[ENDLESS DREAMS] all the world is all i am

[haveyouforgottenyourangel]

The Endless...Dream, Desire, Death, Delirium, Destiny, Despair...and Devotion.

The Prodigal no longer had a name among them, hadn't for countless ages of man. They were left but seven of them, and very nearly they were left but six when Destruction left them.

Devotion and Destruction, the second pair of twins among the Endless--two sides of one coin, the building up and the razing to the ground. The transmuting of dedication and worship into obsession and hate...there could not be one without the other, and when the Prodigal departed there nearly wasn't.

Yet Devotion alone bid him farewell. Kissed him, embraced him, and smiled as he departed...right through the terrible wounds left behind where one brother's cheek touched another, leaving Devotion forever scarred by the loss of his other half.

From then on, there was always that hesitation. When one named the Endless, Devotion almost wasn't. He was the afterthought, the trailing thought lagging behind his kin.

In the galleries of the Endless, his sigil had been dark for centuries: the athame black and lifeless, the sacred tool of sacrifice and offering a stark reminder that Devotion had remained, but only barely.

He had not abandoned his post, he had not denied his twin the happiness he sought: but if he could not have his compliment, he would have no one.

Over time, the temple that was his realm fell into a state of disarray. No longer tended by the priests and shamans, it gave way to chaos and sensuality. The dedication of worship began to fail, and the pledge of the artist to his craft drew Devotion away from the darkness and back towards something resembling warmth and joy. The way that artists consumed themselves reminded him of his brother, their passion and their dedication were clean air in his lungs...

He had always preferred the company of creative spirits anyway. The crafty tricksters, the muses, the mystics...where spirituality waned, creativity thrived, and it was a healing thing for Devotion to bask in, to throw himself into--to gather into himself and cherish.

He gave his disfigurement to them--the masks of comedy and tragedy. He gave his influence to them, rapture and existential ecstasy in their fleeting, eternal, frenetic creations. He gave his realm to them, bringing them into his realm, his den, his salon on occasion to teach and encourage, to allow their gifts to flourish.

He gave and gave and gave of himself--and for a time, he almost forgot he was lonely. Almost.

Then he decided to wander Paris, to peer into the Opera Populaire--and he heard her.

The voice was young, untrained, unsure--but it rang out with a purity that wounded him so sweetly, with a quality he was not certain he had ever heard. Devotion to the act, devotion of the spirit as the voice lifted to praise the Lord God on high...

Devotion swiftly found himself in the shadows, dressed for the region and the time in trousers and a loose shirt with frilled sleeves. His disfigurement, he hid behind the simple white mask that gave birth to the marks of the theater, and he stood, enraptured, as the sweet voice of a young girl wove its way through his essence.

And, when it was over, the void its absence left was harrowing.

"...brava." he breathed without meaning to, nearly caught in a swoon from the pleasure of it. "Brava...bravissima..."

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[sculptedangels]

Truth be told, it was a rare sound that touched the drafty rafters deep behind the stages of the Opera Populaire, for many years of grief had stolen the joy of music from Christine Daaé, and with it her voice. Twas only in the very recent months that she had begun to find it again, in such quiet, lonely moments tucked into the hidden places she escaped the sneers of the diva La Carlotta, the stern gaze of Madame Giry, the disappointed sighs of managers who heard her name and placed unasked for expectations on her slim shoulders. Here, where she could only just hear the orchestra in rehearsal, fine tuning their selections of music to suite the prima donna's demands, she could almost pretend that she was tucked away in the attic of her childhood home, listening to father's violin in the sing out from his study. In such moments she could find that joy again, that soul-deep connection to music and let it move her in ways her medicore attempts at dance could never bring.

With a crumpled costume in her lap, her fingers carefully repairing a tiny tear in the hem where her skirt had caught on a splintered bit of set dressing, Christine softly sang along with the opening strings of a beautiful solo from a fantastical new production the company was bringing to the stage. It would be performed by the character of a forlorn wood nymph, lamenting the passing of the seasons and the errosion of her love along with them, and the cruel fate of a long, cold winter.

La Carlotta found the part too drab for her grand presence, and so a new part would be written for her, more suited to her...particular brand of acting. The role of the nymph, diminished, would go to a lesser chorus member, but Christine, at least, was glad the solo would remain. It was too beautiful to never reach an audience. It reminded her so much of something her father would have composed...

"Zephyr's cruel hand will guide your heart, to partner Cupid's bow," Christine sang softly as her needle worked, too shy and scared to let her voice properly soar with the rising crescendo. "Softly his arrow plays its part, to mask its piercing glow....twas winter I saw my lover, clear as the stars above...lips pressed against another....I've lost my only love..."

Shy and soft as her voice was, her emotional connection to the words ran deep; perhaps that was why she had formed such an attachment to it, so quickly. Romance had never been hers to lose, but love? Her only love? A devoted daughter's love for her father? Yes, she knew the cold of that winter well. Her busy hands had gone still, her eyes closed as she finished the final lines...until the soft, ethereal voice startled her, jerking her from her hiding place, the sharp end of the needle digging into the pad of her thumb. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, curled her hand tight and hid it behind her back to keep a bead of blood from staining her costume.

"I..forgive me, monsieur, I meant no harm." she whispered, eyes downcast, only risking a glance when the speaker did not immediately reveal themselves to her. "...Hello?"

[haveyouforgottenyourangel]

For one brief moment, his rage swelled painfully within his breast, his vision flaring red and the distant sound of the orchestra turning discordant and sharp with the shifting of his passions.

“If there is one who gave you cause to believe that the sweet rapture of your song is a harmful thing, name them, child.” He breathed from the shadows. “Name them, and I shall teach them the true meaning of the word.”

[sculptedangels]

"Monsieur?" Quietly puzzled, Christine set her costume down on the spot she'd vacated, moving cautiuosly towards the sound of the voice. She had thought him a stage hand, perhaps, at first, but she did not know his voice...surely she would recognize someone who worked here, they were not so large a company, but perhaps he was new? "I, I simply--I feared that I was in the way...or distruptive of the orchestra, though I tried to be quiet." She doubted she was supposed to be here, hidden so far inside the inner workings of the stage. She bit lightly at her lower lip, carefully folding her hands together, smoothing her fingers over the sore pinprick on her thumb. "...That...was kind of you to say, but I am only a chorus girl, and a poor one at that."

[haveyouforgottenyourangel]

He watched her move closer--saw her soothing some small hurt upon her hand, noted the discarded costume she'd had bundled in her lap...

It took a thought to dim what little light there was, to deepen the shadows as he transported himself with a whisper until he stood behind her, silhouetted by the light behind him.

"Every word you speak is a wound, mademoiselle." he informed her quietly, just over her shoulder. "Deep as the ocean and wide as the world--painful as that pinprick upon your finger. What madness is this, that one would make you believe your voice is less than...transcendence itself? Angels on high weep, knowing they will never sing a note to rival you--and I speak from experience, child. I have known many in my day."

[sculptedangels]

Christine's lips parted in amazement. Could it...could it be? Had her father finally fulfilled his promise?

"Are you..." She swallowed hard, hardly daring to speak it aloud, hardly daring to hope. "Are you the Angel of Music?"

[haveyouforgottenyourangel]

“As you say.” He replied without hesitation, the mantle falling easily across his shoulders the moment she spoke it. A spirit dedicated to the devotion of the artist, a power from on high...

He came to a decision then, reaching out to rest his hands on her shoulders.

“From now on, I am your angel.” He assured her. “And I will defy the will of your god and any other if they deem you unfit to sing...together, child, we will show the world true music—borne upon your tongue.”

[sculptedangels]

For a moment emotion closed Christine's throat too tightly to form a reply. She merely clutched at the hands holding her shoulders, tugging them before her to bow her head over them in reverence. "Thank you," she managed to whisper, looking up again with tears gathered in her eyes. Finally, after all this time, a sign that the prayers she whispered over lit candles were heard; father had kept his promise after all. "You honor me, monsieur."

[haveyouforgottenyourangel]

For a moment, Devotion was moved by the way she touched him--in a manner he wasn't sure he'd ever known. Something that was the religious fervor of past generations, but also the creative passions of the present. It was both, and it was neither...

And it was a piece of human contact--a thing that, unlike his siblings, he needed.

One hand curled into a loose fist, drawing back just enough to brush the backs of his fingers along her cheek. Her skin was soft and warm, pleasurable and such deep comfort he felt his eyes burn for it.

"You honor me." he replied in a whisper, drawing a shuddering breath before he pulled his hands gently away from her.

"The chapel of the Opera Populaire. Go, whenever you have time to sing. I will be there."

It felt right, somehow--to train that sacred voice on sacred ground. To nurture in that space a blended heart: the heart of the artist, and the heart of the faithful...yes, it was a fitting classroom indeed.

[sculptedangels]

Christine had never thought much on how the touch of an angel would feel...strange that it should feel so much like the touch of a human, and yet not. And of course, of course she would find him in the chapel. Where else would one go to find an angel of God?

"I will," she swore, clutching her hands lightly to her chest as he slipped away from her, her heart keening for more time to feel so close to the music and passion she'd known when her father had lived still...

But that was greed, and she could not sin so when she was already being given such a gift. "Every moment I can spare, I will be there."