A/N: Oh my gosh, it is so late! But I want to thank my wonderful reviewers: K, Cassandra12271, London Blaise, and BR. I love you guys. I wanted to get this out to you before I go out of town. As a quick note, I really do not know what the uniform of a Spanish page was like. I honestly went insane searching online for such information. But I imagine they must have been splendidly stylish since Lucrezia Borgia had an affair with a Spanish page. If anyone knows, please email me. Hope you enjoy this final chapter. Ciao.

V. Contrition Mounted on a Lipizzan

It was on a warm evening, when Götterdämmerung reached its cataclysmic conclusion, that the piercing neigh of a horse mingled with the opera's finale in which the Rhinemaidens reclaim their ring amidst billowing waves and the terrible fire of Ragnarok, of Brünnhilde's pyre, consumes the glory of Valhalla and the hall of the gods. And thus was fulfilled the curse of the ring, marking the end of the tragic quartette of the epic Norse legend put to music from the very lines of the Prose Edda. Even the horse, who presently ran down the right vertical wing of the opera house, joined his rhythmic canter to the exuberant applause as did the rider's shouts of encouragement.

Only when the subscribers and patrons emptied out onto the celebratory stairway did they realize the foyer echoed from the trotting gait of an advancing equine. It was the Viscount von Dradenburg who pointed to the steed and his rider, illuminated by moonlight, beyond the bronze statues of the loggia. The mount was a sleek black stallion of the Lipizzan stock and the equestrian a vigorous and jaunty cavalier of perhaps the Spanish stock. At that moment, the occupants of the Schwind Foyer witnessed man and beast execute a graceful levade in which the horse reared and drew in its forelegs while the rider laughed when his three-cornered hat with a scarlet aigrette fell from his blonde head to the pavement.

"Bon garçon, mon Conversano," the rider said, jumping off the Lipizzan after completing the forward jump of the courbette. "You're a son of Austria though the Arabian spirit resides within you," he praised, tethering the horse. Once he was inside, velvet hat in hand, the spectators recognized the lithe rider as the extravagant French count.

"What a master of dressage!" Valdemar exclaimed as Raoul started up the staircase.

"What a narcissistic eccentric," Caspar rebuffed.

"Merci, Messieurs," the cavalier called to the gentlemen whom he swiftly passed. Valdemar smiled as Caspar shook his head.

The racy Raoul turned quite a few heads when he rushed past Viennese high society, sped beyond the dignified patrons, and ran past the likes of the acting manager, chorus master, some mezzos, and a group of supers emerging from back stage, not stopping his accelerated pace till he burst into the hallowed silence of Fraulein Trigvysen's dressing room.

Upon seeing the visage of the intruder reflected in her vanity mirror, the soprano inquired, "Do you not knock, Monsieur?"

"A door is nothing to an apology, Mademoiselle," the reflection responded.

The singer sniffed, condescendingly turning around in her seat to face the man behind her. Much to her annoyance she found herself gazing at his handsome face more than she would have liked, and much to her surprise, he looked truly sorry--for something. Raoul was dressed in the garb of a Spanish page: polished Hessian boots with golden spurs, black velvet breeches, a ruffled shirt of white lawn lined with silk, and, of course, her green scarf folded into a thick ribbon pinned beneath his jabot with a silver fastening.

He carelessly tossed his three-cornered hat aside, walked toward her, and bent his knee in a truly contrite genuflection. "I have acted badly," he stated simply.

"Like a genuine cad," Ava elaborated.

He winced at her characterization. "Yes, Mademoiselle. I suppose you're right. I've behaved truly atrocious with you."

"Atrocious doesn't even begin to describe your insolence, Monsieur, after you name a cat after myself, who you pet in public; after you embarrass me on the stairway and humiliate me in the greenroom. You've been absolutely vile."

Raoul sighed pensively and continued, "Oh, how you must hate me." Ava cocked an eyebrow, taken aback. "I deserve your scorn which would be punishment enough but also your undying disdain, your cold reserve, and the full fury of your anger. I deserve it all and what is more. I offer to you my cheek," he pronounced, lifting his face up above the soprano's lap, "to do with as you pleas, so I may feel the sting of your slap and the scourge of your hand on my skin, that which mortifies my vile flesh. Come Mademoiselle, I invite it."

His eyes were luminous with argent remorse and his mouth set in a dejected frown. The exposed cheek was flushed, both from the energetic ride moments ago and the imminent violence it would receive. Ava was touched: Although she had had men begging on their knees, never had one so freely presented her with his physical person with which to make do. She cupped his cheek in her hand and caressed the soft skin tenderly.

"No, no, mon petit garçon. I'd never ..." she soothed, stroking his face.

"Oh gracious clemency of a prima donna," he murmured, raising his hand to hold her wrist while the other hand clenched her green scarf above his heart.

"I don't hate you, mon petit garçon," she explained, "but sometimes you're so forward that you try my patience."

A slow, imperceptible smirk quivered at the corners of Raoul's lips and his eyes, once so penitent, flashed with mischief. He lunged forward into her, encircled her waist with his arm, and with the hand which toyed with her own, he held her cheek close to his. Then, blonde curls falling in front of his gaze, he bent down and planted his mouth on Ava's, effectively silencing her with a long, demanding kiss. The soft purring she made in the depths of her throat only encouraged him, and he tightened his hold about her body, every inch of which he could feel through the light taffeta of her gown.

She broke away from his lips abruptly and glared up at him. Raoul gave her a lopsided grin and asked, "Do you forgive me, ma chérie?"

"You tempt my temper, Monsieur," she replied with acerbity.

"What ever happened to 'mon petit garçon'?" he inquired, smiling. She raised her arm, now prepared to take him up on his offer, but he caught her hand before it connected with his cheek. "Ma foi, you're beautiful when you're angry."

"Bon dieu! How I detest, no execrate your very being, Monsieur. You bold, audacious man," she shot back.

"But you love me all the same, ma chérie," he concluded with a laugh. And before she could protest, he kissed her again, raking his cool fingers through her hair and reveling in the low purr she emitted involuntarily.

"You're very presumptuous, mon garçon," she remarked, resigning herself to stay in his arms.

"Ah, ma belle, you force me to it," he reasoned, winking at her in the reflection of her vanity mirror.

She bristled. "I cannot move, Monsieur. Release me."

"Excellent. I vowed you'd be mine, and here you are, ma chérie, in the arms of the sinner who has committed so much for you," Raoul returned. "I'll take you to Hell with me where we shall gaze at the stars."

Down at the loggia, which was crowded with those waiting for carriages, the Turkish Angora sat at the feet of the black Lipizzan who gazed at the fair white creature below him. Her azure eyes, in turn, peered with languid lacitude at the powerful horse's golden reins and embroidered trappings.

Das Ende

Yay! Give it up for my boy Raoul! Do you not just love the darling? Stay tuned. He has to philander around with a few more women before he realizes he is already married and that he still loves his wife. All coming up in six more novellas and a feature length novel—that is if calc does not kill me first!