A high-pitched voice for lesser ears

Summary: One-shot. Christine stole the Don Giovanni score, just before she left. And now, not Christine returns to a dark cavern seeking answers, but Raoul does. He receives a strangely warm welcome and a long-lasting gift he will not lightly forget.

Credits: "How oft when thou, my music, music play'st" belongs to William Shakespeare.

Phantom of the Opera and all characters belong to Gaston Leroux.

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How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,….

Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!

To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blest than living lips.


Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss!

Christine

I'm floating in the red waves of music.

Oh, who ever wrote such music? I never found out who he was. He's the greatest composer in the world, eh? In what world? In mine — certainly, since there's not as many others — or in his. Which is almost the same! The humble music the world got used to has nothing to do with the maelstrome of sounds I'm drowning in. They're red, red, those waves, red like the ink he used to write with, red like roses, redder than blood. The music of hell. Music, which burns, but is not striked by the fire of Heaven yet.

Music of truth. Music of darkness. Music of pure pain.

But it burns me. He was so right, so right about it when he said that. I'm not capable of listening to it — and certainly not capable for playing it. But yet I do, all day long. I'm hooked, really, to this masterpiece of pain. I can't stop playing, I can't… I tried… my fingers are glued to the keys. And thinking is becoming equally hard. Only now I understand what a mastermind Erik had, to write this… and to just lay it aside when he was tired of it, not turning mad by it. He could write this, while I'm slowly getting insane by only listening to it. I feel like a mouse in front of a giant. And soon the mouse will be crushed.

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Erik

"She does not speak anymore" the boy said. Why does he come to tell me this? It only awakens a wave of anger within me — for such a waste of talent! The pampered doll speaks no more. I can guess she would also stop singing, of course. All I taught her is wasted, for her impertinent little temper. The boy struggles in the dark. He just stumbled over, in a silly way, which made me grin — just a tiny bit. But why is he here? For surely he doesn't think I would make her speak again? One doesn't return freely to the grave and the infatuated corpse! What is this trick, I wonder. I watch him with envy eyes from the dark, while he keeps on screaming in an attempt to find me. And why on Earth does he want to find me… me!

Everything is finished, everything is fixed. Absolutely clear, now, the walls of my world have crumbled... I'm alone in the dark, cold emptiness assieged by all the mirrors in the world. Down in the hellhole I call my home, days seem to run together. Only the occasional stroll through the world outside provides me with some idea as to how much time has passed. No more angel, no more refuge from this cold and darkening existence that has been doomed to be my existence since my birth. The only woman I ever truly loved – and lusted for, went out of my grasp and into the welcoming arms of a young and dashing fool, leaving me here. Alone. Or not completely alone? I do not know how much time had passed before some soft footsteps entered my world again. But they were not like hers… I could hear soft, leather soles. And then there was the boy in front of me… I saw him, but he couldn't see me.

I just wish he fell again and hurt his pretty head, just because of the anger his visit gives me. Doesn't he feel it, in the dark? The hot red wave of anger reaching out to him? Doesn't he feel my desire to be left alone?

"Please… I need to speak to you… I mean you no harm….if you're still out there, say something". He shouts into the empty darkness, in the wrong direction.

These are such normal words, spoken so innocently. Can't he sense I'm right behind him, me and my red anger? I just step out of his sight each time he turns to see behind him… it's so easy, so very easy. I can fool him like this for many more hours. What a nice little game he brought me, in my boredom and lonelines! For I am so bored since that tiny pink hand picked up the portfolio with my music… And never laid it down again. And I was too weak to even care about it.

"Angel?"

Now that is tart! That is cruel to say! Stupid boy! The Angel of Music was defeated, defeated forever by the mocking mirrors and a broken heart. The lying sight and vision celebrates its victory over the truthful sound.

Nothing remains — music is empty, soul is hollow, spirit is broken.

But somehow I still live; however powerful my desire to lay in my coffin, close my eyes and stop existing, I am not able to do that. There's the sound beating in my hideous head, the hollow, weeping sound of a single violin string, the hopeless, hapless cry in the void. It hurts and doesn't allow me to forget about my existence.

And the name of that existence is Erik! Not Angel, but Erik is its name! It sounds strange to hear the word from his lips. It was her word. Only she was allowed to call me that. To him I was only "monster". Why Angel? And now my patience has raised a border. What does the silly boy want from me?

A cold boney hand reaches out from the dark.

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Christine

When I took Don Giovanni — a simple leather-bound version, strung together with old dusty ribbons — my angel just lay there, on the floor. Nothing left of the proud black shadow who once dragged me behind a mirror and through an icy cold lake. Only a weak black pile of dust, tears and misery. I felt no pity — but wouldn't I do him a favor by taking that damned opera away? Writing it nearly destroyed him. I didn't love my angel — but I didn't want him dead either. Raoul was waiting in the drawing room. The mirror chamber destroyed… and I stood in front of that organ, with a poor pile of tears beside me. And then I saw his eyes… begging me, begging to take the opera away. I was sure of it — that was what he wanted, I told myself. From the moment he told me about his opera I had a strange fascination for it and an unexplicable desire to hear it. Now that would finally be rewarded. I all did it in one rush, not thinking of what I was doing: I took the portfolio, kissed him quickly on the forehead and left — not even looking back.

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Erik

All her attention went to that damn piano these past four weeks, the boy told me. Talking to her didn't help. She did not even notice when he stroked her hair. So he took her hands in his, away from those jacks, to caress her wrists and kiss the tops of her fingers. All he gained was a slap in his face. Her hands returned to the keyboard so fast he didn't even see them move.

Now that surprised me — Christine who striked her precious count in the face? I don't need to ask him why he didn't took the music away and brought it back to me. The red scratches from her fingernails are still visisble in his face. Although I can not really imagine my Christine being dragged over the floor like a wild beast, screaming, kicking… it's obvious that happend when he tried to take Don Giovanni away. And of course I knew all of this would happen if she ever got her hands on that damned music. Her eyes were always drawn in the direction of the leather and old ribbons. I never understood this fascination… they're really only scrawls by a poor old madman. The boy shivers as I lay a cold hand on his shoulder and bring my face close to his.

"Well, dear boy… I can not take her away from my music. But I can take you away from it."

He just stares at me, not understanding what I mean. Unmasked — I don't care to wear a mask anymore since she left. He doesn't seem to be bothered by it. I envy this boy — he has a wild cat in his house, a woman with a strong, forcing will. I only had a weak-willed puppy, following me everywhere I went with her eyes. I really became tired of her. But did he really think I would help him? What a fool he is! He must be desperate to come down here. Now, perhaps I have a sweet tasting gift for the poor fool.

I raise my hand, its palm facing upwards… And begin to sing. I don't care about his surprised face. Surely he had expected everything from me — proven by the sword and the gun he carries with him — but not singing. But he can not defend himself against my voice, can he? Slowly I bring my voice upwards. I make it trace down again, but reaching higher notes every time it fell down. When the boy realises what I'm doing, it will be too late. I raise my voice… my angel's voice… higher… and higher… no angel could ever reach such a note, but I can. And higher… I'd have to go down again to breathe, but it will be the last breath before my triumph. Now I let my voice climb so high I can not even hear it myself anymore. No notes were ever written for this, they would fall off the paper. But the boy can hear… I send my voice into his ears. He falls down on his knees, his arms wrapped around his head, his hands covering his ears. How I love the sounds of his begging to stop me! I can almost taste his pain. What a wonderful feeling that is! He crawls over the floor, delicious, delicious. I reach higher… until I can almost hear the tiniest cracks — like two very small snapped bags of air. Some blood drips out of his ears and away over his earlobes. His blood has a very beautiful color. I really should tell him this, actually — its one of the deepest, richest kinds of red I've ever seen. And the way it is seeking a way over his well-shaped temple and beautiful cheeks… delicious. In the distance some bats are flying away, searching a safer place to hang. He looks up to me — now, I did him a favor, didn't I? I give him a slight nod, a bright smile — and I disappear in the dark. I'm very thirsty now. I remember I had a good bottle of wine left somewhere?

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Raoul

How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,….

I'm no child anymore, but I wonder — it seems as though she's under some kind of spell. We always believed in spells and magic when we were children. She's still playing when I return home and enter the drawing room. Her hands are moving across the keys, slightly pressing them. I notice she hasn't touched the food I prepared for her, or slept… she must've played for more than …how long have I been away, actually? Six hours, maybe seven? There's still some blood at my temples and cheeks. Uninterested I wipe it away — all I care about now is her. She was all I ever cared about.

Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!

But I can't hear the piano anymore. Bless you, Angel, for this peaceful silence. Finally, I'm free of the madness which filled my house for the last weeks. All the servants left, one by one. Some of them begged me to ask her to stop. One of them dared ask her to stop — she did not even look up. But she did look up when I asked her attention, giving me a rewarding smile as though she has never been this happy before. But her hands never stop — and she doesn't speak a single word.

And the music…what kind of music it is! I had no idea such sounds exist. It is the most beautiful, tender music ever performed. All the love, dreams and tenderness one can ever wish for in a lifetime, were written down in red ink in a few single staffs. And at the same time it struck, thundering down upon me, tearing me apart, violating my brain from the inside out. At first, I did not immediatly notice what it did.

It took 30 seconds. I was down on my knees by then, my hands over hers on the keyboard, begging her to stop. But she couldn't — in her eyes I still read she wants to stop, but she can't. Her hands don't belong to her anymore. They belong to the music — they belong to him. And thats why I went down to him and asked him to stop this madness. He didn't want her anymore, did he? She chose him and he sent her away? Then why keep this spell? But now I know he didn't write the music for this cause. She stole it — now he has no more power over her.

To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blest than living lips.

Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss!

But I don't make the mistake of taking her hands away anymore. Gently I sit beside her tender form on the stool. She's so tin, and so pale. She gives me a smile, but her hands don't stop. But all will be good now. All I wanted was not to hear that damned music anymore, and her beside me. All she wanted was to play the music. I stroke her pale cheek and gently pushed some food in her mouth. Upon that I'm granted another smile. She only ate when I pushed the food down her mouth these past weeks. Now we both have what we wanted. I can't hear the music anymore. Actually, I won't hear anything at all, ever again. But who cares, when one is freed from such disastrous sounds? I enjoy the silence I'm wrapped in now. Now I can finally see my Christine's smile again, without the music swarming in front of my eyes. Yes, Erik, she was right, you truly are a genious. Who else would've thought of such a solution? Inwardly I thank you, while I wipe the last traces of blood from my earlobes.

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A/N: again, lot of thanx to my beta Ex Astris, for being an endless source of knowledge for my poor skills of the English language.