A/N: Hiya, kiddies! I have returned from boot camp, military school, whatever you want to call it. Loads of fun, loads of “oh my god!” But we are here to talk about O in A, not EF, so moving onto some notes:

First, I like Roman numerals.

Each opera in some random color story I write is six thousand words—self-imposed limit—or less. Just know that. These cute little a/ns in the beginning should not be counted.

In terms of ambient music I have two recommendations. The first is Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, very creepy. Second, and I bet nobody has this, is the theme music for Zales jewelry commercials—Diamonds are Forever. Yeah, go ahead and laugh; I am a certified dork. But it expresses urgency like no other piece I have ever heard, so there.

Harry Potter fans in the house, I think HP is overrated, but I still love you guys who go ga-ga over fantasy books like that. I prefer C. S. Lewis myself. However, I am going to say I am using vila because they fit with the general Polish mythology of this short story. I am not stealing from Rowling, so please do not email me about some petty plagiarism plaint which does not even make sense. You can not copyright old folklore from Eastern Europe. And if said vila seem awfully similar to Greek sirens, well congratulations. They are supposed to be, and I am glad you can identify cultural diffusion.

Sorry if I came across with an attitude. I mean no harm. Ha-ha. So I shall shut up now, so you may read in peace. Ciao.

V. At the Pool of Narcissus

During the overture of Hippolyte et Aricie the Count Labienski in a well disguised agony of anxiety sat alone in his private box, his opera glass shifting from the orchestra pit to the darkened corners of the stage to the statuesquely still figure of Gregor whom he had earlier ordered to unlock the west wing shaft which led to the dingy oubliette still furnished with medieval torture devices. As the young Russian wrung his gloved hands that were habitually scented with ylang-ylang, his French guest released the faint fragrance of cardamom-geranium while he rubbed his palms together, trying to stave off the chill that lingered in the dungeon where he and Athené found themselves after descending the shaft from Veigé's study. Once they had surveyed their grim surroundings, the chorus girl started walking around the perimeter, and the count methodically tapped on the stone wall, hoping to hear a hollow echo above the sepulchral silence.

"But how did you arrive at the tenth floor when there is no trap door?" Léontin inquired, dismally knocking on the stone jam on the side of the lifting chamber.

"I don't know, Monsieur," Athené replied, shrugging. "There are many things I don't understand about that night. Reaching the azure labyrinth is one of them. I only wish my memory wasn't so porous, otherwise I could be of more help to you." She resignedly stepped back into the shaft, sighing and looking regretful.

"Do not blame yourself, Mademoiselle," Léontin consoled, absently leaning on a fluted pilaster. "Your courage in accompanying me is admiral enough. Never mind about—“

"Monsieur!" she shouted, falling to the ground of the lifting chamber as the crank moaned eerily.

"Mademoiselle!" he responded, springing from his relaxed position, his hands extended to capture the rapidly descending chorus girl who desperately reached up for him.

"Monsieur!" she cried again, falling faster. The count, after locking his revolver, glanced behind him and vigorously hurled himself into the swiftly closing space between the floor and the roof of the chamber before it plunged out of sight. The clanging chains drowned out Athené's screams, and Léontin pressed both of them into the back corners, too afraid to secure the grill while they plummeted to a frigid abyss past Styx and Lethe carved beside the nude angels forever enslaved between God and paganism. They finally stopped when the chamber crashed with a deafening boom on the solid ground, and a smoky cerulean illumination filtered through to them.

"Bon dieu! we've made it," she said, panting.

"A crystal hell, but what is that?" Léontin returned, pausing to hear the distant sound of water lapping on a shore. "Come, the stream of the stygian salt beckons." And with that, he took a hesitant step forward, blinking from the glittering glare of the walls that came from the swirling salt deposits. Quickly, Athené unwound a roll of ribbon which she had purloined from the costume maker, so as she and Léontin trekked into the center of the maze a trail of pale blue satin would always be there to guide them back to the shaft. They walked for a quarter of an hour, met a dead end, reversed, chose another passage, traipsed around in a circuitous path, and were greeted by the ribbon from where they first started. Annoyed, they wound up the satin, but their frustration died as they listened more carefully to the source of the lapping water; and, following the haunting sound, they approached a wiry candelabrum hanging from the stone ceiling, the air around them redolent of amber and ylang-ylang.

What Léontin believed to be a stream turned out to be a large, round pool. Its darkened surface rippled under the soft lapis lazuli candle light, and its shallows mysteriously glowed from a pulsing phosphorescence shifting between the hues of cyan and turquoise. At the pool's center was a platform on which rested a great sarcophagus of gilded marble etched with cyrillic characters on the sides, and a cool mist of frosted cerulean obscured the walls of the labyrinth with serpentine wisps that spiraled around stalactites, encircled stalagmites, or silently whisked above the water which lapped the salty shore in a sonorous melody. Athené, lured by the scene before her, dropped the spool she was holding, advanced to the edge of the pool, and gazed at her reflection, gently falling to her knees with her fingers submerged in the water where a troop of black swans had presently materialized.

It was at that moment that Léontin realized Narcissus had not died from vanity but from fascination, a malady which no doubt afflicted all the opera performers before Athené as well as Countess Labienska herself who succumbed to the first captivation of a Russian prince so many centuries ago. The prince had returned, searching for her. His visage slowly melted Athené's own reflection, and the chorus girl stared with rapt attention at Vasili Savanovich who smiled up at her from the phosphorescence. The mist caressed her cheek, gathering more heavily around her until a shapely hand encased in a gauntlet held her face up toward a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Siberian whose velvet cloak dripped near the bottom.

"My pet," Vasili whispered, his iron fingers stroking Athené's hair, "you have returned."

"Non!" Léontin shouted, endeavoring to shatter Savanovich's hypnotic influence.

"Non?" Vasili echoed playfully.

"But I love him, Monsieur," Athené said, lulled by her captor's musky amber. Vasili smirked, satisfied.

"Non! you don't," the count replied and, with bated breath, cocked the revolver, cautiously aimed for the prince's chest, mouthed a silent prayer, and shot the Siberian through his undead heart, the bullet scarcely kissing Athené's hair.

"No!" Vasili cried, his knees buckling. "Labienska, wait!" In desperate yearning, his steel-clad digits reached for Athené's neck, hungering for a final touch, a last caress before he lost the taste of her once more. Under the candle light, his eyes shone with purple mourning, and his golden locks suddenly forsook their luster. Most ghastly of all, however, was his gaunt face whose radiant complexion dimmed in the gloom, and, weighed by the Cercassian blade at his side, he collapsed, arms still flailing, into the pool, his velvet cloak billowing around him and the black swans who spread their dark plumage, as if prepared for flight. As the foggy mist cleared, Athené shrieked when she felt the cold splash from the prince's fall, like she did the moment Léontin shot the revolver. Shivering and panting, she backed into a wall, watching the pearly-white countenance of the prince turn to an ashy gray, the vibrant eyes close, and the bloodless lips utter a soft "Don't leave me." amid the darksome azure water.

"Mon dieu!" Athené whispered, breathing heavily. "Merci, Monsieur." While Vasili's head sank into the liquid phosphorescence, she was vaguely conscious of soft, melismatic singing that had replaced Savanovich's vehement struggle.

"It is all right, Mademoiselle," Léontin returned absently. "Le Prince shall plague you no more. But listen ... Listen to those voices. Beautiful, aren't they?"

Athené blinked, perplexed. She harkened to where the Frenchman fixed his reverie and espied a number of winged maidens sitting around the marble sarcophagus, their long flowing hair cascading into the pool where the last of the black swans had been swimming in the glowing shallows. While a certain gold-skinned maiden elegantly dove and resurfaced around the pool, dancing with a single black feather, her companions raised their voices, a lyric vibrato for every restless soul once persuaded by the captivating prince.

"Vila," Athené gasped, noting the maidens' white garments and nymph-like appearance. "Monsieur! Monsieur!" Instinctually, she skimmed her hand upon the water and plashed Léontin with a cold spray.

Spluttering and coughing, he staggered backward, momentarily disoriented, at which point the chorus girl seized his forearm and, in order to drown out the vila, shouted, "Non, Monsieur! Non! This way ... Come this way!" And with that she yanked the count as best she could, compelling him to follow her.

"Where?" Léontin asked, unthinking. "Where are we going?"

Half running, half jogging, Athené answered in a breathy huff, "Follow the azure ribbon, Monsieur. We're going wherever it leads us." And just to make sure he was not seduced a second time by the vila's chanting, she shot the revolver which Léontin had almost dropped into the pool. Its report echoed around them as they sprinted along the strip of satin on the crystalline floor. The echo then reverberated in their minds when they neared the shaft, and Athené pushed the Frenchman inside the lifting chamber before slamming the grill shut and jerking the crank to ascend to Veigé's private study ten stories above them.

As it happened, the count and the chorus girl were unscathed, though a little shaken from their descent into the labyrinth. But when the conductor flourished his baton for the finale, the violet-eyed Russian heard a knock on his box and, turning, saw Gregor admit Virdoisier and Athené wearing what looked to be the Frenchman's tailcoat, markedly oversized on her petite frame.

"Monsieur! Mademoiselle," Veigé exclaimed quietly. "I was so worried."

"It is Comte Labienski who should be worried," Léontin replied.

"For le Prince has returned to his mistress this night," Athené explained with a relieved smile.

L'Extrémité