The Art of Manipulation || Phantom of the Opera & Loki the God of Mischief ||

-Erik's Farewell-

-Erik's Farewell-

*flashback*

"As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls, to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
The breath goes now, and some say, no:

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move,
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity of our love."
~ A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning by John Donne

~*~

"Will you be gone long, Alouette?"

Tightening the strings of my cloak I answered, "I don't know, Heimdall." I kept my eyes to the floor, the sorrow robbing me of my strength to raise them or to summon any form of facial expression.

Heimdall's rumbling voice remained soft and understanding, "Take all the time you need. I'll be here when you wish to come back."

Nodding my head I whispered a "thank you" and stepped forward, the open mouth of the Bifrost waiting to swallow me. Heimdall's sword slid into the keyhole, the whir of the spinning portal humming deep and creating a soft vibration beneath my feet. Once the gate lit up, I stepped over the edge, the colorful light transporting me into a world of darkness.

When the rainbow walls disappeared, I stood alone in a dark lawn, the lone church up on a hill the only source of light. I smiled slightly to myself.

Of course they held it at nighttime.

Looking up to the sky I noticed the emptiness of it. No stars. No moon. No clouds. The sky was open to make way for the dark soul that was making its journey towards Heaven. It left no obstacle, no twisted pathway where he might get lost on his last voyage. The way was finally clear to him, embracing him with open arms. He was finally free from all the torments and hardships life had thrown at him. He is there now, at those golden gates, at the place where the weary find peace.

Taking a deep breath, my gaze met the warm looking church ahead of me; momentarily wishing that Heimdall kept the news to himself.

I knew this day would come. It had to come. At least for mortals. I just didn't want to know when it happened so I wouldn't have to see him again. Not like this. I wanted my last memory of him to be a happier one. One where there was still color in his cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes.

Lifting my hood up over my head I went forward, my step quick to make the inevitable pain short lived. Inside the church was a decent crowd, their heads bowed in respect to the brilliant composer they came to know only a short while ago. A few people raised their heads to see who entered the chapel, furrowing their brows at the hooded stranger. I turned their attention away with a subtle wave of my hand, my image no longer causing their minds to buzz with curiosity. Mortals have always been so curious.

I stood in the hallway at the back of the church, a red carpet leading down the aisle to the open casket in the front. I kept my cloak tightly closed and my face fully concealed as I treaded down the walkway to the soulless body on display. I kept everyone's attention off of me, the feat difficult to do in the current emotional state I am in. Nearing the front row, I saw the familiar backs of five mortals. An older woman with chestnut curls pinned up in the most proper fashion; a black dress hugging the figure that was once as slim as a ballerina, but still considerably slender. She had a black veil over her face to hide her gentle tears of mourning. Next to her sat a small girl no older than five. She had black curls and a soft face. Stopping just at their bench, I turned my head and looked down at the child. Her piercing green eyes stared up at me as she clung to her mother, no doubt unsure why everyone was making crying over her slumbering father. The other children beside her - her two big brothers and her one older sister - never glanced at me; they never tried.