in his system, he ceased the itching, the burning as best as possible and took hold of the resilient gifts he had as a Ghoul. If not whole... better than silence, better than obvious imperfection.
To any but a ghoul, a bound servant, the moment was no more special than any other. In this household the exact moment of her waking was like a clarion call and silently, unobtrusively to all but other servants, everything spun into motion. He coughed and spat into the water glass, carefully not looking at the bloody phlegm as he straightened and turned to the doorway and began to sing as if it has been minutes, not hours since the command had been given.
Tin Whistle, answering the soft notes of the Harpsichord. Skillful, simple grace and clear definition of the notes. But in minor key.
The Hymnal in D. Theodoric had finished it just a week ago, words carefully neutral so that even Her pagan ways would find no offense in the rejoicing song. Suited to secular or religious, it was one of the finest works he'd ever created out of the joy of his life, celebrating Her and the ones before, the chances for so much waiting to be taken.
The words echoed in the room, coming back to him like a phantom choir. The notes hung and shimmered in the air, almost tangible. A tiny part of him whispered that she would not come, whispered that it was so beautiful in this moment because it was to be the last thing he sung and sung in vain. The hand started to shake again as the minutes ticked by. The rush of blood faded slowly, vision blurred and grew dim as he fought the urge to sleep. And the song continued, everything put into it so that it was painfully beautiful, the purest he could still render his Angel's Song so that when she did come into the room there would be nothing for her to find fault in.
The last refrain.
She was there at last, crossing the room to the desk.
Theodoric reached inwards and found... nothing. No reserve left to cure the shakes or the burr that had returned with a vengeance. There was a point past which the human body, not matter how augmented with Vitae or Discipline could not go. Exhaustion always won in the end, claiming its due from flesh not frozen in perfect stasis. He overreached, panicked, and passed the limit in a flash, reaching for glory and an octave that even at his peak had been difficult.
The last of the Vitae burned away within him; the held note fractured and fell apart as excruciating pain erupted from his throat. Air whistled in and out with breaths that tried to become words, but none were found. There was nothing left to create words with. Coughing, once, twice, choking he spit up blood so sweet and strong, so pale in comparison to Her's. It was broken and gone, sacrificed on the altar of service and perfection.
Gasping, choking, his body gave up on him and the world spun and slowly went black as he collapsed to the floor fighting for not enough air. But She had been there, smiling, proud of him, the last thing seen as he passed out from exhaustion, shock and pain. He had learned in that final moment what had been so elusive. It was good that it was gone. His heart would learn that in time but his mind knew it, it had been distraction, had been individual, and a servant could not afford that. There was nothing beyond service, nothing desired beyond striving for perfection in service.
He turned away from the mirrors, smiling contentedly and continued to his room. Seated at the plain desk, in a plain room, the once Ghoul and now Nosferatu of the Ordo Dracul sorted correspondence. Somewhere in this stack would be clues to where his Seraphim had gone. Somewhere was the key to a service unrendered as of yet. But he found peace in it as it would be someday completed. Perfection in service, in his own fashion. Not quite what she might have envisioned for they served in different ways. So honed, so practiced, so consumed by it he hardly ever felt the ache of what had been lost anymore.
------
"The only thing that burns in Hell is the part of you that will not let go of your life: your memories, your attachments. They burn them all away, but they are not punishing you, they are freeing your soul. If you are frightened of dying and you are holding on, you will see devils tearing your life away. If you have made your peace, then the devils are really angels freeing you from the earth." - Meister Eckhart
The Academies were nightmares of memories or things so close to memories that at times it felt as if there were nothing but memories while walking through its halls. It had not been so bad; at haven with Amon, there someone to serve directly needs to anticipate, to dull the sensations. The need to adjust to life as a Vampire, subtly different than the half-existence as a Ghoul in a hundred thousand small ways. And each step to a new coil, each moment of change increased those differences yet further.
The alchemist was at it again - the undercurrent of smoke on the air, cloying and sweet and so without fear for the beast. But man was a different matter.
Clarinet. Deep, warm velvet tones of the bass. Higher, sickly sweet of the soprano.
The bitter opium tea had made his eyes heavy, so much that he almost feared to close them that they may never open again. But it sent a warm, languor through his young body, a rising soothing bliss that did not seem to have an end. 'And this must be what heaven will be like when I go to the presence of our Lord.' he had thought. The only part that was not warm were his hips and legs, just now removed from water that had been chilled by ice and snow from outside. 'A better technique' the man had said, 'just now in use.' The bright gleam of a sharp blade...
Kettle drums, pounding like an arrhythmic heart. The Clarinets now separated by a scant few notes, but clashingly atonal. Rising louder, higher.
The screaming continued only a moment, before they forced more tea down his throat. Swallow or choke... the choice had been so simple and the young man had swallowed. 'Preserve your Angel's Song forever' his mother whispered in his ear as the world spun away and eyes, screwed tight against the pain, refused to open again. To serve the Lord was suffering in a fallen world.
The clarinets were replaced by a single note from a flute that faded to silence so slowly it was hard to tell when the sound stopped and became nothing...
Two mirrors hung in the hallway, giving the illusion of infinity in the ever decreasing reflected images. The careful sterility of the Academy means that he alone stood out in the reflected images, a hundred thousand times reflected as he had stood all day and night once before. Watching himself learn what She had made him understand.
Harpsichord. Staccato at first then shifting to Legato as the notes took control and lead the piece rather than simply kept pace with the piece.
The look She had given him, as his explanation continued, without stumbling despite the sick, gnawing fear and feel of failure. Piece by Piece she laid out instructions and dictated a handful of notes to be taken to others to deal with the obstruction he had inadvertently caused. As the shape of it formed, he had almost wept, seeing finally the great web laid out and understanding how badly he had upset plans by trying to show initiative to please her. Failure, disappointed his Regnant, the sin of presuming he knew as well as She did. Breathing came shallowly, chest tightened against the pain of shame, he did not weep. She did not care for tears.
Tin whistle. Rolling in D. Gradually matched by the Harpsichord till the notes blended together for a time.
No death waited for him, sparing him the terror of death but consigning him to live in the memory of the failure, of so terribly misunderstanding his place in the world. So had Lucifer fallen, in his hubris. They were merciful and terrible and greater than the old ghoul deserved.
"Sing." The soft words were like a whip crack to him, uttered in a throwaway tone. Here was something that was simple, something to excel at and please with. That it was still desired took away the cold hands from his heart and replaced them with warmth and joy.
And he sang, beginning with wordless notes and scales rising to the ceiling and beyond. And sang. Nothing came through his bond to her. She finished her letter and stood, leaving the room without a glance back. Empty silence of the heart, no tugging or caring. He stood staring straight ahead, into the mirror before him, watching the quirk of reflection that gave a skewed infinity from the mirror on another wall. Androgynous features looked back, posture perfect from years of Conservatory training, light green eyes that took in the thousand small details required to be aware, to know before they knew what was to be needed or wanted.
She and her consort had gone to a gathering thrown by a Daeva recently. Within earshot She had commented upon a piece performed, and with sweet smiles and the name of a tailor who did not question creating clothing for someone who never showed or did only at night, he wheedled the piece out of the performer’s ghoul. It was not a complex work, leaving so much in the hands of the singer. An adequate singer would look good at it. A good singer would pass on it as being too simple. An excellent singer would see beyond it, beyond the ink on paper and feel the music and turn it into a work of wonder. Theodoric sang it, playing with its tempo and range for he was an excellent singer.
Tin whistle rising gaudioso, harpsichord fallen silent and still. A fiddle joined in, softly, faintly, more an echo of notes seeped in sadness and the past. Two plain instruments twined together, completed with each other, becoming more than country fare but instead graceful and from the heart.
After variation on variation the sun rose, illuminating the room as it broke the horizon and it reminded him of a morning in Wales long ago. A hearth song then, song of Waking and greeting the day. Simple tune and words, the Gaelic coming easily, a walking song learned from someone else's ghoul. From one to another, the songs of the past in Gaelic and English learned in travels, bartered with other music lovers for information His Lady had required to further her genealogical studies. Walking song and lament, song of land and sea, of love and loss.
Plain words to greet a day and new beginnings. A lesson, not death, for a failure. A subtle reminder that like any maestro She had the right to require perfection, ceaseless effort to move beyond merely okay and to achieve the heart of what it was to serve.
She slept and he sang, watching until the sun had burst full over the horizon, till the pinks and purples of dawn faded into pale blue. Tiny rebellion born of love moved his feet, measured stride that did not disrupt the song, moved treacherous body to just outside the door to the bedroom of the lodestone of his existence. There had been no command to wait in one place, to sing only to the empty hall. Surely day sleep would be more pleasant if it was clear her command was being followed.
Fiddle morendo, leaving only its echoes.
There had been love in Wales, untamed and wild and imagining and curious. Good but not pure and now stained with grief for its loss.
She had tamed his loving nature, bound it distant and clear as crystal, pure and chaste. Fitted to his cut body, to the perfect love of a servant for a master. Molded and made over bit by bit into her image like an unending chrysalis towards the perfection of purpose She embodied.
Theodoric sang for forgiveness through Grandi and Monteverdi. Sang for love of her in Scarlatti and Mozart. Sang for joy in Vivaldi and all three Bononcini's.
The sun passed zenith and slipped towards the horizon. A note reached for and missed, giving only strangled silence. Imperfection in the Angel's Song. Failure.
Stillness so sudden it was crashing, like the whole world had been muted.
Hand trembling, the ghoul stole away from her door, lowering volume and taking refuge in simpler songs and softer melodies of works unfit to be sung to her in sleep. Softly, slipping around the faded notes carefully so that none but other musicians might know that it was a lack. Imperfection.
Where music demanded pauses, silence, he sipped at a cup of watered wine, swallowing nervously. Was that a burr in tone? A skip in the transition from note to note? As terrifying to a singer as palsy to a painter. For perfection, Theodoric gave up sleep. For perfection, he'd stood in the dead of winter, outside, because it had been commanded. For perfection, he bore the scars of heart and body proudly. For the love of perfection. Without voice... without perfection... failure.
Lacrimosa dies illa,
qua resurget ex favilla
judicandus homo reus.
Huic ergo parce, Deus:
pie Jesu Domine,
dona eis requiem. Amen.
No instruments, only voices, a dozen voices accented in a dozen languages, weaving in and out of song, prayerful, worshipful, fearing. An orchestra rendered from the human throat, words held until their meanings were lost and become only notes, only sounds raised to the skies.
By the end of Dies Irae there was no mistaking the missing notes, the ragged quality. His mouth kept going dry, and his hand shook without ceasing. The bond churned in him, pushing harder and harder to try to live up to the command but everything hurt. Legs and back from standing for so long, even pacing did nothing but cause new aches. Eyes red and dry, She cared not for tears, only results. His throat itched and burned with each breath, each note reached for and so often missed. By the end of Agnus Dei the sun had slipped below the hills and the first stars began to come out. She would awaken soon and terror that he would be less than perfect nearly silenced him.
Theodoric, pale and shaking, choked down water and then inhaled deeply, stretching as he had once so long ago in Naples. His skin was clammy and cold, sweat trickling down his back. Fear electrified him, surely she would wake soon and he could not be silent when found. Sick with desire and shame, the urge to throw up tightened his diaphragm. Unacceptable. Reaching deep into the last reserves he had left, he stilled his shake and made his chest and throat loose. Using the precious vitae in his system, he ceased the itching, the burning as best as possible and took hold of the resilient gifts he had as a Ghoul. If not whole... better than silence, better than obvious imperfection.
To any but a ghoul, a bound servant, the moment was no more special than any other. In this household the exact moment of her waking was like a clarion call and silently, unobtrusively to all but other servants, everything spun into motion. He coughed and spat into the water glass, carefully not looking at the bloody phlegm as he straightened and turned to the doorway and began to sing as if it has been minutes, not hours since the command had been given.
Tin Whistle, answering the soft notes of the Harpsichord. Skillful, simple grace and clear definition of the notes. But in minor key.
The Hymnal in D. Theodoric had finished it just a week ago, words carefully neutral so that even Her pagan ways would find no offense in the rejoicing song. Suited to secular or religious, it was one of the finest works he'd ever created out of the joy of his life, celebrating Her and the ones before, the chances for so much waiting to be taken.
The words echoed in the room, coming back to him like a phantom choir. The notes hung and shimmered in the air, almost tangible. A tiny part of him whispered that she would not come, whispered that it was so beautiful in this moment because it was to be the last thing he sung and sung in vain. The hand started to shake again as the minutes ticked by. The rush of blood faded slowly, vision blurred and grew dim as he fought the urge to sleep. And the song continued, everything put into it so that it was painfully beautiful, the purest he could still render his Angel's Song so that when she did come into the room there would be nothing for her to find fault in.
The last refrain.
She was there at last, crossing the room to the desk.
Theodoric reached inwards and found... nothing. No reserve left to cure the shakes or the burr that had returned with a vengeance. There was a point past which the human body, not matter how augmented with Vitae or Discipline could not go. Exhaustion always won in the end, claiming its due from flesh not frozen in perfect stasis. He overreached, panicked, and passed the limit in a flash, reaching for glory and an octave that even at his peak had been difficult.
The last of the Vitae burned away within him; the held note fractured and fell apart as excruciating pain erupted from his throat. Air whistled in and out with breaths that tried to become words, but none were found. There was nothing left to create words with. Coughing, once, twice, choking he spit up blood so sweet and strong, so pale in comparison to Her's. It was broken and gone, sacrificed on the altar of service and perfection.
Gasping, choking, his body gave up on him and the world spun and slowly went black as he collapsed to the floor fighting for not enough air. But She had been there, smiling, proud of him, the last thing seen as he passed out from exhaustion, shock and pain. He had learned in that final moment what had been so elusive. It was good that it was gone. His heart would learn that in time but his mind knew it, it had been distraction, had been individual, and a servant could not afford that. There was nothing beyond service, nothing desired beyond striving for perfection in service.
He turned away from the mirrors, smiling contentedly and continued to his room. Seated at the plain desk, in a plain room, the once Ghoul and now Nosferatu of the Ordo Dracul sorted correspondence. Somewhere in this stack would be clues to where his Seraphim had gone. Somewhere was the key to a service unrendered as of yet. But he found peace in it as it would be someday completed. Perfection in service, in his own fashion. Not quite what she might have envisioned for they served in different ways. So honed, so practiced, so consumed by it he hardly ever felt the ache of what had been lost anymore.
------
"The only thing that burns in Hell is the part of you that will not let go of your life: your memories, your attachments. They burn them all away, but they are not punishing you, they are freeing your soul. If you are frightened of dying and you are holding on, you will see devils tearing your life away. If you have made your peace, then the devils are really angels freeing you from the earth." - Meister Eckhart