Prologue
The night air felt unusually heavy in the long and winding hallways. The moon rose high above the sky, shining in its full glory. The ghostly paintings in the cobbled hallway gave off an eerie aura. The torches flickered in the non-existent wind, casting great shadows of the Knight’s armor across the stoned floor.
The moonlight spilled into the halls through the tall glass windows, making the outside world visible from the inside. The willow trees danced in the non-existent wind, ruffling their majestic leaves and creating a harmonious ethereal sound. The lake near the old oak tree was still, the Moon’s silvery reflection shone in perfection.
However, within the stillness of the dark night, distant music filled the area. As it was soft, it held a dark undertone. Strong notes filled the air, giving the scenery a much more deathly look. The clouds grew darker, slowly moving in the sky, bit by bit eating up the luminous shine of the Moon. It wasn’t long before the night grew darker and colder.
Within the castle walls, the music continued to play. Steadily growing louder and louder by the second, reverberating throughout the castle. However, none of the occupants were stirred in their sleep, perhaps the music held a mystical air. The torches seemed to dance with the dark tones; organs, violins, wind instruments and percussion filled the halls with their dark symphony. Their notes entwining and dancing on their own, casting a dark spell into the night.
The music came from the castle’s grand theater, the most sacred place of the castle. Its grandeur oak wood doors stood slightly ajar, emitting the melancholic music. From the entrance, everything was pitch black. One could not see the splendors of the theater at this lighting, for all that was lit were two torches each found at either end of the sleek stage.
It was amazing…the sight that lay to the mercy of the dancing lights. As the music, Tschaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 “The Pathetique” continued to fill the theater, figures glided across the stage. Elegantly, the figures danced to the dark music. Their silhouettes were long and refined, sprawled along the fine back-curtain of the stage.
Pirouettes, jetes, grand jetes, plies, entrechats, and releves were performed with such amazing grace. The music climaxed and grew faster, making them dance faster as well. The shadows sprang across the stage, twirling and bending to the rise and fall of the symphony. Long legs and arms flailed about, hugging, reaching and groping.
They continued to dance, the same figures over and over again. It began to look like a rhythmic ritual, of reaching, twirling, hugging, bowing and spinning. Long jumps, grand jetes, filled the air. Partners passed each other, their bodies molding together in one second, before separating in the next. Bodies formed elegant arches, bending and twisting gracefully.
It looked all so sad.
As the phrase goes, one can feel the emotion of the dancer by the way he dances. The sync movements, continued on. The sad beats filled the hall continuously. As it continued, the feelings turned painful. Faster and faster it went and faster and faster they went.
Twirling, bending, hugging and groping.
Gracefully they went about, sadness radiating from them. The air thickened all around, and out of nowhere soft mist formed around the stage. However, they did not see to mind, not at all.
The music grew louder and louder, slowly reaching its peak. The shadows grew bigger and bigger by each beat. Their bodies growing taller and taller as the torches licked the air. The notes of the orchestra became more fervent and insistent.
There was a demand.
The music finally reached its highest peak. Lightning cracked outside, as if in response. One shadow rose powerfully into the air, cutting through the pain-ridden atmosphere.
So there they stood in complete silence, the music left hanging. Bodies bent, legs stretched and arms reaching. One lone silhouette above them all, sat upon the shoulder of the other, arms bent and head slightly cocked to the right. All of them were reaching, reaching for the non-existent.
A strong gust of wind spilled through the huge windows from up above the theater’s balconies. The torches once again flickered, momentarily distorting the long shadows.
Out of nowhere, whispering and vague voices pierced through the silence. The music had changed, as the orchestra once again began to play.
Death.
Requiem, the Mass for the Death, filled the theater. The dancers once again began to move…
…They slowly began to dance with death.
~
Francois de Latchet woke up with a jolt. Aged gray eyes scanned their dark surroundings, taking in the pitch darkness of it all (The green eyes of his old tabby cat, Rudolf, shone in the darkness). The 59-year-old castle caretaker frowned into the darkness. He felt a prickling sensation run down his back.
Before he knew it, he was rushing down the cold hall. His eyes darkened as the deathly sounds of Requiem reached his ears. His heartbeat quickened with foreboding, upon sensing the stony atmosphere. He just hoped it were students in the theater and not somebody…something else.
Mustering up all the strength that remained in his old age, the old man rounded the cobbled corner. The loud orchestral music and deep singing muted his footsteps. ‘Something’s not right’ mused the caretaker as he was overwhelmed by the deep emotions that emitted from the theater.
He felt the cold wind from the theater rushing against his nightclothes. ‘It just can’t be students…such emotions…’ observed Francois, now stopping by the ajar door. The singing was loud, the music was loud, and everything was so overwhelming.
Death was overwhelming.
“Fools,” muttered Francois, growing determined. Grasping the elegant handle, he swung open both doors with a mighty push.
Silence.
Francois de Latchet stood in the theater’s doorway of Mme. Shantels’ School of Performing Arts, a baffled expression etched on his face. Everything was silent and untouched, as if nothing had ever occurred. The theater was covered in total darkness and there was no trace whatsoever of any prior presence.
‘How?’ thought the old man, his heartbeat only increasing at the eerie silence. He supported himself against the golden doorframe, taking in the darkness. ‘Where are they?’
“Odd,” he muttered to himself. He closed the doors and slowly began to retreat to his quarters once more. His mind swirled with questions and his heart beat with fear as he entered his room.
“Perhaps it was a dream,” mumbled the man into his pillow, trying to assure himself of the bizarreness of it all. Though deep within his heart, he knew what was true.
A dream? No it was never a dream. Francois’ thoughts of it being real would have been proven, if he had stayed one more second he would have smelled the charred remains of the two torches.
The moonlight spilled into the halls through the tall glass windows, making the outside world visible from the inside. The willow trees danced in the non-existent wind, ruffling their majestic leaves and creating a harmonious ethereal sound. The lake near the old oak tree was still, the Moon’s silvery reflection shone in perfection.
However, within the stillness of the dark night, distant music filled the area. As it was soft, it held a dark undertone. Strong notes filled the air, giving the scenery a much more deathly look. The clouds grew darker, slowly moving in the sky, bit by bit eating up the luminous shine of the Moon. It wasn’t long before the night grew darker and colder.
Within the castle walls, the music continued to play. Steadily growing louder and louder by the second, reverberating throughout the castle. However, none of the occupants were stirred in their sleep, perhaps the music held a mystical air. The torches seemed to dance with the dark tones; organs, violins, wind instruments and percussion filled the halls with their dark symphony. Their notes entwining and dancing on their own, casting a dark spell into the night.
The music came from the castle’s grand theater, the most sacred place of the castle. Its grandeur oak wood doors stood slightly ajar, emitting the melancholic music. From the entrance, everything was pitch black. One could not see the splendors of the theater at this lighting, for all that was lit were two torches each found at either end of the sleek stage.
It was amazing…the sight that lay to the mercy of the dancing lights. As the music, Tschaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 “The Pathetique” continued to fill the theater, figures glided across the stage. Elegantly, the figures danced to the dark music. Their silhouettes were long and refined, sprawled along the fine back-curtain of the stage.
Pirouettes, jetes, grand jetes, plies, entrechats, and releves were performed with such amazing grace. The music climaxed and grew faster, making them dance faster as well. The shadows sprang across the stage, twirling and bending to the rise and fall of the symphony. Long legs and arms flailed about, hugging, reaching and groping.
They continued to dance, the same figures over and over again. It began to look like a rhythmic ritual, of reaching, twirling, hugging, bowing and spinning. Long jumps, grand jetes, filled the air. Partners passed each other, their bodies molding together in one second, before separating in the next. Bodies formed elegant arches, bending and twisting gracefully.
It looked all so sad.
As the phrase goes, one can feel the emotion of the dancer by the way he dances. The sync movements, continued on. The sad beats filled the hall continuously. As it continued, the feelings turned painful. Faster and faster it went and faster and faster they went.
Twirling, bending, hugging and groping.
Gracefully they went about, sadness radiating from them. The air thickened all around, and out of nowhere soft mist formed around the stage. However, they did not see to mind, not at all.
The music grew louder and louder, slowly reaching its peak. The shadows grew bigger and bigger by each beat. Their bodies growing taller and taller as the torches licked the air. The notes of the orchestra became more fervent and insistent.
There was a demand.
The music finally reached its highest peak. Lightning cracked outside, as if in response. One shadow rose powerfully into the air, cutting through the pain-ridden atmosphere.
So there they stood in complete silence, the music left hanging. Bodies bent, legs stretched and arms reaching. One lone silhouette above them all, sat upon the shoulder of the other, arms bent and head slightly cocked to the right. All of them were reaching, reaching for the non-existent.
A strong gust of wind spilled through the huge windows from up above the theater’s balconies. The torches once again flickered, momentarily distorting the long shadows.
Out of nowhere, whispering and vague voices pierced through the silence. The music had changed, as the orchestra once again began to play.
Death.
Requiem, the Mass for the Death, filled the theater. The dancers once again began to move…
…They slowly began to dance with death.
~
Francois de Latchet woke up with a jolt. Aged gray eyes scanned their dark surroundings, taking in the pitch darkness of it all (The green eyes of his old tabby cat, Rudolf, shone in the darkness). The 59-year-old castle caretaker frowned into the darkness. He felt a prickling sensation run down his back.
Before he knew it, he was rushing down the cold hall. His eyes darkened as the deathly sounds of Requiem reached his ears. His heartbeat quickened with foreboding, upon sensing the stony atmosphere. He just hoped it were students in the theater and not somebody…something else.
Mustering up all the strength that remained in his old age, the old man rounded the cobbled corner. The loud orchestral music and deep singing muted his footsteps. ‘Something’s not right’ mused the caretaker as he was overwhelmed by the deep emotions that emitted from the theater.
He felt the cold wind from the theater rushing against his nightclothes. ‘It just can’t be students…such emotions…’ observed Francois, now stopping by the ajar door. The singing was loud, the music was loud, and everything was so overwhelming.
Death was overwhelming.
“Fools,” muttered Francois, growing determined. Grasping the elegant handle, he swung open both doors with a mighty push.
Silence.
Francois de Latchet stood in the theater’s doorway of Mme. Shantels’ School of Performing Arts, a baffled expression etched on his face. Everything was silent and untouched, as if nothing had ever occurred. The theater was covered in total darkness and there was no trace whatsoever of any prior presence.
‘How?’ thought the old man, his heartbeat only increasing at the eerie silence. He supported himself against the golden doorframe, taking in the darkness. ‘Where are they?’
“Odd,” he muttered to himself. He closed the doors and slowly began to retreat to his quarters once more. His mind swirled with questions and his heart beat with fear as he entered his room.
“Perhaps it was a dream,” mumbled the man into his pillow, trying to assure himself of the bizarreness of it all. Though deep within his heart, he knew what was true.
A dream? No it was never a dream. Francois’ thoughts of it being real would have been proven, if he had stayed one more second he would have smelled the charred remains of the two torches.
posted by Betchai at 7:13 PM
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