Dido's Lament

Oil lamps lit the cobblestone streets as the crowd of well-dressed opera goers filed into the brightly lit opera house. It was a grand age for the Paris Opera House. In the past 10 years the Opera House had become an international craze. Ambassadors from eastern Asia, as well as the United States came to watch the famed Paris opera house, with it’s beautiful opera star, Christine LeFant.
Christine had captivated audiences when she performed Madame Butterfly in the spring of 1866. Since then she’d been the lead in every show the Opera House had done. Her voice had filled the building. Even the laborers in the rafters could enjoy the aria’s she sung so beautifully. A Paris newspaper had remarked that listening to Christine’s voice was like listening to the voice of God’s Angels. If they only knew.
Christine even looked the part of an Angel. Her skin was as pale as snow, which only made her bright red hair even brighter. Her crystal blue eyes blazed out from under her brow. Her pink lips looked like soft rose petals, and were just as soft. When she spoke her voice was soft and comforting, no matter what mood one might be in. That’s what everyone saw, everyone… who didn’t know.
Humans lived in their blissful world of ignorance. To the world it seemed as though they went through their blissful lives, uninterrupted by a life beyond. They believed that God was someone they worshiped and whom they asked for good tidings to pass to them from the Heavens beyond. The told stories of hell, and of demons, and of vampires, to scare young children, but never believed them. Their false sense of reality was and still remains quite different than what the reality truly is.
While the Humans lived in their world of lavish extravagance, and whimsical fancies, the truth was, they were in the middle of a cold war that had been raging since the beginning of the world. The things they feared most, demons, vampires, witches, they prowled the earth hunting for the souls of the very humans who refused to acknowledge their existence. The only thing preventing them from achieving their goal were the Angels of the Heavenly Father, who watched, waited and protected.
The war had all but ground to a halt it seemed, and yet the legions of darkness still roamed freely. We watched, and in many cases intervined on behalf of humanity, destroying and sending them back to their master.
This night, however, this night, in December of 1877, was free of sin and darkness. Tonight was one to enjoy, as Christine once again took the stage as Dido, in Henry Purcell’s “Dido and Aneas”. It was an aged opera to the mind of 1877 Paris, but a classic none-the-less. The fact that Christine was once again the lead brought flocks of people to the Opera House. There was not an empty seat in the house, and as the Ovature started the crowd of people hushed and the lights dimmed. The orchestra played well, all their instruments in tune, except for the third chair tuba player, but then he always had a bit of an off ear.
The curtain went up and the tragedy started. Dido and Aneas, two lovers, until Dido discovers that Aneas is a God and can’t be with her, but by that point it’s nearly the final act. That’s when Christine took the stage. I had sensed several other sources of power, but in the bliss of the evening, I abandon my usual cautiousness and suspiciousness and ignored the warning. I waived them off as Earth Bounds, or Empaths. If only I’d acted sooner.
Christine finished the recitative that takes place before the grieving aria, known as “Dido’s Lament.” Her blue eyes turned towards me and in that moment I saw her take on a longing. As she began the song, I took it as merely part of her character. That she was taking on the sorrow of Dido’s character, by imagining that she was saying goodbye to me. It wasn’t until she reached the “B” section when she began to sing the remember me, that her voice seemed like it choked. To normal human ears it sounded perfect, but I had been listening to Christine for centuries, and I knew her voice better than I knew my own.
“Remember me,” She sang, her voice choaking as she did, ever so slightly, it caught in her throat before being released to the world, “Remember me, but oh, forget my fate!” As Christine sang those words to me I saw the sparkle of tears welling up in her eyes.
I felt myself tense, every muscle in my body went tight, and I felt like leaping out of my seat in the boxes, and rushing to her side to comfort her. Never once did I realize that she was sending me a message. It wasn’t until she sang the words the second time, and her voice began wavering that I realized, she was truly saying goodbye.
Again, this time softer, the words came, and a tear fell down her cheak. She closed her eyes, and the redness came to her pale skin. Her tears fell down her cheeks, leaving a mark too faint for mortals to have detected. Her bottom lip trembled, as her hands shook. As she said the words the final time, her hand lifted up to where I sat, seemingly locked in my seat. She extended her fingers, and I longed for nothing more than to place my hand in the soft embrace of her fingers. Then as the orchestra kicked up to play the end, and the curtain closed, Christine turned and left the stage.
I leapt up as the crowd applauded furiously. I rushed down the stairs, which led me into the lobby, and from there I proceeded backstage. I knew the route well, I had lived there for years and as I rushed through the hall that would lead me to the backstage entrance, a great pain came over my heart, and I gripped my chest. I gripped it through my fine clothes. The pain was great, greater than anything I had felt in my existence. It felt as though someone were piercing it with a sharp dagger. I thought I heard a scream in that moment and I struggled back to my feet, and continued running.
When I reached the backstage entrance, the guard was gone and so I burst through. I let the door go and it flew back on its hinges and slammed against the wall. The commotion I entered was great. People rushed around and there was a great chatter. I pushed through them until I found the Opera’s stage manager.
“Where’s Christine?” I demanded.
The man’s face was pure shock and I could see where the tears had fallen down his cheeks. They were recent, and as I gripped his shoulder and demanded the same information a second time, his face grew fearful. I felt my eyes turn, and I felt my teeth lengthen. I exposed my true form in front of them all, and as I stormed through backstage calling her name, people cleared out of my way faster than I expected a mortal could move.
I pushed through them, moving toward a group of people standing in a circle around something. One of the large stage hands tried to stop me, but the only thing I remember about him was him hitting a piece of the set with a loud crash as I continued through the crowd. I expected something, but nothing in my entire life could have prepared me for what I was about to see.
I pushed through the crowd to the front, where I collapsed. I felt as though my heart had been torn out. All I could do was cry the red tears of blood. I did not wail, I merely clenched my teeth together and grieved. My stomach was in knots and I rocked back and forth before I moved closer to her. Her tender white body, her fire red hair, she was spread out and lay motionless, but not a drop of blood stained her skin, save for 2 small puncture wounds in the right side of her soft, tender neck.
I crawled to her, and cradled her head in my lap. Her soft red hair I gently petted as I gazed down into her glazed over blue eyes, but even glazed as they were they were still bright, and still vibrant. I looked around, my mind searching for an explination into how all this happened? How had my angel just been struck down? Around her were feathers. Grief took me, and the world seemed to melt away except for her lifeless body, and myself cradling her.
No words can describe the true pain that I felt as I held her, as the reality of her death sank in. The pain, both physical and emotional, that I felt as I leaned my head back and cried to God. How could he have let this happen, to someone so devote, someone so loyal to him. Blood had dropped from my face to hers, and I rubbed her cheek with my thumb to wipe it off. I felt as though I could die right there with her. I wanted to, I felt lost! I didn’t know what I was going to do as I realized that the rest of my life would be spent without her.
Minutes passed like hours, and the overwhelming feeling of grief changed into a feeling of anger, of a deep desire for revenge. I felt such a feeling of rage, that I can not now describe it’s full torment. It was a fire burning inside of me. Nothing was safe from my wrath. It consumed my body completely, and I stared up at the mortals who stood around sobbing silently. They had always nurtured and cared for Christine, as she had brought them fortune, but to me they were just as responsible as anyone for what happened. Christine lay slain and none of them had done anything to prevent it from happening.
My eyes first fell on a poor old woman who stood sobbing. She was Christine’s costume maker, and part time maid. She had become a mother to Christine, as Christine had become a warm and caring soul in this old woman’s lonely life. She had been kind to her, nurtured her, but in that moment, none of that mattered.
In one move, too fast for human eyes to have seen, I laid Christine’s head back on the earth before leaping across the open space, grabbing her and sinking my teeth into her neck. Her warm, wet life drained into my mouth, and I felt herself half-heartedly struggling against me before going limp. I pulled my mouth from her neck and and gasped for air, I saw everyone frozen in place out of sheer horror. I felt the warmth of her life, bring my pale skin color, and I felt my limbs regenerate, and become stronger. I moved to the next victim of my blind rage, who happened to be a young girl who was a member of the ballet troupe, and again I sank my teeth into her neck.
I knew that Christine would not want this, but I had lost my reason. I had gone mad, and in that madness I could feel only hatred and I could only see the redness of the blood that pumped through all of their veins. I felt their hearts beating, I could sense their fear, and I thrived off it. I moved from person to person, until I felt invincible. I felt as though I could destroy the world, but for now the Paris Opera house would have to do.
I rushed, faster than any eye could track me, to the top of the Opera house. Along the ceiling ran a long platform, where the stage hands would have access to the wheel used for raising and lowering the chandelier for lighting it. I remember a stage-hand attempting to stop me, but I all I remember of him is the distinct cracks of his neck breaking. I kicked in the oak door, a task that proved to be easy for me, as all the blood I’d fed on had given me the strength of ten men. I stormed over to the wheel, and located the wooden pin that held the wheel in place, which kept the chandelier elevated safely above the crowd. With a simple pull I ripped it out and threw it across the room.
As soon as I pulled the round wooden peg out, the wheel began to spin quickly, and from outside I could hear the screams and paniced cries of the audience members, as the chandelier fell and crashed down upon them. I didn’t care how many of them I killed, in face the more I killed the better! I hated them all, the entire pathetic race! How could I have spent so long defending them, when I should have let them all burn!
‘And tonight they all will!’ I thought maliciously as I rushed for the doors.
I moved with the speed of ten horses, and as the crowd trampled to the doors, like a startled heard of wildebeests running from a watering hole. I heard them screaming and crying, and I did not care. I thrived on their fear of imminent doom. The flames from the chandelier had started spreading as the seats caught fire. Smoke began fill the Opera House, and as the crowd made it to the doors, I heard them begin pounding on them. More cries rang out as the crowd realized that they had been locked in.
The stagehands tried for the back exits, only to discover that they were locked too. Panic broke out as the flames spread, soon the entire orchestra pit was engulfed. Smoke filled the Opera House, as soon the fire spread from the orchestra pit and started to crawl up the curtains. I watched from the balcony high above them. The smoke seemed to poison them worse than the flames did. People coughed, and their screams for help were cut off by their gasping for air. Somewhere a window was broken and the smoke billowed out, but there was no way to get all of the lavishly dressed people out of it in time. I heard the distant bells of the Paris Fire Brigade, but I knew they would be able to do nothing. The fire was too far along now, and there was nothing to be done, except let it burn. Let it all burn!
Burn… I thought about their charred remains, the ashes of their clothes clinging to the blackened, soot stained skeletons. Maybe, here or there some flesh might escape the blaze, but no life would be spared. Perhaps the best victory out of all of this was that with their bodies burned, they would be hard pressed to enter the Gates of Heaven. Cremation was not the proper way of burial, though it seemed to be gaining in popularity. Now none of them would be able to meet the Father they had all hoped to.
As I stood grinning evilly down upon my helpless victims, I remembered Christine’s body. Her pale skin, her red hair. She was still laying on the floor back stage. I rushed, fearing that the flames had already consumed her and that she too, the most deserving of anyone there, would be damned from the Gates of the Father she had served so long and so faithfully. I charged down, and leapt through the flames. I felt the heat on my body, but I did not care. I found her, laying just out of the flames reach, but well within it’s path. I knew that as much as I might have liked to stay and die with the rest of the victims I’d condemned that night, I had a higher duty. Christine had taught me that, I had a higher duty to bury her. To give her the ability to achieve Heaven.
I lifted her body as though she weighed nothing. I found one of the back doors that the stage hands had given up on, and kicked it open. Smoke came billowing out as though it were sucked out by a vacume. I coughed slightly myself, but I continued walking forward into the night carrying the body of the purest, sweetest person to have ever graced the Earth with her presence. As the Paris Opera House burned behind me, I treaded into the night, to bury my heart, my soul, and the only thing that allowed me to go on living all these years.