[H.F.] A Better World
A Better World
It is the eighth day in the month of Twelve, falling upon the eight-hundred, one-thousandth and ninety-second year after the birth of The Anointed.
A heavy snowfall has commenced on the roads into the Great City. Gentle gossamer strokes, lines, and shapes drift downward, unhindered by the great force driving them across the world. Each mountain top and alpine foothill brims with the glorious crop of winter, displaying a world of darkness and light. The Great City has shut down for this particular evening, but deep in its core an endless human process endures. Despite the halted carriage services; despite the unlit gas lights; despite the frost, the shadows, and the din of soft candles; in the face of gentle foot traffic upon ancient streets; defying the crisp - if negatively measured - clear night air; despite all the hindrance of travel on such a night, the process endures.
Deep within the core of this polis, flanked by monuments to fate, free will, and happenstance, sits a grand old place. In the niches, rooms, and balconies of this exquisite location are etched all the beauty and ugliness of recent history. Eminence, circumstance, and nobility flow from these halls, cozy in their wintry darkness. It is here that the process which goes ever on, pausing for breath only once per era, vents itself. A central hall; a preponderance of top hats, monocles, and frock coats fill the old air with dignity and rapt silence. It is upon the flat altar of this dark, hallowed hall, filled as it is with respect, concentration, and the occasional footfall, that a dead man rests. Atop the crowd, seeming to be of stone in their quiet attention, a young boy - in miniature evening dress - watches the world below, with weary eyes.
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“C minor. There tolls the bell.” …. “F minor. There sounds the cry of despair.” …. “C minor. There responds humanity.” Toby. “I await movement upon the stage, but nothing comes… I wish to leave this dark place.” His name is, with no doubt, Tobias. “I wish to leave this dark place, yet I cannot go! It is dark, but I cannot leave!” Indeed, the Young Master sits in the box occupying a position approximately three floors above an audience. “I wonder why I cannot leave this place.” The chapel looms, ominous, on that stage. “I have tugged and tugged at her, but I cannot leave this place... ohh, why won't she notice?!” Below that fated chapel, on that solemn stage, in full view of the dark, painted Crag, resides the dead man. “It has become rather cold in here…” A thousand fur coats, ascots, bow-ties, and cravats rustle and glimmer in the dull gaslight of the House Floor.
Suddenly, a new sonority, floating upon the invisible river of sound, touches his ears, perched upon the flanks of his small head, leading down to his listless feet. “What is that noise, now?” Three times it tolls, before ascending and falling, descending into delicate and silken beauty. “Is this what she calls ‘oboe’?” he wonders, beginning to take notice of the pit. A voice! A lonely voice touches his ear, yet this other sound dwells on him, this initial instrument. “No… it is nothing like the oboe…” The voice continues on, falling away into exquisite, quiet, and crystalline agony, yet still unrecognized by his ears, in favor of the unknown thing. “…perhaps that is the flute she so fondly spoke of! This is delightful. Oh, but it has faded away, though…” Now, with that sonority dead, the diamond voice catches him!
“Edgardo! io ti son resa.” the lonely voice intones. “What is that?! She weeps! It is terrible! Why do I feel such pain? It hurts!” he responds, within. His distressed tugs are ignored by her attention. “Ah! Such terror! This pierces my head! Oh, mother! You must notice my grip!” he cries, deep within his spirit. “Edgardo! Ah! Edgardo, mio!” the voice continues, gaining resolution. All too suddenly, his eyes fall from observing his mother’s own eyes, transfixed as those, on the stage below, begin to stir. His tugs begin to lose momentum. The darkness of the house surrounds him and that golden sound envelopes his small world. “Si', ti son resa!” the cruel voice resounds. His arm drops to his mother’s side. “On this tiny stage, one hour and a half has passed,” “Un gelo me serpeggia nel sen!”, “and now, an entire world has opened before me. It echoes on and on, through this hall… maybe – oops, I mean ‘perhaps’ – out on to the street!” “trema ogni fibra!” “How far do the light and color go?”
His arms rest lightly on the balcony guardrail and, as gently as he might see a summer lark land softly on a county down, his chin comes to meet them. Peering over the silver railing, he hears her again: “Presso la fonte meco t'assidi alquanto!” The shadows grow large in his house - for he owns the entire world when music comes to him. It is the holy and revered music, the music which drives his eyes to widen. Unseen, now, the colors ebb and flow, to and fro, in his imagination. His brow relaxes, and, the first such occurrence in this evening, he smiles. “Ohimè, sorge il tremendo fantasma e ne separa!”, that sacred, beloved siren cries. Tobias von Augsburg, the Young Master, sits; he cannot leave, and he cannot look away. The Opera House shivers and shudders in the depths of winter. Perhaps, yes; perhaps this show will be better than the last.
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The Young Master steps out into the wide, free, and bustling world. As the throngs and quiet crowds make their way out of the theater, he looks down the street. The mighty buildings arrange themselves in rows, seemingly made to resemble the most beautiful and perfect diamonds, shimmering in the frozen night. As if dominos, they fall away into the distance of the evening glow created by Luna. “It has reached ten o’clock now, I think…” A begrudging toll from the minders of St. Stephen’s bell confirms the boy’s suspicions, and he reaches into his padded pocket for an ancient timepiece. “I do hope mother will have the carriage ready. Nuisance. I do hope… oh, well. It really is a dreadfully pretty night. Perhaps I should enjoy it. Blast, this evening dress really is tight, though.”
The words Lucia di Lammermoor seem to hover - rather like an angelic banner – in the night air, nearly hidden by the snow falling lightly upon the sign to the right of the Grand Entry. It is the depths of winter; Christ’s Mass will be on, soon. A hansom cab, driven by two-pair of the finest palfreys, rounds the corner beyond the Opera House. As it comes to a halt and his mother implores him to enter, he looks up to the constellations, playing out their ancient tale in the sky. “Draco, eh? You do complete the night, old one.” More innocent smiles in the darkening night.
A young viscount sighs and enters the hansom, pocket-watch and all.
Vienna sleeps.
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I felt like using a lot of words.
Originally Posted by Monarchist
