Into The Shadows, page 81
"What is wrong with you, Hera?" she muttered to herself, resting her forehead on the piano, staring down at the crisp white and black keys almost begrudgingly.
She knew what was wrong.
While part of her longed to let go of the past and move on, a small part of her feared to, didn't want to.
With another relentless sigh, she pushed herself to her feet and made her way over to the window so she could stare out at the summer sky. The rain had finally let up, which gave the sun full reign to beat against the window, warming Hera's face as she stared blankly at the scene below—the pampered lawns, the artistically kept hedges and bushes, the trees, the sculptures, the flowers, and an endless blue sky, littered with gloriously fluffy cumulus clouds.
She had to let it go.
She had to let it all go, the entire experience, from the Valerious family all the way down to Count Dra—well, there was no point in saying his name. She had to let him go, too.
It was time.
After admitting this to herself, she rested her weight against the window, closing her eyes.
"God," she prayed, her voice barely a whisper. "Help me."
And then it came.
People say inspiration comes in many forms.
It can come walking down the street, riding a subway, in a restaurant, in the park, during an opera or a film. It can come when you're one with nature, soaking in the wild mountain air, the scent of pine, or the sound of the ocean. It can come in the still of night, when there's nothing but a full moon hanging high up in a midnight sky.
But for Hera, it came with a phrase and a moment of complete, serene silence.
Rushing to the piano, she sat down and pulled out another piece of paper and then she removed the pen she had tucked into her messy bun. On this page, she wrote down names, places, and short phrases:
Broken heart.
First encounter.
Anna Valerious.
Velkan Valerious.
Visceria.
Verona.
Snow ball fight.
Castle Frankenstein.
First kiss with Velkan.
Meeting Dracula.
Nights with Dracula.
Sex with Velkan.
Getting caught.
Duel.
Living in Castle Dracula.
Marishka.
Aleera.
The truth about Ilona.
Labyrinth Game.
First real kiss with Vlad.
Sex with Vlad.
Going back to Visceria.
Learning about Velkan.
Going back to Vladislaus.
Quality time with a vampire.
Gabriel Van Helsing.
The Windmill.
Budapest.
Love declaration…
The list went on and on, covering the events that had transpired and the people included. It took her a good ten minutes or so to get the gist of it, and then she started at the beginning.
The first song she composed, which seemed to come out of nowhere, was what she dubbed as her theme, the melody that would embody her person and her soul. It came from deep within; every note and chord, the melody itself was Hera's. The depth, the inner fire, the misplaced trust. In it, she put her flaws and her strengths.
Then she wrote Anna's Theme, and then one for Velkan, intertwining the various melodies into grand movements. For the next few weeks, she would spend hours in the music room, writing pages at a time before stopping and banging them out, as if someone was standing beside her, dictating the notes for her while the music played somewhere in the background of her head. She would write for hours at a time during the day, and then would perform the recently composed music well into the night.
No one was permitted to disturb Hera except for François, who was only allowed to bring food and drink in and out of the music room. Other than that, everyone had been banned from entering – man and beast – the servants couldn't even go in to clean. Especially after a certain event when one of the maids had gone in to tidy up the room and Hera had returned, screaming at the woman to get out and to never touch anything in there unless she was told to.
Hera was consumed, obsessed with this project she had taken on. It was her desperate attempt to heal and move on, and she was completely fixated on just that. She'd glare at the pages as she wrote, and then she'd weep as she played them, pounding mercilessly on the keys as she transposed her story, putting it to music.
When at last she finished, she emerged from the music room, rusted mascara stains on her cheeks, her hair greasy and chaotic. But in her arms lay sheets upon sheets of music, bundled tightly together in a folder.
Upon exiting from the room, she very timidly apologized to the maid she had screamed at weeks ago and gave her permission to clean the music room. Then she looked for François, inquiring on the location of her father. She found him in his study, preparing a lecture for one of his classes when she had entered.
His expression was priceless.
"Hera? What in God's name! Are you alright…" but he trailed off when he saw the glitter in her eyes, the small, genuine smile curving her lips.
A single tear trailed down her cheek as she placed the large stack of music onto his desk, looking like a proud little child, showing off an accomplishment.
Hera was ecstatic to the point of tears, and yet she remained as dignified as was humanly possible. She was still struggling on keeping herself a closed book, but after weeks of what she had endured, after metaphorically cutting herself open and bleeding onto the pages that now sat on Henry's desk, she was willing to open up just a little, to let her father take a peek over the carefully built walls she had been constructing since they had arrived home all those months ago.
Although the sight of his daughter weeping was never one that Henry Garret particularly cared for, he was thankful to find that the tears she was now silently shedding were tears of relief.
"It's finished," she whispered softly. "I finished it." When he didn't respond, Hera continued. "Athee helped me, Papa. And Mom. I could feel them in the room, helping me write it. It was like they knew what I was feeling, like they knew what I needed to write. They knew the music before I did… and we wrote it together."
She paused for a moment, recollecting herself before continuing.
"Anyways," and she cleared her throat, "I was wondering. Do you still have that number to contact the symphony hall in London? I was hoping that I'd be able to do a charity concert or something before the end of the year."
He had suspected that there would be a considerable turnout, but never in his existence had he imagined the place would be this full. He knew he was running a huge risk, coming here tonight. Well, being in England in general was a huge risk, but when he had heard the news, he had to come.
It had been months now since he had seen her, and he couldn't resist the opportunity. After all, he just wanted to make sure she was all right. Listening to a composition of hers was just a bonus for coming all this way.
He just had to make sure she didn't see him, and everything would be fine.
Count Dracula had never been more wary in his entire existence.
Of course, considering the fact that Hera's life was on the line by him attending this evening, he had to take all the necessary precautions. He had made a deal with God, and he couldn't risk going back on his word, no matter how tempting it could be.
With his evening coat draped over his arm, he moved like a shadow across the lobby of the Royal Albert Hall in London, weaving through the massive crowds and into the hall itself where he took his seat in one of the top booths in the back. Certainly not the best seat in the house, but he had to be safe. After situating himself, he settled into his chair, immediately scanning the throng for any sign of Hera.
He knew she'd be here tonight. But from what he had assessed upon entering the house, she wasn't present just yet.
Deciding to stall for time, he finally released his death grip on the program, making a point to calm himself as he relaxed his hand and uncurled the small booklet, opening it up to find Hera's picture plastered on the title page.
The picture made him want to cry.
The woman herself was just as lovely as ever, but he quickly realized upon further inspection that she wasn't herself. Her smile wasn't genuine. And her eyes…
He groaned inwardly.
This was all his fault.
He wished more than anything that he could confront her; that he could at least attempt to fix or salvage things with her – perhaps even give her some closure. Heaven knew they both needed it. But alas, closure wasn't part of the deal.
In exchange for the saving of Hera's life, Dracula had agreed, along with a few other terms, not to make any kind of contact with Hera ever again. If he ever purposefully placed himself in her way, if she ever spotted him, she would be struck dead in that very instant, and her death would be on his head, or more appropriately, his eternal soul. Therefore, he was forced to remain hidden in the shadows. He had spent the last few months hidden away in his own native country and, therefore, far from Hera so temptation wouldn't assault him, so her life wouldn't be at risk.
But it had never been easy, staying away from her, and he wasn't entirely certain he'd be able to keep away indefinitely.
His presence here this evening was evidence of that.
It was bad enough hearing all the rumors and reports on how she locked herself away, how despite everything, certain media outlets continued in their harassment of her. But knowing that she was at least on the mend was the best news he had heard in ages. He tenderly stroked the back of his finger along her printed cheek, imagining the feel of her hair, the soft skin of her face.
He lost himself in that reverie for a moment or two until a thunderous applause interrupted him and he opened his eyes to find the house lights dimming, a spotlight aimed at some nameless man on center stage. Dracula tuned out the welcomes, the sterilized mini-biography on Hera, and the introductions to her masterpiece.
At last, the man finished his speech and the conductor took his position – and then the spotlight fell upon the grand piano on the far left of the stage towards the front where a young woman had already been sitting in the darkness.
The music began.
The beginning melody was simple and sweet – starting with the agonizing melancholy of a single violin, each note passionate and hopelessly wretched. He glanced down at the program and noticed that this first song was entitled: Goddess' Theme.
Dracula smiled.
This was Hera – those beautiful, heartbroken notes that lingered in the air – this song was her.
When the melody had been established, the piano took over and the two instruments intertwined into a tragic duet that simultaneously elevated and shattered him. Then the orchestra joined, growing and sweeping into a grand opus that carried every soul in the room away, transporting the audience to a different time, a different place.
Seated at the handsome grand piano, was Hera herself.
She was dressed in a simply designed strapless black chiffon number, her vibrant hair pulled back into a slightly disordered, yet elegant updo which rested at the base of her neck. Upon observing her from a distance, he quickly understood that this heartfelt music wasn't just by her, but it was pouring out of her, onto the keys, resonating in the belly of the instrument, and then washing over the concert hall in one unforgiving wave.
If his heart had been beating, it would have stopped at the sight of her.
Old memories came flooding back and a pain somewhere deep within his soul was rekindled all over again when he saw the misery etched in her furrowed brow. He gripped the railing in front of him in an effort to keep himself in his seat.
He couldn't confront her.
All he could do was sit and watch—watch as those pitiful tears began to glitter in her eyes, and how halfway through the performance they finally broke loose.
This was her story, the music.
She had written her story, her time in the past.
It was her only way to let go.
But he didn't want her to let go!
He didn't want her to forget, although part of him prayed she would so she could move on, but he hated seeing her like this. He wanted more than anything to rush to her side, to wipe away her tears and hold her to him until the pain went away.
But he'd never get that chance.
And as soon as the reality came back to him, he realized his mistake in coming here. He was only making things worse, not only in regards to Hera's life, but for himself. Unable to withstand the pain buried behind the music and the tears that were tumbling down Hera's cheeks freely now when they finally reached the end of the performance, he rose from his seat and quickly vacated the premises just as the rest of the auditorium rose in a thunderous standing ovation.
Dracula had tolerated the agony of his mistakes for over a century now, but the past few months had been almost impossible to endure, knowing now that there was no hope for him. He would have to witness her deterioration, her life, and her death, and then he'd never see her again.
With a heavy heart, he walked out into the evening streets of London.
The Count was ready to go home, and he hoped, for both he and Hera's sakes, that they'd both be able to move on, to forget. But something told him this was a fool's hope. He already knew he'd never be able to move on.
He had tried for over a century.
And he had failed miserably.
Soon hidden in the darkness of a luxury hotel room, he stared blankly at the only source of light: the flames in the gas operated fireplace. His blue eyes possessed the deepest sense of despair as he stared at the orange and yellow flames, only half-aware of the tears that were streaming down his ashen cheeks, his fingers thoughtfully brushing over his lips as a hauntingly familiar tune lingered softly in the air.
She didn't know.
She'd never know the truth… what he did to save her life.
The reasons.
She'd hate him forever and he couldn't bear the thought.
It was for the better, he tried to convince himself, recalling the look of empty heartbreak in Hera's eyes this evening, the ache in her tears, the constant screaming of her soul that was continuously calling out for him. It would haunt him for hours in the night and then it would linger like a shadow or a whisper in the back of his mind during the long hours of the day.
It was for the better, he thought once more, repeating it like a chant, but his heart knew otherwise. His past mistakes still tortured him, and the unknown sacrifice he had made to save her weighed heavily upon him as each day passed, as he caught traces of every thought she had had during the concert.
She loathed him, yet loved him still with every fiber of her being and she couldn't understand why. She'd never know why, and he would never get the opportunity to tell her, never to have the chance to make things right.
The tears continued to fall on their own volition, and yet he remained impassive, staring hard into the fire as the winter's snow fell softly against the window.
He had to move on.
It was the only way he was going to survive this. He had to let her go, forget her. He knew he'd never fail to remember her, but he knew he had to at least try. He had to turn her into a memory, like everything and everyone else who had ever been in his life. She'd just be another raw chapter in his sordid existence.
It was his only option.
She would one day get over him, and then she'd continue to blossom. She'd heal, fall in love, get married, and have a family. She'd forget all about him as the years went by, he was certain of it.
He had to do the same.
Otherwise the pain would drive him to madness. He would have to freeze himself over once more, rebuild the walls she had managed to so effortlessly destroy.
He'd forget just as she would, with time.
Or so he hoped.
No, he thought numbly to himself. I will never be able to forget her… I will never be able to move on. Not when she still holds my heart in her hands.
LIV
Trying to Heal
The years went by slowly at first, usually just one day at a time. Getting through each and every hour was a struggle in and of itself, and Hera found that keeping herself busy made that time more tolerable. It wasn't as difficult as she had assumed to get back into the swing of things.
She had become so consumed with the positive critiques of her now prestigious musical work, which had grown in popularity almost overnight, that now she found herself touring the continent, performing in packed concert halls. When the musical tour was done, however, it was time for Hera to move out of her father's house and on her own.
The woman became the embodiment of poise and independence. Her obsession with her studies was shortly rekindled after her move to the capital, and she made certain to drown herself in research and historical societies, occasionally travelling with her father for various conferences and lectures. When she wasn't doing academic work, she was supporting a variety of charities specialized in women empowerment, becoming one of England's greatest and most popular of socialites – whatever she could to keep herself out of her head and out of the past.
Being constantly busy proved to be Hera's greatest remedy in overcoming her misfortunes. Although the pain never went away completely, she was less conscious of that aching in her heart as time went on – or perhaps she had just grown accustomed to it. Whatever it was, she gradually started to go back to her regular self…
Well, mostly.
Her father would confess in private amongst only his closest of friends that his Hera, though as brilliant and confident and active as ever, was not the same as she had been before – and whether that was an entirely good or bad thing, neither Hera nor her father could really say.
Perhaps it was because as the years went by, it became easier and easier for Hera to guard herself. Her carefully constructed walls were impenetrable by even her father and closest friends. She never spoke of her experience to anyone, and found that acting like it never happened made those around her forget about it, which in turn made it easier for her to suffer in silence without interruption.
