SorceressCirce's Gift

My dearest Karin,

You have been an unbelievable friend and coauthor for over a year now.  I can't imagine how different things would be if I didn't know you - which makes me so incredibly glad that we stalked each other through JOotG and ATDE and then decided to try our hand at Tattward together.  I can't thank you enough for everything...or tell you enough how much I love you.  Just know that I do, and I'm here if you need anything at all.

This story is a little different.  EchoesOfTwilight gave me the picture prompt and "violin" was one of the original word prompts and, well...you'll see.  I hope you enjoy it!

Have a beautiful, wonderful day, love!

Jen 

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History

The past is a force unto itself, shaping a person’s actions, thoughts… even his potential – to love, to change.

Now that my own past has well and thoroughly fucked me, I find it directing my footsteps, leading me far away from my native Houston.


I would like to say that I chose my new home of my own free will, but that’s a lie.

Another memory has guided me here – a memory of firelight and my mother’s arms.  Warmth and Charles Dickens.  Blake.  Tennyson.  Shakespeare.

Words influencing my desire to be a novelist and my longing to live here.

London.

Tower

My first week is spent as a tourist, excited as I visit Buckingham Palace and Big Ben, the Tower Bridge.  Trekking home from the London Eye, I feel the false energy leaving me. 

A family walks in front of me, a couple with their daughter swinging between them, another baby on the father’s back.  It’s not what I want, but it’s something, and I wonder if I am a fool for giving up my chance to have it.

No.

What I had was a lie.

A shower and an unfulfilling orgasm later, I fall asleep in my new bed.

Alone.

Bridge

Days are spent sleeping, nights writing furiously at my laptop.  The ideas for my new novel are scattered, lacking something to make them cohesive.

I can’t find it.

But night after night, I produce countless words – some shit, some passable, some such utter perfection that I sit back and gape, wondering if they truly sprang from my mind.

Tonight, I’m restless.

I grab my coat, heading out the door without caring where my feet take me.  It’s late, but the streets are still crowded, so I turn the other way. 

I take side streets and cross a footbridge, seeking isolation.

Violin

I shiver against the cold, wrapping my scarf around my neck and pulling the collar of my coat up.  I rub my hands together to warm them, resolving to buy some gloves, when I hear something.

A melodic, mournful noise completely out of place in the London night.

The crunch of my boots muffles the sound, and I stop in frustration, frozen as I struggle to decide whether to simply listen or try to find the source.

In the end, I am pulled by a force greater than myself toward a house with muted light pouring through its frosted windows.

Frame

The chill in my fingertips surprises me, and I wonder at how I came to be here, standing less than a foot away from the house with my fingers pressed against the window.

Without my permission, my hand clears the fog from the glass.

A shadow passes by the window.  I flinch, my eyes following the deeper darkness. 

And then he steps into the light of the lamp.

My breath catches in my throat as I see him for the first time.  His eyes are closed, his lips parted with a look of pure enchantment on his beautiful face. 

Angelic.   

Skyline

I shiver and cup my hands, blowing into them as I pace past the windows of my flat.  Finally I stop, my eyes drawn right to the spot where I know his house stands.

I can’t see it, of course, not through the light pollution and towering buildings.

But I have no doubts I could point directly to it.

I was enraptured by the sight of him playing, my feet rooted to the spot until the shuddering of my shoulders and my chattering teeth forced me to move.

Rubbing my hands together, I return to my laptop with renewed energy.

Scrawl

My writer’s block crumbles like so much rubble around me as the missing element transforms my newest story.  I snatch up my journal, flipping through dog-eared pages while I move to the table.

I swing the lamp closer and pick up my pencil, scratching out notes and making new ones, updating my outline to include this new piece of information.

With one simple, crucial decision, the novel begins to write itself.  Characters take over, prompting me to scrawl key lines and vivid scenes in the margins of my notebook.

All because of one sudden realization…

My protagonist is a violinist.

Rich

Weeks pass in a frenzy of writing and too much coffee and meetings with my agent, who’s ecstatic that I’m ahead of schedule.

She notes the change in me – the flushed cheeks, the bright eyes – but she doesn’t know the reason.

I return to the source each night, drinking up the music he creates like the richest nectar.  It suffuses my body, spreading through my limbs until I am reborn.

I long to make contact, to break through the invisible wall between us, but I cannot bear to stop the music…

Not when I know he could not want me.

Wilt

His memory haunts me as I lie in bed with the afternoon sun slanting across my flat.

His auburn hair morphs into inky black.  His body’s planes soften into delicate curves. 

Alice.

The way my mental voice whispers her name floors me, squeezing my heart until I want to claw it from my chest.

I cannot keep doing this.  I came here to start a new life based on honesty.

If I do nothing, then I broke Alice’s heart for nothing.  Hurting her in vain is the blackest blasphemy.

But he is perfect, unattainable.

So I resolve to stop going.

Hands

My gloved hands are in my pockets, my head down against the night wind. 

This is the last time, I tell myself, trying to ignore the blind panic at the thought of never seeing him again.

I’m later than usual, anxiously wondering if I’m too late, if he has finished playing for the night.

But as soon as I arrive, mournful melodies surround me, and I sigh, leaning back against the house near my window.  My eyes close as I let the music bathe me until the need to see him is overwhelming.

I wipe the pane clean, peering through.

Trace

He truly is an angel, gifted with grace and beauty, blessed with the capacity for utter absorption in the music he creates.

I cannot force myself to leave, not knowing this is my last chance to see him.  I stay so long that I have to wipe the window clean countless times, each time being granted a pristine view of him before my wistful breath fogs the chilled glass, and he vanishes.

At last, I pull my glove off with jittery fingers and trace a heart in the condensation.

It’s not much, but it’s nearly more than I can do.

Voice

I turn on my heel with an overwhelming urge to run away – both so I won’t be caught and so I won’t be able to erase my subtle declaration.

My footsteps are loud, nearly masking the sound of a door opening.

“Hello?  Who’s there?”  The melodious voice can belong only to him.  It possesses the same cadence, the same ethereal perfection that’s woven into the music he plays.

I know he can’t see me – not clearly, not after being in his well-lit sitting room – so I keep my head down and walk away, my heart struggling to escape my chest.

Station

I cringe at the squealing of the train’s wheels, discordant and grating, especially when compared to the flawless melodies that make my soul sing.

I step onto the platform, following the crowd to emerge into weak morning light.  I wind my way to my agent’s office, stifling a yawn with my fist as I blink sleepy tears from bleary eyes.

The meeting goes as well as expected.  I’m fucked.  Again.

She accepted my excuses of complicated plot and an unresolved question, but I know the real reason I can’t write.

It’s been eight long days since I last saw him.

Umber

I sip my wine, ignoring my closed laptop.  I run my fingers through my hair, staring at the London skyline.

I see his auburn hair, a chaotic mess of red and brown woven together seamlessly in a way that seems to define him.

I wish I knew the color of his eyes.

I wish I could write more than a goddamn sentence at a time.

Tugging my hair, I drain my glass and sit with my feet on the floor.

I have to see him.

I tell myself it’s just because I need my muse, but I don’t believe it.

Icy

My lungs expand, filling fully despite the frigid air.  I hadn’t realized that the iron band around my chest was making it so difficult to just… breathe.

I feel weightless somehow, airy and hopeful despite the bad decision I know I’m making.  When I reach his street, my light steps are suddenly weighted down with trepidation.

The music of a single violin reaches my ears.  It is a song he plays often, but this… this is not his.  The rhythm is off, the notes slightly faster.

I approach the house with caution, lifting a shaking hand to clear the window.

Smile

Green.

His eyes are green. 

They gaze back at me from his angelic face no more than a few feet away.  He sits in an armchair facing the window with Stardust open, forgotten, in his lap.  His foot is propped against a mismatched ottoman, his hand lodged in that enchanting auburn hair.

His eyes widen when they see me, and my body freezes as my mind races.

I wonder why he is reading tonight, why he isn’t playing.

I wonder what the hell he thinks of the voyeur lurking at his window.

Before I can reach any conclusions, he smiles.

Excite

He holds up one finger and tosses his novel to the ottoman before he stands up and disappears.

“No,” I whisper, but my protest is silenced by the lump in my throat, where my heart has taken up residence.

When I hear the door open, I realize it’s too late to run away this time.  I don’t know if I want to.

“Hello?” That musical, accented voice calls.

This time, I answer.  “Hello?”

He gives a short, quiet laugh.  “Come here,” he says.

I stand completely still, unable to decide, until he adds, “It’s cold out.  Come inside, please.”

Sugar

I take a seat on the edge of his couch, my knees awkwardly turned behind the coffee table.  He emerges from the kitchen with a tray and sets it down in front of me.

Silent moments pass as we fix our tea.  I watch the lumps of sugar dissolve, wondering how the hell to even begin trying to explain myself.  I don’t know that I understand.

“My name is Edward,” he murmurs, his green eyes gazing at me over his cup.

“Oh.”  I clear my throat, shifting uncomfortably.  “Jasper.”

“Jasper,” he repeats with a fleeting smile.  “Why did you stop coming?”

Full

My mind is too crowded with conflicting emotions to answer.

His lips curve into a smile again; I lift my eyes to fully meet his when he says, “I have a confession.  I knew you were watching.” His tongue wets his bottom lip, and I find myself leaning closer.  “I sometimes played far later than I should have so you wouldn’t leave.”

At that, I find breathless words.  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I… I’m new to… this,” I admit.

“Prowling around to watch men through windows?” His words are teasing but wrapped in tenderness and understanding.

Celebration

We talk long into the night, and the strangest thing happens.  I feel myself settling into my own skin, growing comfortable.  Confident.  Bold.

It’s a foreign feeling, so intoxicating that I begin to shift closer to Edward – both unconsciously and intentionally.

I tell him I spoke honestly – I am completely new to this.  He simply smiles, assuring me he was once, too.

My heart flutters when he places his hand on my knee, turning to me.   “Forgive me for being forward,” he whispers, “but…”

My eyes drift closed as he leans in, and then an angel’s lips claim my own.

Warmth

His kiss heats me from within the way the tea failed to do.  I sit in stunned disbelief at first, unsure how to handle this – another man’s mouth on mine.

But he feels so right, our strength matching with the abrasion of stubble and the firmness of his lips.

When our chaste kiss ends, he pulls back with a soft smile dancing in his eyes.  “Was that your first kiss?”

“With a man,” I admit, unable to say more.

“And are you okay with it?” he asks, reaching up to gently brush blond curls away from my forehead.  “With… me?”

Fair

It is a heavy question, weighed down by my conscience, my fears, my sense of self.  I give it the respect it deserves, turning it over in my mind until I am sure.

“I am.”  He smiles at my words, and his acceptance frees me.  “I’m… confused.  It’s just… it’s never felt this way before.  I’ve never met someone else that feels so… right.”  My voice is small by the end of my confession.  “I mean, we’ve never even spoken before tonight.” 

“Maybe not,” he allows quietly.  “But I feel like I’ve known you as long as I’ve known myself.”

Sate

We bare our souls verbally, questions and answers pouring from us without reservation.  I tell him about Alice, about the utter shattering I felt at hurting her, how I couldn’t live a lie.

He understands.

Everything, he understands.

Words give way to kisses, innocence dissolving as our lips part and tongues meet.  It’s nothing I haven’t done before, but it’s made new again by him.

I am relieved when he doesn’t push for more, but not because I’m afraid.  I want to kiss him again and again, taste his sweetness on my tongue until our intimacy settles into my bones.

Mirror

We settle onto the couch, our hands joined between us as he tells me about himself.  He’s a composer, creating jingles and theme songs during the day and his own ethereal music at night.  He tells me he plays several instruments, but the violin is the one that plays him.

“I was lost,” he murmurs.  “My music just… it was missing something.  Something vital.  And then I saw you, standing out there…” He nods toward the frosted window.  “And everything changed.”

I smile with genuine excitement as I tell him about my novel, that it was the same for me.

String

“I was afraid to lose you… to lose what you do for my music.  I’ve never felt pure inspiration, and it just seemed more important than…”

He breaks off, glancing down at our joined hands.

“But then you drew that heart.  I worried that you were gone anyway because I didn’t say anything.”

“I was afraid you’d hate me.”

“How could I?”

“I don’t know how this works, and…” I shrug.  “But you were my muse.”  He smiles, and I pluck up the courage to ask him to play. 

His plaintive music fills the night as I watch… from inside.

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