“Elisabeth.”
The Goblin King stood at the foot of the aisle, violin in hand.
“I didn’t think you were especially devout, my dear,” he said, an amused expression on his face.
“I’m not.” I got to my feet, dusting the dirt from my knees. “But I came seeking fortitude.”
His eyes were soft. “Fortitude for what?”
“To face tomorrow.”
The Goblin King smiled, full of compassion and sympathy, striding up the aisle to stand beside me. “And did He answer?”
“No.”
He shook his head. “It may be He already gave you the answer, but you have not the understanding to see it,” he said softly. He tapped a finger against my heart. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
“Well, I would appreciate it if the Lord were a little less mysterious and a little more straightforward.”
He chuckled. “So say we all.”
I rolled my eyes before my gaze fell to the instrument in his hands. “What’s that for?”
In answer, he began tuning the violin. Plink, plink, plink, plink. Instead of tuning the strings to their standard intervals, the Goblin King tuned them to different pitches. He unstrung the middle D and A strings and crossed them before stringing them back to their pegs, leaving him with a scordatura I had never heard used before. Plink, plink, plink, plink. G, then another G, D, and another D. His ear was good. The Goblin King ran his bow over each string with a smooth, practiced motion as he fine-tuned their pitches, and I watched how easily his hands and fingers moved across the violin, familiar like old friends who had grown up together.
When he had finished, he turned to me. “Worship,” he said simply. “I came here to worship Him in the only way I can. With the only thing remaining to me that is still pure, still … mine.”
His. Despite what the Goblin King said, the austere young man still lived within him. No magic, no spell, no trick had given my Goblin King his extraordinary way with the violin. The power did not belong to Der Erlkönig; this gift was his, and his alone.
“I can leave,” I offered. “If you would like to worship in private.” I thought of the night I had trespassed upon him here, in this very chapel, and felt shame settle over me like a cloak.
He held my gaze for a long moment. “No, stay,” he said at last. “Stay, and be with me.”
I had demanded every last bit of him last night. His body, his lust, his name, his trust. But there were corners of his soul I dared not ask to reveal; even as I understood the need to hold some things sacred to yourself alone. His piety was one of them. The enormity of what he was granting me whisked my shame from me, replacing it with a sense of awe.
There were no pews in this chapel; there had only ever been one member of the faithful. So I sat down on the steps of the sanctuary, folded my hands, and let myself be with him, to accept this gift.
The Goblin King lifted his bow to the violin and closed his eyes. I watched him take a deep breath and begin the count in his head.
The piece began with a declaration, a proclamation of joy. The phrase repeated itself a few times before it was joined by a chorus of voices. The Goblin King skillfully conveyed them all through various shades of emotion and nuance, one after another, each in turn. All proclaiming Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah! beneath his fingers. Then a pause, a breath, before he resumed; a stately sonata, reiterating the glad tidings of the first proclamation.
I had known he played beautifully. Like Josef, the Goblin King played not just with skill and precision, but with love. Yet they were as different from each other as night and day. My brother played with purity, but the Goblin King played with devotion. Josef’s talent with the violin had always been that of ruthless clarity. Nothing of the earth could touch my brother’s playing; he trod upon the ether and the air, the notes transcendent and oh so beautiful, so beautiful.
But the Goblin King’s playing was weighty; the notes held depth and gravitas. Emotions my brother had not yet learned: grief, tragedy, loss. The Goblin King’s virtuosity was earned.
The piece came to a close, the last note fading into the silence between us. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, not wanting to break the reverent hush in the room. “Did you write it?”
He opened his eyes slowly, emerging from a trance. “Hmmm?”
“Did you write it? It’s exquisite.”
He smiled. “No. I did not write it. But you could say it wrote me, in a manner of speaking.”
“What’s the piece called?”
A pause. “The Resurrection. One of the Mystery Sonatas.”