Gankutsuou Fan Fiction ❯ Gankutsuou Reborn ❯ The Nightingale In A Gilded Cage ( Prologue )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
GANKUTSUOU REBORN
© August 20, 2005 By Rory V. Pascual
© August 20, 2005 By Rory V. Pascual
PROLOGUE: The Nightingale In A Gilded Cage
La Decadenza was packed to the rafters, the crowd an odd mixture of the genteel and the unsavory, who for once were attired in the finery of the rich. It was a special evening after all. A talented concert pianist and her tour manager were esteemed guests that night, both eager to listen to the voice of the 'Nightingale of Luna.'
The young singer peeked nervously through the curtains from backstage. Sure enough, the beautiful pianist was seated at the table closest to the stage and the grand piano. Tintoretto, the owner of the nightclub, was fawning over the woman and her manager in the hopes that she would accompany him on a song.
"If he is as good as they say," he was disheartened to see her mouth the words with a haughty air, "I see no reason why not."
His hands tightened around the music sheets he held, songs that the woman played in every concert and that Tintoretto had forced him to learn. Most of them were solos from famous Paris operas. However, what had caught his interest was a song with no title and no words – a composition of the pianist herself. Somehow, the music score had been mixed with the others that the manager had given to Tintoretto. On a rare moment of privacy, for the depraved Italian would never let him out of his sight, he snuck down to the empty club from their suite upstairs, and played and hummed along to the sad melody on the piano for the entire evening. Great was his love for the song that he found himself writing the lyrics to it.
By the light of the gas lamp, he read the title he had carefully scribbled at the top of the sheet music – "We Were Lovers". He feared that the young woman would be angered by his presumptuousness. But if he were to sing one song for her this eve, it would be this.
As he peeked through the curtains once more, he saw Signore Gasparde raise his glass in a toast to him, followed by a red, wet tongue that licked his fat lips with utter lasciviousness. He yanked the curtains close in an instant. He had completely forgotten that Gasparde had paid handsomely for his other 'services' after the show.
It was this that made his life at La Decadenza a miserable existence. True, he was known by all as the 'Nightingale of Luna', but he was also a common whore. Although gifted with an angelic voice, he was cursed with a physical beauty that was exotic and exquisite. His skin was tinged a light shade of blue with pointed ears, characteristics indicating that he was of Janina heritage, although he knew absolutely nothing about that alien race or of his past. Long lashes fluttered over mismatched eyes – the left gold, the other blood red. Add the long ebony mane that reached down to the curves of his buttocks, and you have an unearthly beauty that was most sought after by the rich and powerful of Luna…for as long as they paid the price that Tintoretto demanded.
He held his shoulders tightly to quell his shudders, his eyes squeezing shut. No, I will not be trapped in this gilded cage forever. With firm resolve, he glanced at the pianist once more. You shall see how good I truly am, Madam. Once you realize the power of my voice, it shall be you who will help me gain freedom from this accursed place.
A strong hand suddenly gripped his arm, wrenching him around so that he faced his owner and master, Claudio Tintoretto.
"Don't fuck up, my precious," Tintoretto hissed in his ear, lapsing into the crude language of the lowborn. "That crowd out there paid well to hear you sing. Let's not disappoint them, shall we?"
"I hope you had spoken to Signore Gasparde as I had requested you to," he told the Italian in turn. "I've heard that he contracted a disease from one of the whores at Villa Cascali. I will not be laid up in bed for close to a month because he refused to wear protection."
"I did not know that." Tintoretto had been furious at that time when he found out that he could not bed his beloved whore. He shrugged casually, playing with the curling tip of his bushy mustache. "I'd better return his money then and inform him that you'll be entertaining special guests. With the full house we have tonight, we could do without his money this time."
"Thank you," he said in visible relief.
"However…" Tintoretto pinched his prized songbird's chin between his fingertips. "This means that I would have you all to myself later on. I expect you to make yourself pretty for me, my sweet."
Although a rough and insatiable man in bed, the Italian was a better alternative to the diseased Gasparde. With a faux smile on his lips, he answered, "I will, my Master."
Tintoretto gave him a hard slap on the behind. "Now, go in there, boy, and wow that crowd."
With a nod, he took three deep breaths to calm his nerves. As the emcee announced his name, he strode out onto the stage to the claps and cheers of the club's regular patrons. To his dismay, however, there was no such response from the elite in the audience. Even the pianist paid no attention to him, busy as she was speaking angrily to her manager, waving a letter in her hand.
"Why did you only give this to me now?" she whispered harshly. "You kept this letter for three months, LeFortin! He must think that I'm mad at him!"
The flustered manager tried to placate his furious talent, but she had fallen into sullen silence. He was stunned to see the tears limning her lovely eyes.
So much sadness in those beautiful eyes…
It was only then that he sensed the deep hush that had fallen around him. Ghostly faces stared back at him, impatient eyes glowing in the dim lights of the club. The musicians were waiting for his signal to begin playing. Backstage, Tintoretto was gesturing madly for him to "Sing! SING!"
His mismatched eyes focused once more upon the sad young woman before him. The resentment he had felt for her earlier was replaced by concern and the strong desire to see her smile.
Then his lips parted, his voice faltering at those first few notes, as he sang, "Harsh words were said, and lies were told instead. I didn't ever mean to make you cry…."
The woman's head lifted at once at those first lines, her eyes widening as she stared at his face. Various emotions crossed her beautiful face – anger, shock, disbelief, fear… What reason does she have to fear him?
Do not be afraid, he poured that soothing thought into the song. I only want to make you happy.
Strong was his wish to please that his voice soared with every note like an eagle in flight. Such was the power of his song that it touched the hardest of hearts among the audience. Signore Gasparde, he saw, was continuously dabbing the corners of his eyes with a lacy handkerchief.
As what usually happened when he gave the whole of himself to a song, everything around him faded away into nothingness. Only he and the music existed. But the song had an end. Still, he sustained that final note for as long as he could.
Returning to the here and now to the roar of the crowd, he found the young pianist standing in front of him on stage, her eyes wet with her tears.
Thinking he had angered her, he bowed in haste, stammering, "Please forgive me! I fell in love with your composition the first time I played it on the piano. Such a beautiful song should possess words to express itself more, so I dared to… I'm so sorry for my impertinence!"
"Count?"
His head lifted, hearing that tremulous query.
"You…" she breathed out the word. "The Count of Monte Cristo…"
So her fear had a name. Giving her a most kind smile, he said, "I'm afraid I am no nobleman, Madame. I am but a humble singer in a Luna nightclub."
"You dare to describe yourself 'humble' with a voice like that?" she declared hotly, shocked by his timidity. "You sell yourself too short. Have you no idea of the talent that you possess?"
He stared at her blankly, unsure of how he should reply.
The pianist then smiled at him reassuringly. "My piano had only accompanied the best sopranos, tenors and baritones in the galaxy. I consider you to be among them." She raised an inviting hand to him. Winking, she asked, "Shall we do it right this time, Monsieur Etienne Delacroix?"
Beaming with happiness, he accepted her hand and nodded. "It will be my pleasure, Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars."
La Decadenza was packed to the rafters, the crowd an odd mixture of the genteel and the unsavory, who for once were attired in the finery of the rich. It was a special evening after all. A talented concert pianist and her tour manager were esteemed guests that night, both eager to listen to the voice of the 'Nightingale of Luna.'
The young singer peeked nervously through the curtains from backstage. Sure enough, the beautiful pianist was seated at the table closest to the stage and the grand piano. Tintoretto, the owner of the nightclub, was fawning over the woman and her manager in the hopes that she would accompany him on a song.
"If he is as good as they say," he was disheartened to see her mouth the words with a haughty air, "I see no reason why not."
His hands tightened around the music sheets he held, songs that the woman played in every concert and that Tintoretto had forced him to learn. Most of them were solos from famous Paris operas. However, what had caught his interest was a song with no title and no words – a composition of the pianist herself. Somehow, the music score had been mixed with the others that the manager had given to Tintoretto. On a rare moment of privacy, for the depraved Italian would never let him out of his sight, he snuck down to the empty club from their suite upstairs, and played and hummed along to the sad melody on the piano for the entire evening. Great was his love for the song that he found himself writing the lyrics to it.
By the light of the gas lamp, he read the title he had carefully scribbled at the top of the sheet music – "We Were Lovers". He feared that the young woman would be angered by his presumptuousness. But if he were to sing one song for her this eve, it would be this.
As he peeked through the curtains once more, he saw Signore Gasparde raise his glass in a toast to him, followed by a red, wet tongue that licked his fat lips with utter lasciviousness. He yanked the curtains close in an instant. He had completely forgotten that Gasparde had paid handsomely for his other 'services' after the show.
It was this that made his life at La Decadenza a miserable existence. True, he was known by all as the 'Nightingale of Luna', but he was also a common whore. Although gifted with an angelic voice, he was cursed with a physical beauty that was exotic and exquisite. His skin was tinged a light shade of blue with pointed ears, characteristics indicating that he was of Janina heritage, although he knew absolutely nothing about that alien race or of his past. Long lashes fluttered over mismatched eyes – the left gold, the other blood red. Add the long ebony mane that reached down to the curves of his buttocks, and you have an unearthly beauty that was most sought after by the rich and powerful of Luna…for as long as they paid the price that Tintoretto demanded.
He held his shoulders tightly to quell his shudders, his eyes squeezing shut. No, I will not be trapped in this gilded cage forever. With firm resolve, he glanced at the pianist once more. You shall see how good I truly am, Madam. Once you realize the power of my voice, it shall be you who will help me gain freedom from this accursed place.
A strong hand suddenly gripped his arm, wrenching him around so that he faced his owner and master, Claudio Tintoretto.
"Don't fuck up, my precious," Tintoretto hissed in his ear, lapsing into the crude language of the lowborn. "That crowd out there paid well to hear you sing. Let's not disappoint them, shall we?"
"I hope you had spoken to Signore Gasparde as I had requested you to," he told the Italian in turn. "I've heard that he contracted a disease from one of the whores at Villa Cascali. I will not be laid up in bed for close to a month because he refused to wear protection."
"I did not know that." Tintoretto had been furious at that time when he found out that he could not bed his beloved whore. He shrugged casually, playing with the curling tip of his bushy mustache. "I'd better return his money then and inform him that you'll be entertaining special guests. With the full house we have tonight, we could do without his money this time."
"Thank you," he said in visible relief.
"However…" Tintoretto pinched his prized songbird's chin between his fingertips. "This means that I would have you all to myself later on. I expect you to make yourself pretty for me, my sweet."
Although a rough and insatiable man in bed, the Italian was a better alternative to the diseased Gasparde. With a faux smile on his lips, he answered, "I will, my Master."
Tintoretto gave him a hard slap on the behind. "Now, go in there, boy, and wow that crowd."
With a nod, he took three deep breaths to calm his nerves. As the emcee announced his name, he strode out onto the stage to the claps and cheers of the club's regular patrons. To his dismay, however, there was no such response from the elite in the audience. Even the pianist paid no attention to him, busy as she was speaking angrily to her manager, waving a letter in her hand.
"Why did you only give this to me now?" she whispered harshly. "You kept this letter for three months, LeFortin! He must think that I'm mad at him!"
The flustered manager tried to placate his furious talent, but she had fallen into sullen silence. He was stunned to see the tears limning her lovely eyes.
So much sadness in those beautiful eyes…
It was only then that he sensed the deep hush that had fallen around him. Ghostly faces stared back at him, impatient eyes glowing in the dim lights of the club. The musicians were waiting for his signal to begin playing. Backstage, Tintoretto was gesturing madly for him to "Sing! SING!"
His mismatched eyes focused once more upon the sad young woman before him. The resentment he had felt for her earlier was replaced by concern and the strong desire to see her smile.
Then his lips parted, his voice faltering at those first few notes, as he sang, "Harsh words were said, and lies were told instead. I didn't ever mean to make you cry…."
The woman's head lifted at once at those first lines, her eyes widening as she stared at his face. Various emotions crossed her beautiful face – anger, shock, disbelief, fear… What reason does she have to fear him?
Do not be afraid, he poured that soothing thought into the song. I only want to make you happy.
Strong was his wish to please that his voice soared with every note like an eagle in flight. Such was the power of his song that it touched the hardest of hearts among the audience. Signore Gasparde, he saw, was continuously dabbing the corners of his eyes with a lacy handkerchief.
As what usually happened when he gave the whole of himself to a song, everything around him faded away into nothingness. Only he and the music existed. But the song had an end. Still, he sustained that final note for as long as he could.
Returning to the here and now to the roar of the crowd, he found the young pianist standing in front of him on stage, her eyes wet with her tears.
Thinking he had angered her, he bowed in haste, stammering, "Please forgive me! I fell in love with your composition the first time I played it on the piano. Such a beautiful song should possess words to express itself more, so I dared to… I'm so sorry for my impertinence!"
"Count?"
His head lifted, hearing that tremulous query.
"You…" she breathed out the word. "The Count of Monte Cristo…"
So her fear had a name. Giving her a most kind smile, he said, "I'm afraid I am no nobleman, Madame. I am but a humble singer in a Luna nightclub."
"You dare to describe yourself 'humble' with a voice like that?" she declared hotly, shocked by his timidity. "You sell yourself too short. Have you no idea of the talent that you possess?"
He stared at her blankly, unsure of how he should reply.
The pianist then smiled at him reassuringly. "My piano had only accompanied the best sopranos, tenors and baritones in the galaxy. I consider you to be among them." She raised an inviting hand to him. Winking, she asked, "Shall we do it right this time, Monsieur Etienne Delacroix?"
Beaming with happiness, he accepted her hand and nodded. "It will be my pleasure, Mademoiselle Eugenie Danglars."
* * * * * * * * * *