#SHOULD BE SUNG BY A MEZZO OR SOPRANO!!

[monotonous-minutia]

give me mezzos or give me death.

well maybe not death but severe annoyance in the amount of productions casting tenors/countertenors in roles that were written for mezzos or sopranos.

[sweet-dining-car]

Ok so I've been dead for like a really long time cuz I did not like the way that the fandom was going and how some ppl were acting on here but I need to talk about the changes in the rivial. Like what is going on????

First thing that took me by such great surprize was Greaseball. And now plz don't jump me and call me homopobic or anything but I just really don't think that this was the right move here. I mean, changing a character's gender aright, ok, we saw that with Momma and thats fine but I just really don't think that it should have been Greaseball. I mean his whole character and everything I just don't think so. Also I really like hearing Pumping Iron from a nice Baritone and idk how that would sound in a female range.

Now, in my inital shock I was like WHAT? What will GreaseDinah look like now??? But then I thought abt it. Greaseball may still be a man in this production, we really don't know. They didn't change his name or say that he wasn't a man anymore, Greaseball could still be the same just played by a woman now. Again, please don't jump down my thoat here, I'm not trying to offend or anything.

Now what I was actually hoping for in the rivial was maybe a female Electra finally offically, cuz tbh that seems more realisitic to me. AC/DC could be sung by a nice Alto that can also reach Mezzo-Soprano too. Also it has already been confirmed that Electra is gender fluid so I mean why not?

I was also hoping for some more diveristy in the rockies too, I gotta keep my fingers crossed on that one.

I'm glad to see a lot more of the Germany cast there but I am really holding by breath cuz I hope things don't change too much

The female Greaseball just really took me by surprize and idk what to think now. I just wanna see the costume and please PLEASE don't mess up Rolling Stock or Pumping Iron in terms of vocals or music. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE make the sound track sound good

[congregamus]

Just found a journal entry from almost 20 years ago where I'm still working on the same things. It's hard to know if it's because what little bit of help I get isn't great, or if the problem is that I'm fighting WHAT ACTUALLY IS rather than just my POV regarding that.

Everything Bad and Beautiful

(This is a reference to a Sandra Bernhard Concert Album)

I had a really hard day yesterday, so I took a mental health day from work today.

In my performance class, I get the opportunity to sing for Joyce DiDonato, the premiere Rossini mezzo-soprano of our generation. Since I'm having a hard time staying close to center right now,  I thought it wise to take care of myself so that I don't spiral further into confusion. But most of all, I want to have a positive musical experience in this class. There are tasks in the world that you don't need proper sleep and emotional stability to perform, but singing for an idol is not one that you can phone in.

So, I took the reins and am taking care of me.

I wanted to sing something new to help get my grad recital further on its feet, but in the interest of ensuring the good experience, I will sing something challenging, but something that I know very, very well. I have never sung this piece in class, so it's new to my classmates, but old hat to me. I learned a new song, but more importantly, I've learned some things applicable to my emotional well-being.

There are times to act, but there are also times when action is not advisable, but ignoring my own discomfort in any situation is never the right answer.

The "Truth" as I Learned It and the "Truth" as I Now See It:

→When I was a kid, I was told, "Just suffer through it." I learned that my needs were not important. As the child of a bi-vocational minister, I learned that I came last. That anyone with a sniffle got the family's full attention, but by the time it was my turn, everyone was too tired to bother with me. I learned to say, "Of course" when I was asked, "Can it wait?" I learned that it truly could wait. Seemingly forever. I also learned that Christlike self-sacrifice was the greatest gift to offer the world. And don't forget that if it's easy to give, the act of giving means a whole lot less. Anyone can do what is convenient for himself. What you have to do is dig down deep to the point where you don't think you have any more left for yourself, because that's where Jesus is.

→Now, I'm starting to understand that no one really wants more of me than I have to give. Unconditional love extends to me, from myself as well. I've spent the last 15 years of my life running on empty.

I can't hide my feelings because I'm afraid that I won't be loved anymore. When I feel that I'm giving more than I honestly have to give, it makes me go into protection mode, and my inner light doesn't shine.

The "Truth" as I Learned It and the "Truth" as I Now See It:

→If you show anyone who you really are, then you will not be loved, because that person is gay. And gays are not allowed. If you are honest and tell anyone that you're starting to wonder about all this stuff you're being force-fed, then you're going to be shut out of the lives of the people who are closest to you. So you should lie and keep doing what you're doing right now even though it's tearing you up inside. At least the world isn't rocked.

→Now I'm starting to apply in my relationships what I learned long ago. A world that can be rocked by truth-telling is a world that seriously needs rocked.

It is possible for me to stand up for myself without lashing out.

The "Truth" as I Learned It and the "Truth" as I Now See It:

→Matthew 5:9b "Blessed are the doormats." Once you've established yourself at the guy who loves being selfless and giving until it hurts, it's really hard to break that cycle. When you trudge ahead the way that I have, forcing down your own feelings because you want to avoid conflict at all costs with the people who mean the most to you, it becomes more and more difficult to merely state your feelings that may be "out of sync" without bringing up everything in the past that anyone has ever done to you that you didn't express in the first place. But it can be done.

→What I now know is that relationships have to be based in honest expression and have room for everyone's feelings. It is easy enough for me to include anyone else's. It is much harder for me to admit that there is room for my feelings as well.

Please be patient with me,  everyone. I'm learning a new skill, and I will fail at it as often as I succeed.

[krispyweiss]

Larry Campbell & Teresa Williams at Natalie’s Grandview, Columbus, Ohio, April 23, 2024

Larry Campbell & Teresa Williams dispensed with the adage about veteran musicians losing the crowd by playing new material as they ran though 2024’s All This Time - plus a number of other tracks - during their April 23 gig in Columbus, Ohio.

Playing in an exuberant, sold-out Natalie’s Grandview, the First Couple of Americana were backed by bassist/background vocalist Brandon Morrison and drummer Justin Guip (Hot Tuna) for a 16-song, 100-minute gig that drew material from their three duo LPs, their work with Levon Helm on “The Poor Old Dirt Farmer” and Campbell’s time as one of Phil Lesh’s Friends with “Big River.”

The former featured Campbell on fiddle and Williams on mandolin as the married music-makers played straight bluegrass atop a rock ‘n’ roll rhythm section. They’d switched to electric guitar and tambourine, respectively, for the hard-charging rockabilly of the latter, which served as the final encore and earned a standing ovation.

But the show was centered around All This Time. And Campbell in black and Williams in red supercharged the 10 songs - homing in on their 1950s, early-rock subtext while presenting them in 21st-century, Americana context. The show-opening run of “Desert Island Dreams,” the title track and “Ride with Me” found Campbell using fingerpicks on his electric axe while Williams strummed her acoustic guitar.

Their voices - his powerful baritone, her soaring mezzo-soprano - meanwhile wrapped around each other much as the subjects in Campbell’s amorous compositions.

“Teresa thinks all these songs are about her,” Campbell said. And of course, they are, except for broken-hearted compositions such as “Down on My Knees,” which Williams said was about “the one that came before” her.

But Williams happily claimed “When I Stop Loving You,” the staggering, soul-rooted Campbell-William Bell co-write from 2017’s Contraband Love.

Baby, the sun won’t rise/the moon won’t appear/and he stars will fall/when I stop loving you/when I stop loving you/somebody will close my eyes/and I’m gonna hear/the angels call/when I stop loving you/and my heart will beat no more, they sung with their voices intertwined at top of their ranges.

This - and “A Little Bit Better,” Campbell’s balladic ode to Laurel and Hardy - left audience members literally gasping at their beauty. So while Campbell and Williams obliterated one adage, they simultaneously reinforced another about intimates making beautiful music together.

That they did so in a tiny venue so cozy Williams likened it to being in the living room with friends made it all the better. But, as anyone who’s seem the pair knows, Campbell and Williams should be playing arenas.

Grade card: Larry Campbell & Teresa Williams at Natalie’s Grandview - 4/23/24 - A

See more photos on Sound Bites’ Facebook page.

4/24/24

[classicalmusicdaily]

Anna Goryachova was born in Leningrad (Saint-Petersburg). In 2008 she graduated with distinction from the Vocals Faculty of the Rimsky-Korsakov St Petersburg State Conservatory (class of Tamara Novichenko and subsequently class of Galina Kiseleva). From 2009 to 2011 she trained under Renata Scotto and Anna Vandi at the Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia (Rome) and also under Romualdo Savastano at the A.R.T. Musica academy (Rome). From 2008 to 2011 Anna was a soloist at the Mikhailovsky Theatre and the St Petersburg Chamber Opera. In 2010 she was nominated for Russia’s Golden Mask National Theatre Award for her performance of the role of Donna Elvira in the opera Don Giovanni staged by Yuri Alexandrov. In 2011 under the direction of Alberto Zedda she made her debut at the Vlaamse Opera (Flemish Opera) in Antwerp as the Marchesa Melibea (Il viaggio a Reims, Mariame Clément’s production). From 2012 to 2017 Anna was a soloist at the Opernhaus Zürich, where she performed the roles of Adalgisa (Bob Wilson’s production of Norma), Rosina (Rossini’s Il barbiere di Siviglia), Polina (The Queen of Spades), Magdalena (Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg), Zerlina (Don Giovanni), Eustazio (Handel’s Rinaldo), Zelim (Vivaldi’s La verità in cimento), Masha (Eötvös’ Three Sisters), Marchesa Melibea and so many others. She has collaborated with such conductors as Teodor Currentzis, Nello Santi, Fabio Luisi, Alain Altinoglu, Enrique Mazzola, Riccardo Frizza, Ottavio Dantone, Stefano Montanari and Daniele Rustioni among others. Took part in the world premiere of Christian Jost’s opera Rote Laterne (2015). In 2012 Anna sang the role of Alcina (Orlando paladino) at the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris and made her debut at the Rossini Festival in Pesaro (Italy) as Edoardo (Matilde di Shabran) staged by Mario Martone and conducted by Michele Mariotti. In 2020 at the Grand Théâtre de Genève she sang the roles of Angelina (La Cenerentola) and Sesto (La clemenza di Tito, staged by Milo Rau) in addition to making her debut at the Vienna State Opera in the role of Olga (Dmitri Tcherniakov’s production of Eugene Onegin); in Vienna she subsequently performed the roles of Angelina and Carmen. In 2022 as Angelina she made her debut at the Mariinsky Theatre (St.Petersburg). In the 2020–21 season Anna received Valencia’s “Best Mezzo-Soprano of the Season” award for the role of Angelina in La Cenerentola, staged by Laurent Pelly at the Palau de les Arts Reina Sofía. We all know that this has been a pretty tough time for the socio-political environment, which affected also the arts in a considerable way, and it was so beautiful to see you and your Ukrainian colleague hugging each other during the standing ovation. What do you think about this matter, about the way theaters, but also the society, took actions towards the Russian artists? Honestly, during these 3 months I have never found any change of attitude from my colleagues, nor from the theaters. The political conflict should not affect the cultural environment. Indeed, you all seemed such an united team on stage and behind it! Was it your first Carmen in the amazing production of Calixto Bieito, which such a passionate stage parter as Vittorio Grigòlo, for his debut at Don José? There was such an amazing energy coming from the stage towards us, in the audience! Thank you so much, I already sung in this production in Madrid in 2017. It’s a very intense staging. And I was very much touched to see the standing ovations in Wiener Staatsoper every evening. I never met Vittorio before and we really enjoyed playing and singing together. It was a perfect artistic match, I think! I adore Vittorio! He is not only an incredibly talented artist, but he is also a very nice person offstage. And his role debut was sensational! reposted from https://opera-charm.com/

[widevibratobitch]

i just wanna know whose idea it was to cast Cossotto in mezzo roles when she sounds lighter than most of her contemporary spinto sopranos.

peace and love but using your chest voice doesn't automatically make you a mezzo <33333

[soupsleuth]

🎵

[sugar-petals]

Bts voice analysis anon here! I just wanted to thank you for taking the time to respond ❤ it made complete sense why yoongi is the deepest I kinda feel bad for him everytime he wants to sounds cheerful or speak in a way so people can hear him he strains his voice

lot to talk about, i’d like to expand on this. especially what his voice being the deepest means for bts’ songs. plus, where his undiscovered vocal talents are, and in what manner his voice will not strain.

that he’s very introverted contributes to what you say, but yoongi is certainly the odd one out voice-wise, such low baritones hardly sound upbeat. similar to how taehyung being the odd one out in the vocal line whose head voices are literal superpowers. i really respect him for singing with jin and jimin who can climb one octave higher than him, up to C#5! and with jk who has the best technique and breaks into the 6th octave if he goes on like that.

it’s very much like yoongi who probably has to mix their tracks back and forth to fit his parts with hobi (who is a tenor as a rapper! — very uncommon) and namjoon who raps in several modes. very low, very high, very impactfully. he’s the most full-bodied baritone in the group even if he’s only the third-deepest. the tone is just so rich. both hoseok and RM are extreme vocal chameleons on top of that. in speaking and in their music you can hear the difference to yoongi all the time. they don’t suddenly drop in pitch and they’re vocal acrobats.

hobi in particular, this guy can do anything. the sheer agility my god, he connects his registers. he can go up and down, impersonate and do a million effects, adlibs, you know the drill. it’s him who actually owns the “cheerful/loud and clear” brand you mention. which is good if not fantastic for yoongi’s production endeavours, the group mood, and how bts cannot be ignored — but tough for yoongi’s voice and comparison thinking, and when he tries to make a point in interviews. maybe it’s not bad that bts have to slow down sometimes to let yoongi speak, but his tone is drowned out (not intentionally of course) in other occasions and he wakes up hoarse often as we saw. which might sound hot, but it’s not good for him as you say.

to be clear. i wouldn’t chalk down his more monotonous and silent tone as a weakness, it’s just outside of bts’ other vocal variety. he makes up for it with speed and good lungs anyway. we just have to listen more closely to him in talks/episodes/conferences but i think he shouldn’t worry about it either or try to sound more enthusiastic, the fans love his soothing speech for its pure sake. he does change it regardless to be more poignant and blend in. it has pros and cons but it wears him out.

yoongi’s voice is under that strain not just in conversation but also in the studio if he wants to bring connection to the rap line parts instead of having 3 songs in 1. which usually ends up happening anyway. that’s also why the cyphers (!) switch genres mid-song so often: their voices are all strong in different registers! yoongi the lowest, joon midrange, and hoseok up high. 

that’s why cypher pt2 is a HUGE stunt and production masterpiece: hoseok’s part is tuned differently, then other instrumentals start with namjoon. and you can literally hear, okay alright a deep voice is coming! from there it just gets deeper and deeper until yoongi is just rapping over a bass guitar (every baritone’s best friend lmao!). god, please give yoongi a big bassline for his every part. “ugh” is the exact opposite: yoongi has to start too high and namjoon also has problems with the key, only hoseok can fully take off after 1:50 with perfect vocal stability. guess which song is autotuned: it’s not cypher pt2! a 3 in 1 song fuels the rapline in a way where they are most comfortable. it’s crazy how far apart they are among each other vocally and it has to be considered.

it’s a dilemma but also why bts’ rap line can tackle any song with at least one member suiting it. they complement each other, every register (except the rare whistle register, aka what mariah/ariana do) is covered. i think that contributed to bts’ fame, it’s so important. however usually, the song caters to hoseok since tenors are preferred in kpop music, or it caters to RM as he’s the central songwriting entity even if mind you, he always thinks about all the members and works closely with yoongi.

but even with joon’s support, it doesn’t work if yoongi is caught in his wish to be a tenor. we’ve seen how much the guy talks about wanting his range to become wider and how he even tried singing quite high for his standards on d-2. he goes as far as collabing only with sopranos to help him achieve that pitch. yoongi is invested to pretty much change his entire vocal type 🙁because the environment simps for high notes so bad (which is fair, falsetto is related to releasing certain happy hormones and highlights parts in songs, but still).

... he actually can’t, unless he wants to damage his throat. that’s the last thing we want. a listener can get the serotonin from a very deep voice equally if they got good taste.

thing is. you cannot morph yourself into a different vocal type and shift your range to the opposite of your comfort zone unless you’re whitney houston. even one in a million tenors like baekhyun can’t make themselves a baritone. his lowest notes are less clear no matter how hard he practices, even if his chest voice is almost operatic and his technique excels. meanwhile, chanyeol (who’s a lyric baritone and exo’s deepest voice) effortlessly hits them without (!!) that kind of decade-long training. have baekhyun or jimin been called bad singers for not being able to cover the other end of the spectrum? nope. so: why would yoongi be a bad vocalist who needs autotune. with lessons, oh man, he could do a lot and many things he dreams of. he has a very unique timbre and enough musical knowledge to do so.

so, we see the magic of your natural supported range. it’s simply given to you. imagine that: if you know you’re not a tenor, you could sort of outsing jungkook — obviously not by technique, but projection— as long as the song is tailored to you and the notes are low enough. yep, jk’s lower register is not extremely forward. each note is perfectly sung because he’s jk, but his power vocals are settled much higher. joon/tae/yoongi would sound much fuller with huge oomph in those lines. that’s where yoongi would be much more clear-sounding to us. a lot of baritone rappers in kpop would be damn good singers. 

that’s why it’s good how a lot of rappers produce solos on their own so they can try it out. 

you just have to respect that your range usually (not always) goes in one direction. once yoongi rightfully decides to abandon his high note fantasy and goes lower just for fun, we are not safe anymore lmao! exception for range: female singers have an advantage there. trained mezzo-sopranos have great access to the head voice and lower registers since they’re in the perfect middle of the scale. but the guys, forget it, even the baritenors. yoongi’s fullest voice will always be coming from a chesty depth and we love him for it. guy just needs to realize.

that’s why his real challenge is rather somehow tweaking the rap parts so his voice finds good resonance like in “혼술” or even “ddaeng”. where his voice is strong, relaxed, and full and flowing. ddaeng — “boy with luv”, too— is ironically in a very high pitch and again caters to hobi’s tone the most, but: yoongi just scales down to his own octave and it still fits, so — great key choice and musicality! and adaptation. it’s not easy to do. you can tell he plays piano.

he either becomes less easy on the ear or has to autotune himself entirely if he works against his voice. or: goes on a track way outside his supported range (dynamite, WOW). it’s a shame. “daechwita” and “agust d” are such a case: both go into the head voice where your resonance should show the most aka the chorus. there are aggressive belts/snarls/shouts that make more sense for higher, trained voices. yoongi is most famous for raps that are literally designed to fuck up his vocal cords 😷that he’s so skilled as a rapper prevents him from that to a degree, but it’s still not healthy. he adapts a lot to bts’ overall delivery but he doesn’t have to, in fact: he could go in the other direction and it would work even better.

the reason for the title track issue: they are the most energetic. in k-pop, energetic means amping up the pitch. and that’s probably a logical choice and a natural human association. if you make a baritone kpop track with a lot of energy, it probably becomes pretty creepy, uneasy, film noir. but i think that’s exactly yoongi’s thing: to unsettle and critique and rage. i think it could work out. lil nas x is a baritone pulling it off. he achieves energetic title tracks, he honors his vocal type well imo. his live singing is cool af, i need this so hard in the rap landscape. so, it’s not impossible to do.

the trick is probably setting everything to minor key. surprise... yoongi’s challenging title tracks are all in major key. boy with luv: minor key, interesting. the former are extremely difficult for him to do so hats off. “shadow” is more suitable for his baritone as is “burn it”. it needs a very heavy, dark track. which is why it’s good that yoongi has that kind of public image. a baritone’s best genre is not super light and whimsical. that’s why all of our baritone faves are not main vocalists but main rappers. kai, taehyung, jaehyun: low voices in vocal lines are soldiers.

---

now a note on yoongi’s best method of singing since it reflects his voice type and brings out the fullness of it. as in, how does it crack and strain less? guess why “사람” is yoongi’s favorite d-2 song to sing. it’s ALL his comfortable range and the singing — very beautifully done —  is in mixed register (= head + chest)! which imo might be his secret weapon. it allows him to do what he longs to do successfuly without going extremely high. bingo.

because: even with baritones, the golden middle is still important. they’re not as deep as a bass, after all. that’s why their voices are so honey-laced in the mixed range and it sounds amazing. heaven, their timbre sounds so seductive. so, it’s wonderful when they find their middle and dare to sing. 

i wish yoongi gets/makes more tracks aimed at just that. in “outro tear” he has to go both too low and too high so it takes a lot of production effort to patch it together. the rapline is doing god’s work to make all their voices sound cohesive without being trained singers. it’s always a trade-off and risk, an immense balance act. “paldogangsan” is hard on yoongi’s voice but works as a whole plus it caters to namjoon to carry the song’s message. the cyphers are chopped up and not chart-friendly but each member is in their comfort zone. 

PS: i said bts’ rap line covers all registers except one. i think that jin is the one to complete bts’ entire spectrum coming from the vocal line. i’m no whistle note expert but dionysus went pretty high up there, i think he might be able to do it. it’s very impressive, even jungkook and jimin probably don’t have access to that register. so, another point for bts being a very ‘complete’ group.

[infinitelytheheartexpands]

in the (exceptionally unlikely) event the Met does Les Huguenots in the near future:

Conductor: Yannick Nézét-Séguin or Enrique Mazzola

Director: if you want something more traditional, Sir David McVicar, if a little more out there…David Alden already directed a production in Berlin that looks quite good (and should have been filmed with Juan Diego Flórez but the Deutsche Oper Berlin will not let us have nice things and I’m definitely not still bitter about that)

Raoul de Nangis: Benjamin Bernheim (he may not have sung a single note of Meyerbeer on the Boulevard des Italiens album but the first thought I had after listening to said album was “I need to hear his Raoul ASAP”) OR Matthew Polenzani (kicked some serious French grand opéra butt as Don Carlos and as Fernand in La favorite)

*if Polenzani and Yoncheva (see below) are not both available at the same time, swap in Michael Spyres. I have also been suggested Charles Castronovo. idk if he has those super-high notes but otherwise yeah he’d be a great pick too.

Valentine de Saint-Bris: Rachel Willis-Sørensen (absolutely SLAYED this role in Geneva, she’s my absolute favorite I’ve ever heard or seen in this role) or Sonya Yoncheva, but only if she’s partnered with Matthew Polenzani because there’s something about that duo that’s just absolutely magical

*if Polenzani is not available then swap in Nicole Car.

Marcel: John Relyea (has done the role, is a fantastic bass in general) or Michele Pertusi (same reasoning).

Marguérite de Valois: Lisette Oropesa (if you’ve seen her do anything from this role…no explanation needed) or Erin Morley (also a fantastic soprano with a proven track record in the role).

Le Comte de Saint-Bris: Gerald Finley (great voice, track record in French rep, amazing actor) or Christian Van Horn (similar reasoning).

Urbain: Ying Fang if you want a soprano Urbain, Marianne Crebassa if you want a mezzo Urbain. or give Léa Desandre an opportunity to make her Met debut.

Le Comte de Nevers: Artur Ruciński (great voice, great actor, proven track record in French opera at the Met) or Etienne Dupuis (same reasoning).

*it would also be kinda cute tbh if Dupuis was in this and Nicole Car played Valentine because they’re married IRL.

[cometomecosette]

“Epilogue,” London, 2012. Gerónimo Rauch as Jean Valjean, Sierra Boggess as Fantine, Samantha Dorsey as Cosette, Johnny Purchase as Marius, Danielle Hope as Éponine.

This is a beautiful performance.

Gerónimo’s Valjean is very touching: so feeble, pained and full of yearning for heaven at the beginning, then so sweetly overjoyed to see Cosette again. The way he laughs and cries at the same time on “Now you are here... again beside me...” is beautifully poignant. I also love the way he stands so tall and robust after he rises as a spirit and sings “Forgive me all my trespasses...” in a strong, full voice that sharply contrasts with the feeble voice he’s been using throughout the scene.

Samantha’s Cosette is also touching in her tenderness and grief.

Sierra’s Fantine is appropriately angelic. Being a soprano, not a mezzo, she does have to whisper through the low notes on “And you will be with God” (she really should have sung it transposed up, as in the School Edition), but the sweetness of her voice and her lovely demeanor make up for that one weakness.

The whole cast sings beautifully and ends the performance on appropriately moving, stirring note.

[count-di-luna]

opera situations that keep happening

1. Mad Scene: usually happens to coloratura sopranos, but occasionally tenors or basses can catch it too

2. Standard Baritone Overreaction: you are a decent baritone minding your own business, then something happens and you think your wife cheated on you with the tenor. maybe she did but either way you have the irresistible urge to shank the tenor (or your wife. or both)

3. Tenor Hissyfit: the tenor equivalent of the above. if soprano interacts with any other man she a thot! this can range from calling her a whore to whining about your broken heart to straight up murder. for some reason sopranos don’t dump these immature jerks.

4. Tenor/Baritone Duet of Scorching Passion: no matter whether you are best friends or archenemies. if you are the same generation and there is a duet there will be homoerotic tension.

5. Sensible Bass or Mezzo Best Friend Not Listened To: these poor characters know they are in an opera and try to warn the reckless tenor/soprano/baritone in vain 

6. Bass Aria of Depression: bass (or bass-baritone) is sad and/or haunted by his past fuckups. lowkey wants to die.

7. Previously On: this can go to any character. isn’t it lovely when most of the plot happened long ago?

8. I’m In Love Aria: typical for tenors and sopranos, occasionally baritones. really nothing else but waxing poetic about the object of your desire. cabaletta optional but strongly recommended. 

9. I’m Evil And Here’s My Nefarious Plan: usually sung by a baritone or bass, the operatic equivalent of the Disney villain song. Supervillain laugh at the end is a nice bonus.

10. I’m Dying, Time For My Most Technically Difficult Aria: the closer to death you are, the better your singing! Tuberculosis? No problem. Bleeding out? +15 to legato. Poison? Take as long as you like.

11. The Ensemble Where Everyone Stops To Sing About Their Feelings: characters who would normally instantly aggro at each other will stand 2 steps away and sing together in perfect harmony. 

12. The Official Love Duet: usually less passionate than the aforementioned tenor/baritone duets.

13. Filler Chorus: the main characters need to rest or change costume. let’s sing about, idk, wine? war? flip a coin

14. And Now, The Weather: orchestral interlude

15. Disastrous Party: any dinner party, ball or wedding will go horribly wrong unless it’s a comic opera, and sometimes even then.

16. Prison Scene: someone (usually the tenor) is in jail. The love interest, best friend or enemy will visit. If jailed character is scheduled for execution, they will also often have the

17. I Will Die Soon And This Kinda Sucks Aria: If lucky, their sad laments are interrupted by a friendly visitor. If not, the villain will come in and gloat or they are led off to be executed.

18. Fatherly Concern: Being the father of a reckless tenor or soprano is not easy. Your kid insists on ruining their life with a love affair, often wants to die, and doesn’t listen to you. 

19. Soprano/Mezzo Catfight: usually over some tenor who isn’t worth it. they should kiss instead 

20. Soprano/Mezzo Kissing: ah, pre-Romantic or Rossini. Much better.

21. Showoff Aria: all about the extremes - highs, lows, fast tempo, coloraturas, extreme sustained notes. Often half of these are singer inserts but now You Have To Do Them Or You Suck.

[coloraturadiva]

My voice

This Tumblr was born for me to have an anonymous place where I could talk (rant) about my voice and my study to develop as a singer. But as I’ve recently started to use Tumblr again for other reasons, the main goal of the blog was lost, so I thought that I might start to talk a bit about music again.

Let’s start with a bit of history. About myself!

My life has always been filled with music. Both my parents are amateur singers: they sang (and still sing) in a choir that my father founded with some friends in our village centuries ago. Both my grandfathers were big opera fans and my paternal grandmother possessed a beautiful voice and used to sing all the time. I’ve started in my parents' choir myself as soon as my voice changed to adult voice: I was 11. During my years with them we changed choir master a couple of times and when a young and very ambitious lady started to conduct us, our level grew dramatically and we started to take part (and win) competitions. When I was 18, in my last year of high school, a famous choir conductor came to visit us for a masterclass and heard me singing. In the previous months I realized, and with me the choir conductor, that my voice had suddenly matured. Until that moment I sounded very light and soft, but in those months my voice became more round and powerful. This famous conductor listened to me during a choir piece, and then asked me to sing a line from that same piece alone. I was terrified. Never in my life I sung a solo. He listened to me carefully and then turned to my choir conductor and said her “this girl is good! She should start some serious vocal training!” I was stunned and, most of all, I didn’t feel “good” at all. I was just an unexperienced choir girl with an average voice. A lot of people tried to convince me to start working on my voice with a proper teacher but I resisted for more than a year. High school was finished and I started university. One day my mother took me to a lady living in my village. She was a former opera singer that, after a short career, decided to devote more time to her family and to teach. For the first four or five months I was completely lost. Not only I wasn't (apparently) improving, but I also felt like I was struggling too much to do even very basic things and I was going backwards. During my long choir “career” I learned a lot, but I've also picked up some bad habits, and what I was feeling at that point was that only my bad habits and my defects were showing, while my strong points were completely lost. Thinking about it now, I realise that my teacher of that period was good at teaching technique, but most of all she was outstanding in psychology. From the very beginning she understood what were my weaknesses and the strongest parts of my personality and soon enough she learned how to use this knowledge to help me. I'm a naturally shy and introverted woman with low self esteem, high school had done so many damages to me (some things I realised only just recently, and I'm 31...) and she helped me greatly in regain at least a bit of self esteem (when I first met her I was absolutely sure I was worth less than nothing in all the departments: beauty, talent, skills …) and she taught me that singing was a “safe” way to express myself, where my voice was “just” an instrument that was performing other people's work. That made me feel safe and satisfied. But I was stuck. For months I met with her for lessons every week and I kept on doing wrong the very same things every single time. So she had an idea. She tried to challenge me. When you are a beginner, you start with simple vocalises or what we call “arie antiche”, a standard collection of simple opera arias from the baroque era the are easy and useful enough for the development of a young voice. That's what you do, that's what young singers do. But it wasn't working for me, so she decided to give me an aria from the actual repertoire. She knew I loved Mozart, and she chose for me a piece form “Le nozze di Figaro”. And it worked. Ok, that's not the most difficult opera aria in the world. At all. But it's something that you hear in actual opera houses sung by professional singers. At the end of the school year I sung for the first time in public as a soloist. I sung my Mozart. It wasn't perfect AT ALL, but I did manage to sing all the notes in front of a public: it was a great beginning. We worked together for around 5 years. With her I learned all the basics of the technique, I experimented with repertoire, I had my very first small engagements , but the most important thing was that I finally understood what my voice was. When I first started in the choir I was put in the sopranos section but growing up I was concerned that my high notes were not good enough while my lower register was good. Before starting working with my teacher I was sure I was a mezzo. Maybe a high mezzo, but for sure not a soprano. I was completely wrong. My problem with high notes wasn't my voice, was my technique. After a full year of work with her I discovered that I was indeed a soprano, and one of those that reach the stratosphere. When I first vocalized to a top F (the highest note of the queen of the night) I was shocked. I was really able to go that high? Now I can tell you that I vocalized multiple times to an high A flat, and even reached some A natural, but that's likely my most extreme note. All of this while keeping a nice chest register with a solid low G. That's more than 3 octaves. It's a lot. During my time with her, I had the possibility to study also with a famous singer that lives in a town close to mine. Her father in law was a friend of my grandfather and when he talked to her about me, she wanted to listen to me and gave me some lessons. Of course she was, and still is, a professional singer, so she doesn't have the time to work closely to students, but her occasional lessons were incredibly useful and I still see her from time to time. When I was around 22, at the end of my university studies and on a good path of development as a singer, I was starting to like the idea of becoming a professional singer. But life went in a different direction. In the space of 18 month my mum was diagnosed with cancer twice and my beloved paternal grandfather suddenly died (he was 96, but it was completely unexpected). The world fell on me. For more than two years I was a mess. I won't go into the personal details, but I can tell you what happened to my voice. It froze. I wasn't able anymore to do things that were easy for me. High notes were gone, breath control was gone, even my timbre sounded dryer. My voice lessons, most of the time, looked more psychotherapy than vocal technique. For two years I didn't sing a single note in public. I finally found a bit of my voice back when my parents celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary. As my mother was getting better from her illness (the worst part was behind, she was winning her battle) we had a big celebration with family and friends and, of course, they wanted me to sing during the Mass. That was a very nice day. All their choir came to celebrate them and sang for them and I had my solo part. My voice was back, more or less. I was very happy with my teacher, but something broke between us. All of a sudden she told me (and all of her other students) that she was tired of teaching, so we should all have to find a new teacher. Alternatively she was still available but her fee was now three times higher than what it used to be. It was way too much. We all left her school. First she told me that it was for my good, as I needed a more advanced teacher, but once I went to a new school, she stopped talking to me (and my family). I met her on the supermarket just a couple of days ago. I greeted her, but she looked away... So now I was in a new school with a new teacher. And I was a new person. My mother illness traumatized me, in a way. Or, better, it made me realize what I really wanted: the life of the professional opera singer wasn't for me. Too much travelling, too much time away from family and friends, to much instability. I can be strong for certain things, but I'm also too fragile for others. That kind of life would have broken me, even if I had the luck to have a successful career. That was the end of my dream. I wanted to keep on developing my voice, but making it my job wasn't an option anymore. That's what I said to my new teacher. She understood my point. She took a similar decision when she was already singing all over Europe and decided to “limit” herself to concerts, that require to stay away from home for shorter periods. She's still my teacher. If with the previous one I learned what my voice could do, with her I started to be in control. My former teacher was like a mother figure for me, the actual one challenges me constantly and we fight a lot. A positive kind of fight, but still a fight (I'm shy and introverted with lots of self esteem issues, but I'm also definitely an alpha female with a very strong personality) on the things to do and how to achieve them. We built so much together. With her my repertoire expanded spectacularly and I did lots of concert experience. But there's still a lot of work to do.

I have a peculiar voice, with high but also low notes, fast coloratura and it's way more powerful than the average high soprano. I can tell you, it's VERY HARD to control. The pianist I usually work with says that my voice is like driving a SUV in a path designed for a small motorbike: if you are not perfect, you end on a wall or down a cliff. But sitting on a SUV is way more comfortable and enjoyable than straddling a motorbike. My voice gives me enormous possibilities in therms of repertory (there are very few things I can't sing), but for every single piece I have to find the right balance. And that's it, every single day I work on balance, on incredibly small details that can make my performance excellent of horrible.

And now I realised that I wrote way too much 😂

[marzipan-moon]

Dress Rehersal

Fandom: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Ship: Lorenz / Dorothea, Dorothea / Ferdinand Summary:  Lorenz watches Dorothea on stage, captivated.

Did she ever really come down from it?

The music swells, the war ends.

And somewhere, it's raining. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22723957

OVERTURE

Her voice carried up through the rafters as a bird finally released from its cage, wingbeats reverberating through these shattered, destitute halls. War had come to claim everything; the beauties of old ravaged with as much savagery as had the people of Fódlan. And yet, to see her still standing here - with lungs that channelled air into art, singing the story of a defiant girl rising from nothing… she made this opera house feel fuller than it ever had been.

After all, he thought, even in its glory it could not have let the moonlight shine through to catch on her delicate skin, to roll in waves through her thick hair, to reflect itself so eagerly in her tear-stained, gemstone eyes. And even in their days of peace, she could not have sung with such verbosity, could not have acted on that stage with such sincerity, could not have wept the true tears she was spilling now.

War had taught him many things. More things that it had stolen from him.

So why was it that, as her voice reached its very climax, the jade in her eyes turned liquid and spilling as her spurned lover let go of the knife he had struck between her ribs… why was it that, as she collapsed to the floor, the last echoes of her voice dimming out, why was it that he rose to his feet, panic in his face, a scream of ‘stop’ drowned out by the audience’s thickening applause?

He’d seen her nearly die on that battlefield countless times.

Hundreds of others joined him to stand, his breath so tight and uncontrolled, so unlike hers that even when she died she had kept so loose and free.

He covered his face in shame and remembered that this was all just an act.

ACT I - RECITATIVE I That night, he asked her to marry him.

“You have become a symbol of hope for all the people of Fódlan, and I can think of none so fitting that could be my bride. Just as you have restored music to this ruined opera house, so too will you restore honour to my house.”

She tilted her head, the moon still trapped in her eyes, her smile curling.   “So, you made up your mind.”  

“Am I too late? I see no ring to bind your finger.” “I’m still in costume, Lorenz,” she laughed. “And you’ve seen what happens to a woman who remains unmarried.”

“Then all the more reason for you to accept my proposal. If she had had the protection of marriage, no man would have harmed her.”

Dorothea laughed again, turned his back to him, her eyes hidden from view. “Is that right? I’m not sure you understood the story at all.” Her words caught in his throat, his face souring. “You are straying from the topic. I have not come to swap narrative interpretations, Dorothea.” She lifted her head higher, the waves of her lovely hair brushing her back. “The tragedy is not that she dies, Lorenz.” He scoffed, the sweat pitying his brow. This was not how he imagined this proposal going at all. This was supposed to be his moment - the time he had dreamed of, over and over again, where his goals would finally be fulfilled! And here she was, blathering on about something else entirely. “I have always admired your intelligence, your wit. You outclass even I in charm, that much was apparent tonight. Even now, you return a proposal with a gift of philosophical moralising,” he hummed, attempting to look satisfied. “If I answer you correctly… if I satisfy you with my interpretation of this opera, will you marry me then?”

“I’m not so sure… Maybe I’ll consider it.” He latched onto any shred of hope still nestled here, his eyes widening. Of all the women he could have chosen, why had he been attracted to the most difficult?

“Very well. I think that it was an allegorical examination - an exploration of proletarian life, immorality and lawlessness. We are meant to expect it from the commoners, but be shocked when that same spark of madness afflicts the nobleman who kills her in a jealous rage. The tragedy is that he will likely go unpunished, our society so unfairly favouring his prestige over an orphan’s life.”

She glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowing expertly. “It’s that she died pursuing freedom, the one thing a woman cannot have in this world. Wartime, peacetime, it does not matter. Every man will try to snuff it out.”

He paused, red returning to his cheeks like she had slapped him. His mouth meandered for a while, twisting itself in shapes until he finally found the question he was looking for. “Then, are you saying you will choose freedom over me?” She turned to look at him now, her gaze somehow haunting, her wings now at rest. “No, silly.” His heart trembled, the colour in his face deepening. “You always look so cute when you’re embarrassed. Red is a colour that really flatters you. You wore such a brilliant shade of it when you rudely yelled at me from the audience. That wasn’t very noble of you, was it?”

He floundered, ‘well I’s’ mumbled in his mouth.

Her laughter filled it instead.

“Yes. I will marry you, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester.”

--

 ACT II - DUET I

He had never… copulated before, it was true. Though such things were always on offer for one his stature, it was also his role to reject such pleasures in pursuit of something far more noble. In fact, some would suggest that this performance must always be… purposeful, focused on siring an heir, and to stray from that was indeed ignoble.

Yet, with Dorothea, he could not imagine this act being one born only of purpose. Besides, building a family was not yet in either of their interests. She had glorious heights still to rise to, and he refused to be the one who placed such a yoke upon her shoulders. Somehow, seeing her fulfilled was… well, satisfying in a way that, for now, burned far brighter than his desire for children.

So when she kissed him, delicately and then with opened mouths, when she gasped and giggled at his every reaction, guided his hands across her body in ways that demanded so little work from himself… he felt embarrassed. Ashamed of how little he knew, despite his long evenings fantasising. Yet he could not help but be in awe of her, how, when she moved his hands to her waist and then up and - yes, he squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing - over her breasts, he forgot who he even was. She was like liquid pleasure, paralysing him in all ways but his breath. ��I had no idea that the great head of House Gloucester had such a problem with his lungs,” she’d lilted in his ear, her perfect nails scratching gently at his chest.

“And I had no idea that you would dare use magic outside of battle,” he’d scowled, sparks of fire glowing in his belly, intensifying as she placed his hand over his and gently coaxed it to roll in circles.

“If this is all it takes to overwhelm you,” she whispered, pressing his awkwardly raised fingers against her nipple, “then I don’t think you’re quite ready for that.”

He groaned, forgetting his duties to be the one to please her, to follow the rules of all the men in all those operas she starred in. “How do you…” he gasped as another ripple of pleasure blossomed in him, her body pressing up against him. “Ahh, how, is it you maintain, such… such focus?” She was more experienced than he, he knew, but did not want to know. Such things he could barely condone in his fellow noblemen, but for a woman of any standing? He wanted to believe that this was as much her first experience as his, he wanted it so very much, and yet….

She slid her fingers down his chest, rushing over the outline of his arousal pushing against his white trousers. He almost went mad, then, a feeling as ecstatic as watching her voice climb to impossible heights, the swell of it pulling every soul to the edges of the body.

“It’s easy,” she said, her other hand losing itself in his long hair. She pulled herself into the nook of his neck, drowning herself in it. He didn’t much mind, the feel of her body perfectly aligned with his own, harmonising. “It’s all in the breath.”

He watched her through narrowed eyes, hardly aware of whatever earthly thing his lungs were doing. “What?” Oh. He should have been embarrassed at how inarticulate that was, but… “Just like in singing, you have to breathe from your diaphragm.”

She moved, fingers spreading, his breathing turning ragged. “Your chest shouldn’t be moving and,” she mumbled. “You want to tighten,” her fingers curled and gripped him through the fabric, “your stomach muscles.” From her instruction, he failed miserably. Whining helplessly into her hair, he forgot how to breathe at all.

When he felt himself returning into his body, he realised that she was laughing, warmth flooding into himself.

“Why didn’t you tell me you needed to stop?” She squeezed her lips together, brows raised in faux-judgement. “Well, I, was… focussing on my breathing. Next time, it should be I who leads. This… this is exactly why a woman should not.”

His embarrassment sizzled, but not as brightly as the sudden look of anger that flashed hotly in her eyes, those green pools hardening.  

“And what should a woman do, Lorenz? Lie flat on her back for you, wait while you do nothing? Can’t you enjoy a little bit of teasing? You certainly seemed to only moments ago.”

“No, Dorothea, that’s -“ She decoupled himself from him, disappointment ghosting over his body as she left the room. — In Opera, all stories were ones of grand themes. War, love, death. And in every one she stared in, nearly always was she bathed in her own blood. Mezzo-Soprano, that was the colour of her voice, and the one that destined her to the role of villainess, of the rival, of tragedy.

Was that what they had seen in her when they plucked her from the streets? Heard the way she so perfectly embodied sorrow, as though her story and her style of singing were destinies perfectly entwined. If she had been born a noble girl, would her role be something entirely different? Would she had ever even been noticed? He thought such things as he watched her die countless deaths in the arms of countless lovers, torn between them and then torn apart. It was only an act, after all.

— Some nights, she would brush his hair. He was not entirely sure why, but she insisted on it. He rather enjoyed the attention, to be under her gaze in a way that was rather less dramatic than usual. “Do you remember that awful bowlcut you used to have?” She giggled, boar bristles sweeping gently through his hair. “What made you decide to grow it out?” “Awful?”

He narrowed his eyes, bending his head so he might catch a glimpse of her smirk. “Didn’t you think it cute?” “… As hard as I tried to see through your foul attitude to find something endearing in your personality, Lorenz, I really could not say the same about your hair.”

He guffawed to himself, frowning ever so slightly. “Well, I suppose I appreciate your honesty, but it is only a matter of taste. It makes sense that you prefer a more showy haircut, so normalised that has become to you with all your days spent in the opera. It is hardly a house for those with more… subtle tastes.” She gently and repeatedly went over the ends of his hair, pushing herself momentarily against his back. “That haircut,” she laughed, placing her head on his shoulder, “was anything but subtle.”

Before he could find some way to retort, she pulled her head away and began humming lightly to herself.

“It was such a shock, seeing how much you two had changed.”

He paused, turning to her. “Two?”

“You and Ferdie.”

Just as he saw the ghosts of all of her past lovers when she touched him, now he saw another figment rise up in her, clouding her eyes. “… Yes. Ferdinand and I were always similar in our tastes, from tea to mannerisms to… presentation. Long, supple hair is an apt symbol of nobility, is it not? To keep it so well maintained takes dedication and time.” She lowered her head, clamping her hands round that brush. “That wasn’t why he grew his out.”

The atmosphere in the room felt as though it darkened, somehow, her body crumpling like a snow edged leaf.  

“Did he tell yo-“ “He asked me to brush it, once. Well, no. That’s not true. His hair looked like a bird’s nest, and I insisted on fixing it. Then Ferdie kept coming back, asking me for style tips.”

She covered her face, eyes turned away from him, “He did everything with his all, didn’t he? I don’t think I ever fully understood why he was like that.”

He had to admit, he had never given much thought as to whether he ‘understood’ Ferdinand or not. He was simply not that sort of character. He had been a man who eschewed mystery, his heart as plainly visible as his sleeve. Right now, he was contemplating how well he understood his wife, never mind the machinations of a dead man. “Dorothea,” he said her name and enjoyed the way it played across his tongue, how it first wavered then arched, like a bird on the wind. “Please, what is the meaning of all this?”

The snow round her edges hardened. He reached to touch her face, fingers soft along her cheek in the hopes of thawing her. “Nothing, it’s… nothing,” her eyes crinkled, and he feared that he had accidentally crushed some piece of her into dust. Yet as her fingers played along his own, he realised that she was the one thawing him, the one crushing herself.

Her body uncurled and their gazes met, but she was looking without really looking, the remnants of a smile touching just the tips.

“Just memories, Lorenz, that’s all.”

— He found her singing, one day, by the lake… if memory served. It had been a foggy day, with beads of rain caught in the air. The water almost lapped up her voice, clouding it - but muffled though it was, he remembered it quite vividly. It had been nearing summer’s end, the weather unsettled and quite unusual. There are some memories that the body somehow knows to keep. Imprinted in finer inks, it felt like, as sharp and as ever-present as the crest that flowed through his family. Could they cut to his blood and find fragments of it, oozing there? Some days, he wished that they could, if only so he might experience that moment once more.

Her voice had flowed more smoothly than wine, its quality just as potent and intoxicating. At first, he had assumed it to be the haunting calls of a Loon - and, well, it was embarrassing to admit, but he had acquired a proclivity for studying nature. All the great artists… and poets, had. Those where the days where he yearned to emulate such things, as though one could simply mould oneself into a poet by adopting his personality and mannerisms.

So he had followed that calling, entranced. Yet it was only when he had begun to make out the outlines of words that pinpricked and then sizzled in his ears that he felt like he was going truly mad. This was not a voice that could belong to a human being. It had a way of… sinking into the body, of clutching the organs, of soaring; as though he too was flying with that conjured music that seemed to go only impossibly high and then higher still.

He could not stop himself following that voice, even if every part of him screamed out in fear. He supposed this was something akin to awe, though he could only have supposed such things in the retrospective - in the moment, there was no room left for words.

So when he finally saw her, her black school uniform the only thing that looked solid against the cold misted backdrop… he had gasped, giving up the last of his breath so that she might take it.

And just like that, the singing ended, and she’d whipped round to face him. Embarrassment was what first crossed her face, as though she had been caught disrobed and her magic discovered. Yet as soon as she registered who it was that caught her, that expression morphed into disgust.

He supposed, if he could have extracted that memory from his blood, he would prefer that it be snipped off here.

Yet, then he would have lost the passionate fire that still burned coal-hot in those verdant eyes. Those eyes that had not yet become haunted, eyes that could look at him with emotion in full bloom. Still, at the time, such a gaze had only evoked simple fear in him. She had not even said a word, and already he had been running. Ashamed of himself, afraid of what she might do, confused as to what exactly it had been that he was now feeling.

He had ran and ran and ran all the way back to his quarters, never telling another soul and recording only the silvers of it in the most abstract of writing.

He supposed it had to be found, one way or another. Magic like that can never be contained, no matter how desperately he tried to in the strained confines of words. Though, he had to admit, hearing Manuela sing her interpretation of a poem written about his youthful yearning for his now wife… It was a strange twist for the Goddess to ordain.  She had almost brought Dorothea’s innocence back into being, as though pulled straight from his memory. And to hear Dorothea herself remark upon it even though she herself would no longer be suitable to sing it, her fingers clutched within his hand, that disgust no longer present in her eyes… … It made him want to run, run and run all the way back to those old quarters.

-- ACT III - DUET II They tried that game with many euphemisms again, and by his insistence, he did indeed take the lead.

Needless to say, it was… not the most impressive of his accomplishments. In his defence, they had spent the last half-hour discussing the benefits of pomegranates and such-and-such herbs and their commitment to this decision… whatever the outcome. Why must all pleasure be tempered by duty? It was a question that Dorothea invoked in him more than any other woman, and he could not imagine taking such precautions if it were not for her.

Soon, someday, she would have to bear their heir. That, too, could be a pleasurable advent… but one that would bring an end to her life on the stage and usher in a new era for both of them. It was not one he wanted to charge into so recklessly, even if… even if he was aware of the rumours that would soon start to rise from forked tongues, and, worse still, the chastening within his own mind that would no doubt be roused to life. As delectable as she looked even as her soft lips sucked on the flesh of a pomegranate, he also knew such acts were deemed sinful and demanding of penance.

So, with those thoughts swirling in the back of his mind - he asked her to lie down.

“I trust you will tell me if I act improperly.” “You have behaved just as properly as I would have expected, Lorenz,” she said with a tinge of unkindness, but there was a twinkle in her eye.

“Yes, well. Just as this is an experience of firsts for both of us, I do not wish to cause you any undue harm,” he stated, sitting at the edge of the bed. “Psychologically or otherwise. I refuse to handle a rose as rare and stunning as yourself without the utmost delicacy.” “And if I were not a rose? You seem intimidated by my thorns. Is the truth that you are afraid of handling me in case it will cause your hands to bleed?” “No, no - that is not what I… Even if you were a common daffodil, I would still -”

She rolled at her eyes at his expression, her laughter cutting his mumbling thankfully short. “What I meant to say is… come here. You look petrified.”

Her fingers found their way to his cheek, her soft chest pressing against his arm, her wonderful mouth whispering something about him being ‘adorable’ as he finally willed his hands to her waist and requested, once again, that she lie down. In all honesty, just kissing her mouth felt overwhelming. She was demanding, and eager, and she had a way of hanging onto his lip for just a moment after the kiss had ended, drawing him back in again and again. He did not know how she knew to do such things, and did not dare to ask, even as her hands smoothed out and over the back of his nightrobe, loosening it without even touching the belt. Her fingers made gentle scratches down his back, across his scalp, losing themselves in his hair all while he was too focussed to do anything but kiss her.

Even as her bosom rose up against his chest (that she had, with some expertise and trick of the hand, already exposed) and that pleasant warmth began to sink through his skin and across his entire body… he could not help but notice how fixated she was on his hair. Tugging at it, letting it play over her fingers, and when she finally broke kiss, nestling her face within it, her teeth scraping the edges of his ear.

It wasn’t… it wasn’t that it was unpleasant - in fact, he welcomed the distraction. Having Dorothea, having all of her at once, this charming, incredible woman who had shaped her entire body into an instrument capable of producing music most holy (and, those soft sighing sounds that she now breathed into his ear - holy, holy too)… just the thought of caused an ache to erupt through him.

And he ached, and ached again, as he traced his hands down her skin, over the mole under her breast, the scars by her ribs that magic had not been able to heal. That this was her, that this was really, truly her, the woman whom he had denied himself for all those years and whom could so easily have denied him. “Dorothea,” he whispered, marvelling at how even saying her name left a man open-mouthed. “May I…?” His hand came to rest on her leg, toying with the edge of her robe. “I fear I may not be able to, ah. Concentrate much longer.” She laughed at that, the rumble causing her breasts to brush against him yet again, his face hot. Yet she did not pull her face away from the crook in his neck, her eyes hidden.

“Is that right? My. I thought the show might go on all night. It is a man who is leading, after all,” she dug her fingers into his scalp, pinching him. Even his yelp could not dim the sparks of euphoria that followed as her voice cooled, her laughter dying as her voice thickened dangerously, “But yes, you may.”

He’d dared not look at her. Did not think that he could look, as he pulled away that thin barrier between them. In his restless pursuits of a wife… of course he had considered what this might feel like, this ultimate act of consummation, of pleasure and love and union. But now that it was here, he ran at it like he was a young boy handling a spear for the first time, excitement coursing through him.

Finally undoing the knot in his robe, his soft cursing fading away, he held himself a chastely as he could. Her chest still pressed against him, their trim waists perfectly pressed together, her legs lifting and enfolding him like vines, her fingers twirling and pulling while she gently encouraged him…

“Ah, Dorothea, we truly are a natural fit, aren’t we?”

He was glad she had not answered.

For when he slid his hips forwards, imagining with his eyes half-shut and his breathing erratic what it might feel like to finally have an answer to all that aching, to quench this undying thirst that bled so many memories, to finally feel what it was to be one with her…

He found that he did not slip inside her at all, no smooth passageway, no yawning hole as eager and compliant as her mouth had been. No, he had to admit, when he brought himself forwards and felt only soft skin, he felt totally and utterly lost.

A coldness overcame him, and he tried to thrust in her direction once again, finding embarrassment as his only answer.

She uncoiled from his neck, finally deigning to fix him with a look, her expression making it clear that this had, well. This had been expected. That, he had to admit, embarrassed him far worse than the event itself. Not only was he a disappointment, but it had not even been surprising.

“Well, Lorenz. Would you like me to take the lead?”  

He was the one to decouple from her this time, cold washing over him as though a bucket had been spilled atop his head.

“This is not your first time, is it?”

He could hardly believe the venom that entered his voice, the heat on his face quite suddenly flaring on his tongue. “I do not believe you would have the capacity to mock me so, so… so ruthlessly if it was!”

He had never hated himself quite so much as he did in those handful of seconds, for just as he thought his fist tightening round a fistful of thorns, she crumbled.Her expression seemed to die.   No fire, no anger. Just… an emptiness wider than the whites of her eyes. Somehow, her lovely nakedness pushing through her disheveled nighty made her look more ghastly, as though somehow close to death, her exposure quite suddenly invoking nothing in him. “Dorothea, please, forgive me - I spoke out of tur-” “How do you think I got into the academy?” His mouth slackened, and he pulled his robe back up his back, too aware of his own nakedness as she seemed to care nothing for her own. “You heard the rumours, did you not? Of course you did. They were on every tongue, everywhere I turned. Like no one would let me forget. I suppose it was the penance I was due for cheating my way through life.” “You are wrong, Dorothea. You must be incorrect. You are a sublime talent, a beauty beyond the reach of any other…” “Oh, save it.” She drew her legs up to her chest, her head resting there. “After all this time, you don’t understand it at all, do you? The things we common girls had to do to have our talents recognised, to even be seen as something worthy of time, of care. Even then. I’m just a fleeting fancy, Lorenz. A pretty object to be remarked about, to entertain noble minds, to put the guilty at ease. To be used up and disposed of. It happened countless times.” “I spoke… I spoke thoughtlessly, yet, I… I had no idea you had experienced such pain…” “I did not enjoy it, if that makes you feel better,” she hissed, cutting him off. “I did not enjoy a single second of it. With any of them. Old and young, cruel and kind. The best I could hope for was… well, commiserating with the girls, afterwards. You begin to realise how common your experiences are, and that makes it a different pain, doesn’t it? Realising how much suffering there is. Realising that you aren’t anything special, no matter how much you have achieved.” “No, it does not make me 'feel better'… Was this really… Forgive me, please, forgive me for speaking of myself,” his face cracked, his eyes glittering as he began to take in the full weight of what she had been through, the burden of her secrecy, that bitterness that must have ate at every second of her day.

“But did you… When you agreed to marry me, had you thought me just another who would… use you, for the price of security?”

“Do you really wish to know the truth, Lorenz?” She peered at him through her own cracking eyes, the rest of her expression solemn. “It is not too late, you know. We have not consummated this marriage, after all. You could still find the virgin noble girl of your dreams.”

He looked away from her, watching his hands. “That is unfair, Dorothea. I did not marry you for mere fornication, nor to sire countless children, nor to fulfil some puritanical fancy. I am… I am helplessly smitten with you, that is all. With you, all of you, even when you humiliate me with your outstanding wit.” He dared not look to see if her expression changed, instead lowering his head and hiding behind a mess of hair. “But, yes, Please. Speak the truth, if you are ready.”

“I think…” he heard her voice crack, then come closer. Until she was right by his ear again, her breath controlled and slow. “I think you are a gentle man.”

He finally looked at her, at her sad expression, her soft little mouth lilting like it had so often during the war. “Gentle?” “And I am lucky for it,” she said, the edges of her eyes brightening. He could not say how happy hearing such a thing made him feel, for though the tension seemed to have evaporated and her pain pushed away… she had hardly given him the answer he was desperate to hear. That he was exceptional, that he had worked hard and overcome all those terrible beliefs that once mired his countenance, that he was one she was equally smitten by and that, with time, all sins would be forgiven.

Yet, as she took his hand in her own, and squeezed it ever so delicately… squeezed it as though it were both a chick fallen from the nest and a lifeline on which everything depended… He met her smile, and sat in easy silence with her, melting into her presence.

--

ACT IV - RECITATIVE II On stage, she could transform into anything asked of her. A witch, a nurse, a seductress - even a man, on command, for Opera so loved to play with themes that inspired shock in the masses. Yet she topped controversies with aplomb. How could she not? She was a heroine in her own right, and though he tried not to think often of that time, she had once worn the cowl of war as effortlessly as any of them.

Yet it seemed… when not on stage, it seemed that cowl was still wrapped tightly round her. In the years betwixt their school-days and their return to the monastery… he could have hardly believed the transformation in her. It was not that she had simply matured. It was that she had been worn down. She had never meant to be a solider.

Yet a solider she had been. Wild and brave, cutting through enemies with magic more effervescent and powerful than even he could hope to conjure. He should have been frustrated by this, infuriated, even. Yet he did not recall ever feeling that way when she summoned red earth from the sky that fell like a phoenix in its death spiral, slaughtering whatever helpless knave stood in their way. He distinctly remembered riding through flames she had conjured from miles away, wondering what part of the soul had to be pulled on to conjure something so raw. He supposed it must be the same part that she still pulled on now, wandering the halls of their manor late at night. She thought that he did not know - he was a lark, after all, to compliment her owl. He’d caught sight of her more than once, slipping from his embrace and into the black.  And he had let her go, each time assuming this was just some part of her artistic heritage, that those long nights at the opera still rung their clangour in her mind.

Yet after their second… attempt at love making, her words were what rang true in him all through the night. He was haunted by the thought of what she had endured, and by what she was casting herself into when she took those midnight strolls. Was she simmering in her misery? Alone, once again?

So he slipped from his bedchamber too, and followed after her.

Eventually, he caught sight of her in the gardens - down by the river. A score of red lit by the moon, back to the balcony from which he watched her. It was like his first memory of her singing, on that foggy day. Or perhaps it was more the memory of her in that destitute opera house, the moon curling in silky waves through her tresses. He took to the stairs, eventually finding himself by her side. She must have heard his footsteps, yet she did not turn to greet him with disgust. She did not turn to greet him at all, in fact. “… There’s no need for you to patrol the grounds, Dorothea. There is hardly going to be a raid anytime soon,” he laughed softly, but felt no levity. She sighed.

“I just can’t help but feel like… it isn’t over.”

“The war?”

“Yes. That war. I don’t know. It’s like… all I wanted was for it to be over, desperately believing that it would end this year or the next, that all this fighting would just. Stop someday. And now that it has?” She tilted her head up towards the sky, the river burbling and filling the silence. “I just… can’t believe it. Like the feeling hasn’t left me. Like there’s still so much to do.” “Ah, but, of course. That’s true. There is very much to be rebuilt, wounds that need salving, broken bonds that must be tied together again. You and I are in a key position to do just that,” he watched her, the night air somehow losing its chill.

“Doesn’t that all just feel… fake, somehow?” Moths fluttered by, a frog croaked somewhere in the distance. It was a peaceful scene, he thought.

“Whatever do you mean? Dorothea, is fighting injustice not the exact path you have always been following? Was it not you who challenged my every belief, changed me at my core? Think of the thousands you can inspire…!”

“It reminds me of when I first entered the opera troupe,” she said, finally lowering her head, playing with her hair. “When men began to shower me in compliments, gifts and advances. When all the bile they once spat at me turned to promises, and even then, false ones at that. It’s… Like I see through it all.” She turned to face him, then, and he could see that she had been crying. “How many people did we kill, Lorenz?”He took a step back, surprised as her voice lifted in such sudden rage, silencing the frogs. “I … I would not know the exact numbers, but Dor-” “Don’t tell me that it was fair just because we were at war! Don’t tell me that!” She pulled at her hair, eyes whirling. “How can we be such different people, wear such different skins?! We’re the same as those men, except… even worse. No doubt they were too busy cowering behind their knights, free from the blood that drips from our hands.”

She covered her face, her chest heaving.

“Come now, had we not fought, we would not be able to enjoy the freedoms we do now. The war was a tragedy, yes, but -” “How many, how many did we kill who were just like Ferdie?” In just one sentence, she opened up that man’s grave yet again, his red red hair spilling out. The smell of it, those rotting fields, the flashes of lightning and miasma and air turned to wailing. “And we took pleasure in it, I know we did. All that… drinking, and laughing, and dining. The thrill of still being alive… I saw that in you, and Claude, and all the rest.

Worst of all, Lorenz, I saw it in myself.” Touching her shoulder, he swallowed, guilt sizzling his gut as she effortless conjured those memories. How even Seteth would join them in toasts to one victory or another, that knot of hard-fought joy binding them all tightly together, their chanting and hymns and limericks brighter than the candles they lit around themselves. How she would dance with Hilda, barefoot and bellies full, their laughter lifting them all out of their shells. He still had a painting that Ignatz had somehow conjured of that scene, all of them just blurs of colours in the dining hall.

Was that before or after Ferdinand died?

“This is what has made this war so particularly tragic. People like myself, like Ferdinand… we were trained for this, Dorothea. We were trained to know the weight of what we were doing, sparring against men who shared in this equal philosophy. This was not a burden that should ever have been placed upon your shoulders.”

“How can you say something so horrible so easily?” She asked, both hands clasping the one upon her shoulder. “Is that all it takes? What I lack? Training?”

“He would have told you the same if it were he standing here and I lost in his stead,” he said, attempting to navigate his words carefully. “And he would have not wanted you to be standing outside in the dark, trying to catch pneumonia in his honour.” He began to walk her back to their home, hoping the darkness would not follow them inside. She seemed to be mulling over what he said, her steps uncertain.

“And… you know, I will not ask you to suppress your feelings. In fact, I think it an asset in ensuring that this war never occurs again.”

She looked at him then, in surprise.

“An asset? That is how you try to make light of this?” “Yes, please, hear me out,” he said as they reached the stairs. With one, wavering step after another, they made their way back up.

“The way you … you move, dance, sing, on stage… you bring the war to life. More so than any writing could ever hope to capture. In you, the raw despair of it all is captured so brightly. None can help but be moved, no matter the strength of their learned barriers. To see you die up there, a hundred times, a thousand… each time I picture it so vividly, and each time it shatters my heart.”

“Great, so that’s what I have to give to the world. Shattered hearts and endless grief,” she rolled her eyes, but he could sense that some part of her had been fished back out of the black.

“Yet I would never ask you to stop.” She glanced up at him as they reached the top of the stairs, the hallway beckoning them back inside. She stood there a while, as if unsure of something. “You could shatter the world’s heart, Dorothea. You teach us to remember our humanity. The true cost of these games we play as nobles in our selfish pursuits. There is value untold in that, a value only you possess. When you die, when you grieve, when you take character - none of it is false, to me. That is you at your most real.

So, that being the case, how can any of this be fake? I know none more sincere than you.”

As he watched her, she slowly found her smile, the mask that she’d been wearing so expertly weaving itself back into her skin.

It wasn’t a falsehood when she nodded, lifting herself onto her tip toes and brushing her lips to his own. Nor was it when she began to whisper how sweet he was, how kind, how gentle, how right. Not even when she said that she loved him, that she was glad that it was not him who had went in Ferdinand’s stead.

She was simply living, as all of them did, laughing barefooted on that stage.

--

 ACT V - ARIA I

It was… strange, standing here in this beautiful garden in the middle of the countryside. She was used to being surrounded by people, either to hide from or from those who celebrated the joy of her existence, given glares or gifts, but… Now she was alone. Truly alone.

At the monastery, she had occasionally found some quiet space to haunt - by the pier, the bridge, the rooftops. It was something she had noticed in Lorenz, in her… husband, too. She’d slip by him, discarding her yearning to gaze through stained glass or at what remained of the cathedral.

She supposed he craved these silent spaces for the same reasons that she did, for a chance to think. Still, she doubted their thoughts had ever crossed paths as much as their bodies had. That was alright. She was used to her own flow of narration having been shaped into something quite unique. Lorenz, on the other hand…. As a noble, as a man, as a nobleman, the trench had already been dug. All he had to do was allow himself to flow into it.

So why had he changed course so dramatically? Even now, when their thoughts flowed aloud together, it was clear their courses still clashed, no clear direction to this sea.

Maybe she enjoyed that, the drama of it.

Or maybe she simply enjoyed this estate, of its stillness, of its silence. When the hum and throb of the servants had ebbed away as they retired he basement kitchens, when their master had taken leave to go riding or entertaining or politicking in some other beautiful still green place, when she was the only one out on the grounds and all things settled into a chipping, wind whispered harmony…

It seemed… magic, somehow.

Today, in her wandering, she had ventured towards the stables. It hurt, in its own way, to stand here. Like ghosts could chase you from another time, another place, settle in the edges of your memory just because of a vague reminder of their imprint. Yes. Lorenz and she used to spend much time in the quiet, undisturbed spaces in the academy. Beautiful spaces. But Ferdie, this was where… he used to go, so very often. She never really understood it. It never suited his status. Knee deep in muck, our future prime minister? Wasting hours away in the hay, with the horses, smelling of… well, sweat and dirty work and a long, difficult day. It was one of things that had charmed her, back before she could accept being charmed by him. He treated those animals well. Weller than most treated people.

So being around the horses always brought out those memories, like taking a bath in them. It made her feel… sad, yes, but good, too. She supposed she would rather remember him like this than…

Well.

She reached a hand onto the stable door, clucking her tongue towards a dark shape that turned and, ever so slowly, made its way towards her. When finally he arrived, his snout touching air and the light catching on the edges of his glossy fur and great round glass eyes, she smiled at him. Patting his long, firm snout, she pulled a sugar cube from her pocket.

This had been Lorenz’s horse, during the war. Somehow, he had survived when so many of them had not. A huge beast for a tall master, she had been terrified of him on the battlefield, decorated in black plate and huffing steam, white teeth flashing whenever it had galloped past her. Despite the burden of all that armour, Lorenz had commanded it to move like black lightning, arching and curving impossibly as he slit the enemy straight through, thunderous hooves clacking down. How much blood had soiled this creature’s legs, deep black on deeper black? “Here you go, Holst. I have a little something for you.”

Bringing the sugar cube to his lips, he seemed confused awhile, searching her arm before finally finding it. The poor thing was nearing the end of its days, just as tired as she from all that fighting. War carried on in its bones that now rubbed angrily together, carried on in its dimming eyes that had once seen flames lick forth from its masters hands. Never could it have understood the horrors of what had gone on around it, and yet, it had obeyed. No matter how afraid, it had obeyed.

Embodied its masters calmness - Lorenz, a whirring flash of purple black and red, magnificent and awful, a slash of death blotting out the canvas.

Lorenz, whose only concern he spoke of regarding death centred around how well he would be remembered, honoured, exalted by it. Smiling down at her, saving her from some warring lance, tossing his hair as he leapt - wild and controlled all at once - over the corpse that moments ago and a twist in fate would have been herself.  

Lorenz, who had told her that his father was a coward for not laying down his life in some barren field and spilling his guts out in agony for something more noble, more aspirational than a quiet, easy death in his bedchamber.

And now, its reward, for all that energy spent, for saving her life, for saving his?

A quiet life in the countryside, feeding from her hand.

--

 ACT VI - DUET III

There were no pomegranates involved in their third attempt, nor herbs, nor discussions prior. It was an act of raw passion, in part (but only part) lubricated by the joys of wine. He professed his enjoyment of Sagrantino and waxed lyrical about the fullness of its body, dark and dry and robust in its alcoholic strength. She hadn’t said much about it at all. Perhaps all wines tasted similar to her. Never mind, a palate could soon be developed, and he was more than happy to assist. Such was what he had been rambling about until she took both sides of his face and drew him into a deep kiss. It was full bodied. Dark. Dry. Utterly intoxicating. So much so that he’d gasped in surprise and almost spilled his drink onto her dress.

“Perhaps it is my palate that will need expanding,” he’d muttered, and she’d laughed (in a way that he knew was mocking, but he took pride in it anyway). “Then, you’ll let me lead?” She’d tilted her head, the room spinning with her.

“Lead me anywhere,” he’d said, following her mouth. She’d obliged with the softest little bites along his bottom lip, each time evoking a gasp deeper than before.

“You’ll do whatever I ask?” She’d asked, songstress, seductress. “Anything, anything,” he’d mumbled as he let his hands wander across her waist, the fabric of her dress smooth and obedient to his touch.

Sherry, that which he had labelled so unfavourably as a ‘beginners wine’, filmed the edges of her tongue - it drove him insane, that was the only word he could use to describe it, this madness that only Dorothea had the power bring out. In that moment, he loved that tongue, worshiped it, could hardly believe that it was her mouth, her taste, so sweet, and he chased after it again and then again.

He felt like he might wish to kiss that mouth forever, every time she indicated that she might break from it bringing forth a mewling out of him that surprised himself most of all. It was embarrassing, it should have been, but every time she rewarded him with an answer of that sweet, warm mouth he lost all sense of himself within it.

All his life, he had been taught to exercise restraint. To take the only the smallest bites, to appreciate each moment in turn as though each second were like the beats in a play worthwhile of literary analysis. Yet with her, with Dorothea… Daring to slide his eyes open, he caught sight of her mid-kiss, the finery of her lashes of the waves in her gorgeous hair of her cheeks set alight with passion… he felt as though there could be no such a word, no such a thing as restraint, of enjoying her in just the smallest of ways.

When finally she insisted on their parting, kissing the edge of his nose in an attempt to sate his soft groaning, she laughed at him as his breathing slowed, ruffling his hair.

“Are my charms really so deadly, Lorenz?” She smoothed a thumb over his cheek, squeezing along the red. “Look at you. Red as a rose,” she giggled again, touching her face to his, lashes smiling against his cheek.

“Yes,” he hissed.“Yes, yes. It’s you, all you,” he mumbled into her mouth, stealing one kiss from her before she clamped her fingers over his jaw, still laughing. “There’s no one-” he failed to squeeze out any more words, her nails digging into his lip and she brought her mouth against her hand, eyes locking with his as she imitated kissing him through it.

“Then… why don’t we try something a little different,” she whispered, before kissing the back of her hand again, brows raised. He could not answer, so he arched his brows in response, nodding. “Something I’ve done with… no other man.”

His eyes flared open at that, though, still unable to speak, he squeezed the side of her impeccable waist as answer.

Her chest rose up against his, the shape of her body searing through him as he tried to memorise the feel of those curves, pushing his hips forwards, chasing that pleasure. Her mouth came to brush against his shoulder, turned to whisper in his ear as she described in no uncertain terms what she wanted from him.

It was a sinful thing to ask, a truly embarrassing thing to be told, an act he had not ever even contemplated - even as she spoke it, he sputtered against her hand, eyes widening.

Yet. She moved his hand from her waist to her hips to her thigh, her breathing shuddering just ever so slightly in his ear.

“It’s just a kiss, Lorenz.”  

A kiss where no one else had ventured, that, that singular thought blossomed in his mind over and over. An experience as new as all those she had given to him - this thought that, even if it were a lie, made him tremble.  

Letting her hand pull free from his mouth, she looked up at him through those long lashes, those eyes endless rings of green. “The brave Lorenz Hellman Gloucester isn’t afraid of something like that, is he?” She said, her hands tickling down his rib cage, each movement of her delicate fingers like tongues of fire. “Of course not,” he croaked out before clearing his throat. Holding his head high, he slipped himself above the well of pleasure, trying his damnedest to ignore the fact that she was making the slowest, subtlest, most maddening rolls of her hips against his clear arousal.

“Well, shall we retire to the bedroom?”

She hummed at that, shook her head. “Ah, but! Dorothea, the servants -“ “They’re all in bed,” she mused, almost certainly a lie but, “Besides, can you really wait that long? All those stairs… Why, they might just tire me out.”

The room felt like it spiralled, the walls beating in his ears as he realised exactly what she was saying. The thought of being embarrassed sizzled away into the realisation that what she said was clad in white hot wanting, wanting for him. She parted from him and lay back on the méridienne, her hands gripping the edge of its curved back as she leaned into it, legs still clasped together. Standing there quite uselessly, he gazed at the way she was spread across the chaise lounge, eyes sliding thin. She was… unbelievable, truly. Unconsciously, he brought his hand to his mouth, breath growing hot as he lapped up the mere sight of her. She’d adjusted before his gaze, growing lovelier by the second, slipping off her tights with ease. “Kneel, Sir Lorenz.”

He did so without thought, his head swimming with the motion. Not even for Lord Holst would he have lowered himself so quickly for, so lowly. Yet, Dorothea’s legs spread out before him, her lithe body waved like the curls in her hair, like a bird’s wingbeats. She gazed down at him from above, her lips slightly parted, her eyes slipping shut. He crawled towards her, her leg coupling with his back, drawing him to the edge of the lounge.

The flare of her red, red dress framing the scene so nearly, but with one fluid motion, she pulled her underskirt above her hips, folding it into a neat line. And, just like that, she was exposed to him.

It was an overwhelming sight. Curved and curled, that unbroken line slowly opening itself up to him, (to him and to only him, him, him.) The leg dropped across his back had been making circular motions, but now, she pulled on it, daring him to go forwards.

Finally, he jolted from his paralysis. Slipping his head towards her, he did as she asked. He kissed her. Soft, close lipped kisses across that line, pausing only as she felt her entire body shudder, then relax. Tentatively, he continued, each kiss wholly its own drawn out motion. Her leg continued to guide him, its motions bringing his long, thin back into consciousness, as though nothing existed unless she was touching it.

He could not help but lose himself in this, relaxing as he threw his hair over his shoulder, tilting his head into her bare thigh. He sighed to himself, reminded himself that it would be best if it took this slowly, if he tried to better appreciate this, like any act of training required. Yet as his kisses began to blur together, each more rapid than the last, he felt her body jerk and the most wonderful noise escape her mouth.

That noise alone was enough to make him feel as though he were on the edge, his eyes flickering open and darting towards her expression. She had her head tilted back, her eyes totally shut, her mouth frozen in the hungriest of circles.

That look, combined with those soft little noises he had never heard her make, drove him onwards. He tilted his mouth, opening it and nestling his tongue into that line. He could not stop watching her, the theatre of her face as he explored what he could, each slip of his tongue making her body sing. Yes, she was singing now, that’s all he could see in this, in her melodic little sighs, in the way her body shuddered like the strings on a violin. And he was the one playing, now, playing her, playing with her - oh, that thought forced his eyes to shut, his mouth frozen over her as he gasped.

She muttered something, but he could not hear it, his world slowly spinning back into view. Sliding his eyes back open, he gazed at what he had done, at her obvious arousal, her want for him. Her thighs, shaped so lovingly and so unlike his own, her entire body soft circles upon soft circles where he was only sharp, cutting lines… his gaze returned to meet her face, her eyes still shut, her mouth now curled into a cheeky smile.

“You haven’t… already, have you?” She laughed as he spat out an urgent ‘no’, swiftly resuming his work.

“It’s alright if you do, I can only imagine how hard it is to stay composed around me.” Her teasing, her arrogance, only made him want to perform that much better for her. The fact that she could speak without stuttering, where as if he tried to now he felt as though he would only break into a cold sweat. Still. He appreciated what she was saying, appreciated the sound of her voice as it vibrated through her body… he followed after it, those deep vibrations, each sweep of his tongue inching in deeper and deeper… ah.

He could not stop thinking about the fact that this was the place where he was supposed to have taken her, far wetter and far warmer than he could ever had imagined, her sweet noises resuming. In a sense, he was inside of her now, truly one with her —

Suddenly, he felt her rising up against him, bumping against his teeth as he realised her tiny moans were now rippling together into a laugh. Sensing some inadequacy, he pulled his mouth away, brows knitting together in worry. “Did I … tickle you?”

She shook her head, catching her breath a moment.

“No, I could just feel your nose.” Frowning, he dipped his head back between her legs, gently nipping at one of her folds. Her sharp gasp brought him only the tiniest bit of vindication. “Now is not the time for such frivolity, Dorothea.”

Her laughter began to subside, her mouth tightening as her fingers came to sweep across his scalp, scratching it lightly.

“You’re right, Lorenz. I shouldn’t tease when you are in the middle of such… delicate work.”

He hummed an agreement, enjoying the little ripples her fingers induced through his scalp and down his back. As she began to play with his hair, mindlessly pulling it this way and that, he returned to her sex, biting along its ridges as enjoying every single desperate gasp she made.

It soon became unbearable. As much as he wanted to slide himself forward and take her like this, he… truthfully, he did not want to starve her of those noises. He was afraid of a repeat performance of last time that would sag into disappointment and anger, and, well. Tasting her like this, Goddess be damned, was rather more an enjoyable experience than he could ever have hoped for.

Sliding his hand down his chest, he wriggled in place - desperately trying to concentrate on keeping her satisfied while also moving himself out of his trousers. The angle failed him, so he made do through the fabric, his hand eventually finding a rhythm with his mouth, her own hand keeping time with each stroke through his hair.

Then, rather suddenly, he felt her fingers on his chin. Widening his eyes, he wondered if he’d hurt her in some way until she drew it forcibly upwards, her throat sounding like it might crack as she hissed, “there, right there.”

He embarrassed himself with the noises he began to make on her command, the thought of herself as his mentor somehow impossibly arousing. He leaned into his hand, his mouth following where she had led him, tongue sloppy but eventually finding what she had been searching for - her voice heightening immediately.

That noise, mixed with murmurs of ‘yes’ on repeat, rippled throughout her whole body and into his, making both feel whole. He began to moan in tandem with her, shedding any sense of self-consciousness as he gave into pleasure’s brilliant, hot glow. This was Dorothea he was making sing like this, his wife, the woman who had said yes, the woman who had overcome hardship after hardship, hatred after hatred, scorn after scorn and still - in the end - walked down that aisle in a white petal dress that turned had turned red before their very eyes. Even in ceremony, she would not leave the audience wanting.

For how many had she performed for? For how many had she brought pleasure to, spread her legs for, laid down in the hopes that their enjoyment might be a salve for her suffering? No, he soothed himself, listening to the wavering in her breath, feeling the desperate curving of her stomach, tasting her unconscious rolling of her hips as she completely and utterly lost control of herself… No, tonight, she was the centre of enjoyment, he the performer, and for once, he was determined, she would not be the one left wanting. And as soon as that thought entered his mind, she tugged on his hair, her face an utter, crazed mess. Her eyes still shut, but her neck craned back, her chest fluttering wildly. It was too much, it was simply too much - choking out a garbled whine, he pressed down hard with his fingers and rolled his hips against the lounge, frustration ebbing out into bliss as he turned his head and buried it into her thigh to suppress a cry.

Slowly blinking back into reality, he could still feel her body lifting up towards him, her thighs trembling against his cheek. She was… plainly requesting that he continue, and though by all accounts he should have been finished, he could not deny her.

Following her command, her fingers had spread herself apart, one nail pointing to where he now brought his mouth, her back arching delightfully as he followed through. “Dorothea,” he ached out, once, then twice, then again and again. Until he lost himself again in the edges of her name, in and out up and down and then ending, every single time, with an open mouth. He had hoped she would say his name in return, scream it, even - but she seemed incapable of saying anything, her cries first deepening, then lightening, then lifting to unbearable heights.

He did not stop, but he felt her tighten underneath him, pulsing in a steady rhythm as she undid herself with one singular, arching cry.

After a while, her breathing returned to normal, her body spent. Simply looking up at her for the longest time, he felt… utterly relaxed, despite the uncomfortable warmth in his trousers, the unnatural positioning, the fact that her eyes had not opened once during their entire encounter… but

“So, I trust that I impressed?”

She laughed, and he blushed, pulling himself up from the floor as she finally  opened her eyes, staring blearily at the ceiling.

“You certainly left an impression.” Smiling to himself, he took her hand, bowing his head onto her chest. She played idly with his hair, and both listened to their steading breaths. She thanked him, then. A soft, breathy little thing.

And that blossomed in him a feeling so much deeper, so much more intense than orgasm, all in that one lilting, gentle little thank you.

--

 ACT VII - CADENZA

Dorothea had been thanked many, many times before. Cordial thank yous, applause for a wonderful performance, a swell of glee because she brought treats backstage for a hoard of hungry singers. It hadn’t always been that way. Even now… it surprised her, that gratitude. How could anyone be truly grateful for what she brought into their lives?

She was a spectacle, a moment in time, a sparkling dress for a special night out, she wasn’t… she wasn’t the one who changed lives, who completed all the domestic chores every day, the silent figure who moulded students on their path to greatness. When she thought about the people she was truly thankful for… they all fit into those brackets. Mentors. Stage-crew. Saviours.  

It was terrible of her, wasn’t it? To not believe those people when they thanked her.

Yet…

She remembered the glow of his brown eyes, so bright that they were almost amber, his tentative, nervous little smile.

She remembered…

The White Heron cup, only… not. They didn’t have a name for it the second time they hosted it. Winter had come in full force, that bleak feeling that sank into everything since the war began only thickening as the daylight trickled down to just a handful of hours. This time of year… Enbarr used to be covered in lights, as though the city itself could become the sun. The opera house had always been so busy. What else was there to do in the chill and the rain, when travels were so often cut short?

Yet, since the war began… Well. The sparkle had left. People became colder. More distant. More keenly aware that time was running out, for them or for… something else, society as they knew it. Maybe there wasn’t any time left for frivolities like going to watch people pretend to die on stage, maybe it felt just a little too real while the world was falling in around them.

Yet… Garreg Mach kept that sparkle. No. Reignited it.

She felt ashamed of some of those memories now. Ashamed but… happy, too. Those were probably some of the most joyful times of her life, as terrible as it seemed. Back together again with Manuela, relived that they had made it through one battle and into the next, singing and eating and praying even when it made no sense at all. She’d grown closer to those people in that ruined monastery than she ever would with anyone ever again. To imagine marrying anyone, anyone, who had not experienced that total heartache, that surreal joy, would have been impossible.

Who else would understand why they’d chosen to host the White Heron Cup when there was no one but themselves to judge it? No prizes, no music, no atmosphere at all, really… Yet Claude had let them dig into the rations, pull out the wine, and lose themselves in the illusion that maybe there really was somewhere in this world that hadn’t been ruined forever.

Manuela had long passed out and Seteth had taken her to her room. Leonie and Raphael had lost interest and kept themselves to the dining hall, chattering about the fresh taste of wild game. Marianne wasn't saying much at all. Ignatz was busying himself away in his corner, colours bleeding from his brush as Lysithea and Claude argued about how well she was handling her drink.

So, the White Heron Cup was largely forgotten about, just an excuse, really. Yet she remembered leaning into Hilda’s shoulder, their shoes kicked off while they cheered the boys on. Lorenz and Ferdie, their peacock tails in full display, a whole night of one attempting to out-noble the other.

It should have been annoying. Infuriating, even. Spending time with three of the most privileged people in the world, listening to Hilda whine about how she couldn’t be bothered dancing right now despite her years of training, the static that droned everything else out as Lorenz and Ferdie seemed to act on script with one another. Honestly, though? It was … just. Fun. “Come now, Hilda, it is unbecoming that a noblewoman of your stature would decline such a prestigious invitation. Why, it was your very brother who, while he was a student at the academy, swept himself to victory at every Cup, was it not?” Lorenz had been staring at them both, though… Even then, Dorothea noticed how his gaze would linger.

“Well yeah, and that’s exactly why I’m not doing it this year,” she’d wriggled her legs, turning her toes inward. “It’s just not fair! Let someone else have a turn. Besides. I don’t see why you even need a woman part. Just, I don’t know, dance with the chairs or something.”

“Well,” Dorothea interrupted, half tempted to go up to Manuela’s room and drag down that awful mannequin - though, she supposed she didn’t exactly trust herself with the knife firmly lodged in its head while she was this inebriated. “I have an idea…”   Lorenz shifted on the spot, “Ah, of course. Lovely Dorothea, your talents were not all spent on singing, were they not? Why, the opera has some of the most complex choreography of all… Will you be volunteering tonight?”   “No,” she smirked, tilting her head. “I’ve never been a fan of these noble dances. They’re too prescriptive for my style. I’d worry about… stepping on your toes.”

Before Lorenz could protest any further, she raised her voice, “I think… Ferdie should play the woman’s role.” Lorenz’s eyes snapped open, his hand waving, “That’s absurd -!” “I don’t see why not. It happens all the time at the opera house, which you are a fan of, after all.” “Yes, well, this is not theatre! Ferdinand is a man of grand stature, stripped though he may be of his titles, and he would not… debase himself so egregiously, particularly not at such an important event!” “Um,” Hilda laughed, eyes only half-opened. “We’re in the reception hall. And we’re the only one’s here. Who cares!”

“Even so -” “Enough!” Ferdie finally spoke, stepping forwards decisively. Well… alright. There had been a little waver in his step, but he saved himself from stumbling, his confidence far more effective than his drunkenness. “I will not allow this debacle in my name to go on any longer. If there are but two to compete in this year’s cup, and if none will bend, then I will be the one to volunteer.”

Turning to Lorenz, he offered his hand towards him and bowed in a curtsey that was more than half elegant. “… Come now, Ferdinand. This is simply unfair. You cannot possibly know the correct movements. You are an able dancer, I admit, perhaps my most admirable competitor - yet that is precisely why I will not allow you to forfeit to me on purpose.” “Oh? Where did you hear it said that I would forfeit? You underestimate me, Lorenz. A true dancer learns not only the role of his own, but his partner’s also. Through this experience, and this alone, I have learned to anticipate my partner’s every move, timing my own movements precisely. This, my friend, is the spirit of the dance. If you can not understand this, then you have no hope of besting me!”

And so, it was this way, that Lorenz and Ferdie swept each other off their feet. Well. More accurately - locked into one another hands with awkwardly tangled limbs, their stiffness not faded on their first nor second dance, but yielding in the third. Those sweeps of long hair, one so straight and to the point, the other glorious but wavering. Their steps in time to music that Hilda and she drummed out with their hands and with their heels, laughter rising as their drunken faces contorted with such intense concentration.

They were beautiful.

They were all so… so beautiful.

She could not remember who they declared the victor that night - if any. That wasn’t in the spirit of the dance, after all. Not in the spirit of the night. Not in the spirit of this monastery, still surviving despite the gaping hole that pierced its heart.

What she did remember was walking with all three of them back to their rooms, up those endless, winding stairs, the gulf that separated them all. She recalled Lorenz drunkenly offering to guide her back down the stairs, lest she get lost, lest she miss his company, lest she wished to speak more words into that pitch black night. She refused, that night, though she found his persistent desire to impress her rather… endearing. He truly had changed, in those five years.

Yet it was Ferdie whose drunken offer she agreed to. Who invited her back to his room. Who had looked so dashing being bent over Lorenz’s arms, whose hair she fantasised about holding onto almost touching the ground as they’d leaned into one another. Ferdie who, that night, she knew might ask her for something that they could not take back, something she was… ready enough to follow him into his bed.

Yet that question never came.

Instead… He asked her to brush his hair. To do his makeup.

To borrow one of her dresses.

He told her… he always liked when she called him ‘Ferdie’.

He asked her… exhausted and trembling, his amber eyes fixing her with a look so vulnerable she felt that her heart might break that night, he asked her if he looked good. If she still liked him this way.

If she…

If she thought, after the war… That, maybe… He could be called Ferdie forever.

He’d seen her at her most vulnerable, nakedness so tantalising and so awe inspiring that he had run away. He knew the Dorothea before the stage, the Dorothea after it was crumbled and gone. He’d seen her anger, her spite, her ugliness that now, to this day, stung her with regret.

Yet, here he was. Naked in his own way, in… in her own way. Asking her for her approval.

“Thank you, Dorothea, for everything you have shown me.”

That gorgeous smile. Those insatiable eyes.

“Thank you for showing me myself.”

She remembered…

The tangle of vines that erupted from Ferdie’s stomach, sharp and thorned, laying still across her belly.

She remembered…

Every petal being shorn from her at once, red red red streaking across her vision as, in that moment, all she was left with were thorns.  

She remembered…

Lorenz dragging her by the hand, her screaming still echoing across the battlefield, every needle point of hers driving into him as she scratched his arm to ribbons. His face still in full bloom, his stalk artificially trimmed.

There had been no rain that day, just like there was no rain this day. The day they buried Lorenz’s horse in the rose garden, its body sitting wet beneath the vines. The clatter of war still echoed out in this quiet place, even if you had to strain your ears to hear it, even if they were putting yet another piece of it to rest.

The sun had been so bright, that day. Golden. Almost amber. “We say rest in peace. As though to live is to struggle, A war beneath the Eternal Moon. As though when is all said and done, All we can hope for, Is to rest.” Lorenz’s eulogy to his horse was… touching, in his own way. Yet. It was seeing the tremble begin in his arms, up through his shoulders, a trembling that opened up as wide as the wound in Ferdie’s stomach, a trench from which those thorn covered vines had never stopped spilling.

It was then, she realised, watching him weep for the first time that she had ever witnessed, that that trench lived on in him. She wondered if those scratches on his arms had scarred. She wondered if they veined out and came alive some nights, strangling him.

He choked out a wretched sob, covering his eyes.

He’d used to think that… anything truly beautiful could never be destroyed, that people would fight to preserve such beauty - even at the cost of themselves. He’d styled herself under that same rule. Something magnificent was almost something immortal.

A ravaged opera house. A dead war steed. A dear… dear friend. “I… I miss…” She reached for him, tangled him into her embrace, felt out whatever piece of softness she still had left in her, the petals that he had so diligently helped regrow.  

“I know, Lorenz. I know.” So quietly she barely heard it, the wind picking up and rushing through the endless green around them, he thanked her. A soft, breathy little thing.

She pulled him tighter into her embrace, the world melting through. “I know.”

--

ACT VIII - COLORATURA - CURTAIN CALL The opera house was in full bloom, bright lights and gilded smiles all around. Freshly painted decor was made all the more decadent by the hundreds of donations that had been poured into this place, rich azures and splendid reds that were as much a spectacle as those on stage. Ah, it was as though the war had never taken place at all. That was the point, was it not?

Still, he could not help but feel… for its artisanal beauty, like a fetching young lady newly jewelled and furred, he could not help but miss those impassioned days. Where Dorothea was the only focal point in a sea of dusty browns and greys, where the chill of the outside world was quelled by the warmth of her rich voice. It was unlike him to appreciate such aesthetics, never mind pine for them. Yet, regardless, just like that night, she stepped onto that stage and into a halo of light.

The music dimming, the calm tension as the sound began to swell within her throat, but not quite set free.

He leaned forwards in his seat, her eyes cast above him, her face a picture of mourning.

—

The roar of the rain outside, drops long and thin sticking to the window panes, the smell of wet earth and bodies spent. Her rolling curls of hair, her beautiful smile, her insatiable eyes.  

Her hands cutting through the black, cupping his face, the sound of rain growing ever louder.

—

The feel of her body pressed underneath him and into the grass, her nightgown soaked through, her mouth an elegant little bud that burst into the widest grin he had ever witnessed. “Now, Lorenz, do it now.”

—

After all that waiting, heaven finally spilled from her mouth. One endless, echoing note that ran on and on before it wavered, trembled, shuddered in time to the orchestra that could only hope to follow her lead.

— Daylight, mid-summer, the rose garden. She’s laughing, he’s trying to catch her. He can’t remember why, all he can remember is when she peels a rose from its stalk and hurls its petals at him. How he does the same. His precious, prized roses - and they’re throwing them over one another. She’s laughing, he remembers, she’s laughing because the petal’s stuck to his eyelashes. He looks an impossible spectacle, like a bird, like a butterfly.

—

She shudders underneath him, his fingers brushing over her and then inside her, and he’s gasping some mangled cry - her name, the goddess, it did not matter because all he can think about is the sound of her voice as it lifts and lifts and lifts the deeper his fingers go.

—

The rain grows heavier, and she nestles herself in the crook of his neck, her voice so soft and so tired as she says,“I was thirteen when I first had sex.”

—

The petals all come falling down. She’s ripped another rose’s head off, but she doesn’t tear its petals free, not this time. She stands by that horse’s grave, glancing up at him through her lashes, her smile melting the world away.

Between her fingers, she presents the rose to him. Nails brush along its edges, gently feeling their way across the inner petals before turning hard and stiff, crushing into the rose’s centre.

She looks up at him, and laughs.

— “He was… kind to me, even if I didn’t think so at the time.”

He stares out into the blearing rain, wondering if that whole garden might drown, wondering if there’s any roses left. — He forgot himself in that garden, her thighs squeezing against his waist, her mouth open and singing. There’s no such thing as anything else as he pushes his hips forwards and touches her - hungry, alive, wet enough to take him in one long, soft, wavering moan.

She wraps her entire being around him, the rain ravaging both their bodies, his hair bleeding into hers as it waves itself into violent, violet curls. He presses his forehead to hers, and lays still awhile, a protracted gasp as he fully takes in that he is tasting her without tasting.  

He gently, so so gently, drifts his hips forwards.

—

She plays a Countess in an opera that would prove to be her most controversial yet. All her sparkling wears and finery mask the wild thing that rests beneath. A woman in love, a woman mad with it, a woman set to destroy the world without it.

Her lover dies. Torn apart by a crazed murderer. She knows that he will soon take her too.

She sings, she sings, she sings.

—

She sings, she sings, she sings.

He clutches her hand, clutches her hair, clutches anything as he desperately tries to find air. He can feel her breathing beneath him, he can feel her every motion, he can be inside of her without really knowing her at all

Yet it’s an illusion, is it not? The grandest illusion of them all.

—

“I thought that he loved me,” she said, her chest so still. “On some level… it’s silly, isn’t it, but on some level, I still believe that he did.”

“It hurt, a lot. Physically, emotionally, all of it. I thought he… was going to save me. Take me away from all this - even though he was married, even though his daughter sang up on that stage right beside me, just a few years older.”

The pages spiralling open, her fingers in the rose, his body lost in hers, the lights on the stage dimming.

“He was the one… actually, who let me sing centre stage. Picked me over his daughter, just like I thought he would keep on picking me over his wife.”

She’s laughing at him, drunk and full of life, Sherry toed as she dances in their living room - crawling over the méridienne, kissing him on the nose, on the mouth, on the chest, on and on until he’s losing herself into her bliss again, his eyes never shutting, never once leaving her.

She’s glorious on that stage, wailing, howling in a rage that seemed beyond human. This opera… it should have been like any other opera, but there was but one fundamental difference.

The murderer comes for her, her voice growing higher and higher, defiant on defiant, as though challenging him to kill her, as though she is ready for anything. After all, this one link to earth has been severed.

Her lover, a woman.

They were going to cross the ocean, disappear somewhere, no church, no Crests, no memories.

The rain begins to fade away, and he strokes his hands through her hair, he holds her while she tells him, “I thought my only worth was in what could be done to me, not by what I could do, I… really, really did believe that, for the longest time. I’m not good for much. Half-decent in a war, I suppose.”

She’s wrong.

Of course she’s wrong.

Yet the knife goes in all the same, her voice lilting and howling, impossibly powerful. How could she not even be aware of that power? How can she simply stand there as he stabs her, again and then again, her body crumbling, her voice still ringing out across the stage. He asks her, over and over, if this is alright, if she is alright, if he is alright. He trembles with pleasure so intense he is brought to the point of weeping, made worse by the opening of her eyes, her gaze so wonderful and sweeping. She tells him,

“You have a petal on your lash, Sir Lorenz.”

And he laughs.

She never stops being able to make him laugh.

She disappears into the earth, the stage lights go out, yer her voice keeps going.

On and on and on into that night. As though that pulsing, ethereal cry could pierce the veil.

As though it were searching for her lover, still. She holds his face, looks him in the eyes while their bodies meet, infinite pools of emerald green, holds his gaze until he cannot hold on any longer, he

If there’s anything he’s learned it’s that…

He can’t hold onto this moment forever.

Pockets of bliss so bright it blinds him. Sadness so cruel and all consuming it swallows him.

Anger at this cruel and unjust world, at spectres that no longer exist, so potent it feels poisonous.

There’s nothing that he can hold onto. Nothing. He lets go while scrambling to hold onto the image of those green green eyes, and the world curls out with it.

—

The performance ends and he is the first to his feet. He’s the only one there, after all. It’s only a practice, just a trial run.

The curtains raise, and Dorothea’s chatting among the girls, Manuela’s fingers ruffle her hair, their faces lit up red with the effort and the fading adrenaline.

Lorenz waits until she turns to him, until the corners of her smile shallowed, until her sparkle faded.

The stage falls away. Silence echoes. She meets his gaze, the warmth in her eyes that had been there just moments ago now dried and cold.

The rain’s still falling, somewhere.  

Rose petals drifting in the wind.

Her voice reverberating, on and on, forever.

Which mirror was the truth?

He decided, then, that it did not matter.

He raises his hands and Applauds.

[whereconfusionisarhyme]

(A/N)Under the cut is a rewrite of the song 16 Going On 17 from Sound Of Music. It’s modernized, and it’s gay. Tumblr doesn’t have center text, so please just pretend that the stage directions are in the center. 

It was inspired by the Broadway Backwards version of Sixteen Going On Seventeen, but it’s not a neccessary thing to watch to get the scene.

***

CHARACTERS

Lessie – Mezzo-Soprano/Soprano. Upbeat, bouncy, sassy.

Raffaella – Alto/Mezzo-Soprano. Good posture, subtle emotions, cautious.

***

(Lessie enters stage left dragging Raffaella by the hand. Lessie is excited and eager to reach their destination, while Raffaella is apprehensive and wildly looking around in a mixture of confusion and worry. Lessie stops center stage and looks somewhere offstage, barely containing her excitement.)

LESSIE

There it is!

(Raffaella stares at the same spot, but with incredulity. She slowly turns to Lessie and tries not to squash her best friend's excitement.)

RAFFAELLA

Lessie...Lessie...I love you...but I am not letting you take a single step into that warehouse.

(Lessie noticeably flashes her eyes up at the words 'I love you', but tries to cover it up with pouting.)

LESSIE

But Raffaellaaaaa. That's not fairrrrr. We did the thing you wanted to do yesterday. You said we can do my thing today.

RAFFAELLA

Yes, I did, but the key difference you seem to be overlooking is that I went to a BOOKSTORE at 2:00 pm. YOU want to go to a WAREHOUSE at 11:00 pm.

LESSIE

Firstly, you got the time wrong it's actually about 12:30 right now. Secondly, I don't want to go to the WAREHOUSE. I want to go to the RAVE inSIDE the warehouse.

RAFFAELLA

What?! A rave?! That is completely and utterly ridiculous. We're going home.

LESSIE

We are NOT going home. My parents probably won't let me go out again with you this month, so I have to make the most of tonight.

(A beat. Raffaella looks taken aback for a moment and a flicker of sadness flashes across her face. She quickly recovers and continues as if nothing happened.)

RAFFAELLA

Why won't they let you?

LESSIE

Because I went out with you today.

RAFFAELLA

Is there some sort of limit to how many times you're permitted to go out with me?

LESSIE

Well, yes but it's not like a set number. They think I'm spending too much time with you, and that I should get a boyfriend.

RAFFAELLA

Why do they want you to get a boyfriend?

LESSIE

Because it'll "give me experience for when I get a husband". After all, "how can I expect to snag up a good one if I don't know how.".

(Lessie crosses her arms and walks around the stage, waving her hands around and trying to hide her obvious disdain at the notion of getting a husband.)

RAFFAELLA

That...odd.

LESSIE

Tell me something I don't know. So, yeah, I'm not going home.

(Raffaella attempts to compromise with Lessie, worried for her safety.)

RAFFAELLA

Well, if that's the case, let's just...go see a movie then. We can watch an R-rated one if you can't squash your need to be rebellious.

LESSIE

Please, girl, I'm staying. I'm not giving this chance up.

(Less stands on the box farthest to the right of the stage and looks offstage, at the warehouse. Raffaella pulls her back and off of the box.)

RAFFAELLA

Please, "girl", why do you need to go in there?

LESSIE, JOKINGLY SINGING AND SHIMMYING

I love the night life! I've got to boo-gay~

RAFFAELLA

Nonono, that's it. We're getting away from this place.

LESSIE

No, fine, you go. I'm gonna stay.

RAFFAELLA

No, it's too dangerous. You're just a baby.

LESSIE

I'm not a baby! I'm 18.

(Beat.)

RAFFAELLA, DEADPAN

You're 16.

LESSIE

Nearly 17. And 17 in basically 18.

(A beat. A sigh from Raffaella is heard.)

RAFFAELLA

You wait little girl On an empty stage For fate to turn the light on

Your life little girl

LESSIE

I'm not little.

RAFFAELLA

Sure.

RAFFAELLA

Is an empty page That men will want to write on

LESSIE, LOOKING AT RAFFAELLA WISTFULLY,

To write on

RAFFAELLA

You are 16 going on 17 Baby it's time to think

LESSIE

Sounds disgusting

(Raffaella send Lessie a 'done' look. Lessie scrunches up her nose and smirks at Raffaella.)

RAFFAELLA

Better beware Be canny and careful Baby you're on the brink You are 16 going on 17 Fellows will fall in line Eager young lads And grueways and cads Will offer you food and wine

LESSIE

Sounds amazing.

RAFFAELLA Totally unprepared are you To face a world of men Timid and shy and scared are you Of things beyond your kin You need someone Older and wiser Telling you what to do I am 17 going on 18 I'll take care of you

(Raffaella goes to boop Lessie on the nose. Lessie grabs her hand and moves it away from her face. Raffaella briefly looks down at her hand in Lessie's before her attention coming back up to Lessie when the girl talks.)

LESSIE

You aren't 'going on 18', your birthday was literally 2 days ago.

RAFFAELLA, SMIRKING

It doesn't change the fact that you're still a 16-year-old baby while I'm a 17-year-old adult.

(Lessie lets go of Raffaella's hand.)

LESSIE

Two weeks. Two weeks between my birthday and yours. Only TWO WEEKS. Nobody found this little bit funny when we were six, and it still isn't funny when we're 17.

RAFFAELLA

I'M 17. You, on the other hand, are-

LESSIE

Don't you da-

RAFFAELLA

16.

LESSIE

You're not my friend anymore.

RAFFAELLA

I have to stay your friend, because I am older and therefore obligated to take care of you.

LESSIE

I can take care of myself, thank you very much.

(Lessie's lyrics are sung in a sickeningly sweet soprano. So much mugging that she would be arrested and put before a jury.)

LESSIE

I am 16 going on 17 I know that I'm naive Fellows I meet may tell me I'm sweet And willingly I believe I am 16 going on 17 innocent as a rose Bachelor dandies Drinkers of brandies What do I know of those?

(Raffaella sticks out her leg and trips Lessie. Lessie glares at her. Raffaella gives an innocent look. Lessie recovers quickly and continues her sarcasm.)

Totally unprepared am I To face a world of men Timid and shy and scared am I Of things beyond my kin I need someone Older and wiser Telling me what to do

(Lessie walks behind Raffaella and wraps her arms around Raffaella's middle, bringing herself down to peep her head in between Raffaella's torso and arms. She begins to sway back and forth.)

You are 17 going on 18

(Lessie looks up at Raffaella with an uncanny sweetness and says to line with unexpected sincerity.)

I'll depend on you

LESSIE

Sike, I'm going to the rave.

(Raffaella grabs Lessie by the hand and pulls her back. Lessie spins into Raffaella's arms. They make eye contact. They are both noticeably flustered. Lessie hastily pushes Raffaella away. Raffaella is saddened by the loss of contact but Lessie doesn't notice, lost in her own thoughts.)

(Musical interlude. Consider using either modern or timeless type of dance. They end on opposite ends of the stage.)

(Raffaella and Lessie do that iconic 'walking away and coming back again' that is memorable from the original Sixteen Going On Seventeen scene. On the final time they meet in the middle, Raffaella pulls Lessie into a kiss. At first, Lessie gets pushed back by the force, but quickly pushes forward and return to kiss. Raffaella pulls back in surprise. Raffaella runs offstage right. Lessie holds her fingers up to her lips and squeals in excitement. Her head snaps back up to where Rafaella ran off to. She reaches out her hand. She exits stage right in the same direction as Raffaella, yelling.)

LESSIE

Wait, Raffaella, wait up!

(End scene.)

***

Comments are always appreciated! 

Video I was talking about

[sorinkavglazy]

So, Donizetti’s Gemma di Vergy. You know, I’m actually glad I keep showing up at this point. I mean to these consert bel canto performances. I’m never really dissapointed by them, possibly because I never expect much but still) Beforehand I listened to one full recording and read a wikipedia article about this opera and that was it. What I’m just trying to say is, on the one hand, I went knowing what to expect - I love Bellini’s and Donizetti’s works, even less known ones, and those tend to be all quite the samy-same. Gemma is no exception on that account. But on the other hand, it’s no war horse… Not something bits and pieces of what I can invoke in my head instanteneously because I’ve heard it many times before everywhere including half a dozen cough medicine commercials. But I’m kind of just rambling at this point) Proceed with caution on the lengh! You’ve been warned!

About the today’s performance, I can tell you that it wasn’t the best one in this bel canto series, neither was it the worst. This particular opera relies heavily on a strong performance by one really lead singer - ‘Gemma’ herself. Today Tatiana Starkova sang her and I had been really exited when I finally saw the line-up earlier today, and not only about her - like most of the line-up consisted of people I wanted to hear again for some time. Starkova did a fine, even if uneven, job as the wronged wife ‘Gemma’. Last season I heard her in Anna Bolena in the title part and was pleasantly surprised by most of her voice. Like 85-90% of it was silky, flavoured and near perfect! But at the very top… she screamed. Tatiana’s still in the Mariinsky’s Young Artists’ Programme, so I hoped they would do something about it. And apparently they have. But I’m not sure how I should feel about the result, if it is the result. I kind of hope it’s more like a work in progress. She now doesn’t have that split near the top, but the overall quality of her voice changed. Her sound has got kind of layered - there’s still that sweet, silky core, however there’s now an additional, tiny bit screechy, rusty cover and the lowest notes at the bottom of her range seem to exist kind of all by themselves.

Another beautiful lady, I really wished to see, was Regina Rustamova (last year’s ‘Romeo’ and ‘Giovanna Seymour’). Today she was the other woman stealing a powerfull husband from a wife unable to produce an heir yet again. But ‘Ida’ is no ‘Giovanna’ - the part is miniscule - there just isn’t enough lines to shine for Regina *sigh*. And maybe it’s also the part’s fault but she sounded less mezzo-ish and more I’m-a-sturdy-soprano-without-top-notes to me. Anyway she looked spectacular and I hope to see and hear more of her till the season is done.

On the male side of things, there was bass Oscar Abdrazakov as an elderly ‘Priest’ - I think he sings like all of them in Mariinka and he really knows the ropes of bass-elderly-priest portrayals) Then there were two fuckboys (both baritones for a change) - the first ‘Rolando’ quickly dies off stage providing the second - his master simply the ‘Count’ with a bloody omen and the tenor of the piece with some character establishing activity - in this case the tenor is established as a revengeful murdererTM. The ‘Count’ was sung by Yaroslav Petreniak, who I like a lot and also really wished to hear. He turned out to be the best overall performer of the evening as was expected. His only problem seems to be his age - Yaroslav is rather young but sounds best in the more mature parts. Well, time will illiminate this issue and sooner rather than later! 

The unavoidable (not that I wished it had been) tenor part was sung by Dmitry Voropaev. I knew it would be him. It’s always him for those conserts even though he’s in the main rooster of Mariinsky and not in the Young Artists’ Programme, at least not anymore. It’s sad that they don’t have anyone else really! Dmitry did a good job. He’s a pro and knows how to sing these bel canto tenor parts - I’ve seen him enough times not to expect anything more than good though. With all the passion and effort he clearly puts into his work I keep wishing he was blessed with a better natural instrument… Today he demonstrated some spectacular singing skills - his piano at one moment was so good I got chills… But I also couldn’t hear him at times when the orchestra was in full swing (so maybe it was the conductor’s fault really - I dunno) and the colours of his voice overall… let’s say they go mostly between not always pretty and meh. Which is again sad… 

Oh, I know this is already way too long but a couple more points - the choir wasn’t always completely synchronized or so it seemed to me at least - I’m far from being an expert on these things, or maybe it was a sloppy conductor’s work again. And the final thing, it was a consert performance, but there was like a piece of some other staging (a kind of a brush consisting of multiple long white luminicent lamps-like pipes) left to hang right in front of the screen with surtitles… I don’t really need those but I know a lot of people do read every word as it’s being sung. So, WTF Mariinsky? But again - for me a nice evening overall)))

Right, Kristine Opolais’ consert’s next in a few days. Moscow here I come! I’m actually a lot more interested in the tenor - Jonathan Tetelman, Kristine’s bringing with her) I’m not really into conserts - would much prefer an opera with him but that’s not on the cards for me in the foreseeable future and I really want to hear him while he’s still young, fresh and hungry! Oh, it’s really late! So, I’ll stop now) Good night and best not-operatic-style luck to everyone who’s read it through!

[fictionadventurer]

A musical Out of the Tomb, or any others of your works?

I didn’t think I had any ideas for this, but then I had A Lot. I apologize in advance.

I didn’t think “Out of the Tomb” would have many good places for songs, but now my imaginary musical is all but sung-through. A few pedestrian portions that are pure speech, but otherwise all music.

Except for one key exception. Tanza. Everyone around her is singing most of the time, but for most of the musical, she’s either the speaking counterpart to another singer, or Rex-Harrison-esque sing-talking her musical pieces. I’m not sure if it would actually work in practice, or if it would just create an odd musical imbalance, but it makes character sense.

Auren’s likely a tenor/baritone. His singing style should be subtly old-fashioned. Maybe a touch of that 1940s vibrato.

Keffer’s a baritone. (Think Gaston). Actually an excellent singing voice, but his songs are full of odd meter and slant rhymes, which Tanza always reacts to with contempt.

Imaginary Musical Summary

We open with Tanza breaking into the tomb and sing-talking her I Am/I Want song (”Treasures of the Dead”). Mostly cynical/cheeky, as she’s grateful that these dead rich folks leave such good stuff for her to steal, and establishing that she knows her stuff. Some choreography as she dodges some Indiana-Jones style traps. A few portions where she gets close to actual singing, during a few quiet lines that suggest she wants a life beyond this, but she quickly snaps back into her comfortable sing-talk rhythm.

Slight variation/reprise of that song as she first catches sight of the “dead” Auren and moves onto the next room, which is cut off abruptly as she’s interrupted by Auren’s entrance--a sung line that’s all the more shocking because it’s more musical than any song in the musical so far. 

After Tanza recovers from the shock, they fly into a  little singing/talking duet where countering accusations are flying back-and-forth (”A Thief!”) until Tanza realizes who he is, and there’s another dramatic pause for this to sink in.

Then comes the Exposition Song (”History 101″), of all the history leading up to this moment. Auren and Tanza to one side of the stage, while the main area of the stage shows scenes of the history they’re talking about. Three sections: one fast-paced patter song dominated by Tanza, as she explains the hundred years of history Auren’s missed; one more musical/meditative as Auren explains the events that led up to him being put in stasis; and then a section sung by the historical people as Tanza and Auren watch the “security video” showing the people leaving Auren behind and going unwittingly to their deaths . That third section’s seemingly cheerful but with subtly ominous/mournful instrumental backing, and in the subdued silence that follows Tanza’s realization of what happened, Tanza wraps everything up with an upbeat callback to her section (something along the lines of “and that’s History 101″, where she’s trying to be matter-of-fact, but it’s obvious that this cheer is very forced).

As they’re “traveling” back to the city (probably on a catwalk above the stage now), Auren gets his I Am Song (”A Virtuous Prince”) and during part of it, the main stage shows the reenactment of his naming day and the rest of it is explaining his philosophy of virtue. It’s a lovely song, but Tanza is Not Impressed.

Scene change, now the set is Keffer’s building. When Auren and Keffer first meet, there’s a cluttered, fast-paced song of mutual confusion (”What In the World Is That?”) as Tanza struggles to answer their questions about each other.

Keffer takes Tanza to the part of the stage that serves as his office, where he tries to convince her to take advantage of this windfall (”A Just Reward”), and when that fails, to convince her to use her upcoming road trip with Auren for criminal purposes. Through this, Tanza’s purely speaking in reaction to Keffer’s singing. (I imagine this sounding similar to some of Pulitzer’s villain songs in Newsies).

When they’re on the road to Alogath (sitting in a car as the projected scenery moves behind them) Auren gets a dreamy little meditative song about the changes to his planet (”A Lovely World”). Cut to a screeching halt (both musically and physically) as Auren realizes where the car came from, segue into a cluttered argument song (”A Thief!” [Reprise]) that ends with Tanza storming off, getting into danger (the deathtail’s a borderline campy puppet) and getting saved by Auren.

As Tanza struggles to understand Auren’s actions, he explains himself in song (”Common Decency”) to which Tanza joins in with a couple lines that are almost musical as she realizes his philosophy isn’t just fluffy, high-minded talk. Then Auren starts suggesting Tanza take a virtue name (”Better Than You Were”) and she reacts with purely spoken scorn.

Scene cut to Tanza’s delivery to Berimac. After Auren interferes, Berimac gets his I Am/Villain Song (”Retired”) where he explains that everything in the world (especially humans) is dangerous and he wants to live quietly and safely in seclusion. This is the loudest, most flamboyant, Show-Stopping musical number in the show. With a chorus members and dancers coming out of nowhere to add to the production. Because I think that’s funny.

Argument song between Tanza and Auren after that number ends, leading to reconciliation that surprises Tanza (”Unexpected”). Ends with Auren heading off-stage and Tanza getting a few meditative lines that again, are almost musical.

The rural festival is a song mostly sung by Auren, with support from a chorus of townspeople as he introduces Tanza to the celebration (”Newfangled Tradition”). It’s the happiest, most upbeat number in the show. The one that’ll be stuck in your head after everything’s over. Probably includes a dance interlude, a la Tangled’s “Kingdom Dance”.

Then when everyone’s happy, stage gets dark, there’s warning music, and everyone freaks out as there’s a Villain Chorus song by Cornerstone fighters explaining their philosophy and plans (”Saviors of the World”). Lots of black-clothed people lit by red and orange lighting and ending with the explosion. Musical interlude at the end by Tanza and Auren as they decide to sneak away.

Clear away the town scenery and the other people so we’re in an empty daytime forest scene. Auren chooses the virtue name for Tanza (”Pure of Heart”). She responds with a sing-talk explanation of all the reasons she can’t change (”History 101″ [Reprise]). But when Auren goes off-stage, she considers the name and wonders if he maybe has a point (”Better Than You Were” [Reprise]). And this time, she’s singing. It’s very quiet, very hesitant, and it slips back into sing-talking at points, but for the first-time, it’s actual singing. Off-stage, Auren calls out, wondering where Tanza is. “Coming,” she responds in flat speech.

In Alogath, Auren gets a sad little song about all the people he’s lost (”Faces and Names”), after which Tanza goes off for her final delivery, finds out what it is, and rushes back to confront Keffer (who’s in a separate area and lit so it’s clear that this is being done over video-call). They argue (”A Just Reward” [Reprise]) with Tanza now dominating but sing-talking her parts, and then Tanza quits. When she meets up with Auren, she tells him what she’s done in a quiet, uncertain little song, with Auren jumping in to support her with a more confident and melodic counterpoint (”A Better Life”).

Cornerstone comes to “rescue” Auren while trying to persuade him of his place in their Just and Worthy Cause (”Saviors of the World” [Reprise]). Auren argues to save Tanza’s life (”Heroic Virtue”), stage goes black as Tanza’s left alone and unconscious.

She comes to, frets in a sing-talky manner (”Making Plans”), when she gets the call from Keffer. She realizes what he’s done and they argue, with Tanza accusing him of being the worst of people while he argues that it’s only sensible given their line of work (”Criminal”). It gets faster, more flustered and more intense, until Tanza lets loose a frustrated scream.

But as the sound’s sustained, we realize she’s not screeching--she’s singing. Not only can Tanza sing, she can Belt. The lights around Keffer go black (as if the sound’s shattered the spotlight), and Tanza finally gets an outright musical number that shows she’s been a strong mezzo-soprano this whole time, a song about her intention to rescue Auren and change her life (”Out of the Tomb”). It starts out as intense righteous anger and morphs into determined righteous purpose, but it always shows off her musical strength. (It’s that type of song that tends to become an audition standard).

She goes to rescue Auren in a scene whose choreography recalls her first break-in during the opening number, and then she finds Auren. He’s with Berimac and the Cornerstone fighter on the main stage while Tanza’s hiding on a catwalk. There’s an argument between Auren and Cornerstone, with Auren’s part reusing the tune from “A Virtuous Prince”, Berimac and the Cornerstone fighter countering with the tune of “Savior of the World” and Tanza providing a counterpoint descant using the tune of “Out of the Tomb” as she ponders what to do.

Just as Auren and Berimac’s argument reaches a fever pitch, it’s cut off mid-note by Tanza jumping from the balcony and landing in the middle of the scene. If it’s done right, it should sound like a cannon.

As Tanza and Auren make their escape, there’s a frenzied little number between them and Berimac that’s slightly sung but mostly speech (”The Escape”) during which we learn (through a few off-hand, gasping lines) of Tanza’s injury (but Auren doesn’t).

They make their escape and Tanza collapses. She shouldn’t be able to talk, but this is a musical and What Is Realism? So we get a heartbreaking “A Little Fall of Rain” style duet between her and Auren (”Pure of Heart” [Reprise]). And when Auren makes his phone call for help and recites all his names, it could go one of two ways. Either it’s a Belted piece of music, the musical high point of his character, or it’s shouted speech, which given that 99% of his lines so far have been sung, should be shocking to the audience and drive home the fact that this is Serious Business.

Then Tanza recovers and wakes up in the hospital, where Auren informs her of her new celebrity and pardon (”Heroic Virtue” [Reprise]), Tanza has a pretty little interlude to ponder this unexpected windfall (”Unexpected” [Reprise]). Close the show with a lovely, perfectly harmonizing duet between Tanza and Auren about their hopes for the future (”A Better Life” [Reprise]).

And we’ve finally reached the end and you have more detail than anyone in any world has ever wanted. I spent like two whole days thinking about this. I need new hobbies.