A/N Little oneshot I've been messing around with. Enjoy and review! xx
The Clock Struck Twelve
The clock strikes twelve and all the magic ends. True faces are unmasked, the carriage turns back into a round, orange pumpkin and the princess flees, leaving a glass slipper glittering on the staircase to the palace.
At least, that's what they say in fairytales. But this is not a fairytale, is it?
The clock had already struck twelve, half an hour ago, in fact, and that is when he had appeared, cloaked in red with a skull where his face should have been, (not that his real face looked any better than a skull), brandishing his sword as if to ward off all those that had ever harmed him. He had terrified them, and awed them and when he disappeared in a burst of flames, there had been screams, people running blindly.
She had just stood there. Raoul had disappeared, and the candles had gone out and suddenly it was dark, and cold, and terrible loneliness had engulfed her. Mechanically picking up her silver mask from where she had dropped it, she began to walk, slowly, deliberately, around the side of the stairs and into the theatre proper. Her home, or what had been her home until Raoul had spirited her away to his chateau like she was a damsel in distress.
That night, the night when the chandelier plummeted from the ceiling, she had been a damsel in distress, a damsel wanting nothing more than for her white knight to take her away and keep her safe for the rest of her days. But six months had passed, and his world was so different from any world she had ever known. He displayed her proudly at balls and parties, only to have ladies who were born to this life whisper and giggle scathingly behind their fans. She was a pretender, an outsider. But, because she was an actress, she put on a mask of indifference, ignored the stares, the rumours, and held tightly to Raoul's arm, smiling when he did, curtseying when he bowed.
But when she was alone, in the bedroom with the gold-leaf on the ceiling, and the baby-blue of the walls, she sat in front of her dressing table thinking, longing for the world she knew better, the world of the theatre and of music and of him. The Phantom, the Opera Ghost, Erik as he'd begged her to call him. Whatever the world called him, whatever she had called him that night on the rooftops in a frenzy of fear, he had been her Angel of Music first. The one who had comforted her with his song when her dear papa had died, the one who had coached her every evening until at last she was the one in the centre of the stage, singing to a rapt audience and hoping that he would be proud.
And now, she was walking.
Eventually, she reached her old dressing room, pulled the door open and suddenly slammed it shut behind her, locking the door. No-one must know where she had gone.
Her costume from Il Muto was still there, dust gathering on the striped blue breeches of the mute page. How angry Erik had been when he had found that she would play the silent role! He had shouted and raged and she had cowered into her armchair in his house by the underground lake, waiting for the frightful calmness that followed a fit of anger to descend like the curtain at the end of an opera.
She crossed the room, dust puffing up with each step. Had no-one been in to clean?
Well, this room did have a reputation for being haunted.
The large, gilt-framed mirror stared out of the wall at her like a great black eye, her faded reflection wavering as she stood in front of it. Would Erik be down there? Would he still want her, after everything she'd done to him?
She raised herself up on her tiptoes, running small hands over the edges, searching for the catch which she knew turned it. A part of the frame gave under her fingers and the mirror began to move, protesting noisily as it did.
The darkness behind it was absolute.
Somewhere, a rat squeaked.
She was shaking, now.
Tentatively, she reached for the ledge where she knew he kept the lantern, and, picking it up, lit it. Shadows danced on the tunnels' walls. She took a deep breath and stepped forward.
He was pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, the scene replaying over in his head and the ring he had taken from her glinting as it swung from its chain. He didn't even know what he had been expecting, but not this. How could he have been such a fool?
Christine was happy with her Vicomte; he had watched them dancing together at the masquerade, staring into each other's eyes as they spun on the gold-tiled floor of the ballroom. It had been almost too much to bear. But then he had reminded himself that he didn't have a heart, emotions didn't move him. Not now, not after a life like his.
There was a splash, outside the front door. He tensed, automatically reaching for the Punjab lasso coiled lazily on the top of the organ like a snake. Who would be down here at this time of night? Madame Giry and Meg had gone home after his display and no-one else knew the way except…except…
He approached the door, pulled it open…
Christine.
She was soaking wet, shivering, her arms wrapped around herself and her masquerade costume plastered to her body. He drank the sight of her in, like a blind man seeing the sun for the very first time. Then the bitterness came rushing back like a raincloud.
"What do you think you're doing down here at this time of night?" he snapped, regretting his harsh words the moment they were out of his mouth. She flinched. "You will catch your death of cold!"
"I…" She took a deep breath. "Can I come in?"
He stepped aside, wordlessly and she shut the door behind her. Her teeth were visibly chattering, like the sound of a woodpecker drilling a hole in a tree.
"You had better get warm." He opened the door to the sitting room. "Go and sit by the fire."
She obeyed, and he found a blanket, wrapping tenderly around her shoulders before he realised that she most likely didn't want him to touch her. He stepped back like he had been scalded.
"Why are you here, Christine? To rub salt in old wounds?"
She stared at him out of a white, drawn face, her eyes larger than he'd ever seen them.
"I…I had to talk to you," she said, fiddling with the edge of her blanket.
"Speak, then."
"I know I hurt you…"
"Hurt me? My dear, you ripped out my heart and stamped on it with your pretty little boots. I believe hurt is an understatement."
"If you are going to be like this then there was no reason for my coming here!" she retorted, a fire burning in her eyes that never used to exist.
"Continue, then." He sat down at his organ, his mismatched eyes trained on her face. She looked most tired, paler, more drawn. Her cheekbones were more prominent and there were hastily concealed circles under her eyes.
"I know I hurt you, but…I…I can't live the life Raoul wants me to. I'm not made for society – I'm the daughter of a wandering virtuoso, I don't know all the unspoken etiquette that everyone else seems to. I'm an outsider and I can't stand it and…there's no music in Raoul. Not the way there is in you, in me. I can't live without music, Erik, I learnt that and I'm, well, I'm here to beg for your forgiveness. I implore you, please, don't send me back there…"
"So I take it the Vicomte doesn't know where you are?"
"No, this was, well, an impulsive decision. I…I made the wrong choice when I chose Raoul over you, and I'm here to correct it. I'll talk to him tomorrow." Her eyes filled up with tears and she ducked her head, sodden brown hair falling across her face. "There, I've said it. Please forgive me."
"Christine," he sighed. "Christine…I cannot forgive you at the drop of a hat. It will take time."
"I'll do anything!"
"You should not make rash promises, my dear, really. You will regret them." He tapped his fingers on the side of the organ, feigning nonchalance. Inside his ribs, the heart he had never believed to exist was leaping for joy. She wanted him, not that young fool. She wanted to be with him.
"Do you still love me?" she asked, breaking the silence.
"How can you ask that, Christine?" he shook his head. "You know the answer, my dear."
"Yes, I do." She rested her head against her knees, trying to conceal her yawn.
"You must go to bed; you look exhausted. We will speak more in the morning."
"Alright," she whispered, slowly stumbling to her feet. "Goodnight, Erik."
"Goodnight, Christine."
He almost smiled. In stories, the magic ends when the clock strikes twelve. But for them, it's only beginning.