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Post by Erik Destler on Jun 17, 2008 0:46:57 GMT -5
Destler screamed and curled tightly, there was little left of him, blackened skin contrasted sharply with the wide whites of his eyes, his body collapsing quickly on itself. When the cry died out, his voice was left a ruined and harsh whisper.
"Christopher..."
He reached out as best he could, but his withered little frame hardened and he gave a frustrated choke.
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Post by Carlos Castro on Jun 17, 2008 9:10:05 GMT -5
Carlos ran to his side, and Holmes did not stop him. What could Destler do now? The thing before him was horrible, but the thought of his maestro just being gone was worse. He didn't know what he was looking at.
"Maestro? Erik?"
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Post by Erik Destler on Jun 17, 2008 9:45:06 GMT -5
The remains of the man raised railthin arm up to cover was was left of the face--one side of it had collapsed on itself in charred ash.
"Loved you...don't look..." there was nothing left of his voice as the chest dusted inward. The arm fell through the brittle skull and charred body ceased all movement, nothing left but ash and bone and charred flesh in a terrible, unrecognizable mess on the floor.
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Post by Carlos Castro on Jun 17, 2008 10:00:47 GMT -5
Carlos wanted to be sick. He didn't know if it was the mess of a man before him or the shocking pain of loss. He rounded on Holmes, who stood with revolting aplomb, though if Carlos had been paying attention he'd have seen a sort of loss mirrored in Holmes' eyes. The loss of genius, wherever it came from.
"What did you do?" Carlos demanded, advancing on Holmes. "You... you killed him. You came into my home and killed a man. Destroyed his legacy."
"I didn't know that would happen," Holmes said, his voice neutral. "I had not even intended to burn the music. And you came to me. You wanted protection from him. And you were right to seek it; he was a murderer. A fiend. He used you--"
"He loved me," Carlos said fiercely.
"That's not love. It's obsession. It's madness. And you... you were a perfect target. Putty, vain and malleable. Is there any part of Christopher Huggins that cannot be got with flattery?"
Carlos punched Holmes in the face, landing the blow squarely. It hurt, but it probably hurt Holmes more, and that made him glad. So he punched again, with more passion than accuracy now. Holmes dodged him easily, and few of them connected. Until he suddenly felt tired, his strings cut, and fell to his knees.
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Post by Sherlock Holmes on Jun 17, 2008 10:05:05 GMT -5
Holmes looked down on the man, his thoughts confused. Obsession. It was what he'd said. How different was he from Destler, though? What would he do if it meant keeping Irene? He shuddered to think of it and resolved not to. Huggins looked up at him, a lost boy. And Holmes found it in his heart to pity the man.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry you're in pain," he said. "But it will pass. Go to bed, Huggins. I'll have them clean this. Respectfully, of course."
Carlos nodded dumbly and rose. As he stumbled to the bedroom--the strange cat waited in the doorway--Holmes saw him reach into his pocket and draw out a ring, which he placed on his finger. The door closed, and Holmes winced at the pain of his wrist. It would be broken, he guessed. His violin playing...
Before he left, he would pay a maid quite well to carefully collect the remains--unrecognizable at this point--and place them in a closed box to leave with Carlos.
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Post by Erik Destler on Jun 17, 2008 10:10:17 GMT -5
Destler had expected to find himself in Hell, but he seemed to be sort of groggily floating between spaces. It was a bit like traveling through shadows but...stickier. He could sense nothing but blackness and the vague "sound" of something like rushing water and powerful wind. When that moved to the rear of his consciousness, he could hear muted voices, very far away, and he felt rather sleepy, unconcerned, peaceful? until suddenly he snapped painfully back into strangely sharp awareness, as if he existed everywhere in the room all at once. His mind knew itself, and it screamed in the pain that followed his burning. Shrieked and howled and raged.
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Post by Carlos Castro on Jun 17, 2008 16:23:19 GMT -5
Carlos had cried himself to sleep, the door shut tight. He'd think about that later. And move. He couldn't stay here. Mephisto had looked on disdainfully as Carlos sobbed himself sick, unable to erase the sight of... of whatever Destler had become, imprinted on his mind's eye. He'd never sleep again, he promised himself.
But sleep he did, fitfully and fully dressed, and finally the cat curled next to him.
He woke screaming, the sound cutting off abruptly as he realized where he was. He didn't know why he'd been screaming, but the echo of it reverberated inside him. Carlos fingered the ring on his hand, which burned him. He didn't remove it.
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Post by Erik Destler on Jun 17, 2008 16:34:40 GMT -5
The dead composer had no perception of body, merely mind--he wasn't a ghost or a spirit, like a separate entity human and yet not. His consciousness rested in and around Carlos and more importantly the ring.
He vainly struggled to collect enough stray thought to concentrate and create a voice or some kind of presence but it like trying to gather the very air, and his mind slipped so often into nothingness, non-existence that the slight effort he managed seemed entirely useless.
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Post by Carlos Castro on Jun 17, 2008 18:26:02 GMT -5
Eventually, he had to get up. If nothing else, Mephisto needed to eat, and would not let him forget. He trudged blearily into the other room, registering vaguely that there was no trace of what had happened in it, and fed the cat.
And then, since he was up, he took a bath. And ordered some food. It wasn't like Carlos to not eat, no matter the situation.
What was he going to do? The maestro's palpable absence was exacerbated by the violent scene which had caused it, and Carlos felt curiously dead inside. He spun the ring about his finger until the skin was raw and red. He knew, now, that it didn't matter who'd Destler had killed or why. The music was all, and behind that, the passion. He knew now that he really had loved him.
He still woke up retching and shouting, as if something not himself took over his body. He did not go back to the Opera. Not just yet. In fact, he more or less... paused.
Until one day, with Mephisto curled on his lap and purring rhythmically, he started humming. And then singing. Unthinking, the music swelled within him (when he stood, it dislodged the cat) and found the expression it had been denied that night at the cafe; for it was Destler's latest he was singing. Without deciding to, he began singing to Destler. Singing out his passion, his gratitude, his sorrow to the ether.
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Post by Erik Destler on Jun 17, 2008 18:38:47 GMT -5
The sound roused Destler's broken consciousness and pulled it back into place around Carlos. The music--his music--gave him presence, if not substance, and he pushed that presence against Carlos' mind with as much force as he could muster.
The young tenor's singing was so sublime that he might have wept had he eyes to do so and coiled was was left of him around Carlos and concentrated on the ring, making it heat quickly. Had to show his Christopher that he was still with him.
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Post by Carlos Castro on Jun 18, 2008 9:38:26 GMT -5
He felt Destler. It was crazy, but he did. He told himself it was just the memory, the song, that he was grieving and nostalgic and his mind was playing tricks on him. And he kept singing, because it was what Destler would have wanted. But by the end of it, the ring was burning hot and Carlos gasped, closing his hand around it.
The air was thick, and Carlos trembled. With the emotion he'd brought to the music, he told himself.
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Post by Erik Destler on Jun 18, 2008 9:42:43 GMT -5
He could feel the heat of the ring, at least! That was something.
Destler tried harder, concentrating himself into a sort of emotional shout at the young man, but now with the song ended, he began to drift again.
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Post by Carlos Castro on Jun 18, 2008 17:14:55 GMT -5
The feeling dissipated, like Destler leaving the room, and Carlos sighed. His imagination, playing tricks. It wasn't fair; they hadn't had the time they should have.
They'd never...
He sat back in his chair, sighing.
"Maestro..."
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Post by Erik Destler on Jun 18, 2008 18:01:30 GMT -5
It was so difficult to keep his concentration...he struggled like someone rising out of a drugged sleep, clinging to the sound of the title and warm and familiar feeling of Carlos' voice.
Christopher.
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Post by Carlos Castro on Jun 18, 2008 18:16:09 GMT -5
Carlos started. That had certainly been his voice, he could swear it...
He shook his head.
"You're losing it, old boy," he murmured to himself. "He's gone."
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