Paganini fic ct'd...
Apr. 20th, 2006 01:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fenellaI'm almost afraid to post this, for fear of ruining a good thing. Anyways, for Imo - you've waited what, half a yearish? This is kind of an inbetween bit.
Part One can be found HERE.
<><><><>
Your Wish is My Wish – Entr’acte
<><><><>
Baby your wish is my wish
And I have only this
From now on
Baby your wish is my wish
Keep on running to the dawn
Keep on running to the door –
Keep on running to the dawn
- Sarah Slean
<><><><>
Nicolo is falling, alone and cold; his screams are smothered in thick velvet cloth - the kind that curtains are made of at the theatre - and his hands are bound with gold, tasseled rope.
He doesn’t remember his drunken ineloquence or the nights that he’s sold to shame: this very much the young Paganini of Genoa. Except that somewhere, Nicolo knows that he’s done something very wrong.
Waking is a struggle against a will stronger than his own and when Nicolo finally comes to, he’s curled up on a cold floor and his lungs are filled with the taste of cedar.
Even in the dark, Nicolo recognizes that he’s on-stage at the Parma opera house. There are candles flickering in the orchestra pit below him and the scene on stage is not quite half finished, with wood chips scattered all around.
Instinctively, Nicolo reaches out for something – although he doesn’t know what – and it isn’t there. He shrugs to himself as he stands up: if it’s not there, then it must not be very important. There’s a tug at Nicolo’s heart even as he thinks this, and although he can’t say why, he wants to scream that it isn’t true.
Scared and lost within his own mind, he calls out: “Hello?” Nicolo’s voice cracks, sounding young and thin; the sound disappears into the darkness of the house.
Silence.
After seconds that stretch into an eternity, there’s a soft rumble from the pit.
Nicolo stands, transfixed and center stage, as the orchestra fades into place. They seem to become real, more solid, as the music becomes louder, and louder until it’s nothing but deafening noise.
In front of them all is Alessandro Rollo with a manic glint in his eyes. He waves his players on, louder, faster, as if possessed.
Nicolo is suffocating again, this time he’s drowning in waves of strings and sound.
“Stop it!” He shouts at Rollo. “You’re hurting me!”
There’s no sign that Rollo’s heard him, or even knows that Nicolo exists.
“You’re killing me,” screams Nicolo.
Rollo doesn’t waver, his lips don’t move but Nicolo hears his voice perfectly, as it whispers at his ear.
“No, boy. You’ve killed yourself.”
Nicolo takes a deep breathe in and it hurts – gives him a rush.
“Am I dead?”
The silence is sudden, too sudden; it’s as if someone’s ripped out his lungs.
He moans in agony, clutching at his chest. “Is this Hell?”
There’s laughter. It’s hysterical and Nicolo’s sure that it isn’t his own; taunting, gleeful and horrible, it tears at his mind.
Rips and tears until he’s doubled over on the stage – weeping, sobbing – begging for forgiveness.
<><><><>
There were voices. A man’s - impatient, slightly sulky and heavily accented - and a woman’s, rich and amused.
“But what does he do?” Asked the man.
“He sleeps – that alone should be a novelty, for you.”
“I don’t trust those that sleep so deeply – you might say that they look, how would you say, dead to the world.”
There was a pause, and the woman was clearly trying not to laugh.
“It’s a good thing that you’re young and handsome – no one would have you based on personality alone. Your Italian is sadly lacking and though your manners can’t be faulted, your sense of humour-” her voice rose in mock horror. “My God Enrico, where were you raised: England?”
The man, Enrico, chose to ignore the latter. “I am handsome, aren’t I?”
“Yes, it must have been England. Not even a French man was ever so vain as you.”
Reassured – a duet, a comedy – the sleeping boy sank further into unconsciousness.
<><><><>
“You know, forgiveness has never been one of my strong points.”
There’s a cloaked man moving through the house towards the stage, taking the steps two at a time. He’s hurried but not at all rushed, and Nicolo would know that practiced, easy walk anywhere.
“Giovanni?”
The man smiles Giovanni’s smile up at him. “Not quite. How are you holding up, kid?”
“Not quite? What’s going on, Giovanni – why am I here?” Nicolo’s voice sounds thin and whiny, even to his own ears.
Giovanni tilts his head considering and there’s a strange glint in his eyes that isn’t quite the man that Nicolo knew.
“Who are you?”
Giovanni smiles - not his slow, catching smile but fast and wicked. “Would you believe me if I told you?”
Nicolo catches a flicker of something, a flash that’s both appealing and terrible, and suddenly he’s very scared.
“Why are you doing this?” Nicolo asks, scrambling to his feet - backwards, away.
The man is all Giovanni now: casual charm and good humour. “Oh, it’s much more fun this way.”
Nicolo stares – it’s all so familiar, and yet…
“So,” the thing that isn’t Giovanni begins conversationally. “I would have been here earlier – but my day’s been Hell.”
A bark of wicked laughter fills the theatre and echoes off the back walls.
“I swear,” begins Nicolo, “If you’ve hurt Giovanni in any way…”
The thing rolls its eyes. “You’ll what? Oh, please.”
Nicolo takes a step forwards, he’s glaring.
Giovanni’s smooth hands are raised in mock surrender. “I assure you that Signore Servetto has not been hurt.”
There’s a pause, and then an ironic laugh is thrown at Nicolo’s face.
“You have my word.”
And then it was gone.
<><><><>
When Paganini woke up, he wanted his mother or Giovanni. He wanted comfort – someone of substance, of flesh and blood.
Instead he had fancy linen and a big candle-lit room, nausea and a strange man watching him intently.
“Where am I?” asked Nicolo.
The man, who was leaning against the doorframe, raised a pale eyebrow. “You’re safe.”
Paganini fought off a headache as he tried to place the voice – it sounded familiar.
“Are you Enrico?”
The other eyebrow slid upwards to match the first. “I am.”
“Tell me where I am,” demanded Nicolo as he struggled to sit up.
Enrico started forwards. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Great,” Nicolo grimaced. “You do know that abduction is a crime, right?”
“That’s not --” Enrico shook his head, and the attempt to follow the motion made Nicolo irrationally dizzy.
The other man reached the bed just as Nicolo lost the battle to keep down the bile that had been rising in his throat.
When Nicolo felt steady enough to open his eyes again, Enrico was grinning ruefully at a fair lady in big skirts, who had appeared at the doorway with a maid closely behind.
“Well, he does something else now.”
<><><><>
It was light out, when he woke again. The window was open and his room smelt slightly of – Nicolo felt himself go weak with shame: how old was he, seven?
This was ridiculous, he wasn’t an invalid – he was a violinist. Paganini.
His clothes were laid out on a chair beside the bed and he was making valiant efforts to stand up when the woman from the night before appeared by his side.
“It’s good to see you awake,” she said with a smile.
She was a small blonde woman with a large air of certainty about her and, by Nicolo’s guess, in her early thirties.
“Good for you, perhaps.” Nicolo scowled. “You’re not the captive.”
The woman’s stare was unflinching and Nicolo felt the sudden need to shrink a few inches as she spoke; he was the first to break eye-contact.
“What, no ‘Thank you’?” Her voice was even.
“Yes, I’m sorry – Thank you for the well conceived abduction,” said Nicolo.
“As sincere as that is,” she began sweetly, “I was thinking more along the lines of taking you in when others wanted to leave you for dead – or rather, ensure your death themselves – for paying your numerous and large debts, and for, in general, caring.”
Nicolo gaped. “I didn’t ask for - I don’t even know who you are.”
“Fair enough,” the woman nodded at him. “I’m Amadora – the man who punched you, or at least the last man, was my brother. I doubt you remember, but he hired you to play for my niece’s birthday.”
Nicolo tilted his head. “I remember. Vaguely.”
“That surprises me – I didn’t know that someone your age could be so drunk.”
“Yeah, well,” Nicolo paused to rub his swollen jaw. “Nice brother you have.”
Amadora shrugged, an unlady-like gesture, before turning to leave.
“Senorita,” called Nicolo after her. “Might I have my violin?”
She stopped and turned, her lips slightly apart. Then, “Don’t you remember?”
“Remember what?”
“Paganini, you sold it.”
“Oh.” He faltered. “Do you have one I could borrow?”
She eyed him, considering, before leaving once more.
“No.”
<><><><>
Part One can be found HERE.
<><><><>
Your Wish is My Wish – Entr’acte
<><><><>
Baby your wish is my wish
And I have only this
From now on
Baby your wish is my wish
Keep on running to the dawn
Keep on running to the door –
Keep on running to the dawn
- Sarah Slean
<><><><>
Nicolo is falling, alone and cold; his screams are smothered in thick velvet cloth - the kind that curtains are made of at the theatre - and his hands are bound with gold, tasseled rope.
He doesn’t remember his drunken ineloquence or the nights that he’s sold to shame: this very much the young Paganini of Genoa. Except that somewhere, Nicolo knows that he’s done something very wrong.
Waking is a struggle against a will stronger than his own and when Nicolo finally comes to, he’s curled up on a cold floor and his lungs are filled with the taste of cedar.
Even in the dark, Nicolo recognizes that he’s on-stage at the Parma opera house. There are candles flickering in the orchestra pit below him and the scene on stage is not quite half finished, with wood chips scattered all around.
Instinctively, Nicolo reaches out for something – although he doesn’t know what – and it isn’t there. He shrugs to himself as he stands up: if it’s not there, then it must not be very important. There’s a tug at Nicolo’s heart even as he thinks this, and although he can’t say why, he wants to scream that it isn’t true.
Scared and lost within his own mind, he calls out: “Hello?” Nicolo’s voice cracks, sounding young and thin; the sound disappears into the darkness of the house.
Silence.
After seconds that stretch into an eternity, there’s a soft rumble from the pit.
Nicolo stands, transfixed and center stage, as the orchestra fades into place. They seem to become real, more solid, as the music becomes louder, and louder until it’s nothing but deafening noise.
In front of them all is Alessandro Rollo with a manic glint in his eyes. He waves his players on, louder, faster, as if possessed.
Nicolo is suffocating again, this time he’s drowning in waves of strings and sound.
“Stop it!” He shouts at Rollo. “You’re hurting me!”
There’s no sign that Rollo’s heard him, or even knows that Nicolo exists.
“You’re killing me,” screams Nicolo.
Rollo doesn’t waver, his lips don’t move but Nicolo hears his voice perfectly, as it whispers at his ear.
“No, boy. You’ve killed yourself.”
Nicolo takes a deep breathe in and it hurts – gives him a rush.
“Am I dead?”
The silence is sudden, too sudden; it’s as if someone’s ripped out his lungs.
He moans in agony, clutching at his chest. “Is this Hell?”
There’s laughter. It’s hysterical and Nicolo’s sure that it isn’t his own; taunting, gleeful and horrible, it tears at his mind.
Rips and tears until he’s doubled over on the stage – weeping, sobbing – begging for forgiveness.
<><><><>
There were voices. A man’s - impatient, slightly sulky and heavily accented - and a woman’s, rich and amused.
“But what does he do?” Asked the man.
“He sleeps – that alone should be a novelty, for you.”
“I don’t trust those that sleep so deeply – you might say that they look, how would you say, dead to the world.”
There was a pause, and the woman was clearly trying not to laugh.
“It’s a good thing that you’re young and handsome – no one would have you based on personality alone. Your Italian is sadly lacking and though your manners can’t be faulted, your sense of humour-” her voice rose in mock horror. “My God Enrico, where were you raised: England?”
The man, Enrico, chose to ignore the latter. “I am handsome, aren’t I?”
“Yes, it must have been England. Not even a French man was ever so vain as you.”
Reassured – a duet, a comedy – the sleeping boy sank further into unconsciousness.
<><><><>
“You know, forgiveness has never been one of my strong points.”
There’s a cloaked man moving through the house towards the stage, taking the steps two at a time. He’s hurried but not at all rushed, and Nicolo would know that practiced, easy walk anywhere.
“Giovanni?”
The man smiles Giovanni’s smile up at him. “Not quite. How are you holding up, kid?”
“Not quite? What’s going on, Giovanni – why am I here?” Nicolo’s voice sounds thin and whiny, even to his own ears.
Giovanni tilts his head considering and there’s a strange glint in his eyes that isn’t quite the man that Nicolo knew.
“Who are you?”
Giovanni smiles - not his slow, catching smile but fast and wicked. “Would you believe me if I told you?”
Nicolo catches a flicker of something, a flash that’s both appealing and terrible, and suddenly he’s very scared.
“Why are you doing this?” Nicolo asks, scrambling to his feet - backwards, away.
The man is all Giovanni now: casual charm and good humour. “Oh, it’s much more fun this way.”
Nicolo stares – it’s all so familiar, and yet…
“So,” the thing that isn’t Giovanni begins conversationally. “I would have been here earlier – but my day’s been Hell.”
A bark of wicked laughter fills the theatre and echoes off the back walls.
“I swear,” begins Nicolo, “If you’ve hurt Giovanni in any way…”
The thing rolls its eyes. “You’ll what? Oh, please.”
Nicolo takes a step forwards, he’s glaring.
Giovanni’s smooth hands are raised in mock surrender. “I assure you that Signore Servetto has not been hurt.”
There’s a pause, and then an ironic laugh is thrown at Nicolo’s face.
“You have my word.”
And then it was gone.
<><><><>
When Paganini woke up, he wanted his mother or Giovanni. He wanted comfort – someone of substance, of flesh and blood.
Instead he had fancy linen and a big candle-lit room, nausea and a strange man watching him intently.
“Where am I?” asked Nicolo.
The man, who was leaning against the doorframe, raised a pale eyebrow. “You’re safe.”
Paganini fought off a headache as he tried to place the voice – it sounded familiar.
“Are you Enrico?”
The other eyebrow slid upwards to match the first. “I am.”
“Tell me where I am,” demanded Nicolo as he struggled to sit up.
Enrico started forwards. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Great,” Nicolo grimaced. “You do know that abduction is a crime, right?”
“That’s not --” Enrico shook his head, and the attempt to follow the motion made Nicolo irrationally dizzy.
The other man reached the bed just as Nicolo lost the battle to keep down the bile that had been rising in his throat.
When Nicolo felt steady enough to open his eyes again, Enrico was grinning ruefully at a fair lady in big skirts, who had appeared at the doorway with a maid closely behind.
“Well, he does something else now.”
<><><><>
It was light out, when he woke again. The window was open and his room smelt slightly of – Nicolo felt himself go weak with shame: how old was he, seven?
This was ridiculous, he wasn’t an invalid – he was a violinist. Paganini.
His clothes were laid out on a chair beside the bed and he was making valiant efforts to stand up when the woman from the night before appeared by his side.
“It’s good to see you awake,” she said with a smile.
She was a small blonde woman with a large air of certainty about her and, by Nicolo’s guess, in her early thirties.
“Good for you, perhaps.” Nicolo scowled. “You’re not the captive.”
The woman’s stare was unflinching and Nicolo felt the sudden need to shrink a few inches as she spoke; he was the first to break eye-contact.
“What, no ‘Thank you’?” Her voice was even.
“Yes, I’m sorry – Thank you for the well conceived abduction,” said Nicolo.
“As sincere as that is,” she began sweetly, “I was thinking more along the lines of taking you in when others wanted to leave you for dead – or rather, ensure your death themselves – for paying your numerous and large debts, and for, in general, caring.”
Nicolo gaped. “I didn’t ask for - I don’t even know who you are.”
“Fair enough,” the woman nodded at him. “I’m Amadora – the man who punched you, or at least the last man, was my brother. I doubt you remember, but he hired you to play for my niece’s birthday.”
Nicolo tilted his head. “I remember. Vaguely.”
“That surprises me – I didn’t know that someone your age could be so drunk.”
“Yeah, well,” Nicolo paused to rub his swollen jaw. “Nice brother you have.”
Amadora shrugged, an unlady-like gesture, before turning to leave.
“Senorita,” called Nicolo after her. “Might I have my violin?”
She stopped and turned, her lips slightly apart. Then, “Don’t you remember?”
“Remember what?”
“Paganini, you sold it.”
“Oh.” He faltered. “Do you have one I could borrow?”
She eyed him, considering, before leaving once more.
“No.”
<><><><>
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
boy's lost his love (violin)
Date: 2006-04-21 02:56 am (UTC)But yeah-- angst, lost violins (that tugged at my heartstrings), cool non-canon characters, a disturbingly possesed Giovanni, weird dreams and visions, and the entrance of Henry.
Keep it coming. *happy sigh* I really hope someone gives the poor boy a violin soon.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-21 11:31 pm (UTC)And yaye. And yaye again.