8My Halloween Phic for 2022. Inspired in part by The Invisible Life of Addie Larue and a meme I saw on Fb. There's a combination for you…Happy Halloween!
31 October
Fifty years after The Great Disaster
"Come, children! Time for bed!"
Twin indignant groans made the old woman smother a smile, yet she stood resolute in her mission. "Do not sass me, loves. Not tonight."
"But Grandmere!" Two sets of blue eyes swung to her as she rounded the corner. "It's All Hallows Eve. Can't we join the party?"
"A party is no place for precocious children," she scolded, stopping behind them in the hall. "You've had your sweets and now it is time for bed which, if I recall, was thirty minutes ago."
Both booths glanced at one another, as if hoping to conspire on the spot. "We wanted to see the painting," Phillipe supplied, pointing to a framed piece hanging near the grandfather clock. At ten, he was fascinated by art in all its mediums. Frankly, the Baroness was surprised it had taken him this long to ask after the painting.
"What is it?" young Michael piped up, squirming in place as only a six-year-old could.
Knowing she would not get them to bed without an answer, the Baroness be Barbazac answered with a sigh, "It is known as 'La Danse de la Vie et de la Mort' or simply "'he Dance'; thought to be painted around two hundred years ago. It was given to me by an old friend."
Both boys blinked up at her. "I don't like it," Michael decided, lower lip trembling in such a way to signal an oncoming fit.
"Ah, but the story is quite remarkable in its own right," the Baroness responded with a conspiratorial wink. "And perfect for All Hallow's Eve. If you return to your beds, I will tell it to you."
Phillipe and Michael glanced at each other before tearing down the hall to their room. "Come along, Grandmere," Phillipe called out.
"Coming cherie," she answered, following their dust cloud. "These old bones don't move as they once did." Entering the room, she settled herself in the armchair while her grandson's bedded down. "Now," she began, "I'm sure you'll remember hearing of the Paris Opera? The Great Disaster that ravaged Paris one night many years ago, yes?.
Two blonde heads bobbed in response and she allowed her earlier smile to appear. "Good. Because..not long before, that is where our story begins…"
"Tell me about the painting, Erik? There, hanging above the fireplace."
His laguid gaze slid over and up, lifting slightly with recognition. Setting aside his tea, the Opera Ghost replied, "That, my dear, is La Danse de la Vie et de la Mort. A personal favorite."
"The Dance of Life and Death," Christine translated, moving to stand before the painting. It was rather small for a painting, hardly larger than the sheet music folders used at rehearsals. Two figures danced on canvas, connected only by the slightest touch of hands. Life, clothed in a golden gown, seemed to be painted in such a way that the reflections of the candlelight caught and shimmered over the brushstrokes. She beamed up at her macabre partner as if he were the one responsible solely for her glow instead of the low-lit lamps around the perimeter of the room. Christine bit back a smile. Perhaps he was.
The second figure was the antithesis of the first in every way. Swathed completely in Death's tell-tale robe, he gripped Life's fingertips with such gentleness, that one did not need to see his face to know he would cross Hell itself for one moment in her company. The black hood angled at her beguiling smile, curling his body toward hers with such a natural intimacy that Christine nearly blushed, imagination running wild with numberless ruminations as to what was being communicated by their delicate touch.
It was hauntingly beautiful, she thought, and voiced as much to Erik, who offered a small half-smile in response. "Such romantic notions, my Christine," he mused, taking another sip of tea before adding, "although you are not the first to think so. I, myself, was quite intrigued by the story. So much so that I immediately offered the merchant a price he couldn't refuse."
Christine turned back to him. "Tell me?"
He chuckled, nodding to the chair opposite him. "You know I can deny you nothing, Christine." Her smile was radiant as she sat, eyes shining in the candlelight as she let Erik's dark baritone weave its own kind of magic around them.
"Once upon another time, long, long ago, before either you or I were even a speck of possibility in this vast universe, Life and Death fell in love. Now, of course, like many of the great love stories go, theirs was a forbidden and, moreover, impossible love- for how could two diametrically opposed beings, whose sole purposes in this world were to create and destroy, ever be together?
Alas, no one- human or being - can help who they love, can they? Such it was with Life and Death and, faced with the impossible, they found a way, as lovers usually do.
You see, only one kind of Thing existed that was as dear to Life as her love for Death - the souls of those to which she gave her very essence. She cared for them deeply, and knew that whatever small part of her was shared with them was fleeting in the great expanse of time. So, when the piece of Her that they held was diminished, she gave them over to Death's. A heart gift, given to the one she loved and trusted above all else.
In turn, Death accepted and cherished each gift from Life, guiding and guarding each soul to his Great Beyond as a gesture of his love for her. There they stayed for eternity, reminders of Life's great trust and love for him. So it was, satisfied were they both by this mere scrap of overture. It was never enough, but it had to be."
"Except," Chrstine sucked in a breath as Erik met her gaze across the table, mask gleaming in the firelight. "For one night a year."
"Each year, on All Hallow's Eve, when the veil between the living and the dead was at its frailist, the lovers were able to meet. Mere hours in the grand scheme of time, yet they cherished it like precious gold. For a short time, they could be together in their corporal forms, the only time they could physically touch without fear of upsetting the cosmos. Those were the times both looked forward too. Those were the moments that kept them hopeful, more than all of the gifts and gestures in the world. And every year, on All Hallow's Eve, they shared a dance."
"Like the painting," Christine whispered.
"Like the painting," Erik echoed, leaning back in his chair. "So it went for hundreds, thousands of years. Life sent Death countless gifts and Death kept them forever, both longing for the next year when they could share their dance and a few stolen moments without consequence.
One year, just as Life had offered her hand to Death, movement in the bush startled them. Further investigation revealed an artist who had fallen asleep some hours before and had only just awoken. It was hard to say who was more startled in that moment, but the artist begged mercy from Death to spare his soul for inadvertently intruding on their private reunion. Death did not reply and even the normally merciful Light faltered, for no one could ever know of their yearly rendezvous or the forbidden love they held for one another.
As the silence stretched on, the painter shyly voiced an alternative: Spare his life and in return, he would give them both something they never dared to ask - a physical rendering of their affair. This, he reasoned, would benefit all involved. An original idea with potential for great renown for the artist - no mortal would ever question the truth of the painting- and a visual representation of their love brought to life. If Life and Death were only allowed to lay sight to each other one night a year, how wonderful would it be to look somewhere in the world and see a rendering to warm the heart until that night came again?
The temptation to see the other, even in a painting, was too great to resist and so Life and Death agreed. So once again they danced, eager to be lost in each other's arms once more while the artist captured every intimate touch of Death to Life's fingers, every beaming smile Life sent Death. When he was finished, Life and Death were so pleased that they each gifted a painter a promise: vitality and breath as long as he desired it. At that time, eternal care and comfort in Death's Elysian fields.
Erik held up a single finger, effectively ending Christine's exclamation or question before it could start. "Alas, my dear, that is not the end of the story."
Decades passed. Life and Death continued to meet every All Hallow's Eve, but there was a newness in their love brought on by an anticipated glance at their love's face in a picture, in the long, slow trail of a thumb down a painted cheek. Each viewing of the portrait was like meeting again, different, but very, very welcome.
One Hallow's Eve, Life and Death arrived at their meeting point to find the artist waiting for them. Though many years had passed, he looked the same as he had upon their initial meeting, vibrantly young and healthy.
This time, however, his face was stained with tears.
Out of respect for the gift he had given them, Life and Death listened silently as he poured out his sorrow. His wife had fallen ill over the summer and, despite the doctor's best efforts, did not think she would live to see winter. Despite his pleas, Life was powerless to do anything, but assured him her beautiful soul would rest well in Death's care. The artist ranted, reminding both entities of the promises made to him, woefully pleading for them to extend his gifts to his wife.
Life still Death's hand, for he was ready to revoke the gift due to the man's presumptive insolence. Death met Life's imploring gaze, a silent reminder of what the artist had given both of them. This was the soul-deep sorrow of a grieving man, much like Death himself when parted from Life.
With a sigh, Death nodded and agreed. There was indeed a way for the man to be with his wife- but it came with a hefty price.
With a wave of his hand, the painting appeared between them. This, Death explained, was the only way to avoid the inevitable. If the artist wished it, he and his wife would be rendered to the painting, bonded and trapped inside, but together. The very embodiment of Life and Death
Rest in paradise, granted for both of them, would only come when another pair of lovers willingly took their place.
Desperate for any way to remain with his beloved, the artist agreed. Life whispered a brief blessing over him before, with a snap-of Death's fingers, it was done.
Mourners in the village were surprised at the sudden disappearance of the couple, such pillars of the community they had been. Some said the wife had died suddenly, driving her poor husband into a manic rage, and causing him to take him own life to be with her in the Beyond. Others say he spirited her body away in the night, living out the remainder of his days on the mountainside with her corpse. Still others said he had bundled her away to a neighboring land, lured by promises of better treatment that might cure her malady.
Whatever the speculations were, all seemed to agree on one thing. When the funeral supper was held- for really, what other logical assumption could be made despite the wild rumors?- the guests noticed a new painting hanging in their daughter's house. A lovely piece, strikingly similar to style and form to her father's work, depicting an imposing hooded figure seemingly dancing with a woman made of sunlight.
No one knew where it came from or when it appeared, but it hung in the family home until the daughter's son sold the house and moved on. There were whispered rumors, however, that every All Hallow's Eve, the couple in the painting came to life for a dance. Slight, fleeting, but wholly romantic in notion.
"And now it hangs here," Christine finished as she blew out a breath. "How did the merchant come to acquire the painting?"
"The artist was his grandfather," Erik revealed.
Christine blinked. "And he allowed you to purchase it?"
Erik gave a shrug as he spread his hands. "As I understand it, the man had severe gambling debts. Holding onto a family heirloom was the least of his worries."
Christine's eyes trailed back to the painting, now glowing in the light of the candles. "Do you think it's true?"
"For one who calls himself the Opera Ghost, I find I do not place much faith in stories of traveling salesmen," Erik replied pragmatically. "As I said it was, however, a most intriguing story."
Christine studied the image further before whispering, "Do you believe they're still in there…somewhere?"
"Christine, my dear…" Erik's voice was patient, if not slightly placating. "I'm afraid our time for stories has drawn to a close. You have an early rehearsal to prepare for. Whether or not an old artist and his wife reside in a painting in my study is none of your concern,"
"I do not appreciate your chastisement," She replied tartly, yet nevertheless stepped away with a final glance to the painting, then her teacher. "Good night, Erik."
"Sleep well, Christine," he murmured, even as his golden eyes tracked to the painting and sent a nod of acknowledgement its way before blowing out the lamps, "If there is anyone there, a good night to you as well."
"There you have it," the Baroness finished with a flourish of her hand. "What do you think of it all?"
Michael had drifted off long ago, but Phillipe only stared wide-eyed back at his grandmother. The Baroness watched as his eyes strayed to the door, no doubt imagining the painting just beyond and she swore she could see his urge to bolt to the hallway for another look.
"There will be plenty of time for closer examination tomorrow, cherie," she admonished, raising to press a kiss to his brow. "Better for all involved to let lovers have their privacy, especially if it comes but once a year."
"Do you really think they're still there, Grandmere?"
"Who can say, my love," she answered with a smile. "It is only a story after all, hmm?" Witha tuck of his covers, she kissed him again and swept from the room, stepping into the hallway and stopping before the painting.
So intent was her study, that she failed to notice the sudden presence at her side. "Marguerite?"
She started, then glanced to the source of the voice. "Alaister. It's only you."
Amusement danced in the eyes of the Baron de Barabzac as he quirked a brow at his wife's disappointed tone. "I'm sorry, dear. Were you expecting someone else?"
"Of course not, you old fool," she chided, but leaned into his side, bringing to her eyes back to the painting. "Just lost in my thoughts."
"A favorite pastime of yours," he remarked, dodging an elbow to the ribs for his teasing. "This always was a favorite of yours, wasn't it?" Lips pressed together, he joined her in the study for the briefest of purusals. "I admit, I fail to see the appeal."
"I promised a friend I'd look after it," she supplied, but offered nothing further.
"Do you really think they're still there, Grandmere?"
Phillipe's innocent question from moments before rushed back to the forefront of her mind. No, mon cher. No they are not.
But that did not mean that no one inhabited the Dance
Eyes falling closed, she leaned further into Alaister as other memories, long buried, began to assault her from all angles.
A night a half-century gone.
"Don't leave me, Erik."
"It is too late. I'm sorry…for all of it. Live in the light, Christine."
Free-flowing tears.
"Don't you understand, you arrogant boar? YOU are light and YOU are music. I can't live as I need to without you.
An impossible idea
"The painting…they would finally we free…
"Christine, no!"
"...and we would be together…as it should be"
A desperate plea.
"Meg, help us. Please. It's the only way."
A strange entreaty
"If you're there….take us. Release them to their rest.
A promise fulfilled
"Meg…when it's done….keep us safe…please."
So she had. A final promise to her closest friend.
Tilting her head back to meet Alaister's gaze, the Baroness smiled as she placed a kiss to his weathered cheek. "Go on. I'll be along in a moment."
"Don't keep an old man waiting too long," he admonished gently. "Neither one of us can boast youthful vitality any longer." He was off with a wink and a swat from her hand at his cheek, but Meg did not linger long.
Instead, he reached up and turned out the light, still not completely used to the new-fangled ideal of electricity. "Bonne Nuit, mis amies." she whispered into the darkness feeling a wry smile creep over her lips as the clock struck twelve. "Enjoy your dance."
She turned away without another word.
In the low glow of the lamps (for the Baron's household would hold to the old ways come hell or highwater), one might have seen Life's eyes flick up to Death's hooded face with a smile, catching the slightest gleam of a white mask as the fabric shifted…
…and she stepped forward.
Thanks for reading! Reviews are, as always, greatly appreciated.