Palais des Rêves
by Deborah Rosen
11:13 PM 8/19/2003
My Disclaimer: I do not own "PTO." I never have, and never will, own Erik, Raoul, Christine, or any of the other characters that appear in other authors' versions of the story of the Phantom of the Opera. The only things I can make any claim to are the workings of my own imagination with the material that other artists have given to me in their music and their stories, and the occasional incidental characters that truly *are* mine.
Blame: Half mine, half my Muse's. I don't know if Erik's around, but if he is he can shoulder another half of the blame for getting me into another fine mess... That's ok, I get my revenge in these angsty-type phics.
Spoilers: Nothing you haven't seen from the ALW production.
Other Notes: I mentioned I don't own "PTO," I figure I should probably mention I also don't own the rights to the song "Call And Answer" (that would be Barenaked Ladies and more power to them)! The lyrics are marked in // double slashes //, and thoughts are marked in [brackets]. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the story!
- Deborah (Phantom Lover)
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Palais des Rêves
~*~*~
Erik opened the door with his customary silence and looked in at the sleeping girl in the boat-shaped bed. Her face was turned towards him and flushed slightly: the covers bunched under her resting hands at her chest, showing bare white shoulders under a snowy chemise. Her dark brown curls made a tumble around her face on the pillows that was very different from her usual carefully groomed appearance. She was beautiful.
// I think it's getting to the point //
// where I can be myself again //
He refrained from allowing the slight smile he felt to touch his lips beneath the edge of the porcelain mask. The truth was, he was rather afraid to allow himself that luxury... any luxury... in the presence of Miss Christine Daae. One weak moment could invite a whole host of problems even now.
// It's getting to the point //
Whatever on earth had possessed her, those weeks ago?!
// where we have almost made amends //
In one swift move she had torn the mask from his face, pulled the wool from both of their eyes, ripped away the one thing behind which he felt safe, and knocked out all the supports of the palais des rêves he had so carefully built for them both...
And yet, somehow, he had forgiven her. For here she was again, asleep in the bed, in the home he had crafted for them both as carefully as he had crafted the Palais Garnier, their castle of dreams.
// I think it's the getting to the point //
// that is the hardest part. //
Christine shifted slightly in her sleep, the peaceful smile slightly disturbed on her smooth face. Swift as thought and as quietly he shut the door. She hadn't bolted it, she never did, and the trust of the act surprised him every time. Would she be so complacent about that if she knew that he took advantage of that fact nightly to steal a few precious moments gazing at her? He told himself he just was making sure she didn't need anything in the night.
// And if you call, I will answer //
// And if you fall, I'll pick you up //
// And if you court this disaster //
Would that idiotic young pup who insisted on continuing that ridiculous excuse of a courtship, be so considerate of Christine?
// I'll point you home //
[Probably not,] Erik decided, and this time let a sardonic smile crack the impassive expression he wore as habitually as his opera cape. [He's not old enough to have grown milkteeth yet!]
He smiled again, more warmly this time, as his thoughts drifted and his gaze wandered around the room. There was the faint perfume that she used that now pervaded the hidden house, her tiny slippers tucked under the divan, a book overturned on the table before it - what a voracious reader she was! She'd laughed when he remarked on it, saying that she wanted to be able to understand the cultures that her characters portrayed.
The young singer had started to put the book away then, until he closed her hands around it. "Everything here is yours, dear, I told you that. This is your home and you are welcome here at any time: these books are as much yours as they have ever been mine, and it is good to research the cultural backgrounds besides. I'm glad to see that they give you as much joy as they have given me over the years."
// I'll point you home //
There could be no doubt this time: the whole room proclaimed it. Christine was home.
~*~
Christine opened her eyes as the tiniest click of the latch sounded. Erik had checked on her again. Did the man ever sleep a whole night through on his own anymore?
// You think I only think about you //
// when we're both in the same room //
Eirk was very considerate of her. Sometimes it made her want to laugh, sometimes to scream that she could very well do little things for herself. They talked of many things in the solitary hours they spent together, and yet they never touched on the topics that Christine knew bothered him the most: the Opera Ghost quickly steered the conversations in a different direction whenever she tried to bring it up, so skilfully that it was clearly not up for discussion.
// I'm only here to witness //
And yet, in so many little ways, she was sure he was trying to speak to her without words, trying to prove to her that fear could indeed turn to love... that the man within that half of a death's head loved her!
// the remains of love exhumed //
Had Erik, the feared and mysterious Opera Ghost whose mere mention was enough to scare what little wits remained among most of the corps dancers, ever feared Christine in any way comparable to the way she had felt, looking for the first time onto his bare and half-ruined face?
It was an interesting and instantly sobering thought, ridiculous as it appeared on first consideration. More so was the thought that intruded immediately after:
// You think we're here to play //
[Is Erik trying to compete with Raoul for my love?]
// a game of who loves more than whom //
She closed her eyes in shock. [Of course! How could I have been so stupid, that's exactly what he's doing! He knows I haven't discouraged Raoul from trying to court me... Oh God, which way can I choose?!]
// And if you call, I will answer //
// And if you fall, I'll pick you up //
// And if you court this disaster //
What if she chose wrongly?
~*~
Erik was furious, but he vented his rage in the mad dash from the stage of the Opera Populaire through the secret corridors. Christine struggled at his side, gasping for breath. Well, so he had her a bit tightly around the waist for this pace. [I am *not* losing her again, not to that ignorant fool, not to anyone!]
// You think it's only fair //
How could she? How *could* she?! He wanted to shriek his agony to the world, but kept running silently. In front of *everyone!* The litany repeated itself in his head. The final scene of "Don Juan" and he had almost heard those longed-for words leave her lips! If only as a character in a play, he longed for her to say those words, address them to him...
// To do what's best for you and you alone //
What could she possibly have hoped to gain?
// It's only fair to do the same //
In front of all Paris! Besides the obvious fact that she, as a performer, had stopped the show, *his* show, irrevocably and unforgivably... it paled in comparison to what she had truly done to him.
// To me when you're not home //
Not once, but *twice,* had she stripped him of his protection, his safety, his comfort, his *dignity!* She had revealed to every man, woman and child there what he had hidden from all for as long as he could remember! For a split second, he could hear again the jeers of the crowds that came to watch the human animal play the violin...
// I think it's time to make this something that is
// More than only fair //
But he had one last ace up his sleeve. Pushing his terrified passenger into the boat that they had reached in record time, he poled them frantically across. He had to bring Christine home, the notion was planted in his mind that everything would be fine, once Christine was home again with him. A foolish fancy, he knew, but it was a comfort.
// So if you call, I will answer //
He sang to her again, but could not sing the soft, hypnotizing notes that had once made birds land on his fingers for her now. His voice nearly cracked again and again in his rage and bitterness. "Why, you ask, was I bound and chained in this cold and dismal place."
// And if you fall, I'll pick you up //
Yet he lifted Christine out of the boat gently.
// And if you court this disaster //
He feared he knew her choice before he even laid it before her, but there was no choice now. The young fool of a Vicomte was on his way down already, no doubt.
// I'll point you home. //
Erik stepped across the threshold of his home with Christine cradled in his arms for what, deep inside, he knew would one way or another be the last time.
~*~
Three weeks had gone by since that last awful night. The night of the premiere of his opera...
// But I'm warning you, //
The night of the final confrontation...
// Don't ever do //
The night the light of his life had run away to light another man's life.
The darkness within and without felt that much more dismal for having known those few precious weeks of joy. He had already returned the forty thousand francs which he had already pilfered from the managers.
Christine would be coming soon, she had promised. That promise was the last gleam in the darkness, as single dim and faraway star in the night that enveloped him. He turned the knife in his hand, flipped it with the habit of long practice in a trembling hand grown somehow more wasted and slender than it had ever been before. It was wasting time, he knew.
// Those crazy, messed-up things that you do //
[I just want to see her... one more time.]
Instantly he berated himself for that. [No, you're a coward, and taking the coward's way out. Why put her through this as well?]
[She put me through hell!]
[She did? Hell is life. Blame your parents for that.]
It took a moment to realize he was laughing silently in the darkness of his ruined home with the first real feeling he'd had in weeks. Soundlessly, but with some feeling... sarcasm. [Of course. I should have known...]
[I must be insane, I'm losing an argument with my own mind.]
// If you ever do //
With a mirthless smile, he stood and stroked the wreckage of his pipe organ. What beautiful music had come from it once... why had the mob destroyed this? No, it hadn't been the mob, it was Erik himself who had... because it sang with her voice. But his opera... his opera he had spared. The cover of the score, bound in leather the color of dried blood, was face- down on the wet carpet at his feet: he stifled the irrational urge to kick it across the room.
The grim smile fixed on his face, he picked up his "Don Juan Triumphant" and laid down in his coffin with a long sigh of relief. Something he knew, in the midst of all this strange destruction. The mob had spared his room and the room that was exclusively Christine's - had they not found them? - yet his room was now as twisted and gutted as the rest of the place. The only exception to the room was the gleaming coffin under the blood-red canopy: that, at least, still had its purpose to serve. For a moment he puzzled, slightly distracted - had he not heard something rustling outside? [Just a rat. He can jolly well wait until I'm finished.]
Erik removed the pillow and laid his opera down in its place under his head. In a way, that Don Juan was his life story. Every emotion he had ever felt had been poured into that. And yet Don Juan and Aminta were but thinly- veiled portraits of Erik and Christine themselves. [Fitting, then,] he thought with remarkable clarity to his thoughts, [that the last copy of this score, the original, should be buried with me.] The Opera Ghost rested his head on the score and raised the knife to his wrist. Strange, it didn't really hurt as the blade bit down... the pain inside was all that really mattered and now that that was ending he could sleep. After all, what was a little blood, to pay for an end to this torment?
"Erik?"
// I promise you //
The voice seemed so real that the man automatically replied, "You're early."
[Now I know I'm insane, hearing her voice here.]
"Erik!" The tremulous question had become a muffled shriek. Faintly he could hear the clattering of his charred and broken furniture being moved by someone in haste, the squeaking of rats, cloth ripping and a short curse in the voice of his angel, coming steadily nearer. The curse was repeated a moment later and more forcefully from right next to him a moment later. Soft hands raised him up, tore the blade from his grasp though he tried to hold onto it. More curses but this time in Farsi - [Farsi?] - as well as French and Swedish. the feeling of being lifted, a feminine voice in his ear. His arm was being bound tightly. [No! Let me go!] he tried to say, but his lips were not working. His eyes didn't seem to be working, either, because he saw two figures above him moving... both blurry, but he could have sworn the one with her hand on his ruined cheek was... [Christine.]
// I'll be the first to crucify you //
Erik lost consciousness.
He came to with a jump, not recognizing where he was. He kept his eyes closed, relying instead on other senses. He was lying on something soft, and the scent around him was familiar somehow. There seemed to be something wrapped very tightly around his left forearm, which throbbed dully. [What the devil...]
[Angel.]
Now he knew what he'd seen that last moment before passing out. He exhaled heavily. So it wasn't a hallucination, or even a very pleasant dream.
// Now it's time to prove //
Eyes closed, he heard the sound of tiny feet pattering across a rug, felt the surface he was lying on sag in one place as a weight settled onto the bed by his waist. The scent of something warm and tasty came to his lips as something pressed against them... when had he last really tasted anything? He'd stopped eating when he realized that everything tasted like ashes...
"Go away." He barely recognized the words as his own.
"I can't do that, Erik. Not again." The spoon pressed insistently at his lips again and he hadn't the strength to refuse it. Hot broth... it was welcome to his starved systems. Concentrate on anything, to avoid naming that voice.
"You came early."
"No, my old enemy, my older friend. You misjudged the day." That was the Daroga: not much better.
A crude word in Farsi came to Erik's lips that he hadn't thought of in ages and he let it fly with all the sarcasm he could muster: he could almost feel the old policeman recoil from the force of such a vile word. "Yippee. Now go away."
"We can't do that." The Daroga's voice told him very little. That bandage on his arm was coming loose. "Luckily we found you before you were past help." Damn, it hurt worse than before now that the pressure was off of it. What *had* he done, anyway? "And you seem to have a stronger constitution than most. When was the last time you ate?" Apparently satisfying to whomever was checking on it, the bandage was being tied again as tightly as before.
// That you've come back here//
He reached over, pushed away the bowl of broth and grabbed her slender wrist in his good hand, barely able to hold his arm up. "Why are you here now?" he rasped. His body was weakened, but his spirit was as strong as ever, staring out through dark eyes that were no longer closed, but boring steadily into hers.
The thought came that he must look quite a sight, unwashed of three weeks' blood, sweat, tears, soot and mud. "Where's your precious Vicomte hiding?"
Christine was silent a moment.
// To rebuild. //
"There was a friend who needed me."
// Rebuild //
"A friend," he repeated slowly. Bitterly. "I have no friends, except perhaps the Daroga."
"Whatever else has gone on in the past, you have never been anything less than a friend to me, Erik," was the Persian's quiet rejoinder, seconded by Chrstine's nod.
He released her abruptly and she rubbed at her arm. "You have a strange way of showing it, then. Tell me, what door is the dear Monsieur le Vicomte hiding behind this time?" For the first time he realized that he was in Christine's room, the one room he had not dared to enter let alone destroy. This was *hers.* He had no right to be here. "Let me up. Where's my mask?"
"No, you lost a little too much blood to be on your feet again this quickly, old friend." The Daroga's words were proven by Erik's unsteadiness as he swung his feet out from the boat-shaped bed and put his weight on them a little too quickly. Christine quickly pushed him back into bed without much difficulty, and the pair of them tucked him again like a child. "The Vicomte died suddenly two weeks ago, a madman with a knife."
Erik stiffened: the Daroga's tone was as flat as a planed board. "And you think I did it."
"No," replied the young woman at his side. "No, I don't. They both died at the scene... he turned the blade on himself."
"Don't expect me to say I'm sorry."
Silence stretched uncomfortably. The Daroga pressed Erik's hand and left the room, closing the door behind him. Idly, Erik noticed that the bolts had been removed. The young opera singer took the bowl and spoon in hand again and gave him another few silent sips of broth, but he really couldn't take much more with his stomach shrunken from lack of food. Finally he just pressed his lips together and shook his head and the bowl went again onto the nightstand.
"Erik..."
"Don't. Whatever you're going to say, don't."
"I came back to help you rebuild."
// Rebuild //
"Rebuild what?"
"Your life."
// Rebuild //
"That was forfeit the moment I was born, didn't you know? Yours too, though you might not realize it. The bill came due. What is there left for me to live for?" The silent accusation struck Christine deeply as her drawn and pale face showed. "Go find some other ignorant young pup with a title and a foolish heart."
"Perhaps a pair of people who know the worst in you and are not afraid, people who also know the best in you and the essence of you within and are not ashamed to know you, might be something to live for. Two who can look at you without the revulsion you fear. Perhaps for yourself, for your own sake: that might be something to live for also. You touched a lot of people with 'Don Juan,' Erik. The Angel of Music touched them all." Erik's throat was suddenly tight, he could feel his resolve to be stonily indifferent to her fading away like dew under the sun. She continued, holding his good hand tightly in both of hers. "I don't ask you to trust me. I wouldn't blame you if you threw me into the lake the moment you are strong enough to stand without staggering. But you are not alone. So long as the Daroga lives, so long as I live, you will never be alone. There are two people here who care about you whether you accept that or not. You're not alone, and you can do more than what you have. You helped me, Erik, far more than you realize. Share your music with others. It's a reflection of the beauty within you. That's worth a lot more than the face on the outside."
// Rebuild //
"Get out." One last test. If she left... well, she didn't know *all* the secrets of this room and so help him God, she never would.
"Erik..." Shock and pain openly painted her features. But there was something else as well that he could not place, but he had never seen it before on her. [What is she thinking?]
"Leave me," he said again roughly, gathering his strength and his voice again. The broth had helped immensely, though he was not about to admit it.
"I will not!"
He had to smile, if sardonically. Three weeks ago she couldn't get out of his presence fast enough. "Then help me up." Christine smiled this time. She looped his arm over her slender shoulders and half-carried, half- dragged him to his feet. By an effort of sheer will he forced his knees to steady him, and it was more than the weakness of his body's condition that did it - [she is letting me hold onto her?] "If I'm going to take a friend's advice, I'll need a place to stay. Which means that this place will be rebuilt."
They walked slowly to the door together. Christine asked "Why this place, Erik? You have money, the Persian could help you find a place anywhere else. Why do you want to stay here?"
Together they looked out into the remnants of his home. The Daroga moved around righting what furniture was still serviceable, glancing at them both out of the corner of his eye but tactfully not commenting.
"I admit I enjoy being the Opera Ghost, I do not suffer fools gladly and those two who call themselves my managers are the worst kind. Bringing them down a few pegs has certainly been amusing." The mocking amusement in his tone faded to something more honest, though as he spoke his mind without really thinking about it. "The Opera Populaire is a place where dreams can come true," he murmured to himself. "Perhaps, if I choose the right dreams this time, it can become my palais des rêves once more."
// Rebuild! //
11:13 PM 8/19/2003
My Disclaimer: I do not own "PTO." I never have, and never will, own Erik, Raoul, Christine, or any of the other characters that appear in other authors' versions of the story of the Phantom of the Opera. The only things I can make any claim to are the workings of my own imagination with the material that other artists have given to me in their music and their stories, and the occasional incidental characters that truly *are* mine.
Blame: Half mine, half my Muse's. I don't know if Erik's around, but if he is he can shoulder another half of the blame for getting me into another fine mess... That's ok, I get my revenge in these angsty-type phics.
Spoilers: Nothing you haven't seen from the ALW production.
Other Notes: I mentioned I don't own "PTO," I figure I should probably mention I also don't own the rights to the song "Call And Answer" (that would be Barenaked Ladies and more power to them)! The lyrics are marked in // double slashes //, and thoughts are marked in [brackets]. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the story!
- Deborah (Phantom Lover)
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Palais des Rêves
~*~*~
Erik opened the door with his customary silence and looked in at the sleeping girl in the boat-shaped bed. Her face was turned towards him and flushed slightly: the covers bunched under her resting hands at her chest, showing bare white shoulders under a snowy chemise. Her dark brown curls made a tumble around her face on the pillows that was very different from her usual carefully groomed appearance. She was beautiful.
// I think it's getting to the point //
// where I can be myself again //
He refrained from allowing the slight smile he felt to touch his lips beneath the edge of the porcelain mask. The truth was, he was rather afraid to allow himself that luxury... any luxury... in the presence of Miss Christine Daae. One weak moment could invite a whole host of problems even now.
// It's getting to the point //
Whatever on earth had possessed her, those weeks ago?!
// where we have almost made amends //
In one swift move she had torn the mask from his face, pulled the wool from both of their eyes, ripped away the one thing behind which he felt safe, and knocked out all the supports of the palais des rêves he had so carefully built for them both...
And yet, somehow, he had forgiven her. For here she was again, asleep in the bed, in the home he had crafted for them both as carefully as he had crafted the Palais Garnier, their castle of dreams.
// I think it's the getting to the point //
// that is the hardest part. //
Christine shifted slightly in her sleep, the peaceful smile slightly disturbed on her smooth face. Swift as thought and as quietly he shut the door. She hadn't bolted it, she never did, and the trust of the act surprised him every time. Would she be so complacent about that if she knew that he took advantage of that fact nightly to steal a few precious moments gazing at her? He told himself he just was making sure she didn't need anything in the night.
// And if you call, I will answer //
// And if you fall, I'll pick you up //
// And if you court this disaster //
Would that idiotic young pup who insisted on continuing that ridiculous excuse of a courtship, be so considerate of Christine?
// I'll point you home //
[Probably not,] Erik decided, and this time let a sardonic smile crack the impassive expression he wore as habitually as his opera cape. [He's not old enough to have grown milkteeth yet!]
He smiled again, more warmly this time, as his thoughts drifted and his gaze wandered around the room. There was the faint perfume that she used that now pervaded the hidden house, her tiny slippers tucked under the divan, a book overturned on the table before it - what a voracious reader she was! She'd laughed when he remarked on it, saying that she wanted to be able to understand the cultures that her characters portrayed.
The young singer had started to put the book away then, until he closed her hands around it. "Everything here is yours, dear, I told you that. This is your home and you are welcome here at any time: these books are as much yours as they have ever been mine, and it is good to research the cultural backgrounds besides. I'm glad to see that they give you as much joy as they have given me over the years."
// I'll point you home //
There could be no doubt this time: the whole room proclaimed it. Christine was home.
~*~
Christine opened her eyes as the tiniest click of the latch sounded. Erik had checked on her again. Did the man ever sleep a whole night through on his own anymore?
// You think I only think about you //
// when we're both in the same room //
Eirk was very considerate of her. Sometimes it made her want to laugh, sometimes to scream that she could very well do little things for herself. They talked of many things in the solitary hours they spent together, and yet they never touched on the topics that Christine knew bothered him the most: the Opera Ghost quickly steered the conversations in a different direction whenever she tried to bring it up, so skilfully that it was clearly not up for discussion.
// I'm only here to witness //
And yet, in so many little ways, she was sure he was trying to speak to her without words, trying to prove to her that fear could indeed turn to love... that the man within that half of a death's head loved her!
// the remains of love exhumed //
Had Erik, the feared and mysterious Opera Ghost whose mere mention was enough to scare what little wits remained among most of the corps dancers, ever feared Christine in any way comparable to the way she had felt, looking for the first time onto his bare and half-ruined face?
It was an interesting and instantly sobering thought, ridiculous as it appeared on first consideration. More so was the thought that intruded immediately after:
// You think we're here to play //
[Is Erik trying to compete with Raoul for my love?]
// a game of who loves more than whom //
She closed her eyes in shock. [Of course! How could I have been so stupid, that's exactly what he's doing! He knows I haven't discouraged Raoul from trying to court me... Oh God, which way can I choose?!]
// And if you call, I will answer //
// And if you fall, I'll pick you up //
// And if you court this disaster //
What if she chose wrongly?
~*~
Erik was furious, but he vented his rage in the mad dash from the stage of the Opera Populaire through the secret corridors. Christine struggled at his side, gasping for breath. Well, so he had her a bit tightly around the waist for this pace. [I am *not* losing her again, not to that ignorant fool, not to anyone!]
// You think it's only fair //
How could she? How *could* she?! He wanted to shriek his agony to the world, but kept running silently. In front of *everyone!* The litany repeated itself in his head. The final scene of "Don Juan" and he had almost heard those longed-for words leave her lips! If only as a character in a play, he longed for her to say those words, address them to him...
// To do what's best for you and you alone //
What could she possibly have hoped to gain?
// It's only fair to do the same //
In front of all Paris! Besides the obvious fact that she, as a performer, had stopped the show, *his* show, irrevocably and unforgivably... it paled in comparison to what she had truly done to him.
// To me when you're not home //
Not once, but *twice,* had she stripped him of his protection, his safety, his comfort, his *dignity!* She had revealed to every man, woman and child there what he had hidden from all for as long as he could remember! For a split second, he could hear again the jeers of the crowds that came to watch the human animal play the violin...
// I think it's time to make this something that is
// More than only fair //
But he had one last ace up his sleeve. Pushing his terrified passenger into the boat that they had reached in record time, he poled them frantically across. He had to bring Christine home, the notion was planted in his mind that everything would be fine, once Christine was home again with him. A foolish fancy, he knew, but it was a comfort.
// So if you call, I will answer //
He sang to her again, but could not sing the soft, hypnotizing notes that had once made birds land on his fingers for her now. His voice nearly cracked again and again in his rage and bitterness. "Why, you ask, was I bound and chained in this cold and dismal place."
// And if you fall, I'll pick you up //
Yet he lifted Christine out of the boat gently.
// And if you court this disaster //
He feared he knew her choice before he even laid it before her, but there was no choice now. The young fool of a Vicomte was on his way down already, no doubt.
// I'll point you home. //
Erik stepped across the threshold of his home with Christine cradled in his arms for what, deep inside, he knew would one way or another be the last time.
~*~
Three weeks had gone by since that last awful night. The night of the premiere of his opera...
// But I'm warning you, //
The night of the final confrontation...
// Don't ever do //
The night the light of his life had run away to light another man's life.
The darkness within and without felt that much more dismal for having known those few precious weeks of joy. He had already returned the forty thousand francs which he had already pilfered from the managers.
Christine would be coming soon, she had promised. That promise was the last gleam in the darkness, as single dim and faraway star in the night that enveloped him. He turned the knife in his hand, flipped it with the habit of long practice in a trembling hand grown somehow more wasted and slender than it had ever been before. It was wasting time, he knew.
// Those crazy, messed-up things that you do //
[I just want to see her... one more time.]
Instantly he berated himself for that. [No, you're a coward, and taking the coward's way out. Why put her through this as well?]
[She put me through hell!]
[She did? Hell is life. Blame your parents for that.]
It took a moment to realize he was laughing silently in the darkness of his ruined home with the first real feeling he'd had in weeks. Soundlessly, but with some feeling... sarcasm. [Of course. I should have known...]
[I must be insane, I'm losing an argument with my own mind.]
// If you ever do //
With a mirthless smile, he stood and stroked the wreckage of his pipe organ. What beautiful music had come from it once... why had the mob destroyed this? No, it hadn't been the mob, it was Erik himself who had... because it sang with her voice. But his opera... his opera he had spared. The cover of the score, bound in leather the color of dried blood, was face- down on the wet carpet at his feet: he stifled the irrational urge to kick it across the room.
The grim smile fixed on his face, he picked up his "Don Juan Triumphant" and laid down in his coffin with a long sigh of relief. Something he knew, in the midst of all this strange destruction. The mob had spared his room and the room that was exclusively Christine's - had they not found them? - yet his room was now as twisted and gutted as the rest of the place. The only exception to the room was the gleaming coffin under the blood-red canopy: that, at least, still had its purpose to serve. For a moment he puzzled, slightly distracted - had he not heard something rustling outside? [Just a rat. He can jolly well wait until I'm finished.]
Erik removed the pillow and laid his opera down in its place under his head. In a way, that Don Juan was his life story. Every emotion he had ever felt had been poured into that. And yet Don Juan and Aminta were but thinly- veiled portraits of Erik and Christine themselves. [Fitting, then,] he thought with remarkable clarity to his thoughts, [that the last copy of this score, the original, should be buried with me.] The Opera Ghost rested his head on the score and raised the knife to his wrist. Strange, it didn't really hurt as the blade bit down... the pain inside was all that really mattered and now that that was ending he could sleep. After all, what was a little blood, to pay for an end to this torment?
"Erik?"
// I promise you //
The voice seemed so real that the man automatically replied, "You're early."
[Now I know I'm insane, hearing her voice here.]
"Erik!" The tremulous question had become a muffled shriek. Faintly he could hear the clattering of his charred and broken furniture being moved by someone in haste, the squeaking of rats, cloth ripping and a short curse in the voice of his angel, coming steadily nearer. The curse was repeated a moment later and more forcefully from right next to him a moment later. Soft hands raised him up, tore the blade from his grasp though he tried to hold onto it. More curses but this time in Farsi - [Farsi?] - as well as French and Swedish. the feeling of being lifted, a feminine voice in his ear. His arm was being bound tightly. [No! Let me go!] he tried to say, but his lips were not working. His eyes didn't seem to be working, either, because he saw two figures above him moving... both blurry, but he could have sworn the one with her hand on his ruined cheek was... [Christine.]
// I'll be the first to crucify you //
Erik lost consciousness.
He came to with a jump, not recognizing where he was. He kept his eyes closed, relying instead on other senses. He was lying on something soft, and the scent around him was familiar somehow. There seemed to be something wrapped very tightly around his left forearm, which throbbed dully. [What the devil...]
[Angel.]
Now he knew what he'd seen that last moment before passing out. He exhaled heavily. So it wasn't a hallucination, or even a very pleasant dream.
// Now it's time to prove //
Eyes closed, he heard the sound of tiny feet pattering across a rug, felt the surface he was lying on sag in one place as a weight settled onto the bed by his waist. The scent of something warm and tasty came to his lips as something pressed against them... when had he last really tasted anything? He'd stopped eating when he realized that everything tasted like ashes...
"Go away." He barely recognized the words as his own.
"I can't do that, Erik. Not again." The spoon pressed insistently at his lips again and he hadn't the strength to refuse it. Hot broth... it was welcome to his starved systems. Concentrate on anything, to avoid naming that voice.
"You came early."
"No, my old enemy, my older friend. You misjudged the day." That was the Daroga: not much better.
A crude word in Farsi came to Erik's lips that he hadn't thought of in ages and he let it fly with all the sarcasm he could muster: he could almost feel the old policeman recoil from the force of such a vile word. "Yippee. Now go away."
"We can't do that." The Daroga's voice told him very little. That bandage on his arm was coming loose. "Luckily we found you before you were past help." Damn, it hurt worse than before now that the pressure was off of it. What *had* he done, anyway? "And you seem to have a stronger constitution than most. When was the last time you ate?" Apparently satisfying to whomever was checking on it, the bandage was being tied again as tightly as before.
// That you've come back here//
He reached over, pushed away the bowl of broth and grabbed her slender wrist in his good hand, barely able to hold his arm up. "Why are you here now?" he rasped. His body was weakened, but his spirit was as strong as ever, staring out through dark eyes that were no longer closed, but boring steadily into hers.
The thought came that he must look quite a sight, unwashed of three weeks' blood, sweat, tears, soot and mud. "Where's your precious Vicomte hiding?"
Christine was silent a moment.
// To rebuild. //
"There was a friend who needed me."
// Rebuild //
"A friend," he repeated slowly. Bitterly. "I have no friends, except perhaps the Daroga."
"Whatever else has gone on in the past, you have never been anything less than a friend to me, Erik," was the Persian's quiet rejoinder, seconded by Chrstine's nod.
He released her abruptly and she rubbed at her arm. "You have a strange way of showing it, then. Tell me, what door is the dear Monsieur le Vicomte hiding behind this time?" For the first time he realized that he was in Christine's room, the one room he had not dared to enter let alone destroy. This was *hers.* He had no right to be here. "Let me up. Where's my mask?"
"No, you lost a little too much blood to be on your feet again this quickly, old friend." The Daroga's words were proven by Erik's unsteadiness as he swung his feet out from the boat-shaped bed and put his weight on them a little too quickly. Christine quickly pushed him back into bed without much difficulty, and the pair of them tucked him again like a child. "The Vicomte died suddenly two weeks ago, a madman with a knife."
Erik stiffened: the Daroga's tone was as flat as a planed board. "And you think I did it."
"No," replied the young woman at his side. "No, I don't. They both died at the scene... he turned the blade on himself."
"Don't expect me to say I'm sorry."
Silence stretched uncomfortably. The Daroga pressed Erik's hand and left the room, closing the door behind him. Idly, Erik noticed that the bolts had been removed. The young opera singer took the bowl and spoon in hand again and gave him another few silent sips of broth, but he really couldn't take much more with his stomach shrunken from lack of food. Finally he just pressed his lips together and shook his head and the bowl went again onto the nightstand.
"Erik..."
"Don't. Whatever you're going to say, don't."
"I came back to help you rebuild."
// Rebuild //
"Rebuild what?"
"Your life."
// Rebuild //
"That was forfeit the moment I was born, didn't you know? Yours too, though you might not realize it. The bill came due. What is there left for me to live for?" The silent accusation struck Christine deeply as her drawn and pale face showed. "Go find some other ignorant young pup with a title and a foolish heart."
"Perhaps a pair of people who know the worst in you and are not afraid, people who also know the best in you and the essence of you within and are not ashamed to know you, might be something to live for. Two who can look at you without the revulsion you fear. Perhaps for yourself, for your own sake: that might be something to live for also. You touched a lot of people with 'Don Juan,' Erik. The Angel of Music touched them all." Erik's throat was suddenly tight, he could feel his resolve to be stonily indifferent to her fading away like dew under the sun. She continued, holding his good hand tightly in both of hers. "I don't ask you to trust me. I wouldn't blame you if you threw me into the lake the moment you are strong enough to stand without staggering. But you are not alone. So long as the Daroga lives, so long as I live, you will never be alone. There are two people here who care about you whether you accept that or not. You're not alone, and you can do more than what you have. You helped me, Erik, far more than you realize. Share your music with others. It's a reflection of the beauty within you. That's worth a lot more than the face on the outside."
// Rebuild //
"Get out." One last test. If she left... well, she didn't know *all* the secrets of this room and so help him God, she never would.
"Erik..." Shock and pain openly painted her features. But there was something else as well that he could not place, but he had never seen it before on her. [What is she thinking?]
"Leave me," he said again roughly, gathering his strength and his voice again. The broth had helped immensely, though he was not about to admit it.
"I will not!"
He had to smile, if sardonically. Three weeks ago she couldn't get out of his presence fast enough. "Then help me up." Christine smiled this time. She looped his arm over her slender shoulders and half-carried, half- dragged him to his feet. By an effort of sheer will he forced his knees to steady him, and it was more than the weakness of his body's condition that did it - [she is letting me hold onto her?] "If I'm going to take a friend's advice, I'll need a place to stay. Which means that this place will be rebuilt."
They walked slowly to the door together. Christine asked "Why this place, Erik? You have money, the Persian could help you find a place anywhere else. Why do you want to stay here?"
Together they looked out into the remnants of his home. The Daroga moved around righting what furniture was still serviceable, glancing at them both out of the corner of his eye but tactfully not commenting.
"I admit I enjoy being the Opera Ghost, I do not suffer fools gladly and those two who call themselves my managers are the worst kind. Bringing them down a few pegs has certainly been amusing." The mocking amusement in his tone faded to something more honest, though as he spoke his mind without really thinking about it. "The Opera Populaire is a place where dreams can come true," he murmured to himself. "Perhaps, if I choose the right dreams this time, it can become my palais des rêves once more."
// Rebuild! //