Theme number two: Death. This is to the ballet, Glass Heart. I don't know who made up the libretto or whatever, unfortunately. Glass Heart premiered at the Mariinsky Theatre on March 13, 2008.

Disclaimer: I don't own Glass Heart. The choreography is by Kirill Simonov, while the music is by Alexander von Zemlinsky.

He stopped pacing for a moment, only to remind himself that she is married. Even so, he couldn't forget the way she looked, the way she moved, the way she looked at him. He started walking again, before he finally plopped into a chair, drained. He plucked a rose from the vase next to him, interested in its dark red color.

He stared at the rose never blinking, never questioning it's similarity to her. He twisted it between his fingers, recalling the dreams of her, dancing with an unearthly beauty that started old, familiar feelings.

He glanced at the cup, filled to the brim with red wine, beautiful because she had left it for him. He didn't know who she had given it to him in plain sight of her husband, but didn't care to ask himself why, only cared to remember that it was from her.

He knew that she was dangerously, unhealthily, addictive. He couldn't stop his attraction to her. If she wished, he would guide her through Hell, where he would surely end up for loving a married woman. But Alma? That gorgeous, alluring goddess? Perhaps it was a sin to be so lovely, but surely she would be spared for her divine grace.

Alexander closed his eyes for a moment, taking his time to cherish his memories of Alma. Her soft, red hair, deep blue eyes, sensual curves… He shook his head, trying to wake up. It wasn't healthy. She was married, and he was simply there. She wouldn't want him, not with the way Gustav looked at her, that lucky bastard. He looked at her in the same way, yet she did not want him. She ignored his feelings, his wealth, his everything, and went with Gustav.

His mind was clouded, controlled by her. He couldn't get her out of his head. No matter how hard he tried, she was there, directing his thoughts, taking over him, bit by bit. He couldn't stop her. Oh, but he wanted her in his mind, wanted her to see how he felt. He wished she knew. But she didn't. He felt helpless, trapped by his love for her,

He looked at the goblet sitting beside him. It was intricately designed, made of expensive metal. He picked it up. Maybe, just maybe, she knew what he felt. Maybe, just maybe, she felt the same way. His eyes stayed glued to the goblet; he was powerless, unable to tear his gaze from the goblet which she had touched, which she had given to him. In his eyes, it was worth more than the Holy Grail, absolutely priceless.

He extended one arm, and as he did so, finally noticed his surroundings. Bed to the left, near the window, with the door to the right, as was the table. He took little notice of the furniture, however, and focused on the wine. He stared at it, wishing, hoping with all his heart that it was just a dream, that Alma was his. He took a sip. It wasn't a dream, but he'd never be able to know that. He'd never be able to see Alma again, never be able to curse at Gustav, never be able to hear her voice say his name. He'd never be able to know anything ever again. Never.

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