Enchantment (Open) (FINISHED)

[JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS]

The screeching of the violin echoed his thoughts and the blazing heat. Heat that was uncommon in spring, but nonetheless. No one would come to the graveyard on a day such as this. No one would feel melancholy enough but him to visit the quiet dead. He would play for them as they played their voices to him, teasing at his ear, with inspiration... and sorrow.

He lie on top of headstone that marked a family plot. The group had been dead for ages, the last in the family only buried fifty years ago. The monument was not short, but not tall, either. Perfect for him to lay peacefully and undisturbed, with only his music for company. That was how he liked it. Oh, how he valued his privacy. The dead understood that. They were all alone, forgotten, just as he.

The tune he was playing was also forgotten, a soft European melody taken from a Passion Oratorio. It circled around him like dancing stars of death, dark chains issuing from the strings. He was lost in this musical world, and that was perfectly fine. He would always lose himself, no matter what the cost. Losing begets erasing, and all he wanted to do was erase. Erase the memories... The precious time wasted... Erase his face from the world with a splash of water on paper, shrinking and bleeding and shriveling in a depressed heap.

Anyone who had the chance to enter his thoughts would be mortified by all that grew inside them. There was no end to the lasting torment of his terrible face. Of course, to any person seeing him now he might look normal, handsome even. But the... artificial construction which allowed him a bit of normalcy was wasted when he knew what lie underneath. The prosthetics were used merely to disguise himself when out and about, when he needed food, "polite" conversation (because it usually wasn't), to do business with fellow contractors or the Met, or when he was tutoring his musical pupils. No one could get close to him, because he would undoubtedly trust them too much, and show them his face. Then they would run away screaming, and he would crawl back into his hole like a wounded animal.

So he would play on, alone, unafraid of the impending solitude. But in this he longed for someone to listen... Someone to help him wake the dead and bring life back into his empty soul... Someone to talk to... To sing to... Even if they left him in the end... For just one moment, he wished all the pain... All the stress...

Could be worth it.

[JANE EYRE]

Jane had thought that she had been over all that had happened over the past year. She thought that she had become stronger since Edward had lied to her, since she had run so far away. Most days, that had been true. Most days, Jane was happy and her own person. She was a teacher, she had dipped her toes in the dating pool and had found a sweet man. All was well, so why did her past before Thornfield weigh so heavily on her. It pressed into her, overwhelming her light moments. She had no parents, no family that cared. The only people who she was even remotely related to, her cousins, were horrible people and considered her to be the lowest form of a person. A plain, simple orphan with no real talent that could be used in society. She was an educator, not a debutante or lady who lunched. Jane was all these things, and most importantly, there was no one to take away the depression that settled over her so completely. George wasn't that close yet, just a glimmer of a future, and Kitty had her own problems.

Sadly, it was nothing new. Jane having to take care of herself was a norm. She took care of herself when she was young living at the Reed's since no one else would. At Lowood, Jane looked out for herself and the younger students but the instructors only cared for the youngest and most beautiful. Jane was never that person. Not knowing where else to go, Jane went to the graveyard, walking the entire distance with a sling of supplies over her shoulder. Water, food, a first aid kit (just in case) were all there. She could mourn alone in a foreign graveyard for the parents she never knew.

Despite the heat, Jane dressed in her usual conservative manner. Her hair was pulled up and out of her face and tucked under a scarf to keep it out of her face as she walked. The bounce of her ponytail against her neck was a little annoying, but Jane tuned it out. Instead, all of her focus was directed on getting where she needed to be without passing out from heat stroke. It was unseasonably hot out and for an Englishwoman, it was absolutely sweltering.

As she drew closer to the graveyard, Jane could hear music. A melancholy tune that Jane remembered hearing when she was younger. She couldn't place it, but the bittersweet melody was sharp and familiar. Jane continued into the cemetery, trying to decide where she could sit. Moving further in, Jane was a little surprised to see a man reclining on a tombstone, playing a violin. So, that was where the music came from. Not wanting to disturb the man, Jane sat before a small, unassuming headstone about twenty feet away from the musician. Meredith Engleson, loving mother and loving wife. 1970-2010. Jane bowed her head and sent a prayer to the heavens for Meredith. 'Bless her, Father, and watch over her family in their time of need' Jane pulled off her head scarf and smoothed her hair down compulsively. It was getting too long, maybe she should cut it. Jane ran her fingers through the tangled length. She couldn't cut it. It was all that was keeping her feminine, her one tie to traditional female beauty. Jane shook herself and turned back to Meredith.

"Mother, father, I'm not sure if you can hear me," Jane began in a whisper. She wrung her fingers while she whispered to the headstone. "It's so hard right now. I don't know for sure who I am, I know my most recent past and how it shapes me, but I don't know who I am. I know Aunt Reed but she didn't make me anything. She took away whatever identity I might have had. What good is feeling happy and content if you are so confused?" Blinking back tears, Jane looked up from Meredith and to the sky. "Please, I need a parent right now, someone to tell me it will be okay,"

[JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS]

Erik always had a keen sense of hearing. He had to, or else being a musician would be a pointless profession. His ears always perked up at the slightest noise, whether it be the drop of a pen to the scurrying of mice. Even through the melodic sounds of his violin, he could hear when footsteps had graced the soil of the graveyard, and he could certainly hear when a woman's voice had called out to heaven and brought him down from the clouds.

He kept playing, and listened to her words through closed eyes. She had surely seen him, but that was of little consequence to him. He was fully "dressed" as he liked to call it. He felt naked without his prosthetic nose, theatre makeup, and wig. Had she seen him, he would have looked like any normal person, which is exactly what he wanted.

As he listened to her cries for help, he abruptly stopped playing. The violin strings screeched to a hault, and he opened his eyes. He smirked, and shrugged his shoulders. "What the hell... Might as well." He would often do this. He would be the ominous voice of reason for people he came across. He would disappear without a trace, after being the slightest bit sociable, as his mental capacity allowed.

"It's okay," he called loud enough for her to hear. "It's okay..."

[JANE EYRE]

Jane jumped when a male voice called out to that it was okay. Hurriedly, Jane wiped at her cheeks, embarassed at having been seen in such a state. "Sorry, I didn't realize I had gotten so loud," Jane assumed that she had disturbed the man from whatever he had been doing. Jane opened her bag and searched for a handkerchief. Wiping her face Jane rose to feet. Time to leave if she was disrupting others. "Sorry," Jane apologized once more and began to leave the area. She had forgotten that there was another person in the graveyard. How disrespectful of her.

Going to the graveyard had been a silly idea, really. She wasn't visiting anyone, she was just crowding onto some other family's memories. A leech, that's what she was, a horrid leech. Jane was so ashamed. She could have done the exact same thing in her own home where no one else would be bothered. Why had she been so selfish as to venture out into public? Jane didn't know the answer.

"You play beautifully," Jane added before she disappeared from the sight. "I'm terribly sorry for interrupting,"

[JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS]

Erik scoffed. "Not loud. Just ridiculous," he said in his occasional French accent. He knew many languages, and would often speak in different accents to amuse himself.

He turned his head to glance at her passing form. "Don't apologize, ma cher. You're the one who is actually visiting the dead in the graveyard. I am the one who is intruding on their quiet slumber." He picked his head up to look at her better. "So do not apologize."

He swung his legs over the side of the grave and sat up in a swift gesture. When she said how beautifully he played before she left him, he began to play again. His violin melody would call her back to him. He would not let her get away. He had not had a true conversation for so long, and to have one taken from him was unacceptable.

"Don't leave," he said over the instrument. "You are the one attending to your parents. Perhaps I shall play for them? Hmm?"

[JANE EYRE]

"Not loud. Just ridiculous," Jane hung her head at the man's words. That was true. She was being very ridiculous, talking to a headstone and to the sky when they couldn't repsond. Then the man went on to tell her that she wasn't in the wrong, that she had done nothing wrong in visitng the dead. Jane wanted to correct him, tell him that she wasn't visitng anyone. But how to tell someone they are wrong in assuming that you were visitng your parents in a graveyard, evening calling out to them. Jane wanted to leave, to turn and walk away but the man started playing and Jane couldn't move. He really did play wonderfully, the tune somehow medicinal to her nerves.

"Don't leave. You are the one attending to your parents. Perhaps I shall play for them? Hmm?"

"I'm not...that is to say I...." Jane couldn't let him continue assuming that Meredith Engleson was her mother. It wasn't far to Meredith, really. "I don't know who my parents are, you see, but I...Oh it's so silly now that I try to explain it," Jane pressed her hands to her cheeks and shook her head. So silly and so childish. "I needed to talk to someone, so I decided to visit here thinking that maybe it would be like I was, like they could really hear me. But that's ridiculous,"

[JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS]

Erik chuckled. This girl was clearly troubled, but not as troubled as he. At least he was doing it all with a smile on his face! "I never said praying was ridiculous. I meant feeling sorry for yourself was." He continued to play, hoping to cheer her up. What was wrong with him? He was never this "good" as many liked to call it. Nice. Gentle. That was completely not his forte. But the girl seemed lonely... Like himself. What a callous world, he thought. Two lonely souls such as themselves searching for assurance that they would survive the frey.

"Do you really need parents to tell you the world isn't cruel and unjust? You could tell yourself that, and it would save you the trouble. The sorrow just comes later..." He saw the hurt on her face and sighed. "Who am I to tell you what to do, anyway? I'm just a hermit." He scoffed. "Do whatever you want. I'm not stopping you." He kicked one of his feet up on the headstone, and settled his elbow on his knee. "Though if you need someone to tell you its okay... It's okay."

[JANE EYRE]

Jane walked over to where the man sat. He seemed to be willing to listen, to comfort. It was unusual for a stranger to be so understanding. "It's not the world that's the problem, really. I'm happy," Jane shrugged a shoulder and twisted her handkerchief. "I'm just confused. I suppose everyone goes through a time where they don't know who they are, but it's different. When you're alone, it's so different," Jane shook her head. "It sounds rather insane when I say it out loud," Jane laughed at herself and sat at the ground by the headstone.

"Do you often play for the dead?" Jane asked the man in what she hoped was kind voice. That question could be taken the wrong way very easily but Jane didn't mean it in a cruel way. She thought it was rather kind of him to keep the ones the world has lost company. Jane thought that they could see you, hear you if you gave them company, but not always. When she was talking to her lost parents, Jane had no idea if they could hear her, maybe because she never knew them and they never knew her, but someone could. Maybe her Aunt Reed, that horrible woman, had been listening. Doubtful, but always a possibility.

[JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS]

Erik listened intently, something he normally neglected doing. He was not a people person, in fact he hated the thought of them, but most of them couldn't see beyond their own noses... Haha, noses. Something he didn't have. Hopefully this girl, one who seems to know more about the world than most, would never see underneath the rubber and makeup on his face. He did not want anyone to see, for fear of frighteneing them, or fear of them putting him on a lab table for dissection. For surely there could be no one on earth as hideous as him. He was a phenomenon.

She, however, was not. She was merely a girl alone, much like himself. Many were alone, but none knew how to remedy the situation. Perhaps solitude was what they really needed, or perhaps they wanted to be like everyone else. Perhaps they were just hoping for a friend, or perhaps they were looking for a lover. Someone to talk to, to share secrets and feelings with.

He could tell she was the kind who needed a friend. Unfortunately, he was the kind who wished for an island all on his own. Conversation only went so far. A quip here, an arguement there, and he was ready to retreat into the corners of his mind once more.

He lauged at her insane comment. "My dear, you truly don't know what is truly madness and impossibility if you believe what you said is insane. You are just like many people. You just haven't found them yet. People who understand are few and far between. I wouldn't give up so easily, though..." He stopped for a moment, as a butterfly fluttered by and landed on a near headstone. He watched it bat its wings in the heat, and he held out his finger to it. He nudged it onto his skin, and pulled it closer to himself. He studied its membrane, the complex patterns of gold and blue setting him into some sort of trance.

"Fate has a way of... deciding things for you... Good things... Come in time..."

The butterfly fluttered off.

Erik snapped out of it, and began to play again. At her question, he had to chuckle. "Of course. Who else will remember them? You? I doubt you any normal person could possibly mourn ever soul in this graveyard... So I do it for them."

He played on.

[JANE EYRE]

"My dear, you truly don't know what is truly madness and impossibility if you believe what you said is insane. You are just like many people. You just haven't found them yet. People who understand are few and far between. I wouldn't give up so easily, though..."

Jane laughed quietly to herself and nodded. "True. I can't even begin to understand madness," Unlike Bertha, mad Bertha who Edward kept locked away. Jane couldn't understand that and didn't want to understand that. That was dangerous territory that Jane remembered teetering on the edge of long ago in Aunt Reed's red room. She had hallucinated her uncle's ghost more than once and her young, 8 year old mind was on the verge of shattering into a million, unhealable pieces. "I've seen it, I've seen what it can do but I could never understand," The fire in Edward's room, the gaping wound in the mysterious man's chest...that's the damage that madness brought.

"Of course. Who else will remember them? You? I doubt you any normal person could possibly mourn ever soul in this graveyard... So I do it for them."

"That's a wonderful thought. There aren't many who feel the same way," Jane could count on one hand the number of people who would do something similar. Jane couldn't do that, she couldn't mourn an entire graveyard. She couldn't even mourn her parents, just the idea of parents. Jane looked up at the man as he played and let the melody wash over her.

Jane didn't have the gift of music. She knew how to play the piano but it was purely mechanical, not at all passionate or invested. She put those emotions into her paintings. Her art was like this man's music. When he reached a lull in the tune, Jane introduced herself quietly as Jane, a teacher. It was strange to talk to someone whose name you didn't know.

[JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS]

When she introduced herself, she was as quiet as a mouse. She was never going to get anywhere with that attitude. People would use her for their own doings. Even he would take advantage of her, had he had a reason to. As he did not... Well, he might as well give the girl some sort of motivation. He found timidity particularly pointless in a woman if they were ever to go forth in the world.

"Speak up, girl. You should not be so weak willed. Men may be fortunate enough to control you if you show such little determination." His tone was cruel, as it usually was. He did not tolerate people's attitudes when they displeased him.

He finally adressed her formally. "I am Erik," he said with loud confidence. He nodded to her. "You see? No one would ever plot against me with my confidence!"

[JANE EYRE]

"Speak up, girl. You should not be so weak willed. Men may be fortunate enough to control you if you show such little determination."

Jane tensed at the comment. Something bubbled in her stomach that felt curiously like anger. She did not let men control her. Even Edward who she had loved she had refused. Jane could have always lived with him as the other woman but she knew that her self-worth was a far higher value than that. "Do not mistake my quiet nature for timidity, sir. No man controls me," Jane said in a firm, even tone. There were certain things that always got a rise out of her and the insinuating a weak nature was one of them. Jane knew for a fact that she was too headstrong for her own good sometimes. After all, she did move across the ocean to live on her own and to blaze her own trail.

"You see? No one would ever plot against me with my confidence!"

"Of course not. You're surrounded by the dead. I doubt that they plot against anyone nowadays," Jane rolled her eyes and pushed herself to her feet. She resettled on the headstone next to Erik so she could see him as they talked.

[JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS]

Erik smirked at her display of determination. There was that fire he was looking for. All she needed was a little pushing, that's all. Now she was what he wanted her to be. Erik always got what he wanted. She just didn't know it yet.

He scoffed at her jeering words. "So there's fire in you yet, young Jane..." He peered down at her. "You are multi-faceted. Very interesting indeed. And who is to say the dead do not rise when voices call out to them? They can always drag you down to the depths of hell with their presence. It is all according to whether you let them. I choose not to."

[JANE EYRE]

"You are multi-faceted. Very interesting indeed. And who is to say the dead do not rise when voices call out to them? They can always drag you down to the depths of hell with their presence. It is all according to whether you let them. I choose not to."

Jane shook her head, smiling. "You do not have to speak to me about the dead haunting you and trying to tear you down," The Red Room and her Uncle Reed's ghost. Yes, Jane knew it too well. "Our drive to survive is stronger than the fear they inspire or the temptation of an easier existence," Suicide and depression were so common and were a looming presence in society. There seemed to be a malfunction in everyone now a days.

"How long have you played?" Jane motioned to Erik's violin. It was quite beautiful. She didn't know instruments and she could recognize an expertly crafted instrument without pause. It probably came from her love of art and familiarity with lines. The curves of the violin were sensuous and inviting, unlike anything Jane had seem up close before.

[JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS]

"All my life. It is what I live for," he said in response to her question. He had loved music and played instruments since as far back as he could remember. Ever since being locked away in a basement, the only thing occupying his mind scores upon scores of notes and rhythms with no set future in store for him. He'd always felt suffocated down there, and music was his only release from insanity. He had no friends but his instruments and wild imagination. He'd had more that enough imaginary friends to occupy the time, who would praise him and call him a genius. Beautiful, even.

But he knew he was not beautiful. Not on the outside, nor the inside. His mother taught him that. She taught him no matter how hard they tried, no person on this earth would accept him for what he was. Had he been so blind to think perhaps this girl could do that? He could just hear his mother now... "They're all the same, they're all normal! You're a freak, and don't forget that, you little BASTARD child!"

"Tch..." he sounded, flinching at the words echoing in his mind. Freak... Freak... Freak... Monster... Bastard... Devil Child... Corpse...!

Undoubtedly SHE thought him one as well! If only she could see the terrible misfortune that lay underneath all the makeup and prosthetics and masks. The carefully worded girl would be speechless if she saw his face, he had no doubt of it.

He stopped playing abruptly, the violin screeching to a hault. He dropped down with fluid grace from the tombstone. "Et toi, Mademoiselle? Do you have something to live for?" he peered down at her, his tone flat and disconcerting. The violin was placed at his side, its bow slung over his shoulder like a baseball bat. He stood at his full height, six feet, and towered over her.

He hoped to God he frightened her. He frightened everyone... So perhaps that was some semblence of what they call... "normal."