Never fear, Tears of Hate has not been consigned to Writer's Purgatory, but I've written myself into a bit of a corner and it's taking awhile to get out. In the mean time, enjoy a bit of catharsis. Finals are here and I'm feeling the pressure. When under pressure my writing gets a touch morbid!

Disclaimer: Leroux oriented with smatterings of Susan Kay and Sam Siciliano—Kay for the Persian, Siciliano for Joseph Buquet, the stagehand.

The Lady of the Lake

She swirled and writhed in frustration beneath the still waters of the her lake. Something was happening… or would happen very soon. Tonight the anticipating silence held none of the apathy or despair of the previous weeks—tonight the air vibrated as the violin's strings. He hadn't played the violin for her in quite awhile… Nor had he had time to come and speak with her. The shadowy mists around the waters had grown ever thicker—it had been weeks since anyone beside herself had stirred them! And he was too busy for her now, busy with his opera, with that girl!

As one artist to another, she could hardly fail to appreciate the soprano who had ensnared him so. But this girl, this indecisive child of a girl who dared walk in realms she had no part in, she now consumed all his energy. On the increasingly rare occasions when he visited, he spoke only of her.

Even the visits of the Stranger—the one the people Above called "the Persian"—even a visit from that one would be a highly welcome diversion from the endless wait that had gripped the lake. Although he no longer ventured closer to her waters than was absolutely necessary, it was still very easy to draw him just close enough to toy with his perceptions. The only time she had managed to lure the Stranger into the boat and onto her waters—so close! So very close!—she had been thwarted. And how she had been reprimanded afterwards! He had been furious! If he hadn't been so upset, she would have laughed at him, how he had been threatening and pleading by turns in extracting a promise that she never direct her song too forcefully at the Stranger again. But it wasn't her fault, it wasn't as though it was easy to distinguish between the fools who dared intrude in their domain…

The Stagehand, though, that one had deserved death—too many of the chorines had descended to spill their tears into her waters after their encounters with the rat! She had taken only a few, the ones whose hearts were too badly wounded to ever heal. The others she sent back Above. She'd mentioned the Stagehand to him and he'd suggested she resolve the matter herself. But no, better to lure the rat here, there, and over there to the far shore… until the end was met, courtesy of a gibbet in a wood far underground… and obtaining the satisfaction of the rat's death without defiling her waters! He'd been rather annoyed with her. But amused as well, teasing her that the rough songs the rat sang would have been an interesting addition to her programme. She'd overturned his boat for that, but they'd both laughed.

A pity about promising the Stranger's safety… it would be nice to expand her repertoire and the Stranger was enticingly different from her usual prey. And also a pity that she couldn't take the girl… He'd made her promise not only to refrain from harming the girl, but to look after the child as much as possible. A shame. She did love folk songs…

But what was this? Oh, he was angry! And at the girl! Well, justly so—the silly thing had lived in the Opera long enough to have realized that there were no secrets from him. What he didn't know he found out—and what he couldn't find out she was quite willing to tell him in exchange for a song. She certainly wouldn't overturn the boat with him in it, he'd given her no cause, but there was no harm in giving the girl a rougher and more eerie passage than usual. Laments were as lovely as lullabies. A lament for you then, little girl. Come to your senses and be quick about it! As much as he wanted the girl's safety, she would be as cruel as she knew how if the girl dared hurt him… Choose well, little girl. Choose wisely. Forget the world Above, it's far more peaceful down here… Sing in the shadows, forget your blue skies…The brightness will only give you a headache and spoil your voice…

Then the Stranger came—and who was that! That was one she did not wish to allow into his house… Very well, she couldn't harm the Stranger, but she could send them to the wood and whether or not they ever came out was certainly not up to her.

A disturbance on the other shore, and she raced back. Ah… now what was this? Monsieur le Comte, what an unexpected pleasure. Your brother is no longer here, though I dearly wish he was… For without the countenance of the girl or the Stranger, neither your brother's safety nor yours has been promised. She opened her arms to him. An aristocrat, they tended toward stupidity, but they were widely traveled. Perhaps he had a song or two for her collection—and if he didn't, well, everything looked nicer when it was underwater. Come Phillipe, come and sing.

She felt the boat… What? The girl! The boat was on her waters once more—and he wasn't in it! She raged in vain, for with the girl in the boat she could not harm the boy. Commotion on the far shore drew her back towards his house.

No!

No!

NO!

He lay partly on the shore, but mostly in her waters, countless sheets of his music whispering about his still form. The scarlet ink ran as blood and water soaked into the papers. Music and musician drained into the lake…

"I'm sorry I haven't been to see you." His voice was faint.

You've been busy.

"Still…"

Hush… You must not waste your strength.

"She sang so well, did she not?"

I suppose so.

"But never quite as well as you, though."

A smile, but sad. Flatterer. She's only human.

"Yes, and now she'll fly away, back into the bright sky. She'll forget the shadows as she should."

No.

"No one will remember…"

I will. She cannot cry, but the lake holds her tears.

"Sing, dear siren. Sing for me."

Sing with me, dearest. Come sing with me… She opened her arms.

And they embraced.