Walls have Ears
I own nothing, but perhaps a sparse sprinkling of worthless characters. Anyone that means anything in this genre is owned/created by Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, and a myriad of other more worthy people. This story is the product of many hours of bored day dreaming.
Pairings: Erik/Christine, etc. May or may not contain references to a vague slash pairing, but most likely not anything severe or story-altering.
(Rating may change, although please note, I'm not obscene.)
Oh! And comments, critique, editing assistance, even insults are greatly appreciated.
Humbly yours,
TheKhanum
Part I
I.) Child of pure, unclouded brow
And dreaming eyes of wonder!
-Lewis Carroll
When she opened her eyes she saw with unbearable clarity the finality of her fate, for
light at every angle seemed to pour into her bedroom like a screaming tide of uninvited cheerfulness.
Wincing, Christine hid beneath the dark safety of her coverlet. It seemed she found herself the unwilling Phoebe of a room made to be a fitting palace for Apollo.
An hour came and left when a tapping at her door opened to reveal a timid servant holding breakfast.
Abandoned, now cold it sat at the far end of the room on a silver tray.
When at last the blazing sunlight seemed to infliltrate the tight barricades of her bedding, Christine threw herself out from under the sheets and irately pulled at the curtains only to reveal- to her shear frusteration, that the shades had been nailed to their frames.
Uttering a harrassed sob, she stormed back over to her bed, only to grimly recognize a lone figure standing in the doorway.
"I thought, perhaps it'd be beneficial for your health. The doctor's say there's nothing a little sunlight couldn't fix." Raoul hung in the entrance apprehensively, as if preparing to be dismissed.
"Remove the nails."
Stiffly, Raoul honored his fiance's curt request and left, carrying the nails in his hand. Later, upon the terrace, bathed in the soothing purity of the warm sun he discovered a smear of blood staining the parapet. Only then did he release his fist, dropping the nails into the garden below.
II.) Powerful indeed is the empire of habit.
-Publilius Syrus
Atlast Christine awoke one day to find she could finally recieve the warm embrace of the morning. She washed and came down into the parlour with a book before supper.
In the evenings she was joined by Raoul. Here they spoke to eachother with meted out caution honoring that silent contract clearly needed to preserve a semblance of bland domesticity.
The days blurred into banal monotony.
When boredom resolved itself into habit, Christine found a vein of resentment creep into her hazy slothful mind. A resentment that blossomed into a parasitic demon that ate away at the thin bonds of her relationship with Raoul.
It dawned on her suddenly. She couldn't sing.
"I can't sing." She announced her hands trembling white against her ivory skirt.
Raoul looked up defensively, "No, you just don't sing."
"No. Even if I tried, it won't come out." The Angel of Music has taken my voice in punishment for my betrayal.
One day a messenger clad in military uniform arrived at the door with a telegram.
"Christine, they want me to join them on the Arctic expedition. It leaves a week from Monday."
Raoul guardedly watched for any sign betrayed in Christine's impassive expression. Even the slightest change in her eyes would reveal to him whether his leaving would somehow hurt her. With not even a glimmer of caring, Raoul turned away from her impenetrable stoicism.
"And you accepted the mission?" Christine asked drolly.
"I'll be away for six months, Christine."
"So you'll go, which leaves me...?"
Heart crushed beyond resurrection, "Free, Christine. I won't keep you any longer. Withdraw another cent of my hope and I'll be forced to close the bank!"
Christine drew back looking almost puzzled and abashed.
"I don't like the idea that I'm keeping you against your will, I'm losing you to something Christine, and I suspect a ghost."
Caught off guard she ducked away from Raoul.
"If I was haunted by a ghost you'd think I'd sing with joy. A ghost is preferable than this stifling charade."
"Then pack, Christine. Pack your things and the day I leave, so shall you!"
"Well I don't mean to seem ungrateful, but you can't expect me to just up and leave, I've done nothing to warrant being tossed aside like some unwanted scrap. You took me away from the opera, so I have few prospects now, you know very well I'll die on the street. Like you'd care!"
The ultimate disunion dawned upon the couple as they looked at eachother in lost horror.
" Oh God, Christine, forgive me. I've been so utterly stupid. So wretchedly selfish and stupid! To think I believed I could make you love me...given a little time." He laughed in spite of the tears that threatened.
"No. Raoul. No. I'm wretched and ungrateful for everything. I never deserved you. I wish you had just left me to die that night. Die with him. Then I don't think I would've caused such undue pain."
Christine wept in Raoul's arms, and he pulled the hair from her wet face soothed her quietly.
"Dear Christine, had you died that night I don't think I'd ever be rid of your ghost."
"Yes," she smiled through her broken expression, "but I'd have made a boring ghost."
III.) Before mine eyes sits
Grim Death, my son and foe.
-John Milton
The ghost was appalled by the sheer tenacity of his will to live.
Mere days after the mob had left leaving his home in shambles, Erik had returned. Discovering the mindless devastation of his valuable posessions... while nauseating, was not what had nearly ended him. It was the discovery that of all things his coffin should remain untouched as a grim beacon of defiance. Those idiots were too horrified by their discovery of his tomb to destroy it, it was hardly an oversight. Evidently too reminiscent of their own mortality, the concept of coming near it was like surrendering to defeat.
It stood there now before him with it's infinite patience, inviting him to lay down and close the cover. To close his eyes, and drift into the oblivion of nothingness continuum.
What seemed to be days later, Erik coughed. The coffin should have been airtight. He should have just gone to sleep and suffocated into unconsciousness. Well that hadn't happened and now he was feeling just stiff with arthritis. Like a good corpse he'd crossed his arms across his chest, and in his determination to die, he'd fought the urge to shift around for comfort. The whole farce of his death was becoming evident. Now as he shifted onto his side relieving the pressure in his back he chuckled in a self-deprecating manner.
Not only was his life a mockery, but now cruel fate was determined to mock his attempt to die in any respectable fashion.
Self consciously Erik pried open the lid of the coffin and sat upright breathing in the fresh dank air of his house. Feeling a touch of thirst, Erik calmly decided to search through the dissarray of his house to see if his samovar was still intact.
IV.) Walls have ears.
-Miguel de Cervantes
In the first few months, Raoul had provided Christine with a modest monthly allowance and a small house with a young attendant at the edge of the city. Comfortably she lived here for sometime working short hours everyday as a clerk in an office that was within short walking distance. Her correspondence with Raoul had become less and less as the habit of eachother's company had all but dissipated. It stopped completely after a letter came announcing his engagement to one, Edith Dubois.
She was happier than she had been with Raoul, and yet, somehow the disillusionment of their separation, and the conclusion to the fairytale/nightmare that had been her life up until recently was moderately depressing. Had she once the fierce passionate love of both a viscount and a genious monster? Had she once been so near to reaching her dreams of singing in the Paris Opera?
It seemed so long ago. So unreal in retrospect. How average she was. Just Christine Daae of no particular interest. She started to sing a little again, but somehow her voice had begun to atrophe with neglect. When the little maid would stop to listen in the doorway, she felt so wretchedly self conscious.
"That's sweet madam, perhaps you ought to sing for the church I go to. We could really use a few more backups."
The invitation was innocent and kindhearted but stung like a slap in the face, revealing how truly awful she'd become. If Erik could only see how far she'd fallen. After all his hard work, and their combined dedication she sounded like any other untrained choir girl.
It would have broken his heart twice over.
"Ghost, wherever you may be, I hope in heaven's name you can't hear me now," Christine smiled bitterly as she addressed the sky above, "How lonely are you, Christine? You're losing your mind! Hah! I'm talking to thin air!"
The Ghost had in that moment opportunely positioned himself discreetly behind her window just in time to hear this last admission and finally, her bitter weeping. She was right, the deterioration of her precious instrument was just enough of a blow to break his heart a second time.
V.) And over them triumphant
Death his dart shook but
delay'd to strike, though oft invok'd.
-John Milton
The very night Erik had resurrected, he had promptly gathered all the small treasures he'd hidden safely in little nooks about his house. It was of substantial enough value to survive upon briefly but the major loss of his assets and his monthly allowance from the Opera... crimped his style so to speak.
Erik was forced to briefly travel in order to reline the pockets of his velvet jacket with enough monetary wealth to support his lavish tastes. Pickpocketing was a youngerman's sport generally, yet again it seemed to prove itself an aging man's last resort. Thus utilizing his dexterity he was able to accomodate the purchase of a comfortable temporary flat in London. Proving to be an ample opportunity for recovery he stayed for nearly a month carefully mapping out his intended self-exile within the cold solitary depths of Russia's Sayan Mountains.
Desolate land was free of prying, unforgiving eyes and mean, wagging tongues.
There was but one thing he could not leave without doing.
He travelled back to Paris, fighting. Fighting the nagging voice in his brain that screamed for him to banish himself forever, to live and let die... to not check upon Christine. Not to see her blissfully sitting next to her husband while playing with their precious little child would probably have been smarter.
Whatever crimes he had committed, whomever he had wronged, whatever vestige of follies that haunted his past, somehow must have conspired to prevent Erik from leaving peacefully and ignorantly. All his life he'd been cursed with an infernally desperate, clawing curiosity, that if left unsatiated would drive him completely, utterly insane.
Yet, every painful minute he neared Paris was another minute he could have been on the road to silent, blessed peace.
When Erik atlast tracked down the D' Chagney residence, he saw through the window precisely what he'd expected. The Vicomte sitting fondly next to his wife, whom held a chubby cheeked infant upon her lap. The warmth of the scene twisted like a knot under his heart.
It was of course exactly how he had envisioned it. But the one exceptional quality missing from the too perfect picture of domesticity was...Christine.
Overcome with a wave of astonished confusion and relief was mingled rage. Where on earth was Christine? How could this man who had all but stolen her from his impenetrable grasp be married to another? Unless this women was perhaps a sister and this was the boy's young niece or nephew... that would be rational. That would save Erik the trouble of wringing the boy's infernal neck.
Erik slipped in through the open window, and hid in the shadows following the little family with the stealth of a hunting cat. Ducking beneath the railing he trailed them up the stairs, and watched as the mother put her little child to bed, watched as father put his arm around mother's waist and pulled her into a familiar kiss that hardly resembled the chaste affection of siblings. When the mother retired, the father stood like a statue in the dark hall.
An eerie suspicious silence ensued in which both men held their breath waiting for the next move. Unsure if he'd been detected Erik slipped his hand into his coat and carefully readied the noose.
" Raoul, darling, aren't you coming to bed?" Inquired a female voice through the door.
Raoul seemed to breathe atlast and answered although Erik picked up on a distinct tremble resonating through his tone.
" I'm just going to check downstairs for my reading glasses. I'll be back up shortly."
Raoul seemed to straighten up, yet his white knuckled fists gripped the railing.
He seemed to know! Erik followed him down.
Suddenly, Erik found a pistol aimed at the level of his eyes.
"Aha! I knew it, I knew I wasn't imagining it! How long have you been there, prowling, spying on me?" Raoul demanded, gun shaking in his hands.
" Getting good at seeing in the dark, are we? Well, to answer you... long enough. You wouldn't be foolish enough to use that gun, not with your precious family just a floor above you," Erik responded gravely. He knew this wasn't true. Even a threat wouldn't put a damper on the boy's intentions, for he had shot at him before, once... nearly hitting him in the back.
" We both know that's a lie, monsier.," he spat, "Why are you here? I don't have Christine. Just leave my family alone in God's name."
" In God's name? That old fool doesn't care a wit about anything I do."
Without warning Erik descended upon him, and in a flash of an instant the lasso was around the Vicomte's neck as it had been once before. The pistol flew from his hand and landed with a crash against the wall. Erik bent to pick it up to unload the bullets. He had expected to find some. A sinister grin creeped across his face.
" Raoul! What in God's Good Name is going on!" The wife cried from upstairs.
" Again! With the deity!" Erik swore, then catching Raoul's neck, loosened the rope, "Fool! Tell her to go back to bed or her safety be damned!"
Raoul choked and cold sweat dripped down his face, " Edith! It's alright. Go back to bed, sweetheart."
The woman came to the top of the steps and demanded, " What happened?"
" I dropped a book, that's all. I-I'll be up. Never you wor- Oh GOD!" Erik tightened the noose again.
" You dare utter one syllable that will give us away and you won't see her again," Erik whispered fiercely.
"-Worry!" He gasped out, eyes brimming with tears.
" Alright," She said after a moment, "don't be too much longer, Darling."
" So that's your wife. I'd send her my regards, but she'd be more appreciative of my sympathies, I'm sure, if you don't obey."
The bedroom door upstairs shut and the dangerous moment passed. Raoul stood weeping quietly with the rope around his neck.
" I'm getting to expect empty threats, monsier, but not empty guns!" Erik tossed the pistol carelessly onto the chair.
" I...I haven't reloaded it. I didn't want to ever have to use it, it's just...just you know, a threat to ward off burglars," Raoul stuttered softly
"Useless of course, to protect your little family. I see you've grown complacent in your comfort."
" We all thought you were dead," Raoul accused suddenly.
"As if I'm not?" Erik chided morosely, "Stop all this boring chatter. Where in hell's name is Christine, Vicomte?"
"She left me." Raoul said simply. Erik was startled silent for the second time that night.
" First smart decision that girl had made in ages. Where does she reside? Or rather where do you keep her?" Erik demanded, disgust twisting his words.
" If you're implying that we have some lurid entanglement...then... then you can't think much of her. I assisted her monetarily for a time for her own security, monsier," Raoul spat, angry and resigned to his fate, "you're going to kill me aren't you?" A sob erupted from his throat.
" Stop your snivelling you stupid boy. I don't kill uneccesarily, especially father's of young children, unless those fathers refuse me the knowledge I desire. Like, where madamoiselle Daae lives for example. Oh, cut it out," Erik demanded grimly, tossing down a handkerchief, "your neck may be bound, but your hands aren't. Mop yourself up."
" Please. I can't give it to you. I won't let you find her again," Raoul wept, "can't you understand? I love her, always. I can't let you hurt her. Even if it means my death."
Erik frowned in his blackened mood, "Oh don't be so gallant. Martyrs are loathesome to murderers. Please don't be so hasty to plead for death, monsier, I'll gladly grant it, does your family mean so little to you that you'd abandon them in your vain hopes to protect a past love?"
"No, monsier, the world, please. M-my family means the world to me."
"Then perhaps threatening your family will nudge you in the right direction."
Erik released the lasso and Raoul collapsed to his knees upon the carpet sniffling and gasping miserably. He grabbed a pen from his table and scribbled the address onto a scrap.
"Here, monsier, I don't give this to you lightly. Please, don't harm her, or I promise you next time that pistol is in your face it will be loaded."
Erik took the scrap and grinned, "Oh, goodie. Well in that case, I can't wait to see you again." he paused taking in Raoul's look of alarm, " Of course I'm not going to harm her!Go back to your wife, I'm sure the bed grows cold with your absence. She'll most likely come to investigate soon, so, while this has been a most enlightening evening, I don't wish to have to repeat it again soon. Ouvre, Vicomte!"
On this cue, Erik dramatically exited out the front window, calling out afterward, "And I'd be closing my window from here on in, if I were you!"
Raoul sat in stunned silence, gathering himself to rejoin his wife upstairs. That Ghost, he thought,is not one to be reckoned with.
VI.) Music is well said to be
the speech of angels.
-Thomas Carlyle (The Opera)
With little enthusiasm Christine sat down at her window and gazed out. Her pale drawn face, accented the deadness of her eyes. Erik wondered amused, if she could see him standing there mere inches away with but a pane of glass between them. It was risky of course, but he was too intoxicated by her sheer proximity to care. Hell could come calling now, as little he'd notice.
So she lived on her own. It was rather remarkable considering her child-like demeanor. Christine had never even shown a glimmer of independence, or the capability to survive alone, and yet, here she was. Alive, yet not surviving. Although she had a maid, that hardly sufficed for companionship, a maid was certainly not a caretaker!
Seeing her was bittersweet, for as much as he longed to, he could not make his presence known to her. He had come expecting to see her well provided for, happy and safe. And she was neither. This caused a predicament for Erik since he'd intended to leave for Russia. Yet now, he would never be able to depart without feeling eternally remorseful! Christine would surely fall apart without some helpful interference! Her eyes emphasized the depth of the disease that was eating away at her soul... her voice had all but deteriorated, and her anguish echoed dimly throughout the sorrowful little house. To leave her to her own devices would be assisting her suicide.
But what could be done? It didn't matter anyway now after his rash actions with Raoul. Intimidation, blackmail and threats surely had alarmed the brash boy to the point that he'd rush over with his stupid heroic pride to warn her of the impending doom. Then they'd conspire to hide her off in some vague countryside so that the monster would never find her again.
With some alacrity, Erik backed away, apprehensive about risking involvement. Better to thwart than be thwarted. She'd know he'd been here sooner or later when Raoul came calling, so best leave well enough alone.
First, however, he'd take the ample opportunity to say 'hello', for old time's sake.
The angel of music hailed from heaven and wrapped the despondent girl in his warm embrace, soothing her in a gentle lullaby that would put her into a deep, therapeutic sleep. Christine's eye's lit up with ecstatic recognition, and her arms, by their own accord seemed to reach heavenward, her lips parting in rapturous delight. Erik felt a longing pull to fill that embrace, yet refrained. It seemed too vulgar to interrupt such happy beauty. And though the desire to sweep her into his arms was overwhelming, he had already resigned himself to a fate without her... too tempting it would be if he would now take advantage of her sweet vulnerability.
When atlast Christine fell from her trance into a gentle unconsciousness upon her divan, Erik snuck into her house and composed a letter, and with it the name and address of the only person in the world who could help her now.
Black tragedy lets slip her
grim disguise and shows you
laughing lips and roguish eyes;
But when, unmasked, gay
comedy appears, How wan her
cheeks are, and what heavy tears!
-Thomas Bailey Aldrich (Masks)
End Part I
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