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crowsTentatively titled, the Prince of Eden. I would like any comments and critiques that anyone reading can muster.
I had tried to work. All my might had I thrown into barricading my mind from that sound drifting up from the chapel below, pure as a river of god’s own gold. The entire choir had been gathered to practice pieces for the feast that would come in a fortnight’s time, though it hardly sounded to my uneducated ears that they needed it. In days lost to me now, the sound of their ethereal drone had been a pleasant undercurrent to my day’s undertakings, calming the dust that filtered into the air of my study from the pigeon-infested rafters above.
In days lost to me, now, I used to work better, even, listening to their calling of a god I secretly misbelieved.
Despite all that effort – one that, I’m sure, had pressed permanent creases into my brow – I now lay secreted beneath the dank staircase that lead into the upper chambers of the chapel. Sweating in the half-light and straining to pick out a certain voice, I craned my head around the stair. It was Ambrosi Satadori that my ears so keened for. He wasn’t the first castrato to have come into our company at the chapel, and he wasn’t even the only one at present; however, his voice was more bewitching than anything I had ever had the pleasure – or misfortune – of encountering. He had come to us months ago, sent by his former master with an urgent request that he be trained under our choral director, a man by the name of Brando, who at one point shared great fame that we are not, here, allowed to speak of. Despite his constant presence among our ranks, no one knew him. He never spoke, and rarely interacted with anyone other than Brando. Supposedly, that utter lack of verbosity from him was to preserve his positively angelic voice. So far, it seemed to be working. I was frustrated to hear the director sunder the melody to adjust his company. A fluttering murmur went through the choir, and footsteps started in the direction of the stair. The director resumed speaking, and I pressed myself back into the shadow to avoid discovery.
Suddenly, to my horror, there was a presence in the darkness with me. It was not touching me, but I could feel the stagnant air stir with its breath. Instead of silencing myself completely and waiting for the choir to resume in pretended obliviousness – I could have excused myself as loitering to take in the chorus – I squinted into the musky shadow next to me. Resolving itself in the dimness, Ambrosi’s silent face leered into mine, the tips of our noses bare inches apart. The expression that had congealed on his ghostly features was knowing, daring, wicked. Obviously, he had heard me come down the stairs. Really, though it was no great offense, I oughtn’t have been where I was. Before I could resolve myself to do something, to speak to him, to excuse myself and go back to my study, one of those long, white hands clamped down on my left inner thigh. Unbidden, I gasped, flushed with a sudden wave of the desire I’d been doing my best to curb since he arrived. His fingertips – slender, sculpted perfectly – kneaded the flesh of my leg briefly, before he smirked, and swept away. I could do nothing but stare, flushed and panting, at his departing back.
Ambrosi was like some kind of angel. He was a thing of another world, that I could neither touch nor possess thought of. He was pale, framed immaculately by the hands of a divine sculptor; powerful, beautiful, sensuous. He apparently insisted on less formal garb than the stiff-collared robes of the choir, and generally contented himself to strut about in a loose, pale grey dressing gown that left little of his stature to the imagination. And God, I wanted him.
{PS: Jade, my heart, you're going to love this, when I get further into it. Where's the rest of your story? Are you distracted from writing, being at home?)
I had tried to work. All my might had I thrown into barricading my mind from that sound drifting up from the chapel below, pure as a river of god’s own gold. The entire choir had been gathered to practice pieces for the feast that would come in a fortnight’s time, though it hardly sounded to my uneducated ears that they needed it. In days lost to me now, the sound of their ethereal drone had been a pleasant undercurrent to my day’s undertakings, calming the dust that filtered into the air of my study from the pigeon-infested rafters above.
In days lost to me, now, I used to work better, even, listening to their calling of a god I secretly misbelieved.
Despite all that effort – one that, I’m sure, had pressed permanent creases into my brow – I now lay secreted beneath the dank staircase that lead into the upper chambers of the chapel. Sweating in the half-light and straining to pick out a certain voice, I craned my head around the stair. It was Ambrosi Satadori that my ears so keened for. He wasn’t the first castrato to have come into our company at the chapel, and he wasn’t even the only one at present; however, his voice was more bewitching than anything I had ever had the pleasure – or misfortune – of encountering. He had come to us months ago, sent by his former master with an urgent request that he be trained under our choral director, a man by the name of Brando, who at one point shared great fame that we are not, here, allowed to speak of. Despite his constant presence among our ranks, no one knew him. He never spoke, and rarely interacted with anyone other than Brando. Supposedly, that utter lack of verbosity from him was to preserve his positively angelic voice. So far, it seemed to be working. I was frustrated to hear the director sunder the melody to adjust his company. A fluttering murmur went through the choir, and footsteps started in the direction of the stair. The director resumed speaking, and I pressed myself back into the shadow to avoid discovery.
Suddenly, to my horror, there was a presence in the darkness with me. It was not touching me, but I could feel the stagnant air stir with its breath. Instead of silencing myself completely and waiting for the choir to resume in pretended obliviousness – I could have excused myself as loitering to take in the chorus – I squinted into the musky shadow next to me. Resolving itself in the dimness, Ambrosi’s silent face leered into mine, the tips of our noses bare inches apart. The expression that had congealed on his ghostly features was knowing, daring, wicked. Obviously, he had heard me come down the stairs. Really, though it was no great offense, I oughtn’t have been where I was. Before I could resolve myself to do something, to speak to him, to excuse myself and go back to my study, one of those long, white hands clamped down on my left inner thigh. Unbidden, I gasped, flushed with a sudden wave of the desire I’d been doing my best to curb since he arrived. His fingertips – slender, sculpted perfectly – kneaded the flesh of my leg briefly, before he smirked, and swept away. I could do nothing but stare, flushed and panting, at his departing back.
Ambrosi was like some kind of angel. He was a thing of another world, that I could neither touch nor possess thought of. He was pale, framed immaculately by the hands of a divine sculptor; powerful, beautiful, sensuous. He apparently insisted on less formal garb than the stiff-collared robes of the choir, and generally contented himself to strut about in a loose, pale grey dressing gown that left little of his stature to the imagination. And God, I wanted him.
{PS: Jade, my heart, you're going to love this, when I get further into it. Where's the rest of your story? Are you distracted from writing, being at home?)