Sacred and Profane (one-shot, PG-13)
Posted: Tue Jan 20, 2009 12:23 am
Title: Sacred and Profane
Author: redwinter101
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own Moonlight or any of its characters
Note: One of those rare moments when the story pretty much wrote itself, inspired by listening to Verdi's requiem. As with all my historical stories, the details (except for our beloved vampires) are as accurate as my research permitted.
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--- Sacred and Profane ---
Milan, May 22, 1874
As she stepped into the church, Coraline breathed deeply; the smell of God and money. She paused, savouring, eyes closed, head tilted back ever so slightly, looking to the casual onlooker like any other worshipper come to cleanse her soul or perhaps to admire the finery on display both on the walls and in the pews. But her reasons were more personal and less devotional. It was a year since Alessandro's death and she was an invited guest to the first performance of a new requiem mass, composed by his dearest friend in his honour. Even though it was nearly forty years since they had last seen each other, she retained an affection for him that was obviously reciprocated as he had chosen to dedicate the final version of his greatest work to her. It was this dedication that had given her entry into the inner sanctum of Milanese society and brought her to the church today, even though everyone assumed she was an illegitimate child rather than a lover from long ago.
She had always loved churches; others in her family and community were childishly fearful, as though a mere building held sway over immortality or fate or destiny, but she loved the ritual, the inherent drama, the persistence of hope. It had been nearly a century since her last visit here and much had changed, the recent restoration giving a modern look to the exterior that belied the ancient riches within. The Baroque style was definitely to her taste; austerity seemed such a waste when worshipping a supposedly all-powerful God. Work was still ongoing to complete the campanile, which was a disappointment as the peal of bells across the city had served as a daily reminder of all the wonders Milan had to offer.
She had met Alessandro less than a year after the death of his first wife; he was bereft, adrift, seeking solace. And he found it in her arms and in her bed; the ageing academic finding new life and purpose in the heat of her embrace. They were each pupil and teacher and in the brief time they were lovers, she discovered that they shared both an understanding of instinct and a disregard for the conventions of their respective societies. He was one of the few men she had wanted to confide in and for a time she gave serious consideration to showing him her true nature. By the time her mind was made up however, his grieving had evolved and he no longer had need of her. His dismissal still rankled, even though she knew he needed a housekeeper as much as a wife and that was a role for which she was uniquely unsuited. She was unsurprised to hear that he had married again less than a year after she took her leave; his decision to return to the well-trodden path was proof that she had been right to keep her secrets close.
But she still treasured the well-thumbed copy of "The Betrothed" that she carried with her today, like a secret password that gave her entry to this ritualised world.
"For Coraline, my finest hour." It was stark and elegant and she was flattered.
As she moved to take her seat, she paused to admire the frescoed ceiling; in so many respects the Milanese were the poor relations compared to their Neapolitan and Venetian brethren, but this church, dedicated in the gift of the citizens of Venice, merged the best qualities of both cities: rugged, individual, whimsical and grandiose. It felt like home.
The rest of the audience were taking their seats now and she admired the finery on display. As usual, she had opted for simple and dramatic; a red velvet cloak, hooded, light enough not to stifle in the humidity of the late-Spring days but warm enough for the cool nights that followed. Others had not been so reserved; the seamstresses, jewellers and milliners of the city had been kept occupied and she doubted if there remained a peacock unplucked in the entire state.
She found her seat, two rows behind the guest of honour, the great Giuseppe Verdi, here to honour his friend with his new work. She would have expected him to conduct the performance himself but apparently he was happier remaining among his patrons. They were equally eager to have the opportunity to ogle, many of them in attendance for reasons that had nothing to do with worship or musical appreciation. Verdi was a celebrity and they wanted to see the great man for themselves. At sixty years old, he still had the vigour of a much younger man and bristled with nervous energy as he waited for the performance to begin.
Coraline's reason for attending was to ensure her place in this society where she had made her home and she had not expected to be so transported by the music. Although she was a longstanding admirer, the master had outdone himself; passion, regret, grief poured through every line and phrase. The desperation of the "Libera Me" brought a tear to her eye and a chill to her stone-cold heart. But it was the "Dies Irae" that would be her abiding memory. The day of judgement, the day of wrath indeed. For the first time in many years, she was frightened by the intensity and import; the creation of such music must surely signify the presence of a divine hand. What would be her reckoning?
As the performance ended, she gathered her thoughts, reminded herself why she was there and fixed her most dazzling smile as she approached the composer, having made sure that her tears remained resolutely visible. "Signor Verdi, forgive me for interrupting you at your time of grief, but I wanted to thank you. Alessandro would have been honoured and moved." The older man took her hand in his and kissed it. Like everyone there who mattered, he knew who she was and their mutual acknowledgement was in both their interests.
"Thank you, my dear. I am honoured. Your father was a great, great man and a true friend. I shall always miss him and this is my paltry tribute to his genius." He droned on for a while about Alessandro and the meanings in his work, a subject that held little interest for her; Coraline was glad that he was a composer not a poet. Eventually she took her leave by the rear exit, pausing to admire the Angel of the Resurrection depicted on an ancient tombstone. She smiled, a fleeting, self-satisfied smile; for Alessandro, she had been that angel.
Author: redwinter101
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own Moonlight or any of its characters
Note: One of those rare moments when the story pretty much wrote itself, inspired by listening to Verdi's requiem. As with all my historical stories, the details (except for our beloved vampires) are as accurate as my research permitted.
*************************************************************************************************************************************
--- Sacred and Profane ---
Milan, May 22, 1874
As she stepped into the church, Coraline breathed deeply; the smell of God and money. She paused, savouring, eyes closed, head tilted back ever so slightly, looking to the casual onlooker like any other worshipper come to cleanse her soul or perhaps to admire the finery on display both on the walls and in the pews. But her reasons were more personal and less devotional. It was a year since Alessandro's death and she was an invited guest to the first performance of a new requiem mass, composed by his dearest friend in his honour. Even though it was nearly forty years since they had last seen each other, she retained an affection for him that was obviously reciprocated as he had chosen to dedicate the final version of his greatest work to her. It was this dedication that had given her entry into the inner sanctum of Milanese society and brought her to the church today, even though everyone assumed she was an illegitimate child rather than a lover from long ago.
She had always loved churches; others in her family and community were childishly fearful, as though a mere building held sway over immortality or fate or destiny, but she loved the ritual, the inherent drama, the persistence of hope. It had been nearly a century since her last visit here and much had changed, the recent restoration giving a modern look to the exterior that belied the ancient riches within. The Baroque style was definitely to her taste; austerity seemed such a waste when worshipping a supposedly all-powerful God. Work was still ongoing to complete the campanile, which was a disappointment as the peal of bells across the city had served as a daily reminder of all the wonders Milan had to offer.
She had met Alessandro less than a year after the death of his first wife; he was bereft, adrift, seeking solace. And he found it in her arms and in her bed; the ageing academic finding new life and purpose in the heat of her embrace. They were each pupil and teacher and in the brief time they were lovers, she discovered that they shared both an understanding of instinct and a disregard for the conventions of their respective societies. He was one of the few men she had wanted to confide in and for a time she gave serious consideration to showing him her true nature. By the time her mind was made up however, his grieving had evolved and he no longer had need of her. His dismissal still rankled, even though she knew he needed a housekeeper as much as a wife and that was a role for which she was uniquely unsuited. She was unsurprised to hear that he had married again less than a year after she took her leave; his decision to return to the well-trodden path was proof that she had been right to keep her secrets close.
But she still treasured the well-thumbed copy of "The Betrothed" that she carried with her today, like a secret password that gave her entry to this ritualised world.
"For Coraline, my finest hour." It was stark and elegant and she was flattered.
As she moved to take her seat, she paused to admire the frescoed ceiling; in so many respects the Milanese were the poor relations compared to their Neapolitan and Venetian brethren, but this church, dedicated in the gift of the citizens of Venice, merged the best qualities of both cities: rugged, individual, whimsical and grandiose. It felt like home.
The rest of the audience were taking their seats now and she admired the finery on display. As usual, she had opted for simple and dramatic; a red velvet cloak, hooded, light enough not to stifle in the humidity of the late-Spring days but warm enough for the cool nights that followed. Others had not been so reserved; the seamstresses, jewellers and milliners of the city had been kept occupied and she doubted if there remained a peacock unplucked in the entire state.
She found her seat, two rows behind the guest of honour, the great Giuseppe Verdi, here to honour his friend with his new work. She would have expected him to conduct the performance himself but apparently he was happier remaining among his patrons. They were equally eager to have the opportunity to ogle, many of them in attendance for reasons that had nothing to do with worship or musical appreciation. Verdi was a celebrity and they wanted to see the great man for themselves. At sixty years old, he still had the vigour of a much younger man and bristled with nervous energy as he waited for the performance to begin.
Coraline's reason for attending was to ensure her place in this society where she had made her home and she had not expected to be so transported by the music. Although she was a longstanding admirer, the master had outdone himself; passion, regret, grief poured through every line and phrase. The desperation of the "Libera Me" brought a tear to her eye and a chill to her stone-cold heart. But it was the "Dies Irae" that would be her abiding memory. The day of judgement, the day of wrath indeed. For the first time in many years, she was frightened by the intensity and import; the creation of such music must surely signify the presence of a divine hand. What would be her reckoning?
As the performance ended, she gathered her thoughts, reminded herself why she was there and fixed her most dazzling smile as she approached the composer, having made sure that her tears remained resolutely visible. "Signor Verdi, forgive me for interrupting you at your time of grief, but I wanted to thank you. Alessandro would have been honoured and moved." The older man took her hand in his and kissed it. Like everyone there who mattered, he knew who she was and their mutual acknowledgement was in both their interests.
"Thank you, my dear. I am honoured. Your father was a great, great man and a true friend. I shall always miss him and this is my paltry tribute to his genius." He droned on for a while about Alessandro and the meanings in his work, a subject that held little interest for her; Coraline was glad that he was a composer not a poet. Eventually she took her leave by the rear exit, pausing to admire the Angel of the Resurrection depicted on an ancient tombstone. She smiled, a fleeting, self-satisfied smile; for Alessandro, she had been that angel.
Let me rectify that now.
)
. Having said that, as someone who started out disliking her intensely (as we were supposed to) I grew to find her intriguing and fascinating, both as a character in her own right and as a route to understanding Mick.
What a lovely comment, alle. I do have answers to some of those questions (swilling around in my head somewhere) but not all, as this really did just come about as a stand alone without too much thought as to how Coraline got here or where she went afterwards. I really wish I had more ideas for Coraline's backstory but they just aren't coming to me at the moment.