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made-me-deep-blue · 5 years ago

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mc x dark!mc - obsession

Word Count: 4573

Summary: Amy Ashryver has a one-on-one personal talk with her inner darkness after the Opera Hall Massacre, and finds herself torn between illusions and reality.

Warning: TW, Heavy angst, teeny bit of fluff at the end, some spoilers if you are not caught up with BB3

Based on EXO’s Obsession: https://youtu.be/uxmP4b2a0uY

Tags list: @wildsayeed @kashikokawaii @iddevouryou @kamilahsayeed-owns-me @sayeedbound @lightning-fury @timetopartaay-waitno @hamiltonstorywriter @midnightstress

The door clicked shut as Amy closed the door to her room, Rheya already moving to her bedroom as the younger vampire slid her shoes off.

“You did wonderful today, my darling,” Rheya purred. A sight to behold, as expected of the Mother of Vampires, fully naked and drenched in blood. Amy merely spared an empty glance at the former priestess, before proceeding to shed off her blood-soaked clothes and wash it off in the bathroom.

Amy felt a hand tugging on her wrist but didn’t bother to respond to the touch. She didn’t feel like communicating with the world in general.

So she decided to send her words through her powers, a small whisper in Rheya’s mind. What is it?

“Is there something wrong, my dear?” Rheya might look and sound worried for her, but Amy knew she was nothing more than a woman who was isolated for over 3000 years and needed to understand how the current world runs.

She might have lost her betrothed long ago, and Amy is the descendant of her own daughter, but nothing could compare to the loss that now wrecked inside her vulnerable, vampire body. A large wound scored across her chest, Amy couldn’t tap on her well of emotions at the moment.

How did she felt? Sadness. Devastation. Hopelessness. An ale tankard’s worth of anger and rage. A whole universe’s worth of emptiness that could not be healed and filled up again.

Amy slowly eased Rheya’s hand off her wrist and gave an empty look to the naked woman on her bed, sending words through that bridge formed between them. I would like some time alone if you don’t mind. I need to clear my head.

Understanding filled Rheya’s eyes, and Amy tried her best to push past the guttered look in her predator-bright eyes. “As you wish, dear. I will be at my mansion if you need me.”

The amber-haired woman didn’t send words through her powers, instead ducking into her bathroom and braced her arms against the sink. When she raised her head to see her reflection in her mirror, she ran her red eyes over her face. Despite being nocturnal, the dark circles under her eyes weren’t doing it any justice, and her eyebrows just felt so heavy to even raise them.

Her amber coloured, messy half up-do was slightly unkempt and soaked with blood, along with the lower half of her face and nearly her whole body. As much as it smells more alluring than any wine, Amy felt like she wanted to puke right now. She needed to get all this blood off of her body, stat.

Then, she saw—thought she saw her reflection warp. Her hair was now moon-white, with two smaller braids with different lengths, which reminded her of a dreamcatcher’s feathers, tied at the left side of her head starting from above the shell of her ear. There was a strong hint of red and purple eyeshadow around her eyes, which brought them out more due to her pale complexion. On top of that, there was a chain that ran across her face and hung onto her ears and a scar down her right eye and a cut on her lower lip.

Despite not smiling herself, Amy’s reflection grinned wickedly, causing Amy’s eyes to widen.

Please stop it now

She shook her head and reopened her eyes, seeing herself in the mirror again. Not wanting to ‘hallucinate’ any further, she picked up the pace and turned on the hot water and let it seep into her skin, into her hair that would wash away the coppery tang of the blood and the slight stickiness on her pale skin.

Out of nowhere, she felt something—or someone, lurking in the bathroom. A presence, not a physical body.

As the night makes me blind

You snuck in again

A ghost of sinister chuckling followed. Amy wanted to believe that it was just her body’s response to being drained of all emotions in a single night.

You lick around my ears while I’m asleep, stare,

Then you scratch and laugh

Amy watched the red of the blood cloud the clear water on the floor. Watched the colours swirl together, no doubt making her stand in a red sea of some sorts.

She heard it again.

That sinister chuckling, and what felt like a finger tracing her jawline from her back.

She shouldn’t be scared of it. That might be just amongst the chorus of voices in her head, lingering from the PTSD she had after she was killed. No—it was different. It sounded like her own voice, laughing softly behind her back.

Your voice whispers endlessly

Oh you’re the bad dream kill

Amy decided to scrub harder at her skin. As if the extra effort could erase all the events that had happened prior to coming back home. But no—it couldn’t. No matter how hard she scrubbed at her hair, her body, nothing could erase that beautiful face wrecked with sadness and devastation from her mind.

Those swirl of emotions couldn’t move past each other so Amy couldn’t remember who that painstakingly beautiful woman was. Her name…

Her name.

She felt her pent up anger building up and immediately clenched her fists tight and shut her eyes closed with that same pressure.

Deep breaths, Amy. Deep breaths. It’s okay, you’re going to be—

“…no, I’m not fine…” Her words were near guttural, feeling the pricking of her fangs on her lower lip.

She felt something thicker than water trickling down her fingers, and that familiar coppery tangy scent filled the room. The skin at her nails knitted themselves back together, and the water washed the blood away as nothing happened.

Amy needed to get out of her apartment, stat.

You keep possessing and calling me

To come to where you are, yes to come to you

Stepping out of her immensely suffocating bathroom, Amy was relieved to notice Rheya’s absence, better without a powerful ancestor in her apartment, more specifically in her bedroom. Sliding open her wardrobe doors, she picked out a full monochrome ensemble; a dark grey turtleneck sweater, a black leather jacket, black skinny jeans and a pair of black vans.

Once she was satisfied, Amy took a deep breath and stepped out of her windows, silent and unseen, leaping into the silent night.

You say you know me? (I don’t think so)

Who are you to snuggle in (I don’t think so)

You cover my eyes (I don’t think so)

You cover up the truths (I don’t think so)

It was definitely a hindrance when she awoke from the dead for barely a week and she had to race against two other experienced vampires by leaping from building to building, but now that it was becoming part of her daily routine, she became better at it. Using the momentum, she did flips between buildings and all sorts of stunts to get the energy out of her system.

Finding herself in the familiar path, Amy decided to head towards the building her heart desired. Not her mind. It definitely wasn’t in the right state to bear all of the pain she was going to feel once she reached. Don’t even mention her heart. Such a versatile organ but yet something so fragile.

Deciding that it wasn’t the best decision to break into the CEO’s office (yet), Amy landed to a stop on the rooftop of the Ahmanet Financial Building. The last time she was here, it was where she had taken the initiative to kiss that woman first. That woman, who was a tough shell to crack.

She who had decided to let her in of her own accord.

She…

Amy reached into her mind, struggling past the jumble of emotions and thoughts in her mind which was preventing her from thinking straight and have clearer thoughts—

Let go of the empty dreams (I don’t think so)

Don’t make me spit out the poison (I don’t think so)

You’ll never have me again (I don’t think so)

Shut up and go away

A wave of agony crashed into her head with turbulence. It seemed that whenever she tried to remember her name, all that would come out would be a headache, or worse, migraines. She had been lost in her emotions that she couldn’t remember who her significant other was.

Yes. She had been her lover. The love of her life. The one who had that tough eggshell to crack and finally let her in. The only human she’d ever accepted back then.

“Adrian finds solace in the company of others. I find it in solitude.”

Amy’s eyes drifted to the pool next to her.

“Swimming here alone, under the stars…it brings me peace.”

“But you invited me up here,” Amy pointed out.

Kamilah looked at the young woman pointedly, “So I did.”

Thousand nights, I repeated so many times

A vicious cycle of nightmares, I’ll end it now

As Amy stripped out of her clothes, she heard her own voice drift to her vampiric ears, with a heightened sense of hearing.

“Hey, Amy…”

The turned-off exit light

Get away from me now

The water lapped at her arms as she slowly sunk into the depths of the pool. She allowed the cool and calming waters to seep into her skin, the lazy waves of her amber hair. If only the memories could wash away just like the water does to Amy.

She knew she couldn’t turn back time. But her, with so much power, she should have that power to turn back time. Back to the first generation of Bloodkeepers, and end them. So that none of this would happen.

But yet…

I’m sick of it

“You try so hard to play the big, bad villain. But your heart’s never been in it, has it?”

Ha! It’s enough

All the gibberish on my ear Imma let it blow

She felt a hand on her bare shoulder, as if her own self was just right next to her ear, deftly speaking those words.

“People have hurt you, haven’t they? They didn’t believe in you… They didn’t trust you… didn’t need you… left you.”

Amy swivelled her head to hiss and bare her fangs, but only stopped to find the reflection of herself that she saw in the bathroom mirror smirking wickedly at herself.

My five senses are focused on it, on edge

You come in and stir it up recklessly

“But did you ever stop to think… ” Dark-Amy tapped her chin thoughtfully. “…maybe they’re not the problem?”

Sure, it was her fault. Her fault that Rheya had returned because of everything that had happened with Gaius. Her fault that she had to be Turned because she was so important to a vampire who had loved and lost so much that she couldn’t bear to lose Amy. Her fault that she had to be a Bloodkeeper and that only amplified her powers after she became a vampire—

Amy riled for a punch at her alternate self. “Stop…stop it!”

Her reflection rippled as Amy’s fist passed through, leaving a gaping hole through her chest, but the image shifted, stitching herself back together.

Dark-Amy mused. “Whoa! I didn’t know that this would get a rise out of you, but still…”

Amy pulled back her hand, sinking further back into the water. “When Serafine told me that there was a darkness in me… it was you, wasn’t it?”

“I’m surprised that it took this long for you to find out, Amy,” Dark-Amy examined her midnight-black fingernails, clicking her tongue. “I guess now that we’re vampires, everything seems clearer, doesn’t it?”

When I fall asleep with one eye open

You permeate without a sound, the phantom

Amy rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and eyed her alternate form. “What do you want from me?”

“While you tried to keep me low, I’ve obviously heard what you told Rheya and everything that had happened prior to us coming back to the apartment complex. I was just having my fun at the opera house when you and your doing-good decided to ruin the party.”

Amy only winced in return, then muttered, “I… I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Shadows curling around her body in tendrils, whisking away into the late night, Dark-Amy perched on top of one of the sun-tanning chairs along the edge of the pool and crossed her legs. “You just keep running away from reality, don’t you?” She sighed.

“There’s already one Rheya,” Amy grumbled. “We don’t need another one in New York City.”

I’m so sick and tired of it

When the light turns on, I hope you’re gone

“You, however,” Dark-Amy jutted a finger at Amy’s chest. “Are different from her. Because you are a do-gooder.”

“But—”

“Don’t you dare ‘but’ me, Ashryver,” Amy could see her dark self’s different coloured eyes; white on the right and the same cerulean blue of her own on the left. “We’re 23 years old and that beautiful hag is 3 centuries older than you. Of course you—we—can make a difference.”

You say it’s for me? (I don’t think so)

Who are you to snuggle in (I don’t think so)

Permeating deeply (I don’t think so)

I’m confused (I don’t think so)

“How?” Amy questioned.

Dark-Amy rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, huffing. “Do I really need to tell you, Ames? You have to accept me in order to keep moving on.”

The darkness. That was what she meant.

Amy swallowed past the lump that was formed in her throat. She knew what would happen if she’d succumb to the darkness that was lying dormant inside of her. That woman had told her of the countless horrors that she had to undergo because of the darkness that blinded her and soaked her in the blood which could metaphorically not be washed away.

What would happen to her if she were to do the same? Would she be the same person the others had seen her before Rheya came along and manipulated them at her whims?

“I just don’t know if I’m capable enough to do so,” Amy shrugged. She disappeared beneath the shimmering surface and reappeared a few metres away from the edge where she was sitting at with Dark-Amy. She slicked back her hair with a hand. “After all, I’m pretty much a baby still in vampire years. Most of my heart is still human.”

Take whatever (I don’t think so)

Don’t even be seen (I don’t think so)

You’ll never have me again (I don’t think so)

Stop your obsession

The shadows curling around Dark-Amy’s body twisted and receded, somehow as if in amusement. She stood up from her seat and walked across the surface of the water, before dropping to sit with her legs underneath her.

“You doubt yourself too much,” she scoffed, cracking her white coloured eye open. “I bet you hadn’t review what amazing shit you did in this past year after dragging yourself into this rabbit hole.”

Amy and the others had found the truth of who was behind the increase of Feral attacks last summer. She and the crew managed to beat the shit out of Gaius into the new Tree of Eternal Life. And also defeated a rogue group of vampires who were terrorizing both humans and vampires alike.

That was indeed a lot that she had managed to accomplish in almost a year, but it…didn’t feel enough to feel like it was a big deal.

Dark-Amy raised her hands in defence. “I’m not as bad as you would portray me to be, I’m not all those power-hungry bitches like a certain old hag we know. I’m part of you, which means your do-good would influence what I do as well.”

Thousand nights, I repeated so many times

A vicious cycle of nightmares, I’ll end it now

Amy chuckled softly, eyeing her duplicate. “Really?”

She groaned. “Spare me from the doing-good part please, it doesn’t go well with my personality and fashion choice, talk about resume too.”

“Like I will, you’re pretty unwilling.”

Dark-Amy’s lip ring glistened under the moonlight, small chains dangling from the rings. “Why did Adrian even hire you as his assistant where you could be a comedian like that comedian-turned-scriptwriter…what was his name again?”

Amy rolled her eyes in amusement. “Seth Levine?”

“Ah, yes,” Dark-Amy said. “But you get what I mean.”

The light version of herself looked away and stared at the horizon beyond these tall city buildings of New York. Of what it could be if everything was resolved. If everyone wasn’t under Rheya’s control, and most importantly, in her advantage.

“But…” Amy contemplated. “It feels like it’s a lot to take in. I’ve never let the darkness take over me like that. I’ve already heard countless stories of other people sharing to me their experiences. Makes my skin crawl.”

Dark-Amy laughed gruffly, before ruffling the top of Amy’s wet hair. “You’re just making excuses.”

The turned-off exit light

Get away from me now

Amy chuckled softly, a small smile tugging at the end of her lips. “You really aren’t that evil, a broody duplicate of me, huh?”

The white-haired woman mimicked barfing, smacking Amy’s bare back. “Please don’t. And also can you please get back into your clothes? You’re gonna catch a cold and we’re gonna be one step behind in trying to stop Rheya.”

After much convincing, Amy was dried off with one of the towels lying behind the bar and back into her dry clothes and standing next to her supposed ‘evil’ doppelganger. Both of them stared down at the New York City nightlife.

“So you’ve been lying in all of the Bloodkeepers of all of my ancestors?”

“Pretty much,” Dark-Amy had her arms dangling over the railings. “I would only be awakened if any of them happened to be Turned into vampires, which in that case, didn’t happen until you. You’re the first Bloodkeeper to be Turned.”

“That’s why when my blood and hers fused…”

“You became Rheya’s equal,” Dark-Amy finished her sentence. “That’s why she wanted you specifically out of your quintet. She keeps saying you’re special, it’s because you’re her equal.”

That darkness. The one standing right next to her, it also blinded Rheya and thus straying her from the path to justice when she had claimed that she didn’t want to rule as a Goddess over Mydiea just as how the late King Kaelisus did. In the end, she still did, until her demise in what would be formally known as the Tomb of the First.

“If you accept me,” Dark-Amy said, still looking down at the streets. “Your mind will be cleared and you’ll be able to remember things… the people whom you deeply care for.”

That beautiful woman crossed her mind again. But without a headache this time.

Amy turned to face Dark-Amy squarely with resolution. Without hesitation.

“Alright, I’ll accept you.”

“Good, then take my hand.”

The shadows coiling and shifting around her arm seemed to grow stronger as Amy reached her hand forward. “Remember, relax as I merge myself with you. If you happen to hesitate or lose focus, I would only feed on your fear, anger and… you know the consequences already.”

Amy didn’t need her to mention it twice. She’d heard enough.

“Alright, then hang on tight, me.”

Blacken my heart,

Creepin’ dark night,

Stainin’ my soul

When I open my eyes like yet I’m still asleep,

Amy felt overwhelmed immediately as her darkness converged on her senses like a stampede, but there was a constant calm presence, probably from her doppelganger, soothing her nerves as the process took place.

She could feel the dark aura coiling around her limbs, her torso, its tendrils an anchor to hold her down. Then, the change came. She felt it; in the roots of her hair, the muscles in her body, and her five senses all returning, but clearer.

Amy was then brought to a white coloured space, with Dark-Amy on her opposite end, shadows curling in tendrils off her body as usual.

There were images—memories—floating around them. Her memories, all from the day where Amy had first met Adrian Raines for the job interview. And there was her first meeting… with what would be the former Council members, Lester Castellanos, and her.

Amy still couldn’t bring herself to remember her name.

“Your emotions are still in the way of your memories,” Dark-Amy’s voice echoed, but yet she didn’t speak verbally. “Allow me to resolve that for you.”

Amy closed her eyes and braced herself for the impending wave of darkness that came at her.

The sudden goosebumps and its clear traces,

And the names on the ground that are owned by no one

Call out, dance tonight

Say it what you like

She felt a dark presence worming into her head again, and a memory flashed before her eyes.

Amy was back in the conference room again, and she peered into the box that held two gifts from Adrian to his fellow Council members. She picked up the bejewelled scarab and faced toward the woman.

Then, the words just rolled off her tongue of familiarity.

“This scarab is for Kamilah Sayeed.”

The image shifted again.

The times we were

Happy together, I know

They were in Kamilah’s apartment, with the former carrying Amy in her arms in a spin as they laughed happily. As they slowed down, they came together in a passionate kiss as Kamilah dipped her low, when Amy noticed the gleaming bands on each of their left ring fingers.

This wasn’t a memory. This was a vision of the future.

I have to end them now

Forget everything yeah

God before she could even relish herself in the small moment of happiness, she was wrenched back to reality again.

As the blinding light receded, her first instinct was to reach her lower lip, where the cold metal of Dark-Amy’s lip ring laid pierced through her flesh. A hand through her hair confirmed that it was not her amber-coloured hair but moon-white instead. And her sleeves and pants definitely felt tighter than before. Must be the increase in muscle definition.

She also felt much looser than she was an hour ago. No more strained muscles, tight knots in her back. No more migraines and headaches.

It all happened in a blink, barely giving her any time to react.

As her hand reached out to catch a familiar ornate dagger which whirred towards her back.

Amy’s eyes sank into the intricate patterns of the metal hilt, as they disappeared into the silver blade. The ruby engraved on top of the hilt gleamed under the moonlight as she ran the cold, sharpened blade along her tongue, spinning on one heel to face the owner of the dagger.

Lavender, laced with cedarwood. That was what her scent was. She committed it to memory, ever since she was Turned. She took advantage of her heightened sense of smell to commit her beloved’s scent to memory. It was engraved in her mind.

“Amy?”

You say you know me? (I don’t think so)

Who are you to snuggle in (I don’t think so)

You cover my eyes (I don’t think so)

You cover up the truths (I don’t think so)

Kamilah Sayeed’s hostile expression immediately morphed into that of wariness, disbelief and shock. “I heard a faint heartbeat from my office and footsteps as well. I thought it was an intruder, considering it being out in the open, but I didn’t expect it to be you.”

Amy chuckled, tossing her now white hair behind her shoulder as she flicked her wrist where her hand held the dagger. It was as if her dark counterpart was taking the reins of her body. Since she trusted her from the conversation they’ve had and how tired she was, Amy trusted her to take over for a while.

“You shouldn’t be here, Kamilah,” sadness and fatigue filtered into her tone. “Not after what happened tonight.”

“I’m real, Amy. I’m here.”

Let go of the empty dreams (I don’t think so)

Don’t make me spit out the poison (I don’t think so)

You’ll never have me again (I don’t think so)

Shut up and go away

Amy shook her head. “How am I supposed to know that you’re being manipulated by her?” She lied. “How am I supposed to know that you worship me more than you do to her?”

Kamilah Sayeed wasn’t with her. She clearly saw and felt what happened at the opera house. Amy nearly puked while remembering the sea of crimson red which coated the seats and the stage and basically…everywhere.

Even if she could still feel the long years of Kamilah’s life still wrapped around her.

Thousand nights, I repeated so many times

A vicious cycle of nightmares, I’ll end it now

Kamilah opened her arms. “That’s for you to find out.”

The turned-off exit light

Get away from me now

“No, no, no, no, no…” Amy felt her chest starting to get tighter, her breath coming in short as she tried to stabilise herself. “No… you aren’t real. I saw what happened… I killed everyone, because… no…” A growl escaped her throat as she struggled to fight back her tears.

Amy suddenly hated the way that sadness and pain, filled her hazel brown eyes. She should be the one feeling those. She was sure she didn’t see things.

She was still hyperventilating, murmuring under her breath still as she hurriedly turned on her heel to leap off the rooftop, but a pair of strong arms managed to hold her in place.

There was that scent again. Intoxicating and inviting.

“Get…away…from me,” Amy resisted, growling through gritted teeth. “Get…away from me!”

Kamilah still didn’t let go as Amy thrashed harder this time, bellowing.

“Let me go!”

One night what I saw in the darkness

Was the strange shadow that chased me after

“Amy!” She heard her darkness calling out to her in her ears, ringing like church bells. “You have to stop resisting. I already ran my aura over her, and she’s here for good, not under Rheya’s orders!”

No… I know how Rheya hides the fact that she manipulates people. Kamilah died right in front of my eyes. This… this isn’t real, it must be a ruse to get me sabotaged.

“Please, Amy, habibti,” Kamilah whispered softly into Amy’s hair. “I promise I’m not here to hurt you. Please… “

“Amy, you have to listen to her. I already know that she’s speaking the truth, now it’s just you who has to believe her.”

The turned-on exit light

It’s me looking at myself in the mirror

Hot tears were already streaming down Amy’s cheeks as she thrashed and screamed in Kamilah’s arms, with the latter’s cheek pressed to the top of Amy’s head with her eyes closed.

As if she already knew that everything would be okay.

Get away from me

“Get away from me!” Amy screamed, her voice rasping with a choked sob. “Please… I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Nonsense, you would never,” Kamilah said. “Because you know who you care for, Amy Ashryver.”

Disappear

Her full name seemed to awaken her, as her screams and cries of protest slowly died down, sinking slowly into the older woman’s arms.

Get away from me

As she broke down completely into Kamilah Sayeed’s embrace.

#playchoices #choices #choices stories you play #choices: bloodbound #bloodbound #bb #bb3 #kamilah sayeed #kamilah sayeed x mc #kamilah x mc #kamilah sayeed fanfiction #angst #fluff #mention of blood gore #bloodbound mc #first 4000+ word fanfic #*fistpumps*

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pippa-writes · 6 years ago

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Cherik Fic #3 - The Magic Evening

Cherik invited Christine to dinner before she went to the Bistro and is now having a bit of a meltdown over the details. Watching her leave with Phillippe didn't help, yet he remains hopeful and sets about making his humble abode suitable for the company of a woman.

It just wasn't right.

No matter how much he fiddled with the forks, corrected the crockery or cleaned the candelabras, the table just looked... off.

He'd changed twice since returning from the Bistro, and the soup bubbled away on the stove, his third batch since six o'clock — the other two had been so kind as to be too watery or spill right down his front.

And now, as soon as he'd fixed those problems, the table was all wrong.

Erik found himself tapping his foot against the floor, the little clacks of makeshift tap-shoes dancing around the dining room. He could almost hear her sigh, as though she were right behind him in the doorway, watching him pace endlessly around the table, setting it this way and that.

A perfectionist, she'd call him, a fond remark she'd begun to make during their lessons in the past few weeks, usually at any sort of correction he made to his piano style or muttered comment about the original artist's score. If he stopped for just a moment and closed his eyes, the fairytale was real.

But no. Now was not the time for make-believe; now was the time to make his palace fit for a queen. And if that was to happen, the table needed to be ready.

It's just dinner, she'd add quietly, her smile audible even though he wouldn't look up at her. Ah, but he'd read the books. It was not just dinner, was it? It was a gentleman keeping the company of a woman for an hour or so to celebrate a wonderful victory, followed by a relaxing half hour of music or reading or chess, a perfectly harmless time. It was not as though they would be unchaperoned in a... in a cart for the night!

Yes, he'd seen her leave the Bistro earlier.

Looking back on it all, his invitation had been a rather awkward conversation in the hansom cab. How had he phrased it?

'Do you like chicken?' How he'd wanted to kick himself afterwards. She'd frowned back at him.

'Chicken?'

'Yes...' he'd mumbled, fidgeting with his cane. 'Chicken soup, perhaps?'

'Well, yes,' she'd chuckled. He'd nodded. The cab had gone silent.

Looking back on it, he hadn't actually asked her to dine with him, and how he'd scolded himself for it afterwards! Maybe he'd held her hand just a second too long to be proper as she exited the cab, or perhaps she didn't catch his meaning at all. But then—

'With soda bread!' she'd added as he saw her to the steps that would bring her to the bustling room, to her future. He'd smiled and tipped his hat, his heart too aflutter at the nervous grin she'd sent him from the top step to do much else.

And then she was gone. But he was not.

Soda bread. The girl had him wound around her little finger. He'd sworn never to wear the custom-made Chopin apron Gerard had gifted him, complete with a medley of his scores, but now it was tossed upon a growing pile of laundry in the conservatory — behind a locked door, no less — and utterly covered in flour and little, dried crumbs of dough.

So she must have understood him! She was not a silly girl — impressionable and trusting, yes, but not silly — and she'd more than likely picked up on any quirks he might have displayed during the months they'd worked together.

He stood back from the table, looking over it one last time. A pair of plates sat opposite each other, their cutlery washed and polished until they gleamed in the light of the candles that decorated the rest of the table, which he'd draped in his finest, silk white cloth. The floor had been swept of its dust, a rug had been laid beneath the table for her after a long evening and the candles in the chandelier above replenished and fueled. The wooden panels that would make this room perhaps the most familiar to her out of all the others had been dusted too, and the picture frames upon the crockery cabinet cleaned until they sparkled.

It looked alright, didn't it? Vaguely decent? It would at very least serve its purpose?

Oh, good grief, that fork, no, it simply wouldn't do—

He stopped himself. No. The fork was fine. Was he looking at it from the wrong angle? Thrice now he'd set himself at Christine's chair and dipped to her height to make sure she would see and reach everything with ease.

He forced himself to step away and distracted himself with his pocket watch. She'd be back in half an hour, tops, and he must be there to greet her. How could he expect her to find her way down here? How, indeed, did he expect her to know he lived down here in the first place?

He pocketed the watch again and fiddled with his cufflinks. Should he have polished them a fourth time? No, no surely thrice was enough. He wasn't sure if the polish might start affecting the plating or not. Better safe than sorry. But was that a scratch on the metal?

He fiddled more vigorously with it, trying to hide the imperfection, and only now did he realise his heart was racing, in his chest, his throat, his ears, it was all he could hear!

A deep breath, just like Gerard had taught him, and a shaky exhale. It would be alright. It had to be.

He hadn't planned what to do it it wasn't.

Ten minutes of ticking hands later saw him blowing out a taper and closing the lantern case gently. He set it aside and pulled his cloak over his shoulders, fumbling with the clasp; it was the gloves, he told himself, the gloves were making it harder than necessary.

Eventually, it clicked into place and he started with a huffed 'right, then!' He picked up the lantern, and was halfway to the door when he stopped himself.

His home was presentable, his clothes were clean and pressed, but...

He closed his eyes against the voice that told him not to bother and paced backwards to the mirror on the wall over the cabinet.

He had to check the mask.

How pitiful. He'd spent hours tidying, baking, cooking, slaving over his home to make it as comfortable as possible, and yet he had to make sure his face was completely hidden by porcelain and powder.

He stared for a moment too long at his reflection, or rather, his mask's reflection, recalling her smiles as she followed her boy to his little cart and pony. He would never be able to offer her that, he knew that much.

And yet...

'With soda bread!' Her voice still rang clear and pure in his mind.

He pushed a comb through his hair quickly, picked up the lantern and made for the door, confidence renewed, for he possessed what no other man could ever: the magic of the opera house, of music.

And if he knew one thing about Christine Daae, it was that she was fascinated by such magic.

She was late.

Erik had already spent an hour and a half in the music room, going over and over various compositions to pass the time, and had been Down Below more than once to make sure the soup was alright. It had finished cooking twenty minutes ago and now sat on the stove at a gentle simmer.

And still no sign.

He checked his watch again, beginning to make believe he hadn't set it properly. It couldn't possibly already be half past one in the morning! He slouched at the piano, running his fingers across the keys.

Ten more minutes, he told himself, although ten turned to twenty, and twenty to half an hour. By now, a glum weight had settled in his chest.

She wasn't coming.

He picked himself up from the bench and straightened his waistcoat.

Never mind, he thought, fixing his cuffs again, although his hands were tight and his jaw gritted. She's gone home, that's all. Never mind.

He tried not to think of the chicken soup and soda bread as he walked back to the door. The darkness ahead crept up to meet—

"Maestro?"

He turned.

She stood on the other side of the room, dragging breaths. Her headpiece hung lopsided in her hair, tangled and undone. Her cloak had stained with muddy water at the bottom; he didn't dare think about the dress.

"Oh, forgive me!" she scurried towards him, touching the piano as she passed it. "Forgive me, please!"

But he couldn't find his voice. His mouth opened and closed in a desperate attempt to form words, until he was sure he resembled the little goldfish Gerard had brought him so many years ago.

And then, from nowhere: "Forgive? There is nothing to forgive, Christine."

He shut his mouth in shock. Had those words been his? He looked about for the Count for just a moment, but it was a moment she used to complete her journey and catch his arm.

"No, no, you don't understand, I was—" Her words trailed off and she bit her lip. He looked from her hand, wrapped around his sleeve, to his freshly polished, clicky-clacky shoes.

They both knew.

"I baked soda bread," he mumbled.

A frown. "Soda bread?"

"And cooked chicken soup."

A silence.

"For me?"

"No," he said, clearing his throat. "I had thought about inviting La Carlotta for a pleasant evening meal. We are ardent lovers, you know, but her husband must never find out, so you cannot tell a soul."

She let go of his arm. He looked up at her sweetly. She didn't catch on, searching his eyes for a moment. He smiled — he couldn't help it; she was so amusing to watch as she guessed whether he was lying or not.

Her eyes lit up and she slapped his upper arm lightly.

"You're too convincing to play jokes!" she protested. "That wasn't fair!"

For the first time that evening, he laughed, and the weight that had settled in his chest earlier lifted entirely.

"Mademoiselle Daae," he chuckled, easing the old headpiece from her golden hair as she tried to glare at him. He pocketed it and offered her his arm instead. "Would you care to join me for dinner to celebrate your success tonight?"

She cast him a sideways look, and if she had any experience with masking her emotions, she could have been rather convincing. "You must swear not to play tricks on me!"

"You have my word, Mademoiselle!" He bowed for good measure, and, finally, she slipped her arm through his.

The small pressure of her hand resting upon his wrist stole his breath away. With one touch, his confidence seeped away and a fiery heat swept up through his face. He blamed it on the clammy mask.

"Maestro?"

He cleared his throat. "Indeed; shall we go?"

If Christine was surprised at being led below street level at two o'clock in the morning, she wasn't making it known. Down and down Erik brought her, further than she'd ever gone before — he'd discovered her following him from a lesson one day and sent her back with scolding before she'd gone very far past the third cellar, but he was fairly sure she hadn't tried it more than once.

"Watch your step," he said, helping her down a slippery set of stairs; they were nearing the lake and now the stone was becoming too wet for him to feel safe with her walking unaided, not in the shoes he'd given her earlier.

"You're not really seeing Carlotta, are you?" Christine said, stepping down to his side and looking up at him, her eyes slightly narrow in question.

A laugh ripped its way from his throat without his realising. "Good heavens, no! I'd rather go deaf!"

"You'd go deaf anyhow," she giggled, as though she was worried someone else might hear her all the way down here. "I think I should rather throw myself into the dirty old lake they say is down here than listen to her all my life!"

"Christine Daae!" he exclaimed, nudging her with his side so she giggled. "You must never threaten such a thing!"

She, like a child, stuck her tongue out at him, but retracted it with a blush. He tried to remain unfazed, despite the mask hiding his burning cheeks, and sniffed, feigning indigence. "Besides, my lake is perfectly clean and drainable."

She pushed him back. A mouse had better luck moving a table. A huff, masking another laugh. "Your lake?"

He stopped. She stumbled back to him, feet slipping but never falling. He regarded her look of shock and held her up.

"You don't believe me?"

Her mouth pressed into a line. Again, she searched his eyes. "You cannot own an entire lake."

"Whyever not?"

"Because you cannot own a part of this opera house!" She gestured to their dark, stoney surroundings and frowned at him. "Do you?"

"My dear," he chuckled, guiding her along to the door ahead. He lay his hand upon the handle and pushed it open. "Everything in this opera house belongs to me."

Her jaw hung. There, where she must have expected a wilderness of stone, sat his little dining room, decorated in wood and candlelight. He saw her to the table, doing his best to ignore that accursed fork at his place.

"Please..." His voice was a bit smaller than he'd have liked as he drew her chair out. He waited until she'd tentatively seated herself before pushing it back to the table, and flexed his hands in a bid to stop their quaking. He stepped back, raising himself up and down on the balls of his feet.

Good God, the soup!

He gave a gasp and hurried for the broth pot, fetching their bowls on the way.

But was that a chip in—

He ignored it and set about pouring ladles of soup. Did she have too little? Too much? She would hate to leave it if she had too much, and he didn't want her to overfill herself and make herself ill, although he didn't want her to go hungry either, and what about—

He hadn't realised she was laughing until he forgot about the soup and picked up the warming bowls, but, in that moment, he didn't know whether to smile along or check his clothes for stains again. His face fell instead.

"What's wrong?"

She only giggled further, louder, and covered her mouth with her shawl. He stared at her for a long moment — had the poor girl gone quite mad? — and dared to check his reflection. No, his mask was perfectly in place and clean. So what could possibly—

"Christine Daae, what on God's green earth has come over you?"

Her giggles erupted into laughter and she gave a clap. "You're wearing tap-shoes!"

His cheeks flamed as bright as his copper hair, and the mask grew hot against his skin all of a sudden.

"It was a passing fad!" he blurted out, setting the bowls down and taking his own seat. But she was too far into her hysterics by now and clung to her chair. She'd gone a terrifying shade of red and it wasn't getting any better. "Christine!"

"I'm sorry," she spluttered, dabbing at her eyes with the napkin he'd spent the better half of twenty minutes trying to fold with the aid of an origami book, which he'd borrowed — yes, borrowed — from Choletti's desk drawer.

Oh, come now, he'd told himself as he'd snuck it into his cloak and headed for the passage behind a bookshelf, decorated with more pictures of La Carlotta than actual books. Choletti had spent three weeks trying to fold a piece of paper into a swan. Erik had managed it in less than half an hour. He wouldn't miss it.

"Tap-shoes were the last thing I'd have expected to see you wearing, I'm afraid!" she added, still fighting the odd coughed giggle. "Do you dance?"

He wasn't sure whether she was mocking or not as she blew gently on her soup and sipped it from her spoon. But something about the glimmer in her eyes told him she couldn't possibly be.

"I used to," he mumbled. "I gave it up a while ago, but I think I just kept the shoes because the sounds are comforting."

"You shall have to teach me that one day too, now you've told me!"

He was sure he would. There was, after all, only so far he could bring her voice, and that tether was straining by now. Teach her to dance? Why, he still stumbled over his own feet!

But his mind wandered to her foppish boy and, despite his growing hatred, he smiled back. "I will, Christine. But first, your dinner is going cold."

#cherik #charles dance phantom #phantom 1990 #phanfiction #ficlet #fanfiction #phantom of the opera 1990 #fluff #an attempt at it anyhow #fluffy #definitely not angsty at first #sooo this took a week?

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sushigirlali · 6 years ago

Text

Famous In Love (Reylo Fanfic)

Art by: @mvcreates

Summary: Rey scores her first big break in Hollywood co-staring in an Oscar worthy film with acclaimed theater actor Kylo Ren. In order to pull off an intimate love scene, the pair retreat to Kylo's apartment to practice in private.

Pairing: Rey x Kylo Ren/Ben Solo [Reylo] [ReyBen]

Continuity: Actor AU

Rating: E

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars or anything that relates to Star Wars.

A/N: I love watching trashy TV shows, so this story is dedicated to Famous In Love on Freeform. This show is so incredibly bad, but for some reason I can't stop watching it! I was only going to write a few scenes, but the story got away from me, so it's super long lol Enjoy!

Master list –> AO3 | ff.net | Tumblr

——————

Famous In Love

By: sushigirlali

——————

"Cut!"

Rey sighed as an irate Armitage Hux jumped out of his director's chair.

"What the hell are you two playing at?!" Hux yelled, marching onto set. "This is supposed to be a tender love scene between adults, not an awkward high school grope session!"

Rey pushed herself into a sitting position on the plush bed as Kylo moved away from her, pulling up the rumpled white comforter to cover her body. While she was used to the director's crass behavior by now, being half naked in front of a room full of people made her feel more vulnerable than usual.

"You two have about as much chemistry as a pair of garden gnomes!" Hux continued, eyeing his lead actors in disgust. "In fact, I'd rather watch inanimate objects make out than the two of you!"

Rey tilted her head at the strange comment, trying not to laugh. Laughter would definitely not improve the director's mood. Casting a sideways glance at her co-star, Rey was unsurprised to see Kylo Ren's face composed in his patented bored expression. She would swear the man was a robot if he didn't hit the craft services table occasionally.

"Kylo, have you ever seduced a woman before? Or at least pretended to? No wonder you're chronically single!" Hux blustered. "And you, Rey, are about the least sexy—"

"How would you like us to fix the situation?" Kylo cut in blandly, shifting slightly on the bed so that his massive body partially covered Rey's.

"Become better actors?" Hux replied savagely, focusing on Kylo again.

Rey eye's widened, surprised by the small action. Kylo didn't seem to like or respect her on the best of days, but here he was making a bigger target out of himself to protect her? No, she must be reading too much into it. The only time Kylo Ren was nice to her was in her dreams.

"No? Then how about this: you're both dismissed from set until you can play this scene correctly. Go back to your trailer or apartment or a fucking love hotel—whatever—just work it out!" And with that, their esteemed director stormed off set, slamming doors as he went.

Rey looked up at Kylo gratefully. "Thank you for—"

"Let's go." He interrupted.

"Oh, ah, okay." Rey stumbled slightly in her haste to stand, gasping as Kylo's warm hands settled on her bare waist to steady her.

She quickly twisted away from him, trying to control her reaction to the acclaimed theater actor's touch. He would never know it, but she had been infatuated with him for years. Kylo's brilliant performance as the Phantom of the Opera on Broadway two years ago was still burned into her mind. As a result, working with him on such an intimate basis was proving to be a challenge.

Busying herself with finding her robe, Rey missed the look of hurt that flashed across Kylo's face at her perceived rejection.

——————

Ben gritted his teeth as Rey pulled away from him. He knew she found him unappealing, but did she have to rub it in all the time? Ever since the first time he had seen her, standing among the other hopefuls trying out for the role of his love interest, Ben had been smitten with the young actress from Jakku.

Rey, however, seemed to want nothing to do with him.

Shaking off his frustration, Ben said gruffly, "Let's go to my place, we can practice our scenes there."

"Okay." Rey agreed, tying the belt of her robe.

It was a shame, Ben thought wryly, given how lovely she looked in her underwear. Set attractively against her tanned skin, the matching slate blue bra and panties were perfectly molded to her slender body.

"Do you want to change before we leave?" Ben asked her. It would be so much easier for him to concentrate if she had pants on.

"No, that's okay." Rey said, picking up the tote bag sitting next to her chair. "We should probably stay in costume while we go over our lines. You know, to set the mood."

Ben mentally groaned. Was she trying to kill him? But to Rey he said, "Makes sense," in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone.

Shrugging on his own robe, Ben grabbed his backpack before gaining the attention of a passing crew member.

"Yes, Mr. Ren?" Rose Tico said enthusiastically.

"Can you call for a car? Rey and I need a ride to my apartment." Ben requested.

Rose raised her eyebrows, looking from him to Rey and back again, obviously noting their state of undress.

"Hux asked us to practice lines together before coming back to set, so we're wrapped for the night." Rey supplied with a charming blush. "Nothing weird going on or anything…"

"Sure." Rose grinned suggestively. "Go ahead down to Lot A and I'll have Finn pick you up."

"Oh, I'm sure Finn is busy with—" Rey tried.

"Nope, I just saw him. Since it's so late, the rest of the drivers have left already. So it's Finn or you're stuck here." Rose said happily.

"But—"

"That's fine, please call Finn." Ben directed, putting an end to Rey's protests.

"Thanks, Rose." Rey said weakly, while Ben dipped his head in acknowledgement before starting toward the exit.

"Have fun practicing!" Rose called to their retreating backs.

——————

Rey shot her friend a warning look over her shoulder, but she just laughed in response. Rose was one of the few people who knew about her feelings for Kylo, besides Rose's boyfriend and Rey's best friend Finn. No doubt Finn would try to embarrass her on the ride to Kylo's, so Rey needed to be on her guard.

After a short walk, Rey and Kylo reached the valet drop off area in Lot A. Standing awkwardly next to her co-star, Rey wondered how he would respond to small talk. Kylo was a man of few words, but she hated wasting this opportunity to speak with him. It was a rare occurrence for them to be completely alone.

"So, um, where's your apartment?" She asked tentatively, drawing his attention.

"In the NoHo district." Kylo informed her.

"Wow, so close to the studio! No wonder you're always early to set." Rey laughed.

"There are a lot of theatres in the area." He shrugged. "I didn't really take the studio into consideration."

"Once a stage actor, always a stage actor?" Rey teased.

"Something like that." Kylo responded, his lips tilting up at the corners.

But his face slid back into an impassive mask as Finn drove up in a black Escalade. Jumping out of the vehicle, he came around the front and opened the passenger's side door for them.

"Rose said you needed a ride?" Finn remarked coolly.

"Yes, thank you." Kylo said, moving back for Rey to climb into the SUV before him.

Rey was surprised when he held out a hand to help her into the elevated vehicle. Trying to act casual, she allowed him to assist her, focusing on getting into the car without embarrassing herself. He released her hand as she slid across the backseat, leaving her fingers tingling.

Buckling her seatbelt, Rey settled back against the black leather interior. Rey glanced at Kylo's wide chest, barely covered by the thick white terry cloth robe, as he did the same. He really was massive, dwarfing her in comparison, making her feel incredibly feminine. Shaking herself, she glanced up to see Finn watching them in the rearview mirror. Oh no.

"So, Kylo," Finn started as he pulled away from the curb, "how's filming going?"

"Fine." He said shortly.

"Fine?" Finn laughed. "Word around set is that you're on track to score an Oscar nomination based on your performance so far."

"I have a great scene partner." Kylo replied, playing down his part in the movie.

Rey looked up at him, startled by the compliment. "Really?" She asked involuntarily.

Kylo's gaze appeared to soften as he looked at her, but it could have just been a trick of the dim street lights flashing by outside.

"Of course. You're a wonderful actress, Rey." Kylo assured her.

"Thank you!" Rey felt her face heat as joy flooded through her.

"You're welcome." Kylo said softly.

Finn coughed discreetly from the front seat, gaining their attention.

"Yes, Finn?" Rey slanted him a look.

"We're here." Finn said archly. "Are you two going to get out or are you just going to keep staring at each other all night?"

Rey flushed bright red and attempted to unbuckle her seatbelt.

"Here." Kylo said after a moment, removing her struggling fingers and undoing the safety device for her.

"Thanks!" She said in a high pitched voice, looking everywhere but at him.

"I'll get the door." Kylo shot at Finn as he started to get out of the vehicle.

Rey was bemused as Kylo did just that, opening his door and grasping her hand again to help her out. He didn't let go of her this time, though, and she was too shocked by his courteous actions to pull away.

"Bye, Finn." Rey said breathlessly from the curb, allowing Kylo to pull her toward his apartment building.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" Finn snickered after them.

——————

Ben led Rey up the stairs to his third floor apartment. He had opted to rent a smaller, more cozy place than most of his co-stars, hating the glitz and glam that came with being a Hollywood actor.

"I'm sorry if Finn embarrassed you." Rey said apologetically. "He's kind of a wild card."

"I'm not embarrassed." Ben assured her. "We weren't doing anything."

Rey's fingers suddenly slipped from his, startling him. It had felt so natural to hold her hand that he hadn't realized he was still doing it until now.

"Oh. Okay." She said quietly.

Ben sighed. What had he done now? Having next to no experience with relationships, Ben was at a loss for what to say next. Instead, he fished his keys out of the front pocket of his backpack and unlocked the apartment door. Motioning for her to proceed him, Ben closed and locked the door behind them.

Sitting her bag down on the gray and black granite island that separated the kitchen from the living room, Rey hummed her approval.

"This is really nice." She said. "I love open concept spaces."

"Yeah, me too." Ben was glad he had taken the time to clean up this morning. "Are you hungry? I can order something."

"No, thanks." Rey said.

"Really, it's no problem." Ben insisted.

Rey shook her head in the negative. "I ate before coming in this afternoon, so I'm good. But order whatever you want if you're hungry."

He was hungry alright, just not for food. But Ben kept those thoughts to himself. "I'm good too." He said instead.

"Okay, where do you want to practice then?" Rey asked directly. "It's getting late, so we should probably start right away."

"We can use the living room or the bedroom." Ben offered casually. "Whichever you prefer."

Rey looked around, noting the black leather sofa and love seat. "Will the couch be big enough for you to, um, spread out on?"

Ben raised his eyebrows at her wording, but didn't contradict her. "It is a little cramped for my height. I can show you the bedroom if you'd like."

Rey nodded and Ben started to sweat. He could do this. It would be just like on set. Professional. There was nothing going on between them, despite the slight shift in their relationship tonight. He could do this.

"This way." He said, walking down the small hallway to his bedroom.

He stopped at the doorway to make sure the room was clean, grunting as Rey ran into his back.

"Sorry!" Rey said breathily. "I wasn't expecting you to stop."

Ben moved into the room, playing it cool. "No problem. Well, here's the bed." He said lamely.

Rey studied the huge king-sized bed, covered in a red and black stripped duvet, thoughtfully. "Yes, this is definitely better."

Better for what? Ben thought. Torturing him?

"We need to get comfortable speaking intimately to each other." Ben said frankly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Among other things."

"Other things?" Rey queried as she took a seat next to him.

"Kissing, touching." He said lightly, trying not to focus on how high the robe had ridden up on her toned thighs.

"Oh. Right. Well, uh, what did you have in mind?"

"Maybe we should try getting to know each other first." Kylo suggested. There were a few things we wanted to get clear between them.

"Sure. What do you want to know?" Rey invited.

"I know you've never liked me, but—"

——————

"What?!" Rey exclaimed in shock.

Kylo looked taken aback at her outburst. "The first day on set you told your friend Rose that you found me disgusting and hated having to work with me." He said in a wounded tone.

Rey racked her brain, trying to remember if she had ever said such a thing to Rose. The first day of filming had been hectic, made even more so when their slimy Executive Producer walked through the door. Despite his talent for producing blockbuster movies, Andy Snoke had a reputation for being a complete scumbag.

"Snoke had just walked onto set." Rey recalled. "And he called me over to introduce himself." Rey paused, frowning as she thought about the awful memory. "And promptly grabbed my ass."

"He did what?!" Kylo stood angrily.

"Yeah, that's how I reacted too." Rey appreciated his outrage. "Luckily, the film crew caught the whole thing on tape, so I threatened to sue him if he ever came near me again."

"Do you have a lawyer? I can call mine, if you'd like. Her name is Maz Kanata and she's tough as hell." Kylo offered, pacing back and forth.

"No, Kylo." Rey's heart soared at his suggestion. He had to care for her a little to be so upset on her behalf. "I took care of it. Snoke never visits set while I'm there anymore; he's no threat to me."

"Are you sure?" Kylo probed, coming back to sit beside her on the bed.

"Yes." Rey smiled warmly. "Thank you."

"Let me know if he so much as looks at you the wrong way. I have so much dirt on him he'd wish he was dead if I talked." Kylo said seriously.

"You got it." Rey grinned, then frowned as she remembered Kylo's earlier statement. "So, this whole time we've been working together, you thought I hated you?" Rey questioned. "Is that why you've been so standoffish with me?"

"Yes." Kylo admitted easily.

"Well, I don't." Rey said ardently.

"I'm glad." Kylo said, giving her a genuine smile. "Thank you for clearing that up."

"What's next? Do you want to continue talking, or move onto…other things?" Rey bit her lip, trying not to sound too eager. She knew what she wanted to do with him, but it was best not to get her hopes up when they had only just cleared the air.

"Is there anything you wanted to ask me?" He replied.

"Maybe later." Rey wasn't up to a cross examination right now.

"Should be practice…kissing then?" Kylo put forward. "Nothing too heavy, just keep it light. You know?"

Rey watched as Kylo's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. Was he nervous too? Deciding to take a chance for once in her life, Rey made the first move.

"Like this, Kylo?" Rey whispered, boldly leaning forward to brush her lips across his. They were warm and soft and felt so good against her own.

"Ben." He muttered in a strangled tone when she moved back.

"What?" Rey asked, dazed from the innocent kiss.

"My real name is Ben Solo. Kylo Ren is my stage name." He confessed.

"Ben." Rey tested the name on her tongue. "I like it. It suits you."

"Thanks." Ben replied huskily.

"Wait! Wait one damn minute!" Rey said as something struck her. "Ben Solo? As in Leia and Han Solo?!"

Ben grimaced, but nodded his head.

"Wow!" Rey said. "That must have been so difficult for you growing up, them being big time movie stars and all."

Ben met her eyes with surprise in his own. "Yes, it was. No one ever seems to get that. They're all too impressed that I have famous parents and think I'm ungrateful for hiding my real identity."

"That's crazy!" Rey said emphatically. "You obviously wanted to make your own way, on your own merits. I think that's admirable. It shows that your talent is really your own and—"

Ben leaned forward suddenly, taking her lips in a searing kiss, his hands slipping into her hair to support her neck as he plundered her mouth. Rey's eyes widened in shock, stunned by the force of his passion. It was the first time she had ever been kissed in such a way, and Rey found that she liked the smooth thrust of his tongue against hers, the sensation of his hands tangling in her hair.

But what did it all mean? Were they still practicing? Or was this something else? Determined to find out, Rey pulled back.

——————

Ben cursed as Rey's small hands pushed against his chest. Damn it! He hadn't been able to help himself, not with her being so sweet and understanding and lovely.

"Fuck, I'm sorry!" Ben tried to pull away, but Rey grasped his biceps with a surprisingly strong grip.

"Wait, I was just surprised." Rey blushed.

Ben stared at her, not sure how to respond. Did that mean she wanted him to kiss her? Ben held his breath, waiting to see what she would do.

"Was…was that a kiss between our characters, or between…us?" Rey asked shyly.

Ben felt like the world was tilting sideways, so he decided to go for broke. "It's whatever you want it to be."

Rey regarded him curiously for a few moments, clearly processing the situation. Was she hesitating because of their professional relationship? He wanted to tell her that he would respect her in the morning either way, but the words were stuck in his throat. He didn't want to risk scaring her away by bringing up work, not when he finally had her where he wanted her.

But scant minutes later, as her slim fingers rose to the belt of her terrycloth robe, Ben realized he needn't have worried. Rey wanted to be here too. He could see it in the heated way she stared into his eyes, in the tremble of her hands, in the flush on her cheeks.

Keeping eye contact with him, she slowly untied the loose knot, shrugging out of the concealing garment to bare her trim figure to his hungry gaze. Biting her lip, she learned forward and placed her dainty hands on the tie of his own robe, her eyes asking a silent question.

Coming up on his knees, Ben allowed her to untie the belt and push the robe off his shoulders. Rey sucked in a breath, staring intently at his muscular chest, and Ben felt his whole body clench at the very flattering look on her face.

Rey slowly reached up to wrap her arms around his neck, pulling him close. "Don't stop." She whispered, hazel eyes melting into chocolate brown.

As if in a trance, Ben cupped her flushed cheeks, lifting her mouth to his. Their third kiss was sweet at first, a tentative exploration. But lust quickly took over as their tongues danced together in an arousing tango. Ben could tell she was new to this type of kissing, but what Rey lacked in experience, she more than made up for in enthusiasm.

They sunk onto the bed together, Rey holding him tightly as he brought their bodies into blatant contact. She felt amazing in his arms, soft and sleek, her slender curves fitting to his hard body perfectly. The swell of her breasts strained against his toned chest, making him imagine what it would feel like to touch them with his large hands, with his mouth. He whispered his desire between kisses, and she squirmed under him in response.

"Touch me! Please!" She panted urgently, pushing up to give him space.

Ben caressed her back, locating the catch of her bra and unsnapping it after a few failed attempts.

"Sorry." He muttered, wishing he was more practiced, but she only kissed him harder.

"I love knowing that you can't unsnap a girl's bra on que." Rey confessed.

"This isn't my first time, but I haven't been with many women." Ben reassured her.

His breath caught in his throat as she lowered her arms and allowed him to pull off the flimsy scrap of fabric. Her breasts were small but firm, tipped with dusty pink nipples that hardened into tight pebbles under his fervent gaze. After months of thinking his attraction was one-sided, it amazed him that she wanted him so much, but the evidence before him was undisputable.

"I know they're not very large, but—"

Ben's head shot up and he looked at her incredulously. "Your breasts are perfect. You're perfect."

Rey flushed with pleasure at his words. "Would you…put your mouth on them then? I've never…but I want you to."

"Never?" Ben stilled. "Rey, are you a virgin?" He asked carefully.

Rey hide her face behind her hands, suddenly shy.

"Rey?"

Her answer was muffled, so he gently peeled her hands away, capturing her palms in his and holding them above her head.

"What was that?"

She settled back against the striped coverlet, tentatively raising her eyes to his. "Yes, I'm a virgin."

Ben shuddered at the revelation. He would be her first lover, maybe even her last, if things went his way.

"Are you sure you want this? Want me? You might regret—" Ben tried to give her an out.

But Rey shushed him, pressing a finger to his lips. "Kiss me. Love me. Please."

Bending back to her mouth on a groan, Ben gave up trying to be chivalrous. Placing a powerful thigh between hers, he released her hands and slid them under her buttocks, pulling her forward roughly. She let out a squeak of surprise as he moved the lower half of her body up and down, up and down, dragging her cleft against his hard frame.

"What—oh!" Rey gasped, struggling to get closer as the position applied pressure to her core.

"That's it, baby, find the rhythm you need." He said encouragingly, showing her how to move her hips.

Dipping his head, Ben took her right breast into his mouth, rolling her nipple between his teeth gently. Rey gripped the back of his head, urging him to fed on her. He gave each plump mound equal attention, loving the sexy noises she was making as he drove her crazy.

"Ben?" Rey whimpered uncertainly. "Something's happening to me!"

Her hips were pumping quickly now, her panties soaked through against his thigh. Ben could tell she was close, the friction of cloth on flesh compounded by the feeling of his hot mouth on her sensitive tips. Ben sucked harder, switching back and forth between her breasts like a man possessed until she was writhing uncontrollably.

"Let go." Ben breathed. "I've got you."

Pulling back to watch her cry out a final time, Ben knew he had never seen anything so beautiful as Rey Niima coming apart in his arms.

——————

Rey lay on top of Ben's huge body, feeling weightless, her head pillowed on his comfortable chest. "That was amazing." She purred once she could speak again.

Ben kissed her forehead, lazily stroking her spine. "I've thought about getting you naked since the first time I saw you at open casting."

"I've wanted you since Rose took me to see you on Broadway for my 17th birthday two years ago." Rey admitted softly.

Ben reared back at her pronouncement, putting a little space between them. "Wait, you're only 19?!" He spluttered incredulously.

"I'll be 20 next month." Rey replied uncertainly.

"Oh my God, you're a 19-year-old virgin!" Ben groaned.

"What does it matter?!" Rey exclaimed.

"Rey, I'm 29!" Ben said as if that explained everything.

"So?"

"So, I'm ten years older than you!"

"So?"

"So, you're 19!"

"Almost 20."

"Rey! We can't—" Kylo started.

"We already are!" Rey pushed him down as he tried to get up, straddling his hips.

"Rey, you're so young and I—"

Rey leaned down, pressing her lips against his, slipping her tongue inside his mouth to play with his. "I want you." She murmured seductively, her wet core rubbing against his rigid erection through the thin layer of his black silk boxers.

"Fuck me." Ben muttered.

"That's what I'm trying to do." Rey said with a sly smile.

Ben's chest rumbled under her, but still he seemed uncertain.

"I don't care about your age, or mine." Rey ran her hands over his chest to his washboard stomach. "Just you."

His dark eyes burning with feeling, Ben's hands ran up the back of her thighs to cup her bottom, grinding her against him.

"So—ah—does that mean—oh god!" Rey inhaled sharply as her cliterous made contact with the hard ridge of his penis. "Does that mean you'll make love to me?"

"Oh, what the hell!" Ben said heatedly, rolling her onto her back. "I want you, you want me, the rest doesn't matter!"

Rey shivered in anticipation as he slid off the bed and slowly peeled his underwear down his hips. She gasped as his erection sprung free, curving upward toward his taut stomach in an impressive arch. Rey bit her lip, wondering how something so large was going to fit inside her untried body.

"Don't worry, I'll go slow." Ben soothed her as he caught her expression, climbing back onto the bed.

Rey waited with bated breath as he rose over her, looping his fingers into the waistband of her panties and pulling them gently down her trembling legs.

Ben growled at the sight of her nudity, parting her thighs to reveal the jewel hidden behind her springy curls. She should feel exposed, being spread out like this, but the lustful look on Ben's face dissolved the notion at once. He wanted her as much as she wanted him, and there was nothing to feel insecure about.

"Fuck, you're beautiful." Ben ground out, leaning down to kiss the inside of her thigh.

"Ben!" Rey gulped as his lips traveled toward her heat. "You don't have to—"

"Shh." He whispered gently. "You'll enjoy it, trust me."

——————

Rey whimpered as Ben made love to her tender flesh, his tongue curling around her clit as he pumped two thick fingers in and out of her tight sheath.

"God, Ben!" Rey cried, moving her hips in time with the motion of his hand.

"Not quite." Ben laughed. "But I'm glad you approve."

Twisting her hands in his tousled raven locks, Rey urged his head back to her wet center. She could sense his amusement at her impatience, but Rey was too far gone to care. Ben shifted his position, zeroing in on a spot that had her back arching in seconds.

"Yes! There!" Rey wailed, clutching his hair. "Ben! I'm—ahhhh!"

Fireworks exploded behind her eyes as Ben curled his fingers inside her body, his mouth sucking powerfully on her aroused button. Rey heard a piercing scream as the pleasure went on and on, only vaguely recognizing the voice as her own. Not satisfied, Ben didn't stop touching and licking her until every ounce of climax had been wrung from her virginal body and she lay spent on the cool comforter, gasping for air.

"I love the way you scream my name." Ben said gruffly, crawling between her splayed legs in the aftermath.

Rey touched his face as he came into view, weak from the pleasure he had just given her. "Thank you." She said softly.

Dark eyes burning with lust-and something else?—Ben turned his cheek to press a tender kiss to her palm. "You're welcome."

Boneless, Rey allowed him to rearrange her body, pushing her thighs apart to make room for his possession. Their bodies lined up perfectly, like two puzzle pieces fitting together, and Rey sighed as his weight settled on her.

"I hope you're ready, baby, because I can't wait anymore." Ben palmed his erection in one hand and opened her soaked slit with the other.

"You can come inside me." Rey said shakily. "I'm on the pill."

"Jesus, Rey." Ben groaned, leaning his forehead against hers as he fought for control.

Rey caught his lips in an arousing exploration of teeth and tongue, moaning into his mouth as Ben lost his grip and began pushing into her tight opening. Rey tried to relax as he carefully penetrated her, her short nails biting into Ben's back as she stretched around him.

"Are you okay?" He panted, sweating from the effort of holding back.

"You're so big, Ben!" Rey's inner muscles fluttered as he slid in another inch.

"Relax, baby." Ben kissed her tenderly. "Yeah, that's it. You're so wet, you can take me."

Ben's hips shifted downward sharply as her slick sheath suddenly accommodated him, impaling her to the hilt. Rey's eyes watered at the feeling of emotional and physical completion that suddenly gripped her mind and body at his intrusion. She had heard horror stories from friends about their first times, but Ben had readied her body so well that she didn't feel any pain at all, just an extraordinary fullness.

"Shit, I'm sorry!" Ben attempted to pull back, misreading her glassy expression.

"No!" Rey's legs wrapped around his back, holding him inside her. "No. You're not hurting me, it's just…"

"Just?" Ben brushed her damp hair away from her face inquisitively.

"I've never felt like this before." She admitted quietly, lowering her eyes.

Ben tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. "Neither have I."

"Really?" Rey bit her lip.

"Really." Ben smoothed her abused bottom lip with his thumb. "You bite your lip when you're nervous, did you know that?" He teased.

Rey shook her head. "Care to kiss it better?" She asked coyly, wetting her lips in anticipation.

Ben let out a harsh breath, following the swipe of her pink tongue intently. "The things you do to me, woman." He said roughly as he bent to her tempting smile, slanting his mouth over hers passionately.

Rey moaned as he began moving his hips at the same time, measuring his movements against her response. He was the most thoughtful lover she could have asked for, heart swelling as she sensed his incredible restraint. But it wasn't enough, not nearly enough.

"Harder!" Rey begged, throwing her hips back at him frantically.

Ben's dark eyes burned into hers as he picked up the pace, building her pleasure with each powerful thrust. Rey's back arched as he slid impossibly deep, plunging in and out of her deliciously. Encouraged by her inhibited reaction, Ben buried his head between her breasts again, taking each nipple into his mouth in turns, sucking and biting at her until she cried out in supplication.

"Please!" Rey whined. "Ben!"

Ben lifted her bottom off the bed, throwing her legs over his shoulders to plunge into her at a new angle. Rey shrieked as he pounded away inside her, the head of his long penis brushing the entrance of her cervix.

"Come!" Ben demanded, bringing his thumb to her secret place, briskly rubbing her clit in time with his driving hips.

One, two, three thrusts more and Rey had no choice but to obey him. "Ben!" She screamed in completion, bathing him in her fluids.

——————

Ben lowered her legs as she laid dazed and panting, caging her between his hungry body and the mattress as he drove for his own release. Her grasping cunt was still quivering, sucking the life out of him, and he growled as he tried to get close enough.

Gripping her ass tightly, Ben branded her with his cock, screwing her until his eyes crossed and he couldn't hold back any longer. Howling as the dam finally broke, he gave her everything he had, filling her up to the brim.

Collapsing on top of her, Ben lost consciousness for a space of minutes, trying to catch his breath after experiencing the greatest pleasure he had ever known.

"Ben?" Rey whispered in his ear. "Are you okay?"

Ben tightened his hold on her, crushing her against him. "I love you." He blurted out.

Rey gasped under him, bringing his eyes up to meet hers.

"You don't have to say anything back, I just thought you should know." Ben said seriously. "This is more than just sex for me, and I—" But he didn't get a chance to finish as Rey pulled him into a scorching kiss.

Ben groaned as he felt himself harden inside her. How could he respond so quickly given the earth-shattering orgasm he had just experienced? But their attraction defined logic, and Ben went under once again, Rey with him every step of the way.

——————

Ben slowly cracked his eyes open, holding up a hand against the glare of the midday sun as his fuzzy mind tried to work out why his blackout curtains were wide open.

The slender body next to him shifted, drawing his attention and bringing back the previous night's events. Ben gazed down at Rey, bemused to see her clutching at him like her favorite teddy bear, the small smile on her lips warming his heart. Her eyelids were still closed, but he could tell she was waking up. Ben tucked her hair behind her small ear, placing a chaste kiss on cheek.

Although she hadn't said those three little words back to him yet, Ben knew she had feelings for him; her body had shouted it to the stars and beyond last night while they made love.

"Rey?" He called softly.

"Mmm hmm?" She mumbled, curling into his side with a contented sigh.

"It's morning, sweetheart. We have to go to set soon."

"Don't wanna." Rey pouted as she slid a leg over his waist possessively.

Ben shuddered as her molten core came into contact with his hip, but he kept himself in check. She had to be sore after last night, and he didn't want to hurt her.

"We're going to be late if we don't get up." He warned her.

"I don't care." Rey grumbled, keeping her eyes closed as she lifted her face to his. "Kiss me."

Ben chuckled, but complied, kissing her so thoroughly that she had no choice but to sit up, straining against him excitedly.

"There you go." Ben said smugly, throwing an arm around her to keep her upright.

"That wasn't fair." She glowered at him.

"All's fair in love and war." Ben quoted the famous saying. "Now let's shower and hit the road or Hux is going to blow a gasket."

Rey held out her arms to him. "Carry me. I don't think I can stand yet."

Ben laughed as he scooped her up into his arms, lifting them both off the rumpled mattress with ease. "Your wish is my command, sweetheart."

——————

"I'll do anything you ask." He begged her, lifting her small hand to his lips.

"Love me." She responded with feeling, tracing his brow with trembling fingers. "Love me as deeply as I love you."

He gathered her slight form in his burly arms, swallowing her gasp of excitement. They kissed leisurely for long moments, passion growing between them until—

"And cut!" Hux exclaimed, striding onto set once again. "Okay, who are you and what have you done with my actors?"

"Excuse me?" Ben said, dragging himself away from Rey with difficulty.

They were filming the titular love scene again today and, knowing each other intimately this time around, the new couple had slipped into character with ease.

"How did you two manage to improve so drastically in one night?" The director probed.

"Practice." Rey and Ben said together, sharing a secret smile.

Hux raised an eyebrow at them. "Is that so? Well, keep it up. This is good stuff!"

Rey sighed in relief as he walked back to his chair in good cheer, calling for the scene to be reset.

Rose jumped in to pat Rey's nose with a little powder, while Ben's assistant tended to him. "You guys are doing great today."

"Thanks, Rose." Rey said. "And, uh, thanks for helping us out last night."

"No problem." Rose giggled.

"What?" Rey raised an eyebrow.

"Let's just say Finn and I saw a little more than we bargained for when we drove by Kylo's after work last night to make sure you were okay." Rose said pointedly.

Rey groaned, covering her face with her hands.

Ben turned his attention away from Kaydel at the sound, frowning. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing much, but you should really draw your curtains next—oof!" Finn's laughter was cut short as Rose stood and elbowed him in the stomach.

"What are you even doing here?" Rose demanded, dragging him away.

Ben and Rey watched bemusedly as Finn allowed the tiny woman to cart him off set.

"You okay?" Ben asked her when they were alone.

"Yeah, I don't mind them knowing about us." She smiled at him.

Ben's tense shoulders relaxed, and he smiled back. "Me either."

"For a second there, I was a little worried we wouldn't be able to fake the love scene again." She admitted. "But then I remembered…"

"We're not faking." Ben finished, grinning like a sap.

"No, we're not faking." Rey seconded seriously, staring into his eyes lovingly.

Ben beamed back at her, understanding her meaning.

Rey and Ben resumed their previous positions, knowing that whatever came next, whether this production was a smash hit or not, they would do it together.

"And action!"

——————

Epilogue: Two Years Later

——————

Rey gripped Ben's hand as the presenters read the nominees for Best Actress. Ben had already received the award for Best Actor, so she felt an immense pressure to do the same.

"You've got this." Ben assured her quietly.

Rey turned her scared eyes to his. "What if I don't, Ben? Our film—"

"And the winner is…"

"Oh my god!" Rey whispered in agony.

"Rey Niima!" The presenters read enthusiastically.

Ben pulled her up gently when she didn't react, frozen in shock by the announcement. "Rey, you have to go up there and accept your award." He kissed her lightly. "Rey?"

His comforting touch brought her back to reality. "Right! Okay! I can do this." Rey said firmly, taking a quick breath.

Releasing her hold on her boyfriend of two years, Rey strode toward to the podium with a confidence she was far from feeling. Accepting the award from her colleges, Rey stepped up to the microphone.

"Thank you for honoring my performance with this award. I would like to thank our director, Armitage Hux, for all his hard work and dedication, and every member of the crew who supported me on a daily basis." Rey turned to speak directly to Ben. "And lastly, to my co-star and the love of my life, Ben Solo, I know that I wouldn't be here without you. Your amazing talent and commitment inspires me every day. You make me a better actor and human being. I love you, Ben."

Locking eyes with the woman he loved, Ben left his seat and joined her on stage.

"At the risk of stepping on my girlfriend's moment, there's something I've been wanting to do for a while now." Ben grinned at the crowd. "The first time I met Rey, I knew that I wanted to be with her forever. She's brought me out of my shell and reconnected me with my family, making my life better in a hundred different ways."

Whispers broke out among the audience, and everyone seemed to lean forward in their seats.

"With all that being said, there's only one thing left to do."

"Ben?" She whispered. "What are you—oh!"

Taking the award out of her hand and placing it on the podium, Ben laced their fingers together before slowly dropping to one knee. "Rey, will you marry me?"

The room broke out in wild cheers as Rey stared down into Ben's heartfelt expression, tears filling her eyes.

"Rey?" Ben asked when she didn't respond, more vulnerable than she had ever seen him.

"Yes." She whispered only for him, pulling him up into her arms. "A thousand times yes!"

Ben tasted her salty tears as their mouths met, wrapping her up against him, heedless of the officials trying to get them off stage for the next award, of his mother and father joining them at the podium, of the hundreds of people offering well wishes in the crowd. Nothing mattered but the two of them coming together in this one perfect moment.

It was an awards show that would go down in history, kicking off a legacy that would extend for generations to come. Beyond being successful, Oscar-winning actors in their day, what the world would always remember Ben and Rey Solo for was being famous in love.

-FIN-

——————

A/N: I'm calling him "Big Ben" from now on, and you can't stop me! I may have laughed for an unreasonably long time at my own joke when I first wrote that line lol Now go read my multi-chapter fic Finding You and my Reylo Drabbles too! Much love!

#reylo #rey #kylo ren #ben solo #reylo fanfic #finn #rose tico #armitage hux #my fanfiction #sushigirlali #famous in love

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letterfromtrenwith · 6 years ago

Text

Grand Jeté - Ch 5 & 6

When George Warleggan quits a high powered job in the City to take care of the finances of the South West Ballet, run by his friend, Francis Poldark, it changes his life - even more so than he expected.

Elizabeth Chynoweth came to the South West to come back home, take on new challenges, and leave behind a less than perfect time in her life. She intends to focus on her art, but everyone knows what they say about best laid plans…

Ch 1 & 2 Ch 3 & 4

Chapter 5

The familiar jaunty melody was just beginning to leak out into the corridor as George approached the doors to the auditorium. It was the beginning of the climactic section of Rodeo and he intended to watch. Tonight was the final performance, and he’d already seen the show in full twice, but this was the fifth time he was going to watch the finale. As a perk of the job he not only got free tickets to any performance, but was allowed to watch from the usher’s seats if the hall was sold out, which it had already been for this entire run by the time he arrived.

The insulated doors could be opened and closed near silently for staff to enter and leave, so he was able to slip in without disturbing anyone. One of the volunteer ushers – mostly students from Truro & Penwith College and Falmouth Unversity – nodded a greeting before returning their attention to the stage. Front and centre, Demelza Carne and Malcolm McNeil performed an energetic duet, the skirts of Demelza’s Old West style dress flowing elegantly as she spun. This was the transformation of her tomboyish Cowgirl into the romantic heroine and she captured it perfectly. George had become intimately familiar with the themes and plot of this piece over the last few weeks. Frankly, he rather regretted not learning more about ballet when he’d been in London with Francis and Verity. Beyond the name of the ballets he’d seen – Coppelia, The Prince of the Pagodas and Firebird among others – he hadn’t taken much else in, apart from a general enjoyment of them. It was really quite a fascinating topic, and he’d found himself passing a whole evening reading up on Rodeo’s composer, Aaron Copland and original choreographer Agnes de Mille, and a half a dozen other related topics.

There was a momentary pause, the dancers flowing neatly into position as the orchestra struck up the first few notes of the piece George now knew was called ‘Miss McLeod’s Reel’. This was what he had really come for, as it was the accompaniment to Elizabeth’s brief solo. Even if he felt like a stalker, he hadn’t been able to resist watching this section more than once, although he’d refrained from coming more often. It was just that Elizabeth was so enchanting when she danced. The others were excellent, but there was just something about her that fascinated him. He hoped she never found out about his secret trips to the back of the auditorium – Heaven knew what she’d think. She’d been polite enough not to mention catching him peeking in at their practice, but this might be a bit much.

There was a smattering of applause as Elizabeth’s section came to an end and the main cast returned to the stage for the finale, a reprise of the ballet’s main theme, culminating in a romantic embrace between the leading characters. The entire company had been uniformly excellent, but it seemed that the fact it was the final night had given them some extra energy. It really was an impressive production, even more so now that George had an insight into everything that went on behind the scenes – by analysing the costs of each production he’d discovered just how many tiny details had to be considered. At first, he’d been appalled by how much was spent on ballet shoes, until he’d learned that a lead ballerina could wear out a pair in a single performance. He’d therefore managed to negotiate a discount with their supplier in return for being a named sponsor of next season’s programme.

Before the final notes of the score had even died away, or the lights fully dimmed, the audience were on their feet, clapping and cheering. The lights flared once more and the cast joined hands to take their bows, most stepping back to leave Demelza, Malcolm, Caroline and Ed Carkeek at the front of the stage. There was another wave of applause for the four of them, and two young girls from the corps disappeared into the wings, returning a moment later with large bouquets of flowers for the women. With a bit of encouragement from the stage, Francis emerged from the wings to yet more cheers from the audience. It was remarkable, really, that he could look so nervous taking a brief curtain call, when George had seen him throw himself without care about a stage wearing little more than tights and a vest. He certainly didn’t envy Francis at this moment. Ever since a terrifying experience in a Nativity play aged 6, George had studiously avoided anything related to the performing arts.

The ovation had gone on for quite a while in the end, and it was nearly two hours later before the closing night party was in full swing. Held in the backstage complex, it was a lively gathering, dancers hurrying about, some still in costume, almost all still in full make-up. The drinks flowed freely, cast and crew taking advantage of the fact they had tomorrow off before launching into a week of intensive final rehearsals for Dracula.

Francis had insisted that George and Rosina attend, along with all the other support staff. Although everyone was very nice and he’d been plied with champagne, Morwenna filling his glass nearly to over-flowing, he felt a touch out of place. He’d socialised with the dancers outside, but this was their domain, a complete contrast to their little paperwork-lined office.

“So, Francis tells me you knew each other in London?” He turned to find Elizabeth had appeared next to him. She’d traded her emerald green costume for a simple black dress, but she was no less striking in it. Her abrupt arrival and opening question had thrown him for a moment, but he managed to recover himself.

“Er, yes, but we actually met at school. Years ago. Sort of lost touch until we bumped into each other by chance while he was at Covent Garden.”

“Did you work there, as well?” He was temporarily distracted by her taking a pull on the straw in her drink and mentally chastised himself.

“Oh, no! I’ve –er – I’ve never actually worked in the arts before. I used to work for a private bank, actually.

“Wow, really?” She raised her eyebrows. “Like, hedge funds and things?”

“Yes, pretty much.”

“So, what made you come here? Surely you made a lot more money doing that? Oh no, that’s rude of me, sorry – “

“No, it’s probably a fair question!” He laughed. “I just, I suppose I wasn’t getting anything out of it, and I wanted a change. A new challenge. Or any challenge, actually!”

“I – “ She looked at him oddly for a moment and he wondered why he’d just blurted all that out to her before she suddenly smiled, soft lips curling attractively. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“Ah! There you are! Any progress?” The balletmistress, Anne, stuck her head around the door, raising her eyebrows at Francis. “Hello, George. Hello, Rosina.”

“Hello, Anne. Any progress on what?” George raised his eyebrows at Francis, but instead of answering, Francis merely sighed.

“We’re trying to decide on the programme for next season, with some difficulty. Francis obviously thought he could hide out in your office instead.” She came in and leant against a bookcase, smiling ruefully.

“I thought it was suspicious you suddenly wanted to discuss VAT returns….” He saw Rosina smirk behind her computer screen, despite pretending to be absorbed in her spreadsheets.

“Oh, it’s always difficult. We’re understaffed, is the problem.” Francis shook his head.

“Are we?”

“Yes, well, with male dancers. Since I’m only part-time, we’ve only really got two male principals: Malcolm and Hugh. They’re both fantastic, but they can’t be expected to lead a whole season. There’s just Paul and Ed in the soloists, and not many in the corps, either, so promoting someone wouldn’t really solve the problem.”

“It limits the productions we can do.” Anne explained. “We had enough of a nightmare casting Dracula with so many male parts. If Francis wasn’t participating, we’d be stuck. Lion’s tricky as well, but we’ve just about managed by getting Caroline and Keren to play male parts.”

“We could promote Ed, and advertise for a couple of new male soloists, but there’s no guarantee we’d get them by next season and we need to pick the productions soon so we can start costing them. Or rather, you can start costing them.”

“Well, perhaps George could give us layman’s opinion?” Anne said. “What would you say to Marie Antoinette? And Twelfth Night?”

“Sounds good, but….” He paused, before deciding to throw caution to the wind. “How about something Greek?”

“Greek?” Francis exchanged a glance with Anne. “Big fan of the classics are you, George?”

“No, it’s just – Well, I’ve had an idea…”

“What sort of idea?”

“I’ve seen from your records that you’ve performed in other venues before, although not for a couple of years, and there’s that open-air theatre in Porthcurno, the Minack. I’ve made some discreet enquiries, and they’d apparently like to get more dance and opera alongside the plays they usually stage, and they’ve not fixed their summer schedule yet. They’d take a portion of the profits, of course, but they’d also bear half the costs, and – I’m not an expert, I admit – but I think the cost of staging would be less than indoors – “

“Stop, stop!” Francis held up his hand and George took a breath, realising that he’d been rambling. The entire time he’d been looking into this idea, he’d been worried that he was overstepping the mark, but equally he hadn’t wanted to bring it to Francis without having at least tested the waters. Now, he was regretting it all. That is, until a smile slowly began to spread across Francis’ face. “George…that’s brilliant!”

“Really? You think so?”

“Yes! Frankly, I’m annoyed I’ve never thought of it myself.”

“We could do Spartacus!” Anne suddenly interjected. “It would be perfect in that setting! And it’s only got two main male roles, so no problems with casting.”

“Brilliant! Right, let’s go and speak to Ellen.” Francis sprang up before turning back to George. “Can you put together all the details for us, and then I’ll speak to the management there after we’ve hashed things out on our end? Or would you rather follow it up?”

“No, by all means, once the financial side is sorted out, it’s all up to you lot.”

“George, you are truly a genius.” He flashed a quick grin. “Or perhaps I’m the genius for bringing you here?”

With that, he and Anne disappeared in the direction of Ellen’s office. Still feeling a bit like he’d had a rug pulled out from under him, George sat back in his chair. Rosina glanced after her departing colleagues before turning to him with a look of excitement.

“That was a brilliant idea!”

“I have to admit, I wasn’t sure if they’d go for it.”

“They’d have been stupid not to.” She looked round guiltily after saying this, as if Francis and Anne might have still been lurking outside to hear her cast aspersions on their judgement. “I suppose that explains why you’ve been so cheerful these past few days, with that piece of genius floating around in your head.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” With a shake of his head, he went back to his VAT return. He had been cheerful recently, but it had nothing to do with the Minack idea, although he wasn’t about tell Rosina the real reason: He had a date with Elizabeth Chynoweth.

Chapter 6

“…Elizabeth Chynoweth, so tragic and magnificent in last season’s Madame Bovary, makes for an equally spectacular Mina, her strength and determination shining through every step. She is the perfect counterpart to Caroline Penvenen’s delicate, tortured Lucy – delicate indeed! Never been called that before! – “ Caroline looked up from her phone and waggled her eyebrows, making Elizabeth and Demelza laugh. “The cast is uniformly excellent, from Hugh Armitage’s Jonathan and Malcom McNeil’s Van Helsing, all the way to the Weird Sisters, brought to fantastically creepy life by Demelza Carne, Margaret Vosper and Morwenna Chynoweth. However, there is no doubt about it – just as Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee owned the character on the silver screen, this production absolutely belongs to Francis Poldark’s Count. Poldark has been less seen on the stage since he took over as the South West’s artistic director but if this is the kind of performance he’s going to deliver when he does appear, it’s well worth the wait in-between. Well! That’s the Cornish & Devon Post, but the others are much the same: Western Morning News, The Herald, The Cornishman, even The Gloucester Citizen and The Bath Chronicle!”

“Did you hear that, Morwenna?” Demelza tugged her gently to sit down with them. “We’re ‘fantastically creepy’”.

“Well, that is what all my school reports said.” Morwenna arched an eyebrow and Demelza snorted.

“Creepy you may be, but it seems we are all just background decoration for the great Francis Poldark!” Caroline made a put-upon face and then laughed when Elizabeth swatted her.

“Francis is fantastic and you know it. And it’s not like the reviews haven’t been highly complementary of you, as well.” Caroline couldn’t deny it. The reception for Dracula had been excellent, and not just in the traditional press according to Rosina Hoblyn, who George had put in charge of the company’s social media. Elizabeth had dropped by the administration office a couple of days ago to put her new mobile number on file – and secretly hoping to see George at the same time, although he was disappointingly out. She’d been surprised by the change that had come over Rosina, who had always been polite and friendly, but seemed to have a newfound confidence. She told Elizabeth that George had also designated her HR duties, so that he could focus on solely on the finance.

Elizabeth had to admit that – as stupid as it was – she felt a tiny twinge of jealousy listening to Rosina enthuse about George. Rosina simply appreciated being given a fulfilling job to do, just like anyone would. Besides, she and George hadn’t even been on their first date yet, she wasn’t about to go and get possessive.

She hadn’t been able to resist going over to talk to him at the Rodeo party. He’d looked a little lost amongst the flamboyance of the dancers, not to mention very attractive; in his shirtsleeves, top buttons undone and his neatly styled hair starting to fall over his forehead after the long day.

There had been a slightly awkward note between them the few times they had run into each other since that chance introduction in the corridor; even that odd, intriguing moment at the taxi, but not that night. She sensed he’d opened up to her a little more than he’d intended when she asked him about coming to the South West, but he hadn’t seemed embarrassed by it, and their conversation had flowed more freely after that. He’d complimented her dancing yet again – she heard such things often, and was always very grateful for them, but his obvious sincerity suffused her with a particular warmth. At a natural pause in their conversation, he’d turned to face her more directly and bit his lip, very distractingly, as if he were considering something.

“I – I don’t suppose you’d like to, maybe, go for a coffee sometime? Or something?”

It was as if whatever reservations she’d been having about getting involved with anyone had simply disappeared from her mind and, completely without hesitation, she’d told him she’d love to. The smile he gave her at that had lit up his face and she couldn’t help but return it. Their eyes met and for one wild moment she’d thought he was going to kiss her. She’d been just about to let him when Caroline appeared beside them.

“There you are! Wondered where you’d snuck off to. Oh, but, “she raised her eyebrows, “am I interrupting something?”

“No.” They’d said it in unison, entirely too quickly, causing a slow grin to spread across Caroline’s face.

“Well, in that case, I must apologise for stealing her away from you, George. Don’t worry, though, I’ll bring her back in one piece.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Elizabeth had muttered as Caroline led her away by the arm, to a relatively quiet area by the costume store.

“So…you and George, hmm? Tell me all about it.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” Caroline tutted at this answer. “There isn’t! We’re just going for a coffee, or something, that’s all…If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Of course I don’t mind! Why would I – “ Her blue eyes suddenly widened and her lips formed a perfect ‘O’ of understanding. “You think that we were – Oh ho, no! No, no, nothing like that. Not that I don’t think he’s great and you should absolutely go out with him, but we’re just friends.”

“You are?” Elizabeth suspected she hadn’t been able to hide her relief at that, since Caroline looked both amused and sympathetic.

“Yes! You remember that awful ex-fiancé of mine I told you about? Unwin? Well, he and George were at Oxford together; they were housemates, which I don’t envy George for at all, I can tell you! Unwin introduced us and we all used to socialise sometimes when I was in London. But since I split with Unwin and went to Milan, George and I have only really exchanged a few emails. You heard him – he’d even forgotten I was with the South West!”

“Yes…”

“Yes, so, stop worrying about me and start thinking of yourself. You need to get back in the saddle,” she paused, a twinkle in her eye. “If you know what I mean…”

“Caroline!”

She and George had both been busy the next couple of weeks, with Dracula among other things, but they’d managed to arrange to meet for lunch one Saturday. There were a few days between the first run of the ballet and the next and Francis had told them to take a break, since they would be going into full rehearsals for the de Valois double the following week.

Elizabeth spent a good two hours that morning going back and forth on what to wear. It was only a café lunch so she wasn’t going to get all dolled up, but equally it was a date with a man she really liked so she wanted to look nice. Eventually, she settled on simple black jeans and a soft cream jumper warm enough that she could go without a coat. It was getting into October now, but Cornwall always had milder autumns than the rest of the country in her experience.

She was a little early so ordered a coffee, the waitress greeting her with a friendly smile. The café wasn’t far from Elizabeth’s flat, and it had become something of a favourite. Just as she was taking her first sip, the bell over the door jingled and she looked up to see George standing in the doorway, looking around. It wasn’t a big place, so he spotted her quickly; she smiled and gave him a little wave, immediately thinking it made her look stupid, but George was smiling back as he came towards her, slipping off his light jacket to hang it over the back of the chair. The forest green colour of his jumper was very flattering. At the waitress’ approach, he indicated he would have the same as Elizabeth.

“You look nice.” Elizabeth felt herself blush and glanced away, wishing she could stop acting like a silly schoolgirl.

“Thanks…Did you find the place okay?” She wondered if she should have returned the compliment - he did look nice, very nice – but it was too late now and George didn’t seem to have noticed the omission.

“Yes, eventually. I still haven’t managed to find my way around properly, to be honest. There’s been too much to do. I’ve only just finished unpacking!”

“But you’re from Cornwall originally, aren’t you? You said you knew Francis at school.”

“Yes, at prep school, quite a long time ago now!” He laughed. “But we lived further out, near Penzance. I remember my Mum bringing me to Truro once when I was little, but I haven’t been back since.”

“Morwenna’s parents live near Penzance. At Gulval.”

“Oh, I know it! Mum used to visit an elderly lady there. A friend of the family.” He took a thoughtful sip of his coffee. “How did you and Morwenna both end up at the South West? Just by chance?”

“Yes, well, no.” Something inside her jumped instantly to the defensive, used to deflecting accusations that Morwenna was riding on her coat-tails; accusations which always seemed to bother her more than Morwenna. But George’s question was entirely sincere; he wasn’t a jealous professional rival or a bitchy arts journalist. “Yes and no. You probably know she was at the Ballet Cymru before? They’re a very good company but she didn’t think there were many opportunities to advance there. So, when I knew the South West was looking for some new dancers, I suggested she audition, but it was all down to Francis and Anne that she was taken on.”

“She’s very talented.”

“She always has been…” And Elizabeth told him the story of Morwenna’s very first ballet lesson, which led into her own first lessons. She told him about falling in love with dance, and her mother approving primarily because she could lord Elizabeth’s successes over her friends; this led onto her time at the Royal Ballet School with Francis and Verity, then joining the English National after that. When the waitress appeared to ask if they would like anything else, she realised that they’d both finished their coffees and she’d been waffling on for ages. “Oh God! Wow, I’ve just rambled on at you for I don’t know how long….”

“No,” George smiled. “I was interested.”

“We did come here for lunch, though, so perhaps we should eat something? The food here is really good.”

They ended up lingering over their sandwiches as much as they had over their coffees; with a little prompting, George encouraged her to continue where she had left off, and she told him about her 18 months with Ballet Zurich. It turned out he’d visited the city on business a few times and they knew some of the same places.

“Don’t you miss the travel, coming here? From jet-setting all over the world to…Truro?”

“Actually, it was partly the travel that turned me off. I mostly never got to see or enjoy anything, just a long string of endless meetings about essentially the same topics.”

“It’s a big leap to take, if you don’t mind my saying.” She had been curious about his reasons for leaving his old job, even after their talk at the Rodeo party.

“Yes,” he glanced down at his now empty plate with a smile. “Yes, it was. My father certainly wasn’t happy about it.”

“He’d have preferred you in London with him?”

“No, well, yes, but – ah – I actually left the family firm to come here.” Elizabeth felt her eyebrows raise. Wow, that really was daring. She was impressed.

“Oh my...Well, are you happy you came?” He looked her straight in the eye and smiled.

“Yes, I really am.” She couldn’t help but smile back, her stomach fluttering, and not because it was upset. When they were finally finished – George agreeing with her that the food was delicious – they stood for a moment on the pavement outside. “Would you like to walk those sandwiches off? You could show me around a bit?”

“I – oh no! I can’t!” She glanced at her watch. They had been there for nearly three hours! The time had flown by. “I’m supposed to be going to a Pilates class with Morwenna in half an hour. I would really like to, though, honestly. Maybe another time?”

“We could have Sunday lunch tomorrow?” She was surprised, and extremely pleased, that he’d want to see her again so soon, but he obviously took her hesitation the wrong way . “It’s only that you’re going to be busy again when Dracula resumes and I’ve got a lot coming up – “

“I’d love to.” He really did have the nicest smile.

‘Hoedown’ - Main theme from Rodeo The Minack Theatre

#poldark #george warleggan #elizabeth warleggan #elizabeth chynoweth #rosina hoblyn #francis poldark #morwenna chynoweth #caroline penvenen #demelza poldark #grand jete #au #f: ge #f: au #fic #m: fic

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viruswithsaas · 7 years ago

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Roadburn 2018: day by day (2/3)

The festival kicked off on thursday and our original plan was to start with the Waste of Space Orchestra set that the organisation had commissioned for the festival but the line to enter the otherwise spacey 013 main hall was so disencouraging that we decided to enjoy the sun a bit longer and then check out the first Earthless set.

Like mentioned earlier, Earthless was one of the San Diego jam rockbands that more or less invaded Tilburg with sets all over the place with the first in the 013. Besides the Cheech & Chong version of jazz, jam rock is also a difficult genre for the audience. It requires some effort and an adventurous mindset and even then it is pretty much hit or miss. If the band is not “feeling” it, you can expect a half assed cacophony but if it’s good, it is a thing of wonder that will fill you up with delight. Earthless were definitely on a roll and sure, the guitar player had a bit of a Jimi Hendrix-complex and loved his wah-pedal very much, but it was a perfect opener.

Insect Ark in the hot, small and crowded Cul de Sac was less than perfect. Just like the show in Brussels one or two years ago, the doom duo started off awkwardly and didn’t pull itself together until the last third of the set or so. A shame because I like Insect Ark and love Ash Spungin’s drumming style; clever, never one hit too much or too few. Just like Meg White of the White Stripes but tighter.

After some much needed post-Cul de Sac rehydration, it was time for Cult of Luna’s final show with Julie Christmas. Don’t you just love her name? All joking apart, that was an amazing show, the post metal band played incredibly and la Christmas is an energetic Wednesday Addams-esque appearance that filled up the entire stage on her own. With a landslide the highlight of the day, not even Weedeater, a proto-type stoner metal band with bears and gnarly fuzzes that rather plays loud than tight, could change that. Good times, good times. Maybe we were not as pro-active as we would like to have been but tomorrow we were going to change that.

But we didn’t. We started out with a plus two hour set of Motorpsycho. Weird thing is that I’ve seen the individual members with other bands but never with the “mothership”. So, I sort of knew what to expect but not really. Anyway, it was amazing. Its start was slow. Very slow but after the opening song the band kept the tempo up. Of course you had to be into instrumental 70′s styled jazz/heavy rock music to enjoy but euhm, yes, Motorpsycho, damn.

From Motorpsycho with its intricate, jazzy style to the hard, brutal and loud Converge playing the “You Fail Me” album (with another detour to rehydrate) and it was.... I can’t say. Metalcore is one of the few genres that I find awful (along with reggae) and although Converge is brainier than Five Finger Death Punch (not difficult, “plus bête, on meurt”) it never really connected with me.

Seen that we liked Earthless the previous day, we decided to head over to the new venue Koepelhal, basically a giant patched up warehouse but still very cool, and check out their set with singer Damo Suzuki. But given the monotony of the band and Suzuki, we quickly headed back to 013 for Godflesh which was equally monotonous but only much louder and with the compressors running red hot.

Luckily Igorrr was there to save the day with a superb electro-metal set, a drummer and two brilliant singers. It was fun, it was danceable and the theatrics of the singers gave it a bit of a cabaret feeling. Yes, a lot of the music was pre-recorded and blablabla but one, it’s 2018 so shut up about 1979 already and two, this shit was TIGHT AF! But, second day, all in all, we didn’t see as much as we would have liked. Third day was going to be different.

Euh, yeah kinda? We started off slowly by skipping Bell Witch playing the entire funeral doom opera “Mirror Reaper” but we saw the Húgsja set with Ivar Bjørnson (Enslaved) and Einar Selvik (Wardruna) which was gorgeous. It wasn’t too different from Wardruna, perhaps a bit more mellow and new age-y, but with Selvik’s esoteric vocals and the wonderful folk music, who really cares?

Panopticon had to deal with a bad soundmix but their furious, take-no-prisoners black metal went down easily. Not really super duper original but still good.

Last minute we decided to skip Boris, getting hydrated with friends, and Zola Jesus, because the headliner was coming up: the post rock titan collective that is Godspeed You! Black Emperor.

It was a brave decision of Roadburn to make this band the headliner of 2018. GY!BE is pretty much anti-headliner material. Long songs without a catchy chorus or vocal hooks, a style and aesthetic that feels more like an arthouse movie entrance than a full fledged band, bit of a murky image without a recognisable face and no hits, even by independent standards. During the show, I felt that many spectators didn’t bother check out the band before coming to Roadburn and were expecting something completely different. Well, fuck them because GY!BE was AWESOME! Close your eyes and you’ll see apocalyptic landscapes, fields of grass waving in the wind, comets flying by. A lot of bands say that they are all about the music but there is only one band that can and should make that statements.

After the brilliance of GY!BE came Thou x The Body and it was basically a fuckload of heavy noise. It has the sophistication of a donkey raping a goat and it even sounded like that too! But in its sloppiness and uncontrollable noise, it was fun.

Excellent third day!

Before heading back home to our own homes and showers, we wanted to see few more acts. The first was the other commissioned piece “Vánagandr: Sól án varma”, thank heavens for copy/paste, from the Icelandic black metal scene. This piece was just… wow… It was brutal, layered, dense and incredibly creepy. At moments it felt like the score for a horror movie. With a MIDI-controller, three guitars, drums, bass and four people singing, there was a lot going on and it packed enough variation and dynamics to keep this overwhelming 90 minutes long blastbeat fest interesting. The performance was spot on and the response to it was amazing.

A band that slipped under our radar but turned out to a pleasant surprise was Watter in the Green Room and a nice change of scenery. Watter played a mellow hybrid of alternative rock and soft electro. With all the super loud black metal mayhem going on in the main room, this was an oasis of tranquility. Perhaps this would sound a lot more boring on record but in the then current context it worked. In the main hall afterewards it was time for more black metal with Wiegedood. It was more straight forward and “simpler” than the commission from the far north but was at the time just a bit too much. Before getting in the car we wanted to catch another glimpse of the second set of Godspeed You! Black Emperor. This time the people were prepared for it, you could the many people sitting down and attentively listening, and the atmosphere was more relaxed and respectful. Again, GY!BE was by far the best thing of the entire weekend, no question about it.

Like stated earlier, Roadburn is at a turning point and the focus might change but the team behind the festival have crafted out their own little world where it can do as it pleases. With Heilung as headliner, it looks like we can expect another edition where anything could happen.

I used to say that Roadburn is always ahead of the curve but that no longer applies. Roadburn IS the curve.

#roadburn #motorpsycho #icelandic black metal #godspeed you! black emperor #igorrr #watter #earthles

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glittership · 5 years ago

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Episode #73 — "Désiré" by Megan Arkenberg

Direct download here.

And here’s the RSS feed: http://glittership.podbean.com/feed/

Episode 73 is part of the Autumn 2018 issue!

Support GlitterShip by picking up your copy here: http://www.glittership.com/buy/

Désiré by Megan Arkenberg

From Albert Magazine’s interview with Egon Rowley: April 2943

Egon Rowley: It was the War that changed him. I remember the day we knew it. [A pause.] We all knew it, that morning. He came to our table in the coffee shop with a copy of Raum – do you remember that newspaper? The reviewers were deaf as blue-eyed cats, the only people in Südlichesburg who preferred Anton Fulke’s operas to Désiré’s – but Désiré, he had a copy of it. This was two days after Ulmerfeld, you understand. None of us had any idea how bad it was. But Raum had gotten its hands on a letter from a soldier, and Désiré read it to us, out loud, right there over coffee and pastries.

[Full story after the cut.]

Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip Episode 73 for June 13, 2019. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing this story with you. Our story for today is Desire by Megan Arkenberg, read by Dani Daly.

Before we get to it, if you’ve been waiting to pick up your copy of the Tiptree Award Honor Listed book, GlitterShip Year Two, there’s a great deal going on for Pride over at StoryBundle. GlitterShip Year Two is part of a Pride month LGBTQ fantasy fiction bundle. StoryBundle is a pay-what-you-want bundle site. For $5 or more, you can get four great books, and for $15 or more, you’ll get an additional five books, including GlitterShip Year Two, and a story game. That comes to as little as $1.50 per book or game. The StoryBundle also offers an option to give 10% of your purchase amount to charity. The charity for this bundle is Rainbow Railroad, a charity that helps queer folks get to a safe place if their country is no longer safe for them.

http://www.storybundle.com/pride

And now for “Desire” by Megan Arkenberg, read by Dani Daly.

Megan Arkenberg’s work has appeared in over fifty magazines and anthologies, including Lightspeed, Asimov’s, Shimmer, and Ellen Datlow’s Best Horror of the Year. She has edited the fantasy e-zine Mirror Dance since 2008 and was recently the nonfiction editor for Queers Destroy Horror!, a special issue of Nightmare Magazine. She currently lives in Northern California, where she is pursuing a Ph.D. in English literature. Visit her online at http://www.meganarkenberg.com.

Dani loves to keep busy and narrating stories is just one of the things she loves to do. She’s a former assistant editor of Cast of Wonders, a retired roller derby player and current soap maker and small business owner. She rants on twitter as @danooli_dani, if that’s your thing. Or you can visit the EA forums, where she moderates the Cast of Wonders boards. You can find stories narrated by Dani on all four of the Escape Artists podcasts, at Star Ship Sofa, and on Audible.com (as Danielle Daly).

Désiré by Megan Arkenberg

From Albert Magazine’s interview with Egon Rowley: April 2943

Albert Magazine: And what did the letter say?

Rowley: The usual things. Blood and, and heads blown clean off, things like that. Horrible things. I remember…[Laughs awkwardly.] I remember Baptist Vogel covered his ears. We all felt it quite badly.

AM: I imagine. Why was this letter so important to Désiré?

Rowley: Who can say why anything mattered to him? Guilt, most likely.

AM: Guilt?

Rowley: Yes. He hadn’t volunteered for the army, and that was something of an anomaly in those days. Everyone was so patriotic, so nationalist, I suppose you’d say. But he had his reasons. I mean, I don’t suppose Désiré could have passed the examinations for enlistment – the psychological examinations.

AM: But it bothered him, that he hadn’t volunteered?

Rowley: Yes. Very much. [A pause.] When he read that soldier’s letter…it was the oddest thing. Like he was reading a love letter, you understand. But, like I said, there was nothing romantic in it, nothing at all. It was…horrible.

AM: What did Désiré say about it?

Rowley: About the letter? Nothing. He just read it and…and went back to his rooms, I suppose. That was the last we saw of him.

AM: The last you saw of him?

Rowley: Yes. [A pause.] Before Alexander.

A letter from Margaret von Banks to Beatrix Altberg: August 2892

Dearest Bea,

The scene: Leonore’s drawing room, around nine o’clock last night. The moment I stepped through the door, Désiré came running up to me like a child looking for candy. “Thank goodness you’re here,” he said. I should add that it was supposed to be a masquerade, but of course I knew him by his long hair and those dark red lips, and I suppose I’m the only woman in Südlichesburg to wear four rings in each ear. He certainly knew me immediately. “I have a bet running with Isidor,” he continued, “and Anton and I need you for the violin.”

He explained, as he half-led, half-dragged me to the music room, that Anton had said something disparaging – typically – about Isidor’s skills as a conductor of Désiré’s music. Isidor swore to prove him wrong if Désiré would write them a new piece that very moment. Désiré did – a trio for violin, cello and pianoforte – and having passed the cello to Anton and claimed the piano for himself, he needed me to play violin in the impromptu concert.

“You’re mad,” I said on seeing the sheet music.

“Of course I am,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. Isidor thundered into the room – they make such a delightful contrast, big blond Isidor and dark Désiré. Rumor is Désiré has native blood from the Lysterrestre colonies, which makes me wonder quite shallowly if they’re all so handsome over there. Yes, Bea, I imagine you rolling your eyes, but the fact remains that Désiré is ridiculously beautiful. Even Richard admits it.

Well, Isidor assembled the audience, and my hands were so sweaty that I had to borrow a pair of gloves from Leonore later in the evening. Désiré was smooth and calm as can be. He kissed me on the forehead – and Anton on the cheek, to everyone’s amusement but Anton’s – and then Isidor was rapping the music stand for our attention, and Désiré played the opening notes, and we were off, hurtling like a sled down a hill. I wish I had the slightest clue what we were playing, Bea, but I haven’t. The audience loved it, at any rate.

That’s Désiré for you – mad as springtime, smooth as ice and clumsy as walking on it. We tease him, saying he’s lucky he doesn’t wear a dress, he trips over the ladies’ skirts so often. But then he apologizes so wonderfully, I’ve half a mind to trip him on purpose. That clumsiness vanishes when he’s playing, though; his fingers on a violin are quick and precise. Either that, or he fits his mistakes into the music so naturally that we don’t notice them.

You really ought to meet him, Bea. He has exactly your sense of humor. A few weeks ago, Richard and I were at the Symphony, and Désiré joined us in our box, quite unexpectedly. Richard, who was blushing and awkward as it was, tried to talk music with Désiré. “This seems to tell a story, doesn’t it?” he said.

“It most certainly does,” Désiré said. “Like Margaret’s uncle Kunibert. It starts with something fascinating, then derails itself talking about buttons and waistcoats. If we’re lucky, it might work its way back to its original point. Most likely it will put us to sleep until someone rudely disturbs us by applauding.”

All this said with the most perfectly straight face, and a bit of an eyebrow raise at me, inviting me to disagree with him. I never do, but it’s that invitation that disarms me, and keeps the teasing from becoming cruel. Désiré always waits to be proven wrong, though he never is.

I should warn you not to fall in love with him, though. I’m sure you laugh, but half of Südlichesburg is ready to serve him its hearts on a platter, and I know he’d just smile and never take a taste. He’s a man for whom Leonore’s masquerades mean nothing; he’s so wonderfully full of himself, he has no room to pretend to be anyone else.

That’s not to say he’s cruel: merely heartless. He’s like a ruby, clear and dark and beautiful to look at, but hard to the core. How such a man can write such music, I’ll never know.

Yours always,

Maggie

III. From a review of Désiré’s Echidna in Der Sentinel: July 2894

For the life of me, I cannot say what this opera is about. Love, and courage. A tempestuous battle. I have the libretto somewhere, in a drawer with my gloves and opera glasses, but I will not spoil Désiré’s score by putting a story to it. Echidna is music, pure music, so pure it breaks the heart.

First come the strings, quietly humming. Andrea Profeta enters the stage. The drums begin, loud, savage. Then the melody, swelling until you feel yourself lifted from your chair, from your body, and you are only a web of sensations; your heart straining against the music, your blood singing in your fingertips. Just remembering it, I feel my fingers go weak. How the orchestra can bear to play it, I can’t imagine.

It is not Echidna but the music that is the hero. We desire, like the heroine, to be worthy of it. We desire to live in such a way that our world may deserve to hold something so pure, so strong, so achingly beautiful within it.

From the Introduction of Désiré: an Ideal by Richard Stele: 2934

Societies are defined by the men they hate. It is the revenge of an exile that he carries his country to all the world, and to the world his countrymen are merely a reflection of him. An age is defined not by the men who lived in it, but by the ones who lived ahead of it.

Hate smolders. Nightmares stay with us. But love fades, love is fickle. Désiré’s tragedy is that he was loved.

From Albert Magazine’s interview with Egon Rowley

AM: And what about his vices?

Rowley: Désiré’s vices? He didn’t have any. [Laughs.] He certainly wasn’t vicious.

AM: Vicious?

Rowley: That’s what the papers called it. He liked to play games, play his friends and admirers against each other.

AM: Like the ladies.

Rowley: Yes. That was all a game to him. He’d wear…favors, I suppose you’d call them, like a knight at a joust. He admired Margaret von Bank’s earrings at the opening of Echidna, and she gave him one to wear through the performance. After that the ladies were always fighting to give him earrings.

AM: To your knowledge, was Désiré ever in love?

Rowley: Never. [A pause.] I remember one day – summer of 2896, it must have been – a group of us went walking in Brecht’s park. Désiré, Anton Fulke, the newspaperman Richard Stele, the orchestra conductor Isidor Ursler, and myself. It was Sonntag afternoon, and all the aristocrats were riding by in their fine clothes and carriages. A sort of weekly parade, for us simple peasants. You don’t see sights like that anymore.

[A long pause.] Anyway, Désiré was being himself, joking with us and flirting with the aristocrats. Or the other way around, it was never easy to tell. Isolde von Bisswurm, who was married to a Grand Duke at the time, slowed her carriage as she passed us and called… something unrepeatable down to Désiré.

AM: Unrepeatable?

Rowley: Oh, I’m sure it’s no more than half the respectable women in Südlichesburg were thinking. Désiré just laughed and leapt up into her carriage. She whispered something in his ear. And then he kissed her, right there in front of everyone – her, a married woman and a Grand Duchess.

AM: [With humor.] Scandalous.

Rowley: It was, in those days. We were all – Fulke and Ursler and Stele and I – we were all horrified. But the thing I’m thinking of, when you ask me if he was ever in love with anyone, that happened afterward. When he jumped down from Isolde’s carriage, he was smiling like a boy with a lax governess, and he looked so… I suppose you might say beautiful. But in a moment the look was gone. He caught sight of the man in the next carriage: von Arden, von Allen, something like that. Tall man, very dark, not entirely unlike Désiré, though it was very clear which of the two was better favored.

AM: Not von Arden.

Rowley: [Laughs.] Oh, no. Maggie von Banks used to call Désiré her angel, and he could have passed for one, but von what’s-his-face was very much a man. Désiré didn’t seem to notice. He stood there on the path in Brecht’s park, staring like… well, like one of those girls who flocked to his operas.

AM: Staring at this man?

Rowley: Yes. And after kissing Isolde von Bisswurm, who let me tell you was quite the lovely lady in those days. [Laughs softly.] Whoever would have suspected Désiré of bad taste? But that was his way, I suppose.

AM: What was his way? [Prompting:] Did you ever suspect Désiré of unnatural desires?

Rowley: No, never. No desire in him could be unnatural.

From the pages of Der Sentinel: May 15, 2897

At dawn on May 14, the composer Désiré was joined by Royal Opera conductor Isidor Ursler and over fifty representatives of the Südlichesburg music ‘scene’ to break ground in Umerfeld, two miles south of the city, for Désiré’s ambitious new opera house.

The plans for Galatea – which Désiré cheerfully warns the public are liable to change – show a stage the size of a race track, half a mile of lighting catwalks, and no less than four labyrinthine sub-basements for prop and scenery storage. For a first foray into architecture, Désiré’s design shows several highly ambitious features, including three-storey lobby and central rotunda. The rehearsal rooms will face onto a garden, Désiré says, featuring a miniature forest and a wading pool teeming with fish. When asked why this is necessary, he replied with characteristic ‘charm’: “It isn’t. Art isn’t about what is necessary. Art decides what is necessary.”

VII. From a review of Désiré’s Brunhilde in Der Sentinel: February 2899

For once, the most talked-about thing at the opera was not Désiré’s choice of jewel but his choice of setting. Südlichesburg’s public has loved Galatea from the moment we saw her emerging from the green marble in Ulmerfeld, and, at last, she has come alive and repaid our devotion with an embrace. At last, said more than one operagoer at last night’s premier of Brunhilde, Désiré’s music has a setting worthy of it.

Of course Galatea is not Désiré’s gift to Südlichesburg, but a gift to himself. The plush-and-velvet comfort of the auditorium is designed first and foremost to echo the swells of his music, and the marble statues in the lobby are not pandering to their aristocratic models but suggestions to the audience of what it is about to witness; beauty, dignity, power. However we grovel at the feet of Désiré the composer, we must also bow to Désiré the consummate showman.

As to the jewel in this magnificent setting, let us not pretend that anyone will be content with the word of Richard Stele, operagoer. Everyone in Südlichesburg will see Brunhilde, and all will love it. The only question is if they will love it as much as Désiré clearly loves his Galatea.

Finally, as a courtesy to the ladies and interested gentlemen, Désiré’s choice of jewel for last night’s performance came from the lovely Beatrix Altberg. He wore her pearl-and-garnet string around his left wrist, and it could be seen sparkling in the houselights as he stood at the end of each act and applauded wildly.

VIII. From Albert Magazine’s interview with Egon Rowley

AM: They say that Désiré’s real decline began with Galatea.

Rowley: Whoever “they” are. [Haltingly:] 2899, it was finished. I remember because that was the year Vande Frust opened her office in Südlichesburg. She was an odd one, Dr. Frust – but brilliant, I’ll give her that.

AM: Désiré made an appointment with Dr. Frust that June.

Rowley: Yes. I don’t know what they talked about, though. Désiré never said.

AM: But you can guess, yes?

Rowley: Knowing Dr. Frust, I can guess.

AM: [A long pause.] As a courtesy to our readers who haven’t read Vande Frust’s work, could you please explain?

Rowley: She was fascinated by origins. Of course she didn’t mean that the same way everyone else does – didn’t give half a pence for your parents, did Vande Frust. She had a bit of… a bit of a fixation with how you were educated. How you formed your Ideals – your passions, your values. What books you read, whose music you played, that sort of thing.

AM: And how do you suppose Désiré formed his Ideals?

Rowley: I don’t know. As I said, whatever Désiré discussed with Dr. Frust, he never told me. And he never went back to her.

From Chapter Eight of Désiré: an Ideal by Richard Stele

Whether or not Désiré suffered a psychological breakdown during the building of Galatea is largely a matter of conjecture. He failed to produce any significant piece of music in 2897 or the year after. Brunhilde, which premiered at the grand opening of Galatea in 2899, is generally acknowledged to be one of his weakest works.

But any concrete evidence of psychological disturbance is nearly impossible to find. We know he met with famed Dr. Vende Frust in June 2899, but we have no records of what he said there. The details of an encounter with the law in February 2900 are equally sketchy.

Elise Koch, Dr. Frust’s maid in 2899, offers an odd story about the aftermath of Désiré’s appointment. She claims to have found a strange garment in Dr. Frust’s office, a small and shapeless black dress of the sort women prisoners wear in Lysterre and its colonies. Unfortunately for the curious, Dr. Frust demanded that the thing be burned in her fireplace, and its significance to Désiré is still not understood.

From the report of Hans Frei, prostitute: February 12, 2900

Mr. Frei, nineteen years old, claims a man matching the description of the composer Désiré approached him near Rosen Platz late at night last Donnerstag. The man asked the price, which Mr. Frei gave him, and then offered twice that amount if Mr. Frei would accompany him to rooms “somewhere in the south” of Südlichesburg. Once in the rooms, Mr. Frei says the man sat beside him by the window and proceeded to cry into his shoulder. “He didn’t hurt me none,” Mr. Frei says. “Didn’t touch me, as a matter of fact. I felt sorry for him, he seemed like such a mess.”

No charges are being considered, as the man cannot properly be said to have contracted a prostitute for immoral purposes. The composer Désiré’s housekeeper and staff could not be found to comment on the incident. One neighbor, a Miss Benjamin, whose nerves make her particularly susceptible to any irregularity, claims that on the night of last Donnerstag, her sleep was disturbed by a lamp kept burning in her neighbor’s foyer. Such a lamp, she states, is usually maintained by Désiré’s staff until the small hours, and extinguished upon his homecoming. She assumes that the persistence of this light on Donnerstag indicates that Désiré did not return home on the night in question.

From a review of Désiré’s Hieronymus in Der Sentinel: December 2902

Any man who claims to have sat through Désiré’s Hieronymus with a dry eye and handkerchief is either deaf or a damned liar. Personally, I hope he is the damned liar, as it would be infinitely more tragic if he missed Désiré’s deep and tangled melodies. Be warned: Hieronymus bleeds, and the blood will be very hard to wash out of our consciousness.

XII. A letter from Margaret von Banks Stele to Beatrix Altberg: March 2903

Dearest Bea,

Richard says war is inevitable. His job with the newspapers lets him know these things, I suppose: he says Kaspar in the foreign relations room is trying to map Lysterrestre alliances with string and cards on the walls, and now he’s run completely out of walls. That doesn’t begin to include the colonies.

The way Richard talks about it, it sounds like a ball game. Bea, he jokes about placing bets on who will invade whom – as if it doesn’t matter any more than a day at the races! I know he doesn’t need to worry, that at worst the papers will send him out with a notepad and a pencil and set him scribbling. The Stele name still has some pull, after all – if he wants to make use of it.

I don’t, Beatrix. If war breaks out with Lysterre, I want you to know that I am going to enlist.

Yours, Margaret Stele

XIII. From Chapter Eleven of Désiré: an Ideal by Richard Stele

It was inevitable that the War should to some extent be Désiré’s. It was the natural result of men like him, in a world he had helped create. Dr. Vande Frust would say it was the result of our Ideals, and that Désiré had wrought those Ideals for us. I think Désiré would agree.

We – all of us, the artists and the critics with the aristocrats and cavalrymen – might meet in a coffee shop for breakfast one morning and lay some plans for dinner. The cavalrymen would ride off, perhaps as little as ten miles from Südlichesburg, where the Lysterrestre troops were gathered. There would be a skirmish, and more often than not an empty place at the supper table. Désiré took to marking these places with a spring of courtesan’s lace: that, too, was a part of his Ideal.

In this war, in our war, there was a strange sense of decorum. This was more than a battle of armies for us, the artists. Hadn’t Lysterrestre audiences applauded and wept at our music as much as our own countrymen? The woman whose earring Désiré had worn one night at the opera might be the same one who set fire to his beloved Galatea. The man who wrung Anton Fulke’s hand so piteously at the Lysterrestre opening of Viridian might be the same man who severed that hand with a claw of shrapnel. How could we fight these men and women, whose adulating letters we kept pressed in our desk drawers? How could we kill them, who died singing our songs?

XIV. From Albert Magazine‘s interview with Egon Rowley

AM: Do you think Alexander was written as a response to the War?

Rowley: I know it was. [A pause.] Well, not to the War alone. A fair number of things emerged because of that – Fulke’s last symphony, which he wrote one-handed, and Richard Stele’s beautiful book of poems. Who knew the man had poetry in him, that old newspaper cynic?

AM: His wife died in the War, didn’t she?

Rowley: Yes, poor Maggie. It seems strange to pity her – she wouldn’t have wanted my pity – but, well, I’m an old man now. It’s my prerogative to pity the young and dead.

AM: But to return to Désiré –

Rowley: Yes, to Désiré and Alexander. You must have seen it. All the world saw it when it premiered in 2908, even babes in arms…How old are you?

AM: [The interviewer gives her age.]

Rowley: Well, then, you must have seen it. It was brilliant, wasn’t it? Terrible and brilliant. [A pause.] Terrible, terrible and brilliant.

A letter from Infantryman Leo Kirsch, printed in Raum: September 2907

Gentlemen,

I cannot make you understand what is happening here, less than a day’s ride from your parks and offices and coffee houses. I can list, as others have, the small and innumerable tragedies: a headless soldier we had to walk on to cross through the trenches, a dead nurse frozen with her arms around a dead soldier, sheltering him from bullets. I can list these things, but I cannot make you understand them.

If it were tears I wanted from you, gentlemen of Südlichesburg, I could get them easily enough. You artists, you would cry to see the flowers trampled on our marches, the butterflies withering from poisonous air. You would cry to watch your opera houses burn like scraps of kindling. Me, I was happy to see Galatea burn. Happy to know it would hurt you, if only for a day.

But I don’t want your weeping. If I want anything from you, it is for you to come down here to the battlefields, to see what your pride, your stupidity, your brainless worship of brainless courage has created. It is your poetry that told that nurse to shelter her soldier with her body, knowing it was useless, knowing she would die. Your music told her courage would make it beautiful. I want you to look down at the headless soldiers in the trenches and see how beautiful dumb courage really is.

The Lysterrestre have brought native soldiers from their colonies, dark men and women with large eyes and deep, harrowing voices. They wear Lysterrestre uniforms and speak the language, but they have no love for that country, no joy in dying for it. Yesterday I saw a woman walking through the battlefield, holding the hands of soldiers – her people, our people, and Lysterrestre alike – and singing to them as they died. That courage, the courage of the living in the face of death, could never come from your art. For us, and for Lysterre, courage of that kind is lost.

I tried to join her today. But I did not know what to sing, when all our music is lies.

XVI. From a review of Désiré’s Alexander in Der Sentinel: August 2908

Richard Stele has refused the task of reviewing Alexander for Der Sentinel, and it is easy to see why. Stele is a friend of Désiré, and it takes a great deal of courage – courage which Désiré brutally mocks and slanders – to take a stand against one’s friends. But sometimes it must be done. In this instance, standing with Désiré is not only cowardly; it is a betrayal of what all thinking, feeling men in this country hold dear.

Nine years ago, after the premier of Brunhilde, Stele famously refused to summarize its plot, saying we would all see it and love it regardless of what he said. Well, you will all see Alexander regardless of what I say. And you, my friends, will be horrified by the change in your idol.

XVII. From Chapter Twelve of Désiré: an Ideal by Richard Stele

The War changed Désiré. Alexander changed us all.

It seems to be a piece of anti-Lysterre propaganda, at first. Alexander, a Lysterrestre commander, prepares for war against the native people of the Lysterrestre colonies. Shikoba, a native woman, rallies her people against him. The armies meet; but instead of the swelling music, the dignity and heroism Désiré’s audience have come to expect, there is slaughter. The Lysterrestre fling themselves at the enemy and fall in hideous, cacophonous multitudes. At the end of the opera, Alexander is the last Lysterrestre standing. He goes to kill Shikoba; she stabs him brutally in the chest and he collapses, gasping. Shikoba kneels beside him and sings a quiet, subdued finale as he dies.

This is an opera about courage, about heroism. Its heroes turn to all the other operas that have ever been written and call them lies. When audiences leave the opera house, they do so in silence. I have heard of few people seeing it twice.

At some point during the writing of Alexander – in October 2907, I believe – Désiré announced at a dinner of some sort that he had native blood, and had been born in the Lysterrestre colonies. This did not matter much to the gathered assembly, and besides, it was something of an open secret. We took it, at the time, to be a sort of explanation, an excuse for the powerful hatred that boiled in him each time we mentioned the War. Not that we needed any explanations; my wife, Margaret von Banks Stele, had died at Elmerburg about a month before.

Now, of course, I wonder. Why did it matter to Désiré that the world he shaped so heavily was not his by blood? What exactly had the War made him realize – about himself, and about the rest of us?

It is significant, I think, that in Galatea’s burning all the Lysterrestre army costumes were lost. “Fine,” Désiré said. “Borrow the uniforms of our countrymen. They all look the same from where we’ll be standing.”

XVIII. From Albert Magazine’s interview with Egon Rowley

AM: The War marked the end of an era.

Rowley: The death of an era, yes. Of Désiré’s era. I suppose you could say Désiré killed it.

XIX. From the obituaries page of Raum: June 2911

The editors of Raum are saddened to report the death of the composer, architect, and respected gentleman Désiré. We realize his popularity has waned in recent years, following a number of small scandals and a disappointing opera. Nevertheless, we must acknowledge our debts to the earlier work of this great and fascinating man, whose music taught our age so much about pride, patriotism and courage.

Something of an enigma in life, Désiré seems determined to remain so hereafter. He directed his close friend Egon Rowley and famed doctor Vande Frust to burn all his papers and personal effects. He also expressed a desire to be cremated and to have his ashes spread over Umerfeld, site of both his destroyed Galatea and one of the bloodiest battles in the recent War.

No family is known, nor are Mr. Rowley and Dr. Frust releasing the cause of death. Désiré is leaving Südlichesburg, it seems, as mysteriously as he came to it.

From a report on Native Boarding Schools in the Lysterrestre Colonies: May 2937

Following almost twenty years of intense scrutiny and criticism from the outside world, Native Boarding Schools throughout the territories of the one-time Lysterrestre Empire are being terminated and their records released to the public.

Opened in the late 2870s, Native Boarding Schools professed to provide native-born children with the skills and understandings necessary to function in the colonial society. In the early years, the children learned the Lysterrestre language and farming techniques; over time, some of the schools added courses in machine operation. Criticism centers on both the wholesale repression of the students’ culture and the absence of lessons in science or the fine arts.

“We went around in shapeless black dresses, like criminals in a prison,” Zéphyrine Adam, born Calfunaya, says of her time in the Bonner Institute. “They say they taught us to speak their language, but they really taught us to be silent. They had rooms full of books, music sheets and phonographs, but we weren’t allowed to use them. Not unless we were too clumsy to be trusted by the factory machines. They understood, as we do, that stories and music give us power. They were afraid of what we would do to them if they let us into their world.”

In the face of such accusations, the majority of Native Boarding School instructors seem reluctant to speak, though some still defend the schools and their intentions.

“The goal was to construct a Lysterrestre Ideal for them, but not to hide their natural-born talents,” says Madame Achille, from the Coralie Institute in what is now northern Arcadie. “We simply made sure they expressed them in the appropriate ways. I remember one girl, one of the first we processed back in 2879. An unhappy little thing most of the time, but a budding musician; she would run through the halls chanting and playing a wooden drum. Well, we set her down one day at the pianoforte, and she took to it like a fish to water. The things she played, so loud, so dignified! She had such talent, though I don’t suppose anything ever came of it.

“A lot of them had such talent,” she adds. “I wonder whatever became of them?”

END

“Désiré” was originally published in Crossed Genres and is copyright Megan Arkenberg, 2013.

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Episode #73 — “Désiré” by Megan Arkenberg was originally published on GlitterShip

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newssplashy · 6 years ago

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Entertainment: Grandstand sacorekeeper roots for extra innings

She settled into her regular seat in Section 105 behind right field to watch the New York Yankees play the New York Mets last week.

NEW YORK — Ruth Turner, 92, tucked a fresh score book into her backpack and made her way from her apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan to the 4 train bound for Yankee Stadium in the Bronx.

She settled into her regular seat in Section 105 behind right field to watch the New York Yankees play the New York Mets last week.

Turner, who has been keeping score for 25 years, barely had to consult the scoreboard to jot the two teams’ lineups on her score sheet, along with batting averages, fielding positions and other information.

As the Yankees took their positions on the field, Turner settled into hers: marking the plays with her right hand and holding a Sony pocket radio to her ear with her left, for the game broadcast.

“Everyone knows her as the lady with the radio — she puts it right next to her ear,” said Lynn Knowles, who with her husband, George, sits in front of Turner. “She puts up with all the noise, and she tells drunk fans to shut up when she has to.”

Turner is not your average sports fan. She is a lecturer and theater buff, and a regular at opera and ballet performances at Lincoln Center. But her greatest love is sports, particularly baseball.

“For me, baseball is life and the rhythm of life,” said Turner, who sometimes attends a Yankees afternoon game before an evening at the Metropolitan Opera.

“I’ll sit in the Met and think, ‘Now, I wonder who else here was at Yankee Stadium earlier today,'” she said with a laugh.

Turner has a season ticket package for 40 Yankees’ home games, as well as a 20-game plan with the Mets for CitiField, which she calls “my dirty little secret.” Then there is her 25-game basketball plan with the New York Knicks at Madison Square Garden.

Her habit of taking the subway, usually alone, to games has become more difficult this season. A year ago, she was diagnosed with cancer of the appendix that has spread throughout her body. It is relatively painless, she said, but is now untreatable.

“It’s about the nicest Stage 4 cancer anyone could have,” Turner said. “My doctor sees that I live quite a life, and he tells me to go on and enjoy it.”

So her schedule remains filled with lunch and dinner dates, and evening events.

“I’m out every night,” she said. “I have an insane calendar filled with activity.”

She remains upbeat, and discusses her medical condition openly with her many friends at the stadium.

“Every time I come to a game, Ruth says, ‘I’m still here,'” said Graceann Flaherty, of Brooklyn, a season-ticket holder who sits near Turner at Yankee Stadium.

Turner grew up in Manhattan and Westchester and attended Smith College, and then Yale where she earned a graduate degree in political science. As a copygirl in United Press International’s sports department, she began going to Yankees games and watched the likes of Joe DiMaggio, she said.

She raised four daughters and worked at Consumer Reports, where she also ran the office football pool.

After divorcing in 1990, she bought a Yankees season-tickets package and began keeping score, accumulating the old score books in a drawer in her apartment, which is tastefully furnished with fine art and two large posters of Reggie Jackson.

Turner met her second husband through a personal ad in The New York Review of Books and married him in 2000. He died in 2015.

“It was an ideal marriage — we both kept our own apartments and saw each other by appointment,” she said while holding court on an uptown 4 Train to the Mets-Yankees game, with nearly half the subway car in on the conversation.

The Mets jumped out to an early lead, and despite the raucous cheering and screaming around her, Turner calmly notated each play and listened to her radio.

She seemed only mildly amused when Eric Capstick, a stadium cameraman, walked up and trained the camera on her, sending her image onto the stadium’s big screen.

She was less amused when Richard Goldfarb, a veteran beer vendor known as Cousin Brewski — his slogan is “Thanks for catching a buzz from the Cuz” — demanded a photo with her.

After the Mets squeaked out a victory, Turner joined the heavy crowds exiting the stadium and struggled up the subway stairs.

Turner said she has no clear prognosis for her cancer, but feels more tired and weakened each day. Walking a half-block leaves her momentarily out of breath.

But this is a woman who waits out many hours of rain delays and hardly ever leaves a game early.

“I’ve seen the Yankees come back from eight runs down,” she said. “You just don’t give up.”

Turner said she will continue to live as actively as possible and will remain the unofficial scorekeeper of Section 105 as long as she can.

She plans on attending the playoffs if the Yankees make the postseason, but she has not yet renewed her ticket plan for next season.

“I don’t know how much longer I’m going to live or how this is going to end,” she said, adding that, as she inevitably begins reducing her activities, keeping score at Yankees games will remain a priority.

“It will be the last thing to go.”

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.

source http://www.newssplashy.com/2018/07/entertainment-grandstand-sacorekeeper_30.html

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iaincblog · 7 years ago

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Life and Chromaticism

There was an excellent 15 minute talk recently on R4 about the half diminished chord in Wagner’s Introduction to Tristan and Isolde. This chord and its placing have spawned a lof of general cultural reflection.

In Wagner’s career Tristan was followed by the Meistersingers which preceded Parsifal, the final opera. Not so long ago I saw Tristan at ENO and to my surprise really liked it. I can’t say the same about Meistersingers but I began to get interested when I found out that in it Wagner lampoons Hanslick. Hanslick championed Brahms (rather than Wagner). He also is blamed for introducing musical formalism. I think he deserves some credit for applying Kantian aesthetics to music. Kant thought poetry was the highest artform and was strangely unmoved by music.

Kantian aesthetics is used by Gracyk in his various analyses of rock and by Hodgkinson in his recently published information processing model of music. Hanslick’s advocacy of Brahms was carried on by Schoenberg, and Schoenberg at one point explains that he came up with the 12 tone method to allow thematic development in the manner of Brahms.

On the W side of Brahms - Wagner divide, Nietzsche at the start of his career thought Wagner had found the right approach to forging together art and life. He sustained this belief for a while but eventually became disillusioned with W’s later career.

Wagner’s music as in the Introduction to Tristan places music at the service of narrative. Beethoven’s Ninth signalled a move away from formalism when he used the verbal ‘Ode to Joy’.to complete the work So the Brahms-Wagner split might have been about words as a tool for reinforcing the impact of music versus the notion that formal development can be just as meaningful.

Brahms is more in the tradition of Beethoven in the sense when the young Brahms was introduced to the Schumans by a mutual friend and he played them two piano sonatas Mr Schuman saw that Brahms was the next big thing and Clara agreed. This probably meant for him the next big thing after Mendelssohn, his mentor. For my money, Mendelssohn follows Beethoven when he is at his best as it the first and last String Quartets.So I think Schoenberg saw the challenge as being to keep the German cultural tradition going which might run Haydn Beethoven Mendelssohn Brahms Schoenberg. Adorno I think signs up to a related view putting Berg (his teacher) after Schoenberg.

Nietzsche probably saw the cultural challenge in other terms from this formalist lineage: eg to unify the culture as Wagner had seemed to do.

I have been trying to get to grips with 19C musical romanticism. I have learned that there is also a temporal split in the middle of the nineteenth between Schuman on one side and Brahms (and Wagner) on the other which theorists identify as the cultural impact of the 1848 revolutions. Wagner took an active role in 1848 and had to lay low until the 1860s. Brahms was too young for 1848 but he did have to wait until the 1860s when his breakthrough piece was the German Requiem, a piece prompted by the death of his mother. B insisted GR was not nationalistic. I have heard this performed a lot but still don’t like it. Tristan was premiered by Wagner at about the same time as GR.

It is suggested that prior to 1848 the musical resolution with within musical forms could be heard as a journey to a political utopia . Such utopian optimism was a casualty of the 1848 failures.

My guide into Wagner and Nietzsche is Michael Tanner, a Cambridge philosopher who interviewed me in 1967. Tanner believes that Wagner’s operatic greatness lies in the way his operas as a whole appear to promise an answer. As a 20th century rationalist he knows that this must be an illusion but the tension between the promised answer and MT s scepticism is all part of the fun.

Nietzsche blamed Wagner for adopting Christianity in Parsifal. I did wonder about this when I saw it at ENO. But these days there are plenty of Christians who say that this is a superficial reading and what Wagner proposes isn't really Christianity .Nietzsche also complained that Bayreuth fell a long way short of its goals, a view which Wagner actually shared.

In Parsifal I liked the bits which Debussy subsequently adopted. Debussy, it is said, innovated within an Impressionist framework - aspiring to capture the character of the moment as a subject for music. This project is related to what Mallarme attempted in poetry. While Debussy used Mallarme in the Faun Prelude in the 1890s, it is felt for example by Boulez, that his 1913 Jeux really brings is where he really brings off the musical evocation of the transient moment. (1913 was a busy year in music with the appearnace of both the Rite of Spring and Pierrot Lunaire.)

Pierrot Lunaire is seen as an Expressionist work. The idea of setting Expressionist poetry to music was shared by Webern, Schoenberg and Berg. One of the poets they used is Trakl who was sponsored by Wittgenstein. Trakl was a follower of Mallarme. By an odd route Trakl has also been linked to Nick Drake in Will Stone’s article Precipice of Loneliness article in the big memorial volume. Stone has translated Trakl into English and has written:

‘Trakl’s preoccupation is the fall of mankind, a yearning for transcendence through religious purity and love in the face of an overwhelming despair. Incoherent symbolic images cascade in a delirious fashion to form dream-like worlds, both nightmarish and eerily beautiful.

Going back to the German Requiem, we might think it expresses Brahms’ sadness that his mother has died. But if Cage and Wittgenstein are right we can’t know how Brahms felt. Indeed Brahms probably felt lots of different things on different days. Brahms may not even know if the music in GR expressed those feelings.

We do know that his mother had died when he wrote it. We might say that it expresses that his mother had died and some other things about her death and Brahms reaction to it. These things are propositional. not emotional.

This is a bit of a hard line I agree and it lines me up with Brahms supporter Hanslick. There is more to say but this is a good place to start. Brahms wrote the GR libretto and so that is a good clue as to what the music expresses too - the libretto is safely in the public realm. Obviously any verbal associations in the libretto and between the words and the music are good clues as to what the piece is about.

Switching to Wagner, he hoped that Bayreuth would be a place where a new German culture would arise inspired by his music. It in fact became a place where the bourgeoisie showed off which disappointed both Nietzsche and Brahms. However we speculated that if W focussed his feelings into the operas to stimulate the emergence of a new culture, the audience seem to have felt something different. This is Cage’s discovery too circa 1947.

In fact the Symbolist movement (Expressionism is an offshoot) put less emphasis on intended meaning and foregrounded other dimensions of written and spoken language. Their influence extends to post war European art scene, to Boutez and the post structuralist theorists and to the notion of the death of the author.

Such dynamics on the one hand seem to internalise music - endorsing Debussy’s emphasis on brief moments of experience rather than communal sentiments to renew. Society reappears with the contention that if momentariness has meaning this must occur via agreed public rules.

I find much post war composition intelligible in terms of reaction to cultural trauma . This is especially true I of true of a stream that I find most attractive centred on Nono and Lachenmann (which I understand continues to engage the current generation of composers.)

Equally the cultural optimism of Wagner and to some degree Nietzsche will have taken a beating during the First World War spawning Dada as a reaction, for example. It is sometimes said that the post FWW turn to neo-classicism was an attempt to counter a world where structures had been destroyed with an art realm where at least some structure could still be appreciated.

Returning to Hodgkinson and his orientation - how does music become meaning when it reaches our ears only as patterns in sound waves? One answer might be that the meaning happens to us just as nutrition happens to us when certain mostly organic substances are introduced to our digestive system. For example even with a new CD we are aware that several listenings may be needed before the drift of the music emerges. We can decide to listen every day but we cant decide when and how the music emerges.

I am reminded of Ferneyhough’s solo pieces of the 1970s . One reason why the elaborate instructions on the score are there is that he wants them to be technically unplayable to the standard that trained skilled performers are used to. This experience will cause them to be vexed. And the vexation will result in the kind of performance that F is actually trying to bring about. One might say that F is gaming the performers for his own purposes.

Does this echo one take on the current world where we are all being farmed by the digital majors to enrich their owners. They feed us with digital product which we cant help but use. As we use the stuff we excrete information which our digital masters harvest. They use the harvest to enhance their own value currently by digital advertising which is a major source of revenue for them.

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ismael37olson · 8 years ago

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The Sweet Smell of Success

I used to go to New York at least once a year to see shows. Recently, neither New Line nor I have been able to afford to send me, so I settle for bootleg videos (don't judge me!). But I have seen a lot of really wonderful shows in New York over the years, quite a few of which New Line has produced soon after. In fact, our company has been the first to produce several musicals after their Broadway or off Broadway runs, short runs in many cases, 'cause that's the kind of weirdo, tourist-unfriendly shows we like... It was in 2002 that I saw The Sweet Smell of Success on Broadway. I loved a lot about it, but somehow it didn't totally work for me. Now that I'm working on the show, I think I understand what it was missing. First, it's a very intimate story about four people with incredibly volatile, complicated relationships, and even though I had good seats, the theatre was too big for us to connect to these people emotionally, so that the tragedy of the ending couldn't really gobsmack the audience the way it should. I think doing the show in a 140-seat blackbox will fix that problem. There will be no distance from these ugly, ferocious, fragile emotions, no safety. Second, this is almost a jazz opera. Like Sweeney, the music only stops periodically, to underline certain moments, to punctuate the flow of the story. But this kind of 1950s club jazz, as filtered through Marvin Hamlisch's rich, dissonant film and Broadway sound isn't a big, heavy, orchestral thing; it's an up-close, sweaty, sexy, subtle thing. A full Broadway orchestra, a big stage, and a big chorus, took the urban and the desperate out of this story. Our band will be two keyboards, bass, drums, reeds, and trumpet. The kind of sound you'd hear in a jazz club in the 50s. The third thing was J.J. Hunsecker, the Devil/Evil Wizard figure in this Faustian tale. He's thoroughly despicable, deeply, irretrievably fucked up. And genuinely powerful. As much as I love John Lithgow, who created the role, I now think he didn't really access the full darkness of this terrifying man. Zak Farmer will play the role for us, and he specializes in deeply fucked-up villains. And again, the intimacy of our theatre will allow Zak to do much more subtle, more interesting work than Lithgow could do in a Broadway house.

A couple years ago, I came across a bootleg video of Sweet Smell of Success, and I really did love the material, so I watched it again. And it worked much better for me than it did the first time. I think it was because most of the video was shot in close-up. The bootleg provided the intimacy the theatre itself couldn't, the kind of intimacy which the Marcelle Theater gives the New Liners. The reviews of the Broadway production weren't great, but I think many of them really missed the point. This isn't a conventional musical, if there even is such a thing anymore, and that's how they judged it. Like almost every show we produce at New Line, Sweet Smell is sui generis, one of a kind. But like a few other shows we've done in recent seasons, The Sweet Smell of Success is a moral thriller. It will leave you breathless, and the Act I finale is a killer cliffhanger! More than any other show I've worked on, this show is a virtuosic translation to the musical stage of the devices, tone, and atmosphere of film noir. Which reminds me... one of the coolest things about The Sweet Smell of Success is that the story is so different in its three different forms, first as a short story by Lehman Engel, then a greatly expanded screenplay also by Engel, and then this jazz noir stage musical. Each one is so different from the others, each one brings unique elements to the story, and yet they all feel like they are fashioned from the same clay, each one so right in relation to the other two. I was sick the first week of rehearsals, so I didn't start my blogging like usual. By now, we've finished learning the score, and Taylor Pietz has choreographed three of the four dances. Starting next week, I block the show. I've worked out all of Act I, and I may wait to work on Act II until after I see how my Act I blocking works... But I feel pretty good about what I've got. Even though there aren't any other musicals quite like this, there are other shows that taught me lessons I can apply here. Working on Andrew Lippa's genius Wild Party was a show in which 90% of the staging was to music, with an ensemble both inside and outside the story at the same time, living the story and narrating it directly to us. Though Sweet Smell shouldn't look as stylized as Wild Party, it's very theatrical, very music driven, and constantly bursting through the Fourth Wall. I think there are two keys to this show. First, we really have to swim in the period and the jazz. I've asked Rob for an all-blue, New York, 1950s set. Wait till you see it. There's an attitude to this world that's pretty foreign to us; we have to find it and get comfortable with it. Second, we cannot fear the Darkness. As the great scholar Joseph Campbell taught us, in many Hero Myth stories, the hero has to go to the Underworld to do battle with the Evil Wizard and learn something about himself. You can't get more Under than the 1952 world of New York newspaper gossip. We have to embrace the Dark Side. That's our story.

I'm reading some great books about that time and place, and about Walter Winchell, the real life Broadway columnist that J.J. Hunsecker is based on. What surprised me the most -- and it made me understand better the high stakes in our story -- was that sixty million Americans across the country read Winchell's nasty, petty, shitty gossip column every morning over their coffee. Sixty Million People. That's close to half of all the men, women, and children in America. This horrifying idea is explained in Act II as our Greek Chorus of press agents sing:

Dirt! It's the reason I read. Dirt! It's an animal need. I don't pick up the paper For the sports or the news; Those ain't the sport That I choose. Dirt! With my bacon and eggs. They go together like a skirt, And a nice pair of legs. Got the ink on my fingers, Got the smudge of a smear. Oh my! What dirt we got here!

By the end of this song, you might be laughing, but you'll also realize deep down that J.J. only has power because sixty million people want their morning dirt. Like Chicago, Sweet Smell lays the responsibility for this nightmare world right at our feet. But I don't read gossip columns. Yeah, nice try. Do you ever read the headlines of the tabloids at the checkout? Do you ever watch Access Hollywood, Entertainment Tonight, or E!...? Do you click on celebrity stories your friends share on Facebook? I honestly don't. And maybe you don't either. But a hell of a lot of people do.

Dirt! Got a hunger to feed, Got a hunger and a thirst, Gimme, gimme some dirt, take me down in the dirt! It's an animal need! Give it to me in the First Amendment! Give me something that can get me through, Something dirty on the whole who's-who And keep this in mind as you dirt: It don't have to be true... Don't have to be true... Don't have to be true... Yeah!

Oklahoma! this ain't. In the age of Fox News, Breitbart, social media, and Fake News, The Sweet Smell of Success may be even more timely than it was when Hamlisch, lyricist David Zippel, and playwright John Guare wrote it in 2002. This is muscular, fearless, adult musical theatre about the real world. Today's real world. So we don't forget that information is power. And power corrupts. It's already been such a great ride, working on this amazing piece, this rich, gorgeous music, these brilliant, caustic, acrobatic rhymes; now we get to really dive into these dark, complicated characters and their deliciously acid dialogue. Another wild, awesome adventure! Long Live the Musical! Scott from The Bad Boy of Musical Theatre http://newlinetheatre.blogspot.com/2017/04/the-sweet-smell-of-success.html

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yahoo-shutdown-corner-blog · 8 years ago

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Ten years later, Brady-Manning AFC title game tilt lives on as narrative-changing classic

Peyton Manning finally erased some of his demons 10 years ago this week against the New England Patriots. (AP)

Before you go back and watch a single snap of one of the most underrated games in NFL history, which happened 10 years ago this Saturday, we suggest a quick scan of one of the strangest box scores that ever was boxed up.

In perhaps the most meaningful head-to-head battle in the careers of Tom Brady and Peyton Manning, the men scoring touchdowns on that day were two 300-plus-pound offensive linemen (both scoring their only career TDs), a defensive lineman-turned-fullback, a running back playing his final NFL game, a Manning rushing (?) TD, a journeyman receiver (who scored a TD that wouldn’t have counted by today’s NFL rules) and, to cap it, a rookie running back starting his third-ever game.

The strangely fascinating box score from Patriots at Colts in the AFC championship game on Jan. 21, 2007. (NFL GSIS)

The greatest of both Brady and Manning certainly were on display in the AFC championship on that strange, wonderful stage back on Jan. 21, 2007. Each of them also stared into the abyss — Manning down big early to his annual tormentors, and Brady ending up in the unfamiliar position of not delivering when everyone (maybe even Manning) expected him to.

“We assumed we were going to go down and score and win it,” former Patriots center Dan Koppen said this week. “Even with all the mistakes we made in the second half, we knew we had the chance to do it. We just didn’t get it done. That still sticks with me.”

Without this game, which is tremendous and weird in its own right, Brady vs. Manning isn’t nearly as much of a rivalry. This was the game that cemented it as must-see TV and changed the narrative that Manning couldn’t best Brady on the big stage, even as much as this random cast of point scorers quietly dominated the day.

“It was a weird game, that’s for sure,” said former Colts defensive tackle Anthony “Booger” McFarland, now an analyst for SEC Network, by phone this week. “It was like, ‘How did three fat guys score?’ Big-man touchdown party … I loved it. But it was weird.”

“That was a first for me, that many big guys scoring,” Koppen said.

[Try the $75K Baller for championship weekend, $10K to first

Three hours and 34 minutes of taut, fraught football — from Marlin Jackson making the tackle on the opening kickoff to Jackson ending it with a final-minute interception of Brady, his college teammate — delivered us a classic that shouldn’t soon be forgotten.

There’s a reason why this game, and not the Super Bowl victory two weeks later, was selected overwhelmingly as Colts fans’ No. 1 choice as their top pick when the NFL released three classic games in each franchise’s history on Youtube. This was the day that changed the course of the team and Manning’s career forever. This was Manning’s and the Colts’ real Super Bowl, looking back, not beating the Chicago Bears two weeks later, strange as that might sound.

The Patriots rolled into Indianapolis with full “who’s your daddy?” status, as Brady had led six straight Patriots victories over Manning’s Colts to start their head-to-head rivalry, with two of those coming in AFC title game wins in Foxborough. Brady also entered this game with a postseason record of 14-1 with six game-winning drives in the playoffs, including one seven days earlier. But the pendulum in the rivalry was starting to swing back away from them; the Colts struck back with two straight road victories over the Patriots in the series, including one at New England two months earlier.

“Going into that game, it was the biggest soap opera you could imagine,” former Patriots running back Kevin Faulk said. “We were not division rivals [anymore], but we just kept running into them and we were the two best teams at the time, I felt. There was no avoiding each other.”

Tom Brady had a postseason record of 14-1 coming into the 2006 AFC championship game. (AP)

Now they finally were meeting back in the old RCA Dome for the first time in 1,148 days despite this being the seventh time these once-time divisional rivals had played each other over a four-season span. The Patriots were frankly lucky to be there, coming off a win the week before against a San Diego Chargers team roundly believed to be the best in the NFL that season. But the Patriots didn’t see it as luck.

“We had a lot of confidence coming out of that game and knowing the Colts like we did,” former Patriots running back Kevin Faulk said this week. “We prepared so well, had a great week of preparation coming into that game and we trusted our coaches to have a great plan for them.”

Added Koppen: “We felt like if we played our best game and they played their best game, we were going to win.”

And these were the Colts who had never beaten the Patriots on this type of stage and who were not long removed from the Jacksonville Jaguars running roughshod — 375 rush yards! — in Week 15 against them. Even with the playoff improvement that followed, it felt like it would take the Colts’ best defensive effort and Manning’s finest hour on the same day. Oh, and go do it against Brady and Bill Belichick, too. Best of luck.

“We knew we needed a big day from the defense,” McFarland said. “Coach [Tony] Dungy told us right before the first playoff game — everyone’s talking about adjustments — and he said, ‘Let’s me tell you what we’re going to change. We’re not gonna change nothing. We’re going to do our jobs better. That’s the only thing we’re going to do better.’

“We just lined up and did our jobs better. That was the adjustment.”

Still, this was not a vintage Patriots team in retrospect. They had traded Deion Branch, Brady’s closest ally and most trusted target, to the Seattle Seahawks before the season and Brady was pissed about it. “A lot of guys were not happy about that,” Troy Brown said. “We had receivers coming in on Monday or Tuesday, we’d pick them up that week, and they’d be playing 40 snaps on Sunday. It was unreal.” Wes Welker and Randy Moss had not yet arrived; Belichick traded for them after this game in response to how few weapons they had in the 2006 season.

It would be Corey Dillon’s final NFL game and Brown’s second-to-last career game. An injured Rodney Harrison did not suit up for New England. Brady’s top pass catchers were Reche Caldwell (coming off ACL surgery, and he was terrible in this game), Benjamin Watson, Brown, Kevin Faulk (who would get hurt vs. the Colts), Jabar Gaffney and Doug Gabriel. And yet Brady was mostly brilliant all season. Considering who he was throwing to, that season might speak to his greatness almost as much as his MVP season of 2007 should.

There were other storylines all over this game. It was the 13th anniversary of Robert Kraft buying the team. Turncoat kicker Adam Vinatieri, who met with several of his former Patriots teammates before the game, set the game in motion with the opening kickoff in his first season with the Colts. Safety Bob Sanders, the Colts’ defensive tone setter, was back in the lineup after missing the final 12 regular-season games. And yes, Brady-Manning IX — what would be the best game of their history.

As they say today, this game was about to be lit.

Prior to kickoff in the Colts’ locker room, center Jeff Saturday delivered a pregame speech: “It’s our time,” he told his team. The Colts players to this day still talk about that moment and that message.

“He and Tony Dungy made sure we knew it, too,” McFarland said.

But early on it was the Patriots resuming their old, familiar roles of Colts antidote. They came out running the ball and converting fourth downs, keeping Manning on the sideline. Dillon would run 35 yards (the Patriots’ long gain of the day) on 4th-and-inches to set up a stunning touchdown: Brady and Laurence Maroney botched a handoff, and the ball somehow squirted from the hands of Colts defenders Sanders and Nick Harper 3 yards forward and into the end zone. Koppen couldn’t believe what he had seen.

“The ball just squirted forward. It seemed to come out of nowhere,” Koppen said. “So naturally, you just go after it. The ball bounced the other way. If it would have bounced the right way, it would have been mine.

“That was as close as I’ve come to scoring in a game. I’d like to think it was a heads-up play by both of us.”

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Mankins’ end-zone recovery made it 7-0, and after a Vinatieri field goal the Patriots again converted on their next drive with a huge play on fourth down. Brady hit Brown, playing the second-to-last game of his career, for 27 yards on 4th-and-6 to the Indianapolis 7-yard line.

“It was designed to go to me,” Brown said. “I probably should have scored if I was a year younger. [laughs] My knee didn’t allow it.”

Dillon walked in for a score on the next play, and just like that the Colts were down two 14-3.

“The Colts left it on the practice field, no question about it,” Colts play-by-play announcer Bob Lamey said on the radio broadcast.

After nearly fumbling the ensuing kickoff, the Colts tried to settle themselves down with eons to play. But Manning instead made it worse. Patriots cornerback Asante Samuel, one of the game’s best pickpockets, disguised his coverage well, along with safety James Sanders, who rotated over the top late. Manning never saw it and threw a gift of a pick-6 to Samuel, who coasted into the end zone for a 21-3 stunner of a lead.

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“Everyone on our sideline said, ‘Keep your foot on the pedal,'” Faulk said. “We knew it was not going to be that easy for four quarters.”

The Dome was church quiet. So much so that Colts head coach Tony Dungy’s all-important message easily could be picked up on the NFL Films microphones: “We’ve got plenty of time left.” That message, it turned out, was exactly what they needed to hear at that moment. And quietly on the other sideline, there was a more subtle turn despite the 18-point lead.

“It was starting to get very hot on the sideline,” Brown said, “and even though we were up 21-3, I got the sense that … I could see on guys’ faces, it was like, we just didn’t have the energy. Guys were spent. I spent so much time trying to pump guys up, but the fatigue was just kicking in for everybody. We were starting to run out of gas at that point.”

But the Colts still botched their next offensive possession, and the Patriots amazingly drove to the Indianapolis 27 with five minutes left in the half, appearing to be driving for what would have been an incredible lead of 24-3 or 28-3. But two crushing penalties (one negating a gain into the red zone) and a sack knocked the Patriots way out of field-goal range.

“My biggest memory of that game, believe it or not, was getting called for a pass-interference call on that drive that wasn’t pass interference,” Brown said. “It was one of the worst penalties I ever got. I am not sure what [the referee] was doing, or what was called because there was contact made. I didn’t initiate it. It was still a baffling play to this day.”

Manning responded with a had-to-have it drive to close out the half — 15 plays, 80 yards — but left points on the board when the Colts couldn’t score a touchdown on three shots from the New England 6. It was 21-6 Patriots, and even though Manning would get the ball first, he had a lot of work to do.

Tony Dungy and Bill Belichick after the Colts beating the Patriots in a classic 10 years ago. (AP)

“Tony Dungy came in and said, ‘Look, guys, we’re not in an ideal situation, but it’s our time and let’s go play ball.’ We knew there was never an easy way it was going to get done. But we knew that in order to get that championship, we were going to have to come back and do it against the Patriots, our big rival. That’s what made it more special,” McFarland said. “I don’t think it would have felt so sweet had we beat anyone else.”

Manning started willing his team back. He led two 76-yard touchdown drives on the Colts’ first two possessions, sandwiched a Patriots three-and-out. Manning capped the first drive (eight runs, six passes) with a 1-yard sneak to make it 21-13. And the second drive felt like the kind of knife the Patriots typically twisted into others: Manning hit defensive lineman-turned-fullback Dan Klecko, who was drafted by the Patriots three years earlier and given his first taste on offense with them, for a 1-yard TD. Oddly, it would be Manning’s only touchdown pass of the game.

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The two-point conversion to Marvin Harrison incredibly tied the game at 21-all with 4 minutes left in the third, but it wouldn’t last long. Patriots returner Ellis Hobbs brought back the kickoff 80 yards, and Brady would find Gaffney — on a force-out play, the likes of which have been removed from the game — in the back of the end zone for a 28-21 Patriots lead.

Manning responded with a 67-yard drive, and luck now would shift with the tide toward the Colts. Dominic Rhodes was stripped by surprise Patriots starter Eric Alexander at the New England 1. But this time, it was a Colts blocker who would find himself in the end zone with the ball in his hands. Center Jeff Saturday’s only NFL touchdown tied the game in what everyone knew was brewing as an instant-classic game.

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“It’s a 60-minute game, not a 30-minute game, and we just didn’t play well enough those last 30,” Koppen said. “Simple as that.”

Brady and Manning would swap three-and-outs, and then field goals, making it 31-31, but the Patriots tacked on another three to make it 34-31. Manning was stopped cold on three straight incompletions, and Brown’s punt return had the Patriots in business at their own 40 with 3:22 left. They were 8-0 in playoff games decided by seven points or fewer at this point, then an NFL record — the best closers in the game.

But they made an uncharacteristic mistake (12 men in the huddle) after the punt, one of their most trusted options in Faulk was out of the game with a hamstring injury, and Sanders dove to break up Brady’s 3rd-and-4 pass to Brown in what could have been a disastrous pick-6 had Sanders been there a split second sooner.

“Just a stupid mental error on the penalty,” Koppen said. “When you look at it, that five yards was huge. That was the big one people might forget. But we didn’t forget it.”

The Patriots would have to punt to Manning on what would be his career-defining drive. Fail to tie or take the lead and he might forever have been branded a playoff loser. But take the Colts down the field against Belichick’s Patriots, and he could end that narrative.

“This could be the drive that changes so many things for Peyton Manning,” CBS’ Jim Nantz said prior to the start of the drive.

A funny thing happened on what would be his career-defining drive. Manning threw a pass to No. 2 tight end Bryan Fletcher. Fletcher — he of the 54 career receptions — dropped the catchable pass. And then Manning, pressured and throwing while falling away, went back to the little-used option on the next play. For a massive gain. The story of what happened between the downs is tremendous.

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That set up the Colts at the New England 37 with the two-minute warning and a timeout at their disposal. They were in great shape. Manning went back to Wayne, and he broke toward the red zone. But then …

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Wayne’s fumble happened with four Patriots defenders in the area — Tedy Bruschi, James Sanders and Rashad Baker, plus Chad Scott, who made the hit. Remember, Rodney Harrison wasn’t playing in this one, and he had made a career of taking the ball away from the Colts. True, the roughing-the-passer penalty against Tully Banta-Cain would have kept the ball with the Colts, but it would have been a field-position difference of 11 yards.

So with Manning on the doorstep, what did the Colts do? They ran it — three straight times to the rookie Addai. The idea, incredibly, came from Marvin Harrison, whom Manning said “wanted to throw the ball every play” typically. On the third try, Addai blasted in, led by Saturday’s big block on Vince Wilfork, to cap the 80-yard drive and the Colts’ 32nd points of the half.

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Or did the Patriots let Addai score? After all, they had two timeouts and 1:00 left for the best clutch QB in the game to go try to win it. Brady drilled a 19-yard throw to Watson and hit Heath Evans for 15 more to the Indianapolis 44. Here we go again, right?

Manning sat on the Colts’ bench head down. “I don’t even think Peyton is going to watch,” Nantz said. It was more than just a quiet moment of reflection for the quarterback who had fallen short of his championship dreams for four years in college and through his nine NFL seasons to that point.

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His prayers would be answered. With Freeney bearing down on Brady, his pass was forced into a bracketed Watson and Jackson picked it to seal the game. Cruelly, there was Evans wide open in the flat for what could have been a first down, and he might even have gotten out of bounds.

“How fitting is it that an offensive team for a decade, with an opportunity to go to the Super Bowl, the defense that had been much-maligned … we knew we couldn’t hide that side of the ball. We had to face the best and stop the best,” McFarland said. “And we did.”

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With that play, everything had changed at that moment. Manning would go on to win his first Super Bowl, and Brady failed to come through in a massive situation with the game on the line for the first time. Brown called it “probably the toughest loss I ever had to deal with. That was pretty much my last game in the NFL, and going out like that was no fun at all.”

Of course, as Brady continues on to pursue more greatness, playing some of his best career football as he approaches 40 — while Manning is retired and the Colts are wallowing in mediocrity today — it’s not as if this game had much long-lasting impact on Brady’s reputation as one of the best ever to play the game. But without this win, Manning forever would play second fiddle. Frankly, he needed this game to slay that demon. And would Dungy have made the Pro Football Hall of Fame without this win and the Super Bowl victory two weeks later? That’s highly debatable.

And to this day this game holds up as an all-time thriller, having stood the test of time. Has it really been 10 years?

– – – – – – –

Eric Edholm is a writer for Shutdown Corner on Yahoo Sports. Have a tip? Email him at [email protected] or follow him on Twitter!

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