Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I met Orpheus, of an unknown surname, on a Friday night in 1898.

It was a cold evening. The windy air howled against the windows, accompanying the sounds I emitted from the piano beneath my swift fingers, working hard to keep up with my newest composition, The Starting Line. I hadn’t missed a single note yet — perhaps the greatest feat of my week, aside from being able to play at Le Salon de Madame Nicholas, Boulevard Saint-German. It was no longer a novelty, so the little bits of enthusiasm I once felt when I first arrived in Paris had vanished at this point.

I was still painfully static after months of living in Paris, finally able to settle after someone offered me a place to stay. Even if it was in France, nestled in another country that felt worlds away from Austria, yet at the same time so close.

When I had to leave Vienna — my hometown, my family, and everything I’ve ever known — it’s as if someone snuffed out a candle in my brain, effectively disabling my capacity to feel happiness. It’s as though my body moved to Paris, but my spirit stayed entombed in Vienna, leaving me with little more than a shell of the person I once was. I hardly had the ability to walk around my new city, let alone compose. I was merely a ghost, wandering through purgatory, likely never to find peace, never to let go. Yet I still had a reason… rather, an obligation to try.

I was under contract with Madame Nicholas Orsonville. The restraints of it were rigid yet merciful, presenting me with the role of her artistic advisor. She had become the light I needed back in Vienna, when the world closed its walls around me, forcing me into a black corner until I had no choice but to subject myself to nights in the beds of noblewomen to survive. I did it all with my family, and my Father, in mind. There was no other choice.

I still remember everything. But remembering did me no good. It kept me weighed down when all I could afford was to stay afloat, working for this morsel provided to me by Madame Nicholas’s benevolent hand. It was hard enough not to look at myself in the mirror each day and remember where I actually should be.

I cannot lie and say that Madame Nicholas wasn’t incredibly generous — that is, generous in her payment of thirty thousand francs annually. Yet no financial security would ever be able to recompense the pain I felt daily in my bones and dying heart as each day passed by without any progress.

It would only be a matter of time before Madame Nicholas realized precisely how much of a weight I am to her, just as I was a weight to my own family. She would come to realize the burdens of financial and social damage that accompany me, and that I remained unable to grow enough that I could spread my wings and fly her nest to perform elsewhere in the country. Whether it were due to my lack of talent or a growing lack of interest in life, or even both, I could not say. I possessed only a vague desire to move, but even that was unstable to the point that I lacked the energy to try. At minimum, I was little more than vaguely present in places, though that presence reflected nothing more than an inconstant apparition hardly noticing where it appeared or vanished.

So I played as if nobody were watching, even though the room was filled to the brim with people immensely more talented than I — scholars of music, art, poetry and philosophy. I was already the third guest of the evening, and perhaps that explained why the crowd was particularly quiet. I was not performing at my peak on this night, so I hardly felt I had a right to complain about their lack of interest. Over the years, I learned that going unnoticed is far superior to negative attention — being featured in newspapers only to be named mediocre, whispers following me as I pass by and many other experiences have taught me that. I expected this evening to be nothing more than another entry in a diary of mediocrity, trapped in an endless loop of monotony.

I completed my performance in precisely fifty minutes — not one single second off, as all things should be. If I did not follow my routine, then my Voices would complain from night until morning, when they would finally find something else to make me perturbed. But for now, they remain blissfully quiet after the soothing nature of my piano. The crowd politely applauded, during which I took a moment to search the crowd, already incapable of recalling the state of them before I found myself onstage. My days came and went ever since Vienna, memories lost in an abyss, disconnected from the world that surrounds me. In any case, it was always easy to spot Madame Nicholas in a crowd. She was never without her red sun hat, and when she stood, her matching red cape further revealed her identity to all in the vicinity. Of course, there were more in that crowd I recognized — regulars of the salon, mostly, many of whom I have held conversations with about the merits of high art. There were others there who wielded similar influences to Madame Nicholas, and salon owners who I had yet to charm on my own. Some guests I recognized as a result of their endless attempts to charm me, like the neighboring Madame, certain that she may successfully bewitch me into courting her. Others still satisfied little more than my own vanity, such as the beautiful man who I often glare towards merely to affront my own repressed desires. There were very few faces I did not recognize; only half a dozen or so appeared to me, completely unknown.

The polite claps diminish and fade, lasting no longer than necessary. I rise from the piano at the same moment Nicholas rises from her seat.

Nicholas said the next performer’s name, but I was no longer listening. I took my leave, walking down from the slightly elevated platform where the piano resided, off-center in a position that truly drove me mad whenever my Voices focused on it too much. The guests sat nearby at circular tables, socializing loudly in the brief reprieve between performers. I always loathed how close the audience resides near me in most salons. The lack of space provided unwanted space for people to assume I held interest in them as if the subjects they spoke of were not largely irrelevant. And yet, that expectation to speak with the audience was an expected yet unacknowledged aspect of being a composer. Or perhaps it was only important for someone who has ceaselessly tried to become a great composer and failed, leaving one to compensate for that lack of talent by forging strong connections.

I had absolutely no desire to talk to anyone that day.

Socializing has been difficult for me since my youth for many reasons, but the biggest one of them all was that I struggled to pay attention to the words people spoke out loud. The Voices in my own head, often whispering and screaming absurdities, drowned out reality. It took enough energy to maintain those thoughts inside my own mind. Music always helped me silence these voices, but it was never forever. These days, socializing felt more like a chore. I lacked the patience to keep a smile on my face while being insulted between the lines, be it by people who truly found me mediocre or by people who pretend to care for my art but only thinking of my face, and thus it was no surprise that I preferred standing against the wall, isolated from everyone else. Still, I debated the merits of casual conversation versus the appeal of returning to my quarters and brooding in bed. Brooding was my preferred method of passing the time I did not spend composing, and it called me now like a siren song.

The room was too loud for me. It was not uncommon for me to feel as if a war raged on in my mind while I stood at the frontlines, splattered in the bloody aftermath. Memories often overwhelm me when I least expect it, leaving me to ruminate over and over about a past that I should’ve let go at this point yet find that I am never quite capable of doing. As I contemplated excuses for my departure — or vanishing altogether, the appeal of my bed growing stronger with each passing second — a man crossed the room and made his way towards me, parting through the crowds like Moses through the Red Sea. I glanced away, intrigued but uninterested. But Fate held other plans.

I met Orpheus, of an unknown surname, on a Friday night in 1898.

I looked up instantly, startled by the nearness of the voice. When my eyes met the speaker, I was startled to discover the man I’d written off only moments ago materialized in front of me. I am well aware of how I often appear taciturn rather than haunted whenever I dazed off like this. Public perception remained the one thing I dominated when I was still considered honorable enough to reside within the Kreiburg household. I had to play well with both the exterior public and the interior public of my own family.

The man in front of me was beautiful, though none of his features alone seemed to indicate it. He had warm brown eyes and a closed-mouthed smile, a single monocle framing his right eye. He appeared to me as nothing less than a fashionable, put together young man. He can’t be too old; his face is still soft around the jaw, not yet chiseled like a grown man. He wore a white suit despite the cool weather, the fabric stark and unblemished, with a teal cravat tucked into his gray waistcoat. His brown hair was held in place with pomade, completing the image of a man in charge of himself. He was more beautiful than most men in this saloon — and perhaps most men in France. I was entranced, for a moment, struck speechless at his sudden appearance when moments before he’d seemed immaterial.

Surprisingly, the man threw his head back and laughed. “Is my British accent that obvious?” He shakes his head, still appearing good-humored. “Don’t tell me. It would damage my ego.”

A strange feeling appeared in my chest then — an urge to laugh so distant and unknown that I swallowed it before it could manifest. Politely, I united my hands in front of my body, trying to project an image of grace despite my increasing surprise that a man of apparent high caliber would come to speak with me. However, his caliber was clearly not high enough for me to automatically understand who he is, and he’d yet to introduce himself for me to deduce an answer.

In the midst of the silence, he offered me his hand. I typically do not indulge in touching strangers — they always seemed to think that a handshake gave them permission to take more than I’d offered in the first place. But I could not help but take his hand in return. My gloved hand meets his bare one, and the closeness of this interaction provided me the opportunity to glance at his skin and spot ink marks scattered across the smooth white expanse of it. Clearly, this is a man that writes something quite often.

“I’m Orpheus. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I repressed the gasp that threatened to escape my lips. My mind — the voices that inhabit it, quieter than normal now after the performance — immediately leapt to assume that he very well may be an imposter. For once, I took the voices at their word, considering it as a possible reality rather than such an outlandish idea.

“The Orpheus?” I asked carefully, doubt seeping into my tone as one of my eyebrows arched higher than the other.

“Orpheus” smirks, seeming to find my question funny. It truly was not. “Yes, Mr. Kreiburg. The Orpheus. The best-selling novelist. I was personally invited by Madame Nicholas herself to attend this evening. My most recent work is titled Beneath the Rose Windows, a horror novel written about the Red Church and the haunting rumors which surround it. Have you read it?”

I shook my head. Of course, he didn’t even have to ask whether or not I have heard of it; whoever this may be, including Orpheus himself, knows very well how his books reach literally everyone. Orpheus’s fame as a novelist is immense, with multiple successful works under his name. That name by itself carries expectations, similar to mine as a Kreiburg. “I have not found the time. I have, however, read your second book. I can hardly recall the title, but it’s the novel about a boy getting lost in the woods and finding himself to be surrounded by magical animals, correct?”

“It’s actually about the tragedy and mass murder of a family caused by the flute of death, which gives name to the book.” Orpheus corrects me with curious eyes, but I do not flinch nor hesitate. He understands that I am merely testing him on his own books, which now seems to be a point of sudden interest for him. “I see what you’re doing.”

Years ago, I might have taken this moment to fish for praise or criticism. But I’m wiser now, far too experienced to do something so childish. I have experienced enough to know that I’m far more likely to be met with destructive commentary that could ruin any shreds of motivation I’ve gathered. It is simply too high of a risk, so I remain silent. Instead, I keep looking at Orpheus, trying to analyze what could’ve possibly brought him to me today.

Orpheus breaks the silence first. He politely clasps his hands together near his chest, then opens his mouth to speak. “Your music deeply interests me. Might I receive your address so that I can write to you regarding other topics?”

It’s then the absurdity of this situation finally reaches me. Orpheus, a best-selling novelist and an extremely famous writer, well-regarded within creative spaces, wants to talk with me after he just watched my performance. My music interested him? And he wants to write to me, possibly conversing further about God knows what? 

The moment is quiet yet again.

Orpheus looked deeply into my eyes, and in return I met his gaze with the same level of intensity. Both of us searched for something indescribable within the other. My mind told me something about him screamed danger, but my body relaxed, suggesting that there was also peace. He felt like someone I should never trust, yet simultaneously like a person to whom I could have given my life.

I met Orpheus, of an unknown surname, on a Friday night in 1898.

I didn’t know so many things.

I didn’t know that this man would be the source of both my world-ending despair and life-changing love. 

I didn’t know that he would be the one to cause me the worst pain in the world. I didn’t know he would betray me and leave me stranded at sea, or that he’d sink a knife into my chest before leaving me be. I didn’t know he would turn his back as I stepped away, falling into the grave I’d carved myself long ago. I didn’t know he would also be the person that dug me out of a grave, the one others had buried me in before I had a chance to escape. 

I didn’t know he would be the love of my life, that he would become the person I most wanted to spend every second of my day with when I’d never been much for company at all. He would become my other half, an integral part of my very being. The person I’d want to be buried alongside even after he brought me back to life.

I didn’t know that Orpheus would be the person that could show me the world. I didn’t know my love for him would be so strong to the point of complete and utter, naked devotion. My days and nights would become his. My body would belong to him. My soul would unify with his. Finally, I would understand what love meant after so many years chasing for it in every corner I found myself in.

I didn’t know Orpheus would be mine. Forever. 

“I live in the Saint-German district. I have a visiting card that you can use. Une carte d'adresse. Here.” I broke eye contact as I looked down, digging for the card in the pocket of my coat. I held it out to him, expectant, and Orpheus took it from me without hesitation. He inspected the document for a moment, studying its veracity. As if I could even afford to give him a fake one in my situation. 

“I’ll write to you,” Orpheus reassured me. And yet, back then, I doubted he would. It was simply too good to be true, so my mind could not even allow myself to feel enthusiastic about communicating with Orpheus. The concept of one of the world’s most famous novelists taking interest in a failed composer like myself, let alone viewing me as a pen pal, still seemed like an impossible dream. “Good night, Mr. Kreiburg,” he said, before turning his back to me and slinking back into the crowd, once again a patron yet no longer a stranger. As he turns away, I catch a whiff of his cologne — hints of balsam and fir and a little sweetness that perhaps I might attribute to clove. He smelled incredible, and I wanted to trail after that scent, but I held my ground. I couldn’t even bring myself to answer him.

I shouldn’t have doubted. But even if I could turn back time to this moment, I would not have changed a thing. I would have certainly watched, at least. I would have told myself that no matter how overwhelming the pain, no matter how disconnected I felt, and no matter what love I lost, that I must keep going. Even if it seemed no one could ever understand me. Even if I was on my own. I had to just keep going.

Even if we took ten years to finally adjust and settle down into our happily ever after, I wouldn’t have changed a single point of our unstable trajectory.

I watched him walk weave through the crowd until he reached the exit, leaving the room behind and apparently disinterested in watching a performance that wasn’t mine. He didn’t look back.

It started there, on a Friday night of 1898, but our love would last forever.