A/N: I've been working on a multi-chapter, non-song-fic piece for a while now, but I'm hesitant to publish until I've got at least half of it written -- I'm unfortunately not a regular updater like some of my favorite fanfic authors! In the meantime, however, I began working on this oneshot, got very stuck in the second half, then heard the All-American Rejects "It Ends Tonight" on the radio while driving home from work one afternoon and -- eureka! -- fic finished as songfic. Song lyrics are noted like so: // lyrics //.
Hope you enjoy! Please read and review -- I appreciate comments and suggestions!
Disclaimer: The lyrics to "It Ends Tonight" belong to the All-American Rejects. The characters belong to Gaston Leroux. If only all this were mine, however -- oh, the shoes I would buy!
Unweaving
By Ceinwyn
The voice over the loudspeaker was tinny, almost mechanical. "Thirty minutes, Ms. Daaé," it said, and with a sharp click was gone as if it had never been, sucked into the suddenly thin air of the pokey, oddly-shaped dressing room in the bowels of the theatre. The managers, in one of their brief, all-to-infrequent moments of lavishing her with praise and thanks, had offered up one of the newly renovated dressing rooms, only a few short feet from the stage, but Christine refused as gracefully as possible.
"It's lovely, but no," she had said as she glanced around at the infinitely larger space, the wide closet, the vanity with a lighted mirror and a multitude of drawers, the tiny refrigerator in the corner stocked with bottled water.
They were understandably confused. "You would prefer to stay where you are?" asked Mr. Richard, his perfectly trimmed mustache trembling in disbelief.
"Well, it's been my dressing room for a few years," she replied. "I'm used to it. It's—comfortable."
"If you're sure—" Mr. Moncharmin said doubtfully, straightening his tie. He patted it gently once, twice, then shot his cuffs and nodded to Richards. "Come on, Mark, we've got to get on that budget report."
The two men had ushered her out of the room and left her in the hall without another word, and neither mentioned the issue again. Christine retreated to her familiar, dingy-walled space, so deeply embedded beneath the theatre that it was cold even at the height of summer, and was thankful to be away from prying eyes and ever-present ears. For without the privacy, the isolation, how could he come to her, lead her from the darkness of her life and into music's effervescent, ever-present light?
// Your subtleties
They strangle me //
And now, more than a year later, she sat before the mirror, a large blush brush in one hand, frozen in midair as she stared at herself. She suddenly felt the crushing loneliness, the terrible fear that came with being so far from everything, and it was reflected in her eyes—the dark circles, the red lines, the empty expression. Where was the smiling girl who waited eagerly for her teacher?
Vanished, she thought bitterly, into a nightmare of broken mirrors and fallen chandeliers.
She remembered very little before the events of the last few months, for Erik's white-hot jealousy, his burning rages, had overshadowed all the happy memories of music lessons and conversation, reading quietly beside the fire as he watched her with his heart in his eyes, his voice liquid gold.
But last night, his voice husky as she had never heard it before: "You know—you have to know I love you. And if you would marry me, I wouldn't need anything else in the world."
There was a time when she thought she could be content with a forever of those long-ago moments, strung together on a fine thread which, in the end, was too easy broken by the death and destruction that seemed to follow her everywhere these days. And decision…
He must have seen the shock, perhaps even the fear, flit across her face at his unexpected proposal. "You don't have to say yes," his voice gentle, calm for the first time in months. "Only—come to me after the performance tomorrow night. Come to me and tell me your answer. Whatever it is."
Oh! She choked on memory, and the half-packed suitcase, the empty drawers and hangers, the costume flung over the worn loveseat—it all seemed so suddenly sordid…
For she wanted, desperately wanted to save him. And yet she couldn't summon the strength to take that step and say those words he had been waiting so long to hear.
// I can't explain myself at all //
And then there was the ring, hanging on a slim golden chain between her breasts. She touched the smooth, cold band, felt the contours of the large diamond in its center, and sighed. Raoul's years of living in New York had certainly affected his style; the ring was ornate, to say the least, and obviously wildly expensive. It didn't matter, though—on the roof, in the middle of the night, she had seen only the soft smile on his face as he offered her the world, the determination in his eyes that spoke of protection and a simple, painless love.
// And all the wants
And all the needs //
Oh, Raoul…The thought bounded miserably through her head. I should never have dragged you into this.
// All I don't want to need at all //
Mechanically, she swept the brush lightly across her cheekbones, drawing the color upward until her pale skin glowed pinkly in the dim light of the room. She laid the brush on the vanity and looked at herself again. For tonight's performance, her fair hair, usually springing with curls, had been straightened until it hung like a curtain several inches past her shoulders. Her eyes were lined and shadowed in brown, and they seemed larger and greener, fringed with curled black lashes.
She had to stifle a slightly hysterical giggle then. Oh, but she looked like a caricature of herself—the wide-eyed innocent who understood nothing of the world and only stared slackly as everyone prodded her into position like the silly, stupid doll she was!
// The walls start breathing
My mind's unweaving //
She pressed a hand against her lips, pushed the laughter and the welling tears back and back until they were far away and she was again calm.
// Maybe it's best you leave me alone //
She glanced again at the suitcase. It was her best but still shabby, the brown plaid faded from use and the handle broken. She moved to rise from her seat at the vanity, felt the heavy ring bump against her clavicle. Its weight broke the dam, and she let the tears fall.
// A weight is lifted
On this evening
I give the final blow
When darkness turns to light,
It ends tonight
It ends tonight //
He was in a black fury as he entered through the hidden door on the narrow, unkempt alley beside the building, the key for which he found buried beneath countless crumpled papers and empty inkwells. Immediately, the passage split three ways, and he stalked left, up and through the damp, grey tunnel until he came to a seeming dead end. But one light touch on a certain stone—no greyer or squarer than the rest—and the wall moved away to reveal a gently spiraling stairwell.
// A falling star
Least I fall alone //
He was constantly amazed at how little things had changed over the intervening years since he had come to exist within the opera house. Even full to the brim with a seething, burning fire, he could marvel: New York was as it had ever been; the opera house was worn only slightly around the edges, its façade gleaming in the moonlight, lit by a thousand torches.
The crowds had gathered early to celebrate the closing night of Faust with champagne in the glittering foyer. But though he observed them from above, as if watching ants crawl amidst the ruins of a picnic, he could not bother with them now; no, he could not bother with anything when the memory of her voice, fear tightly coiled within its crystal tones, echoed in his ears, though it had been a day, only a day—
"He wants to marry me, and I'm afraid—oh! I'm always so afraid now…"
// I can't explain what you can't explain //
His hand clutched at his chest, squeezing the empty air above his heart.
"I don't know what to tell him—I don't think I can do this…"
His fingers trailing through a tangle of wires, he frayed and connected and double-checked his work. It had been too long since a service like this had been required of him, but still he moved unconsciously, the motions second-nature.
He touched the edge of the remote detonator and watched the light come to life inside and blink red.
"I can't go back—I won't be able to say no…"
He looked down at the women in their finest dresses and most ostentatious jewels, the men in neatly pressed tuxedos, their handkerchiefs providing a rainbow of color.
"I'm not sure I want to say no. But I can't—oh, God, I don't know if I can say yes…"
// You're finding things that you didn't know //
As he stood, he paused, the detonator hanging loosely in his grip, and considered for a brief moment returning home, to that empty, silent house, burying himself in his music, and forgetting all of this. But the rage, an angry scarlet, bubbled beneath the surface of his qualms and soon overtook them, a fiery flood that licked his skin, heated his purpose until he was trembling with the anticipation.
"Just let me sing tomorrow night. Let me sing for him one last time. I can say good-bye in music so much better than in words."
// I look at you with such disdain //
He glanced sharply at his watch and growled. The curtain would rise in a few minutes, and the last performance would begin.
// The walls start breathing
My mind's unweaving //
The house lights had not yet begun to dim when he slipped into Box Five. His chair was positioned, as usual, in the shadows, and he was free to observe the multitudes below as they adjusted and quieted themselves. Dipping his hand into his pocket, he retrieved the opera glasses he had bought several years before when he realized that though his night vision was impeccable, living in the darkness of his shuttered townhouse had weakened his far-sightedness considerably.
He lifted the glasses to his eyes and scanned the house quickly. There, standing behind the orchestra section, were Moncharmin and Richard, the former wringing his hands and the latter straightening and re-straightening the lapels of his tuxedo.
There, at the front of the mezzanine, sat a bitter Carlotta, who turned to her companion (an aging former patron) and screwed up her mouth, no doubt to insult the current leading lady.
Ah. And there. There, in the box immediately opposite his own, sat the boy, nervously tapping his fingers on the railing before him.
"Come away with me, and I'll make sure nothing ever harms you again."
He gritted his teeth at the memory, the pain welling once again in his chest, into his throat. He swallowed hard, beat the pain until it melted into the seething river of fury.
// Maybe it's best you leave me alone //
The lights began to dim, and he waited for the entr'acte to swell, for the music to set in motion the wildly unexpected evening he had planned for the whole of the audience. And for her…
// A weight is lifted
On this evening
I give the final blow //
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen." The voice over the loudspeaker was smooth and friendly. "Before we begin, we would like to announce a change in the casting that was not noted in your program. Tonight, the role of Marguerite will be played by Savannah Lincoln. Thank you for your patience, and enjoy the show."
The crowd murmured disconcertedly, some disgruntled, but the announcement registered slowly with him. Tonight the role of Marguerite—
Damn it! He clenched the arm of the chair until his fingers were burning, screaming in pain. How had they managed this? How could he have missed their flight, when he had planned so carefully? Hadn't she said—
He froze.
Because there, in the box immediately opposite his own, the boy was still seated, his eyes wide and his jaw hanging open like a ventriloquist's dummy.
// When darkness turns to light
It ends tonight
It ends tonight //
He was behind the mirror in her dressing room before the entr'acte was half-finished, and he first noticed the carelessly packed suitcase, which had been only partially filled with her personal items—hairbrush, street shoes, copy of Mansfield Park for the space between acts. The picture of her father in its silver frame was standing on the vanity. Her mother's crucifix hung on the doorknob.
She had not gone for good, he was sure of it.
There was the sound of approaching footsteps, quick and loud and urgent, and the door flew open, slamming against the overstuffed armchair in which she had sometimes fallen asleep after long rehearsals. The boy rushed in, his blonde hair windblown, his color heightened from exertion.
"Christine!" he shouted, looking wildly about. "Christine!"
A young woman with short dark hair followed on his heels. "I told you, she's not here," she said irritably. "She got sick right before curtain."
"Meg, I only left her an hour ago," the boy protested. "She was fine…"
"She told Mr. Reyer she was going to the hospital." Meg shrugged. "I helped her get a cab. She looked pretty sick."
The boy shook his head frantically and flung open the closet door, pressing through the various costumes still hanging inside before, satisfied that there was no one hiding amongst their folds, shutting the door and examining every inch of the obviously empty room. It seemed that he was about to open the window when Meg said, "Raoul. I think there's a note for you on the vanity."
He snatched it from her hands and tore into its contents, read the short note, stared unseeingly at the glittering band that fell into his hand. "I don't understand," he whispered.
// Just a little insight won't make this right //
Behind the mirror, the silent observer looked at the detonator and, his mouth set in a grim line, dismantled it, leaving its insides on the concrete floor.
// It's too late to fight //
In the end, there was nowhere to go but home.
// It ends tonight
It ends tonight //
He tried not to think as he drove, as he parked his car in the subterranean garage beneath the opulent townhouse on the Upper East Side, as he fumbled—for the first time in as long as he could remember—with his keys, about how she was gone. Not with the boy, at least, he said to himself, but that brought no comfort.
// Now I'm on my own side
It's better than being on your side //
Once inside, he considered a scotch-and-soda before deciding that there was no comfort in getting drunk, either. He considered returning to the opera house and exacting his revenge as he had planned, but there was no more rage driving him; he felt empty, hollowed out from the inside.
// It's my fault when you're blind //
He left his keys on the foyer table, his cloak on a peg beside the door, the motions mechanical.
I am finally an automaton, he thought.
There was a soft sound behind him, a rustle of silk and skin, and he turned, and there she was, framed in the doorway and lit by the fire crackling behind her.
// It's better that I see it through your eyes //
"Hi," she said. Her hair was like spun gold, and she wore a white lace dress with scalloped edges and skirt. Her face was grave, her eyes clouded with uncertainty.
When he did not speak, she added, "I let myself in," and blushed.
"I noticed," he finally managed to reply.
"I guess you went to the performance."
"Yes."
She sighed. "I'm sorry."
"Are you ill?" His voice was flat.
"No…," she trailed off, frowning. "No. I told Mr. Reyer that I was, but I just—I couldn't sing tonight. If I had—"
Oh, Christine, if you had— He clenched his jaw.
// All these thoughts locked inside //
"—I wouldn't be here," she finished. She paused and crossed her arms over her chest, smoothing the material at her shoulders with nervous hands. "It was important I be here," she said.
The light behind her was dancing, and he felt for a moment as if he were sleepwalking through a familiar dream. He moved past her into the living room, to the fire, clutched the mantle in a vain attempt to convince himself that he was still awake, that he had not fallen asleep in his box waiting for the curtain to open on the final act of his monstrous life.
// Now you're the first to know //
"Erik." She had followed him, was at his heel, and her small white hand lifted and fell softly onto his arm, made more vividly pale against the black of his jacket. His muscles grew taut beneath the soft pressure of her hand, his whole being tightening into some deep, unknowable core.
// When darkness turns to light
It ends tonight
It ends tonight //
"Erik," she said again. "I need to know the truth. About Joe Buquet—"
He closed his eyes.
"And the chandelier—"
His breath struggled, an almost imperceptive hitch in his chest and throat.
// Just a little insight won't make this right
It's too late to fight
It ends tonight //
"Did you—"
"Yes." He opened his eyes, turned sharply to face her. "Yes, I am responsible for all of it."
She looked up at him with wide eyes. "Will you promise to stop?" she whispered. "If you promise, I'll trust you—I'll believe you…"
// It ends
When darkness turns to light //
He stared at her, wordless.
"I won't pretend that I can forget," she went on, "or that I understand. But if you could banish the Opera Ghost, if you could just be Erik—"
He reached out then; his fingers, like bone in the firelight, moved to brush her cheek. "Anything," he rasped, the desperation palpable. "Anything for you."
// It ends tonight
It ends tonight //
Her teeth gleamed white as they tugged at her lower lip, and her eyes were downcast. She moved forward, rested her hands on his shirtfront, laid her head on his chest. I should tell him about Raoul, she thought as she felt her maestro's heart, warm and alive, beneath her cheek. I should tell him— His arms lifted suddenly, enveloped her, and as their weight pulled her closer than she'd ever been before, she felt him heave a quiet sob –but it doesn't matter now.
// Just a little insight won't make this right //
He closed his eyes, bit back the questions (the boy, Christine?) and the confessions (what I would have done in your name, Christine!) and simply let the warmth of her body seep into his own, stroked her soft blonde hair, thought there was never so wonderful a moment in his life as this.
// It's too late to fight
It ends tonight
It ends tonight //
"There's nothing in the world I love so well as you," he whispered, so faintly she thought for a moment that perhaps his words were only a trick of the crackling fire. "I'll make you happy, I swear it…"
"I know," she said. "And Erik—oh, Erik…" She lifted her head. The hope in his eyes was a beacon, and, after a moment, she smiled up at him: tentative, slight, but lovely on her pale face.
// When darkness turns to light //
"Marry me," he said.
"Yes," she said.
// It ends tonight //
"Read in order to live." (Henry Fielding)
Thank you for reading!