Brief Candle

[Arsène]

The day was a gray one, with a gloomy overcast that obscured even the finest vision; whenever light did peer down, it only illuminated the swirling vaporous rain that seemed to dampen even a man’s spirit. Moist shadows clung to stone and wood alike as roofs dripped obscene amounts of rain from the night before. The glimmer of dawn was a distant memory on such a day, even if the rain had eased its assault on the earth.

Arsène, his gaze turned downward and his steps confused and convoluted, traveled at a slow pace down the market square. On a bright day, the stalls would be bursting with activity from the seam; as the one of the most popular spots in Radasanth to spend one’s money and leisure time, it was strange that it could be so empty. Whatever people were around went unnoticed by the man as he continued forward to no destination in particular. He was tired and out of breath; he looked as if he were on the verge of tears, despite a brave stoic front he kept up. And though his wet, woolen clothes were heavy, it was his conscience that weighed him down the most.

The smells of a restaurant, pleasant odors that would send any empty stomach rushing within, only tempted Arsène to sit down in the alleyway behind the establishment. He found emptied boxes and crates fit to be his throne, and sat down upon them without a second thought. His pale hands, sullied by morning deeds, were unclean even with the mist. Red spots had dried upon them, and rub as he could they would not come out.

“Out,” he whispered to himself. “Out I say.”

Damned spot.

[Arsène]

Two Days Earlier

Piano music filled the air and mixed with the sweet aroma that came from rich desserts. It was a crowded ballroom; small by commercial standards, but impressive for a simple manor home inside the city. Affluence stretched its gilded hand to everything in the room: the guests wore the latest fashions and even the servants seemed to glimmer in fine new uniforms. Gaiety had never known so welcoming a home. The pianist, who accompanied a small orchestra with ease and flair, was none other than Arsène himself, though one would not immediately recognize it. He was smiling with a genuine joy, even laughing as he chatted up a guest or two who went to see the vogue new musician in Radasanth. His somber appearance had washed cleanly away, and his normal gray or black suit was nowhere to be seen, replaced with a simple and elegant blue.

During a break from the music, and pausing for a bit of applause, he meandered a bit about the room. Crowds had usually made him uncomfortable; an oddity considering he was a man groomed for court life even before he became a sensation in Corone. Between turning down invitations for dance with all the eligible young women, and shaking hands with theater owners who wanted his name in all the papers, Arsène could scarcely hear the shouts across the room.

“Mr. Laurent! Over here please!” His kindly hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Homebrook, were as gleeful as could be. Wading through the crowds took only a moment, as they simply parted for him out of some reverence for artistic ability rolled in the guise of a gentleman.

“My dear hosts,” he said with a sincere grin. He took Mrs. Homebrook’s hand and kissed it gently as the morning breeze, and gave her husband a polite nod. “I hope I have lived up to all your expectations.”

“All our expectations and more, dear Laurent,” chimed in Mrs. Homebrook, an older and larger woman with wild hair and gleaming fake teeth.

“My dear, stop. You’ll give the boy a big head.” Mr. Homebrook, an absent minded but kindly gentleman, had made his fortune arming Corone throughout its history, and was a staunch supporter of hegemony. Though rather pleasant, he had been suspicious of Arsène when they had first; the memory of which prompted the artist to mind his words at all times around the elder host.

“Nonsense. He’s been nothing but a gentleman, evening volunteering himself as tonight’s entertainment,” said the woman with an arm on Arsène’s shoulder.

“It was the least I could do after you offered me the guest house.” He smiled softly and bowed out of respect. He had been a wreck after his wife, Anastasia, had died an agonizing death at the hands of disease. For nine months he had done little with his life. He fought in some meaningless battle as a mercenary, before switching sides to the less obnoxious of the two; and every task he started had ended in nothing but melancholy. Yet three months ago, he had met Victoria. She was wild and independent, with a taste for art and a penchant for it herself. The girl was a popular author, writing novels about the gods of old that Corone had worshipped in a time before its true civilization. Though not a historian, her artistic license had made the books must-reads.

“Victoria has helped me with that. She’s a very intelligent girl,” said Arsène.

Mr. Homebrook grew to like the man his daughter brought home one evening from the tavern. And though he stilled had some hopes that perhaps someone with a deeper fortune might keep his child in luxury, he knew that Victoria found a true sense of happiness in the artist. “Are wedding bells in the air?”

Though Homebrook’s smile was genuine, Arsène could only shrug him off as politely as he could. His heart belonged to another, and he could feel its protests every time a real relationship with Victoria was mentioned.

“Well…eh, dear, let us give the boy some peace,” Mrs. Homebrook said, tactlessly chiding her husband for upsetting the guests. As she guided him away rather forcefully, she called out to the artist. “Victoria’s upstairs in her room, and wishes you to join her.”

[Arsène]

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Arsène said while opening the door; the thick mahogany wood preventing a normal man’s hand from so much as a whisper of a knock. While ajar, sweet musical echoes bounced off marble floors and filled the large room until finally being silenced when the mighty gate closed.

“Not at all. I wanted to see you away from the crowds.” Victoria was, in all respects, the image of classic beauty that inspired men’s souls in arts and war. Her hair was a cascade of gold, and her eyes were a deep blue that one could be lost in for hours on end. She was tall for a woman; and strong for one too, but kept a sense of grace and dignity that kept would-be suitors at ease. “You’re a hit for the evening, and the talk of top tier of our circle.” She sauntered over to him in a thin lace, cream-colored nightgown that matched the open curtains, and revealing nearly as much. Tenderly, but with vigor, she gripped his hand and beckoned him to sit with her on a bed as soft as clouds. Arsène, rather unnerved by it all, clenched his top hat and twisted at the fabric of it. “Who would have thought that poor artist I brought home would become the talk of Radasanth?” She moved her lips close to his ear, so that every breath rang as clear as the moonlight that seeped in through the windows. “Who would have thought that his allure would capture my heart?”

Almost on instinct the artist jumped up; brushing aside the lady with whatever tact he could muster.

“Victoria, you know me well enough to realize I cannot reciprocate those feelings.” He was tense and sweating bullets.

“Not yet. That was what you said when you first knew I enjoyed your company. You mumbled it a lot, but I can clearly remember ‘not yet.’” She paused to rise from her bed and get closer to him. Her smooth skin was as cruel a tormentor as his own poorly chosen words recited back at him. “How long is ‘not yet?’”

He sighed. Arsène knew she was right, and he knew she deserved more than to be delayed and rebuked every time she brought it up. “You know that I cannot answer that with impunity. You know what tugs at my soul and causes my works to dampen with it.” And then, something thoroughly unexpected happened. Victoria chuckled like a schoolgirl.

“Oh yes, your poetry,” she laughed with a genuine smile. “Arsène my dear, you are a masterful musician, and there can be no doubt at that. Your grasp of words, however, is as limited as an angst ridden adolescent.”

“I see no humor in your words,” the man snapped back with a fire in his eyes and a deadpan look upon his mouth. “Before you met me my broken words had taverns full of crusty sailors weeping like jilted lovers!”

“And, of course, men swilling back gallons of stagnant tavern ale would have a fine ear for poetry.” She padded over to a nearby bureau, and sat down at the gargantuan mirror on top of it. Her face gleaming all the while, she took from the drawer a leather-bound book quite common in the streets of Corone. “This is literature, and what the people thirst for,” she said, turning to meet his deathly gaze. And it was at that moment that Arsène let his guard. He realized she was trying to get his mind off of Anastasia’s death and his relationship with Victoria; and worst of all, it had worked.

“The Old Gods already have their story in place. I do not believe it terribly creative to retell old tales so that some country fool has reading material for the outhouse.” He smiled, or at least attempted a smile, and walked over to rest his arms on her shoulders.

“Ah, but that’s the thing. No one is quite sure what the Old Gods truly were. And that is where my research ends,” she put her hands on top of his, “and where my creative license begins.”

“I cannot,” he whispered into her ear.

“Then when?”

“Not yet.” He kissed her on the forehead as gently as he could, and left to rejoin to the party down below.

[Arsène]

The evening drew to a close rather quickly, much to the relief of Arsène. As the guests exited the estate on horse-drawn carriage, the musician made his way quietly through the grounds. The clouds above blessedly obscured the moon, and such little light allowed him to escape unmolested from drooling idolaters and sickening sycophants that begged him to play their next gala. He'd had all too much hero worship for one night's affair, and Victoria's probing left unanswered questions in his mind. As he made his way passed the well-trimmed hedges and clean stone walkways that zig-zagged in and around the mansions acreage, he breathed in the saccharine stillness of his surroundings. It was a pleasant realization to wander the grounds alone, if only interrupted by the occasional groundskeeper working late into the night; though they made themselves scarce whenever anyone of a higher station walked in view.

He arrived at his guest house with mixed feelings and an uneasy sense about him that caused him to drop his keys several times before finally opening the cracked door. Inside, the cold air grew warmer by embers in the hearth near the bed that smoldered still from when last lit. As they crackled with fleeting life, small flashes gave glimpses of the room that became more obvious as the musician lit a small supply of candles all around.

It was rather plain considering who had built it, with sullen walls and barely enough space for a bedroom and small bath. Along the worn molding there was evidence of paint strokes of various complimentary colors; a project Victoria and Arsène had been working on in an attempt to bring some semblance of decoration to the room. He looked upon them fondly and made his way to simple bed covered in luxurious bedding. He'd barely enough time to undo his tie and fling his jacket to a nearby chair before collapsing on top with a heavy sigh.

The evening had exhausted him, and not just the music. Near his head, upon a nightstand, there was a small portrait of Anastasia he had drawn long ago when they first met. The silver frame had tarnished and the glass was cracked, but still he loved to look upon her every night before he slept. Tonight was different though. He kept the candles lit, their soothing scent and flickering dance distracted him from the real question on his mind.

"'Then when?' I wonder that even myself." He chuckled a bit, but kept as reserved as possible. Though the night was quiet, he did not expect sleep to come quickly.

[Arsène]

The night was calm to the point of uneasiness, with a low soft hum that hung in the air. Every now and then, a twang of an instrument never heard before let lose untraceable echoes in the nothingness of it all. Slowly, static began to rise up in colors of vibrant reds and shallow grays that melded together in a bitter harmony of imagery indecipherable to the human mind. It was a simple, maddening collaboration; some sinister mind had to be at fault. And among the confusion in those reds and grays, the scarce outline of a large carrion bird would flutter back and forth. The instruments grew mournful and more intense, to the point of screams as real as any living moment.

Hesitantly, Arsène walked the void of this waken dream. The rewards of rest seemed a farce in the terrifying revelation of the nightmare that surrounded him. The humming and screaming music was accompanied by the sound of thick droplets falling to the ground and splashing the void in their warmth; and with the drops came ever-intenser reds. White hot flashes began to beat steadily, adding definition to the shape of that terrible bird that flew closer and more dangerously to an unprotected form with an air of familiarity.

The form was naked and alone in the expanse, trembling without a voice as the predator mercilessly approached it. Arsène attempted to get closer to the scene and by some miracle save the faceless face that his gut churned for. His footsteps were harsh and metallic, and only served to motivate the beast's aggression. In one fell swoop, the form was gone with its tormentor.

All that was left was an imprint of terrible crystal clarity. The form's identity, it's familiarity, explained there like the burnt impression of a flash fire. The face was unmistakable.

And all that was left was the antipathy.