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Through the dim, almost silent halls of the storage area, Ebenholz can hear it: a soft, faint humming, a melody so quiet and muted that it seems as though the singer is afraid to be heard, afraid to sing at all. Then he realizes two things: the singer’s voice is familiar, and the melody itself is familiar too, something which brings with it a horrible, yet explanatory, jolt.
But the black cat which led him here continues padding on patiently, looking over her shoulder to confirm that he is still following. Her eyes blink slowly, and he can’t help but feel she’s pleased that he’s realized why she’s brought him here. Swallowing, he keeps walking, going further and further away from the glow of the landship hallways, into a gloom lit only by the emergency lights at regular intervals. With each step, the humming grows almost imperceptibly louder, until all of a sudden, he comes upon the source of it.
The hooded figure seated on the dusty floor is familiar; Ebenholz has seen him before on the battlefield, appearing and disappearing into the shadows in a manner befitting of his codename. Phantom, if he recalls correctly. He hasn’t noticed Ebenholz, his pointed ears drooping and his eyes all but closed, carried away by the rhythm, hunched in on himself as if the song is a secret.
Then the cat slips from beside Ebenholz’s feet and approaches him, greeting him with the softest of mews. Phantom lifts his head and smiles faintly at her, extending his hand for her to rub her cheek against his knuckles, and that’s when he notices Ebenholz and the brief flicker of joy on his face breaks apart into a stricken horror. His yellow eyes dart all over him, lingering on Ebenholz’s horns, and a flicker of fear creeps over his face and his other hand flies to his throat, where the obviously suppressive collar is snug around it.
In the absence of his humming, the infernal melody begins again in Ebenholz’s mind, and his fingers tighten where they’re wrapped in his cloak.
“I apologize,” whispers Phantom. “I must not sing, with my accursed voice. Shalem would be very unhappy with me if he knew.”
“Likewise, I apologize for startling you. She came to me, and I followed her.”
“Miss Christine led you here…?” Phantom looks down at her, though she seems unperturbed by his surprise, purring slightly as she nuzzles his hand. “But why, lady? Nobody would hear me here…”
Miss Christine gives no answer, seemingly more intent on enjoying her scratches.
Ebenholz watches for a moment, contemplating the question forming on his tongue. He does not wish to cause Phantom anymore undue distress from his sudden appearance, but he needs to know if what happened wasn’t just a fluke, some trick of his imagination. It will likely involve revealing something about himself that he would rather not, but there’s no helping it. He takes a deep breath, and says, “That song you were humming… I think I know it. By any chance, would you mind singing it for me?”
Phantom’s hand stills, and his brow furrows. “I must not sing. My voice is dangerous. You must not hear it.”
Ebenholz inclines his head in acknowledgment. “Be as that may, due to my… unique circumstances, I believe I may be immune to it.”
If anything, the Feline only looks more unhappy, and Ebenholz begins to regret asking. This is foolishness, nothing more. There’s no reprieve from the torment in his head, and to believe otherwise for even a moment is idiocy. He opens his mouth to apologize, but before he can, Phantom speaks in his soft, silky voice, dubious yet thoughtful. “You’re from Leithania.” It’s not a question, and the name, unsurprisingly, carries with it a tinge of distaste. “You use music based Arts… It may be that you are, indeed, immune.” He hesitates, and the regret bleeds across his face as he fingers the collar. But then: “I cannot remove this, but I—I could try… Just a few bars—you must tell me immediately if you feel pain.”
“Of course.” Ebenholz smooths the hem of his jacket and stands a little straighter, ears pricked to properly receive the performance.
Phantom opens his mouth with no little trepidation, still openly hesitating, but after a moment, he takes an audible breath, and begins to sing, soft and passionate and wordless, be it because he cannot remember them or he doesn’t know how to pronounce them or it’s a handicap. But the power in his voice is there: bewitching and strong, but it’s not the echo of Arts that Ebenholz notices. It’s the fact that Phantom’s voice itself is beautiful. It’s powerful and flexible and clearly well-trained, the voice of a primo, of a star. He must be magnificent uninhibited, lusty and breathtaking, and then that thought fades into the background as the familiarity creeps over Ebenholz and the music in his mind silences, be it nostalgia or actually Phantom’s Arts. All is quiet, filled only with the sound of the song.
How Phantom, who is obviously not Leithanien, came to know this song, Ebenholz doesn’t know, but it’s immaterial. He searches Ebenholz’s face for any sign of sudden madness, but he feels nothing but the emotions one would feel listening to a lovely song sung by a lovely, talented person. He lets the old rhythm wash over him, eyelids sliding closed as Phantom’s voice carries him away, briefly, to a different place and time, and he lets himself imagine, however briefly, a world not the one whence he came; a world where he is truly alone in his own head, and he did not lose the one most precious to him.
Then Phantom falls silent, and Ebenholz opens his eyes, meeting his gaze calmly to demonstrate that he remains unaffected. It’s a moment before the Feline speaks.
“I do not believe I’ve ever had a willing audience before. One who was not driven mad…” Phantom looks nearly startled by the novelty of this realization. “This is so very strange. I never believed anyone would be truly happy to listen to me sing.” He plucks at the collar again, this time absently, and Miss Christine paws at his knee until he uncurls from his position enough to let her into his lap. “I—this is a forbidden thought, but I cannot help but wonder what would happen if I…”
“I wonder, too.” Giving in to impulse, Ebenholz sits on the floor a few feet away, uncaring of the dust. “But don’t, if you don’t want to. This is enough.” Again, he hesitates to ask, but since Phantom seems to be feeling amenable, he says, “You may continue, if you wish. I’ll listen. You have a beautiful voice.”
A flicker of a smile crosses Phantom’s lips, but it’s a bitter one. “I have heard that often… But never, perhaps, from one able to offer it impartially.” Again his fingers flirt with the collar, his gaze growing distant. “I know it is better if I not sing—and perhaps, too, I would be right to cast it away, after everything, yet it remains a part of me that I cannot discard. Even if it is not something of my own, it has been with me too long to separate. So I come here, where no-one will hear me.”
Ebenholz looks at the fingertips of his right hand, callused from the strings of the cello. Certainly, the thought crossed his mind to cast it all away, to never play another note, if only to spite the voice in his head. But even as it is a curse, it remains a source of joy; despite it all, he still loves music, and it’s one of the ways he can keep Kriede alive.
The thought of Kriede is a bitter one, and he contains it quickly before it can overwhelm him, because this isn’t the time and place to get carried away. “Yes… I understand that feeling.” An almost ironically amusing idea occurs to him, and for once, obeying his impulse, he says, “Perhaps—I could play accompaniment, next time.” Won’t that be grand? The two of them, broken remnants of the arts, still chasing whatever meager solace they can find in its bottomless depths, somewhere beyond their mutual suffering at its hands. They’re kindred souls, even separated by time and space, so why not revel in their shared misery, as they set alight everything around them to see it going up in flames? A slightly manic laugh tries to bubble up from his chest, but he swallows it down before he looks any more unhinged than he already does, but he can’t fully contain a grin. “Sing for me, Phantom.”
Phantom looks a little prim—no doubt thinking that Ebenholz is insane—but then his face twists in an expression of broken recognition, a pained, wry smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, like that very same laugh is building up in the back of his throat, and his fingers curl into the collar and he takes a deep breath.
When he lets his voice out, it’s barely louder than before, but it’s clearer, more impassioned, like he’s putting more of his heart into it, and he’s chosen an aria of lament and madness, a tale of being driven to the brink of sanity by grief. It’s a difficult piece, but his voice rises and falls with barely any effort at the appropriate points, able to hold the requisite notes for several seconds without breaking, reverberating through the storeroom and off the shelves. Ebenholz puts his chin in his hands and listens, allowing the song to pull the emotions swelling to the surface once more, swaying slightly to the rhythm, painted images rising in his mind, and all the while, Miss Christine sits straight and proud in Phantom’s lap, tails curled around her feet and her ears giving the occasional twitch. The yellow glow in her eyes is almost approving, alight with a preternatural intelligence.
When the last ringing note dies away, Ebenholz thrills in it, savoring the echoes yet lingering in his ears, the beauty of it and the perfectly expressed sorrow of it, the captured crumbling of fading coherence, of the encroaching abyss and the utter lack of care in what comes after. It may be the first time hearing this song, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever hear it sung quite so well, and for all that they’re sitting in an empty storage room, the acoustics have only complimented Phantom’s voice, almost as well as a proper stage.
A euphoric, exhilarated look crosses Phantom’s face, as if his thoughts are running along similar lines, before he gives a sad little hiccup, burying his face in his hands and laughing softly. It’s a damp, wheezing laughter, rife with disbelief, and Ebenholz considers getting up and perhaps patting his shoulder, as foreign as the concept feels to be offering comfort to someone, but it seems a step too intimate yet. They don’t know each other well enough for that—they don’t even know if they can come to know each other, not when Ebenholz knows they both draw their solitude around themselves like the black cloaks they wear tight around their shoulders, the idea of trust itself something alien and dangerous beneath the constant weight of fear and unease. Even now, with this shared experience, the concept of friendship is an uncomfortable one.
But… there is no undoing the moment now. It’s happened, for better or worse; he asked, and Phantom obliged. Hesitation is thick and heavy in his chest, but Ebenholz wills himself upward on stiff limbs, stepping towards the hunched Feline. He’s a step away when Phantom raises his head, no doubt having heard him, and Ebenholz knows better than to try to touch him. His face is wet, eyes glistening with tears, and some guilt touches Ebenholz; maybe he pushed him too far, as much as he left it open for Phantom to refuse. He’s not sure if he should apologize, but it doesn’t seem appropriate either; the things haunting Phantom are ghosts of the past, not monsters of the present, and though Ebenholz’s Caprinae horns might disturb him, he doesn’t believe that Phantom is incapable of distinguishing between then and now.
In the absence of anything to say, Ebenholz extends his hand, the whiteness of his glove stark in the gloom. Better that way, he thinks, rather than their bare skin touching, another thing that seems a shade too familiar. He won’t be offended if Phantom doesn’t take it, but the offer is there, open and available, and Ebenholz doesn’t dare hope for any particular outcome.
There is a small part of him, however, that very much would like to play accompaniment. Even if they have to leave the landship and go out into the middle of nowhere with nobody around for miles, he wants to hear how Phantom’s voice sounds with the proper background. Maybe that won’t happen for a long time, if it’ll ever happen at all—but the promise of it is enough for the moment, enough to perhaps move forward, if Phantom is willing. Ebenholz waits, making no assumptions, aware that even the smallest one is dangerous, no matter how connected he may believe this encounter has made them.
Then Phantom wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, and a little fearfully, reaches out for Ebenholz. His hand is bigger, stronger, but his grip is tentative at best. He clambers to his feet mostly under his own power, and he stands a solid head taller than Ebenholz, something which is undeniably intimidating, though mitigated by the fact that he tugs his hood a little lower over his forehead. Miss Christine leaps onto his shoulder, and he’s quick to let go of Ebenholz’s hand to steady her.
“She must have guided you to me for a reason,” he remarks, though his voice contains a tinge of doubt. “Perhaps we will… meet again, Caster Ebenholz.”
Ebenholz blinks, unaware that Phantom even knew his name. It’s a pleasant surprise. He takes a step back, placing a hand on his shoulder and bowing slightly at the waist. “It would be my pleasure.”
The corner of Phantom’s mouth twitches upward, and he mimics the gesture with a practiced grace, his left leg bending behind him in a slight kneel. “Likewise. I bid you adieu.”
He slips away deeper into the shadows of the storage facility, and melding into the darkness until there is no distinction between himself and the gloom. Ebenholz watches him go, and whispers his own farewell before he turns and makes his way back into the light.