Notes: This is a Christmas present for the lovely Lamath. And as a point of record, Von Krolock is based on Steve Barton's original, Herbert on Mate Kamaras and the unnamed Phantom is based on the small Polish production from Warsaw. I seem unable to get a standard Phantom, no matter how much I want one.
Also, this turned out completely unexpectedly. Never let is be said that vampires are nice.
The wretch had been found lost in the forests. A foolish time of the season to be wandering in the woods, but von Krolock was not one to turn aside a generous gesture by some higher power. It had been almost worth it simply to hear Herbert's cries of horrified indignation.
Of course, he would have had to be an utter fool to be ignorant to the identity of the man who trembled and shivered in the bed in the guest chambers. No other man could wear a face like that. God was merciless, but merciless enough to mar two within one generation?
Johannes could remember the sight of that face.
Not so many years ago, not in his own reckoning, had the pitiful carnival passed through their region. There had been a glorious dancer, feet as delicate as small birds, hair like silk and eyes of flashing, teasing fire.
There had also been the ragged, caged boy.
The boy had grown in years come and gone it seemed, and rumours from the capitals in the West had reached the vampire's ears. Piece by piece, the puzzle of the ruined creature who was now his captive guest were coming together.
Standing in the dark chamber, he watched the young man twist and writhe under the covers. His breath was a rasping labour, and von Krolock mused that it was a delight to find something as broken to toy with on winter nights.
After all, fleeing back to the East, where his life had been spent miserably was a certain sign that he sought shelter in that which he knew: pain and solitude. That, the vampire knew, he could provide in both quantity and quality.
Withdrawing from the chamber, he closed the door and turned the heavy key in the lock. Metal grazed on metal, and the vampire gazed at the wood, then slowly smiled. He walked away, leaving the key in the lock. The boy had imagination. If he survived the fever, it would be interesting to see if he had his wit left.
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"Really, father…"
Turning the page of his newest acquisition, von Krolock neither looked up or acknowledged his son. His pen scratched quietly on a sheet of paper, and he heard the clatter of his son's shoes on the polished floor as he approached.
"Do you intend to give him the run of the castle? Like a guest?"
"You are being quite ridiculous, Herbert," von Krolock replied placidly.
Herbert sighed dramatically and threw himself down into the seat opposite his father. "You do know the ugly little wretch has locked himself away in his room now? I would like to know how he got the key from you."
"The same way you did, when you were locked in your chambers," his father replied, turning a page and making a notation. "I assure you that the ugly wretch, as you call him, is quite intelligent. Once he sees there is food for him, and nothing to fear, I am sure matters will become more interesting."
"Nothing to fear?" Herbert echoed, a touch of laughter in his voice. "Oh, father…"
Von Krolock's lips curved up mildly and he looked up from the page at his son. "As I said, he is quite intelligent."
Grey eyes danced. "And if he doesn't wish to play as you do?"
A long-nailed fingertip lightly traced an elegant letter on the page before him. "Than, I suppose I shall have to indulge him according to his dictates," he murmured. "Musicians can be so very sensitive about things."
Herbert's smile was brilliant, revealing gleaming teeth. "I'm sure you will manage to have your way, father," he said fondly. "You can be so very persuasive when you choose to be."
Von Krolock smiled charmingly. "I can indeed," he agreed.
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The boy was stubborn. Or perhaps his years of captivity had made him even warier than he had been before. Whatever the cause, he would snatch in his food from the hall and lock the door before any could catch more than a glimpse of him.
At least, that was his belief.
Von Krolock cloaked himself in the shadows of the room. With only the fire in the grate, they were plentiful, and he could watch, and watch he did.
It seemed the boy, eternally a boy in his mind, had his little rituals. He would sit and he would eat sparingly, nervously, as if he half-expected poisoning. He did not approach the fireplace, and von Krolock smiled. The polished grate reflected the room perfectly, beautifully, as no other grate in the castle did. The room had been carefully chosen after all.
So, hidden on the far side of the bed, blankets drawn around him like a protective mantle, he picked at food like a nervous bird. His fingers were long and pale, delicate. The way they plucked morsels was deft, light. In every gesture, it was as if the boy was listening to unheard music.
As soon as he had his fill, which was barely a handful, he would close his eyes, the hollows beneath them darker than dark and pooled with tears, and conduct that symphony that no other ear could hear, nor would ever hear.
For hours, he would sit thus, then at the strike of the distant clock would rise, his back to the fire and settle himself on his side on the bed. He would not sleep. He hardly ever seemed to do so. All the same, he made the pretence of it. Another ritual.
By and by, as his fever faded with the passing of the days, his nightly ritual was accompanied by the soft hum. It was a melody to begin with. Day by day, it was added to. Note by unwritten note. With all in the room the same dull colours, it would go unwritten in all but his tears. His magnum opus. His triumph. His failure.
The music was trapped within him, tormenting him, filling his mind and overflowing, but with no outlet, and slowly, he was breaking apart. He held the key to the room that had become his prison, afraid to venture beyond, afraid to see the world again. He thought himself safe. He had escaped a cage once, and now chose one without bars for his prison.
He stumbled once, etching notes on the window through the day with smears of food. Within hours, they were gone. Another day, he used the key, scratching into the doors of the prison he had chosen to keep himself in. By the time the sun faded and rose, the wood was smooth, unmarked.
Again and again he tried, but the music would not remain for him, wiped asunder as soon as it was marked down. Subtle mirth aggravated him, tormenting him as he had tormented others. A laughing voice. Sounds from the shadows. His own reflection sneering when he dared look, mocking and bitter.
Von Krolock watched. He smiled. A little magic and carefully guided illusion seldom went amiss.
In the distance, through the ancient wood, the sound of a piano whispered. The boy sobbed more often, silent, agonising, hands and brow pressed to the wood, as if the music would hear his anguish and let itself play for him, take the music from within him and make it beautiful.
He was ignored.
The music was in his blood, the whispers told him, as he tried to sleep. Always in his blood. It would eternally be there, waiting to be written. He was rejecting it. He had no love for it at all. It was nothing to him. As he was nothing to her, it was dying without his love.
The crescendo had come.
The little glass cup was shattered and with trembling fingers, the boy started to write his greatest composition.
Against the pallor of his flesh, the beaded droplets gleamed like garnets. He hummed, hummed softly as the glass cut. Deep, then deeper. Marking time. A beat. Another beat. The drops swelled, slipped, streaking, smeared, and still he wrote. He felt the drumming within his chest, beneath the pale flesh and the scarlet notes. All of him. He gave it to the music, which he loved and it loved him.
Your heart, it whispered imploringly, so weak now. Your heart.
The longest shard of glass shone in the boy's hand.
In the eyes of von Krolock, when a scream broke the melody, it was the most exquisite note in the world.