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heravenis·  :  nathaniel.

HIS FINGERS TRAVELED THE MARBLE KEYS    as if they carried  flesh.        the sounds of the instrument filled his ears as if they were the long-distance cries of the angels who had forgotten him      to rot on that cliff     ,   surrounded by souls he loved  ,   and souls he despised.    there were so many of the latter ——– their shadows corrupted his dead present as much as they did his innocent past.        the man sighed  ,   no breath coming out of his mouth ,   and the playing softened as his memory hardened by its contents.           then   ,      she spoke.       she spoke and everything else disappeared ———- the swallow pain inside his hollow chest   ,    the sentences shouted by condemnation.         and what could he do  ,   but dread her over the effect she carried over him even after death?     even when loathing ,  hatred ,   and  pitiful humor were all that had been left of him?

CHOPIN  ,   HELP ME.            the ghoul closed his eyes as his hands stopped their movement.    GUESTS.      those were as bad as the evil spirits that inhabited Ravenswood   ;   if not worse for their ridiculous sense of tact.         Minerva  ,    of  course  ,  always played a personal game of pretense when it came to them.       he was never sure if acting as host was on their behalf of her own ———-  probably the latter  ,   considering she had been dead longer than he was.         a few months  ,  sure.        but all of them knew what months could do to a deceased mind.        blue orbs collapsed as torso turned.        seeing the bride that was never his ———- seeing the wife which never could have loved him  ,  not mind how much     he had loved her.  

❛         I digress.    when alive  ,  I hated the bloody task.     at this current predicament ,   I hate it twice as hard ,     seen that it became much more pointless in comparison.           ❜        tiring  ,  tiring  ,  tiring  !         what did they do to deserve such punishment?       tourist from town  ,    carriages from York   ,  curious  wide-eyes ladies with their rich husbands who ached to know about his family’s history.       gone from the world.    Nathaniel glared   ————- at her   ,    at  everything she represented.        a loving  ,    hateful  stare.          ❛       true hospitality would be to scare them away back to safety before the others scare them to their own end.       if that’s what you ask of me  ,   then I shall obey gladly as your forever    faithful servant.        if not ,  leave me with Beethoven.        ❜        

  dreadful    :    a  word  that  ought  not  to  have  applied  to  nathaniel  ravenswood  ,  that  never  had  before  come  to  mind  in  days  of  former  ,  when  minerva  had  first  come  into  his  acquaintance  ,  met  the  student  of  science  with  ambition  ,  quiet  strength  ,  and  the  gentlest  of  hearts.    one  she  once  held  in  her  hand  ,  but  chose  to  let  it  bleed  rather  than  to  heal  its  wound.    so  much  for  tenderest  of  women  ,  for  how  frigid  her  own  heart  had  been  when  it  came  to  his  advances.    she  might  have  accepted  his  proposal  ,  come  to  stay  under  his  roof  ,  intended  herself  to  be  his  bride  and  even  his  mate    ------    but  love  had  merely  blossomed  ,  like  a  bud  yet  to  open  its  petals  ,  when  she’d  tumbled  into  a  sea  of  them  fraught  with  thorns.    both  of  them  have  changed  now  ,  metamorphosed  into  their  deathly  counterparts  ,  matching  in  opposing  friction  that  gathers  no  momentum  but  to  spur  on  the  bickering  compelled  by  discordance.

  yes  ,  minerva  dreads  him    ---    the  power  he  has  to  shatter  what’s  left  of  her  soul  with  every  dismissal  ,  every  cold  and  gelid  word.    every  refusal.    it  comes  as  no  surprise  that  he  snaps  like  a  cord  pulled  tautly  ,  though  it  takes  little  to  unravel  his  sanity  if  such  a  thing  is  truly  more  than  apparent.    though  her  spirit  is  not  tremulous  ,  like  some  flighty  apparition  of  a  timid  ghost  afraid  to  manifest  itself  before  the  eyes  of  an  earthly  being.    following  her  to  death  he  is  truly  as  dead  as  she  ,  for  how  time  has  worn  them  like  the  coarseness  of  wind  ,  leaving  tatters  of  threadbare  hopes.    when  minerva  first  came  to  the  dover  cliffs  ,  the  fresh  air  did  nothing  to  rejuvenate  her.    while  standing  over  a  cliff  had  the  daunting  capability  of  exciting  life  ,  adrenaline  even    ------    hers  had  not  coursed  through  her  veins.    it  left  emptiness  in  its  wake  ,  a  numbing  foreboding  of  what  was  to  come.      

  lips  beneath  the  veil  no  longer  red - hued  ,  but  a  gray  tinge  of  death  stains  them  instead.    the  ruined  drapery  lines  one  half  of  her  face  ,  rendering  it  softly  ,  once  alluringly  clandestine  from  the  eye.    perhaps  his  can  permeate  it  ,  perhaps  they  cannot.    her  beauty  makes  no  difference  in  the  whole  affair  ,  even  if  it  remains  as  a  ghostly  trace  of  the  former.    ‘    predicament  ?    ’    azure  fires  flash  in  the  apertures  of  her  eyes.    ‘      we  are  dead  ,  dearest.    but  you  may  pretend  otherwise  all  you  like  ,  if  it  soothes  you.    ’    she  coos  dulcet  with  little  complacence  ,  an  undertone  of  hostility  in  tow    :      ‘    as  is  beethoven  ,  though  he  has  passed  on  ,  and  does  not  linger  to  delight  in  the  satisfaction  of  other  artists.    ’    if  his  brooding  obstinate  manner  persists  ,  she  may  have  no  choice  but  to  revert  to  the  familiar  motions  of  petulance  that  once  compelled  a  habitual  gesture  of  stamping  her  feet  when  displeased.    

  ‘    i  don’t  require  your  service  ,  as  there  is  nothing  serviceable  about  you.    and  your  company  may  leave  some  gaping  maw  left  in  wanting  ,  but  it  is  more  than  what  is  proper    :    it’s  what’s  left  to  you.    ’    disdainful  ,  awful  man  !    he  dares  test  her  patience  now  ,  when  there  is  little  of  it  remaining  as  a  font  to  draw  from.    crimson  seeps  from  hollow  wounds  of  a  ghastly  countenence  ,  displaying  only  a  hint  of  the  vehemence  she  is  capable  of.    

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  darkness  coalesces  with  light  -----  as  it  was  meant  to  ,  for  it  is  no  black  and  white  divide  that  separates  matter  nor  its  atmosphere  ,  as  it  is  not  one  that  separates  the  living  from  the  dead.  lines  blur  ,  contorting  into  shapes  that  glisten    ;    an  apparition  as  comely  as  it  is  perilous  ,  though  it  fools  the  eyes  of  complacent  mortals  ,  like  a  dove  of  gentle  nature  ,  the  masquerade  of  a  stone  eyed  raven    :    they  are  not  alike  ,  they  two.    an  emergence  unhindered  by  the  laws  of  nature  ,  operating  outside  its  earthly  factotum  that  declare  such  phenomena  impossible.    perhaps  it  is  one  unwanted  ,  but  minerva  has  long  dismissed  the  hope  that  his  eyes  would  shine  with  any  pleasure  ,  earthly  or  no  ,  when  she  makes  her  appearance  ,  the  dead  air  closing  with  impending  proximity  as  her  skirts  graze  pale  ankles  like  sepulchral  tulle.

  ‘    nathaniel.      ’    a  trill  ,  sharp  like  a  bell  though  it  is  not  a  clanging  ,  clunky  thing  but  an  elegant  sound  that  would  raise  hair  on  flesh  with  its  crystalline  clarity.    a  harsh  admonishment  seeping  in  to  an  otherwise  patient  directive.    how  he  sits  ,  his  back  to  her  at  his  bloody  instrument  ,  paying  the  least  concern  for  things  as  he  has  opted  ,  though  this  slothful  habit  was  no  furtive  advancement  of  character  but  rather  something  he  shifted  into  like  a  secondary  skin  from  the  moment  her  soul  departed  the  lively  plane.    

  open -  ended  arms  that  mold  into  transparency  cross  about  an  unheaving  bosom.    ‘    there  are  guests.    i  shall  not  be  explaining  ,  to  the  nine  -  hundred  -  and  -  ninetieth  soul  ,  why  i  am  garbed  in  wedding  attire  while  i  play  host  alone.    as  head  of  this  household  you  are  bound  to  make  yourself  present  ,  to  endeavor  at  least  a  semblance  of  courtesy  to  those  under  this  roof.    ’    says  she  ,  the  voice  gathering  stagnant  oxygen  in  its  dismal  echo  ,  not  quite  the  dirge  that  his  hands  compel  from  resonant  keys  that  manipulate  sound  ,  possibly  as  a  substitute  for  the  phantasms  that  lurk  in  darker  corners  of  the  mansion  which  he  cannot  hope  to  grasp  in  hands  that  seek  violence  or  revenge.    her  tone  a  solemn  hymn  ,        ‘      it  is  no  fate  worse  than  death  to  once  and  awhile  deign  to  be  hospitable.      ’

... @heravenis

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