A oneshot I wrote when I was inspired by a specific moment in Beauty and the Beast...except I wanted a darker, more realistic and phantomy feel to it. This is the result of my obsession with fairytales and books/musicals about gremlins that live in basements. I also felt like writing from third person this time, so here's something different. Enjoy, and please do review! -12/15/16
It wasn't until around eight or nine at night (she could not be sure, for underground it seemed day and night were no longer existent parts of time) that Christine ventured from the shelter of her room and back out into the unfamiliar domain. It had been many hours since she'd awoken from sleep, and the day had dragged on in a surreal manner. Another effect of existing in a world beneath all else.
The door was opened slowly, first with a brush of air, the slightest creak of the hinge, and then a peering head slowly glanced out, hasty to establish solitude. She released a sigh of relief, for she did not see him anywhere nearby. She turned her head down the hall both ways, and all was silent. It remained to be seen if this was a favorable sign or not. Her restlessness would have to allow such a risk.
It was best to pretend such things were not so nearby, if she were to go on without fear, for one could not be indifferent to the events which had surrounded her over the past twenty four hours. (Or had it been more? Less? ) She could barely remember her own thoughts as her eyes had been opened, the portal dissolving into the air, then the downward descent into darkness...and the strange man who'd stolen her away.
No. She could not think of it. Not now. There was a careful wall placed within her thoughts and her heart, it seemed, blocking out any association of the dark owner of this curious place with the angel she'd believed in for so long. It was better that way. Ignorance could be a good thing, when there are distractions for the mind. Christine had wrestled with attempts to find ways to divert her feelings, and this escapade seemed well enough for momentary release.
Her footsteps made barely a sound as they tread over the floor. Strange, ornate carpets lined darkly polished wood. Everything detailed, fastidiously placed, so properly so that it all seems right and yet it is remarkable. A strange world, indeed. What sort of magician could concoct such oddity? Interest is piqued merely by the surroundings. A piece hung upon the wall, canvases with bright and dark colors contrasting in disturbing ways. Random objects lining the halls, foreign and fascinating. A dark hall, lit merely by the fewest of candles and it all does not cease to glare within her gaze. Her eyes wandered uneasily around it all.
Christine reached the end of the hall, turning right. Yes, it was right. This was the way he had shown her when she had been given a brief tour. It was here that she was allowed to b; where he would permit her to go. For you own enjoyment, he had said. So that the time will pass quicker and you will be content. Time, so unnecessary when surrounded by darkness...he is waiting for something. Hours, days, potentially weeks that would pass as towards a greater goal, but what? Her head began to ache again and she held her hand up to its throbbing pulse, not wishing to dwell on the length of time which she will be trapped here.
Trapped...very much so. Illumination crossed her mind as Christine realized that there was a reason that this unfamiliarity reminded her of something she did know. The Phantom's world is just like the opera itself—a gilded cage, holding her in and refusing her freedom. Promising something she is sure she wants, even though it is so unclear within her mind without guidance. She knew she wanted music, and was not that what he wanted for her as well? What was she doing here, in the first place? She had not wished to be plucked like a wilting flower from her rightful place. Christine had merely dared to ask such a foolish question of curiosity, leading to a trip down the void hole of the abnormal; the ghost's domain. No wonder she feels she does not belong here.
With a shiver, she continued on her way, walking into the corridors with more light and hoped she would not fall prey to darker thoughts again. If she did not resist, soon she too will be a creature of the underworld, a ghost of a former self just like him. Perhaps he was once as her and something else pulled him down here. Or maybe he himself was truly like a ghost; a dark spirit that created this tempting and hypnotic path that leads to her destruction.
A warm glow that contrasted a welcoming hue over the shadows came from one of the many doors within the labyrinth of halls. She looked toward it hopefully, eyes lighting up in anticipation as she quickly moved towards it. She stopped as her hand reached for the doorknob, and Christine was suddenly wary of the man that could reside inside. She bit her lip, debating anxiously what action she should take. Her fingers tipped the door ever so slightly to reveal the wide, open room.
Her expression relaxed to one of delighted awe as she beheld within the fire light how large this room was! Bookshelves as tall as the towering ceilings—ceilings that were so high she wondered how they were so cleverly crafted beneath the opera halls! To think, that multitudes of Paris' finest and most renowned ignorantly gathered above such a colossus, a place of dreams or history that belongs within tales, not in true and modern life! She turned as if by an invisible force of enrapture, to many shelves, lined up one by one, full of books. A genuine smile lit her face for the first time since she'd come, and how welcome it was!
Her radiance was suddenly overshadowed by fear, resonating inside her core bringing upon a chill up her spine. Was she alone, or did he...was the masked man there, too? Could he be watching her, hiding within the shadows of this massive study? It seemed unlikely, but this fear however infantile still was manifest within and was one she could not ignore. Darting eyes shot glances to all visible corners. To an empty desk across from the line of shelves, to the nooks between them and over to the massive fireplace which roared within this strange room, crackling with life and illuminating empty antique furniture positioned before it.
The room seemed empty. Her worries began to subside, but she longed to completely shake the strange feeling within her that not all was well. Still, the multitude of bound pages called to her curious, relieved heart and she dashed from the eerie parlor and its strange fire to the shelves, her fingers tracing every book ancient and modern for the perfect read. She began to see elements of their owner in the way the different categories and genres were placed, and a mind-boggling system it was! She no sooner found a book that appeared interesting when she discovered, leaning up upon her tip-toes, and discovering strange markings on the side and was often disappointed in her choice, in finality being an architectural manual or boring records. Useless, dull information, no doubt meant for more intellectual, versed minds.
She gasped, discovering odd books in foreign tongues, some with strange prints and calligraphy she could not make out a single bit! There were pages filled with Latin, Greek, English, Spanish, Italian (how delightful, so many arias she would look upon later!). The French historical records and scholarly tomes were all upon another shelf entirely. She picked up oddly covered parchment with bright colors, ornate patterns, strange art and depictions, and filled with a sort of scribbling she could only imagine to be from Asia or some culture where they had much more complex language. Even ancient, long forgotten symbols lined some writings! How splendid, as if she'd discovered the lost library of...Alexandria! —Alexandria, herself!
She longed for a good tale, but so captured by her discovery was Christine that she did not mind looking through the various aisles and aisles of oddities she had found. The very back shelves were placed against the cracked wall at the back, and were interestingly covered in dust and even cobwebs, which seemed to contradict the compulsive perfection for which the man that owned them was apt. Perhaps they were so covered in disuse that he did not bother...or perhaps it was something more!
She picked one strange, small paperback from its spot, sending the line of books tipping in a consecutive line, causing a wave upon the wood which caused a thunk-ing and scared her plenty! After several seconds where nothing occurred, she shivered and then frantically sought with slight and unexplainable embarrassment to replace them back to standing position as they should be. Then she gripped her chosen ledger and slowly untied the straw-like strand which bound the sides over the contents.
It was old, faded, beaten...and when she dusted off the first page it appeared that a variation of actual penmanship, scribbles and scratches of very obscure ink filled every inch of the paper in short and long hand, various languages, strange symbols, unidentifiable, illegible, dizzying to her mind and yet so fascinatingly real! Does this writing belong to him? Christine's mind dared ask such innocent questions, and for some reason no matter its eccentric and even disturbing nature, she was not afraid or confused...curious.
With hands trembling of strange reverence, she placed it back in the spot where it belonged and wished she had not disturbed his privacy. How ironic, she dryly notes, for he took no heed for the years in which he controlled the aspects of her life within his hidden fingers. This prompted logic, a reason, an explanation, for her to retrieve a more curiously appearing journal which was evident to her eye. Her movement was swift, as if she were doing something wrong...folly!
The leather covering was faded and scratched in parts, as if years of damage, perhaps of water or dirt had destroyed its original quality. How antiquated was that she held? She opened it and the pages nearly fell altogether out of their titled sheeting. She caught them within, snapping it shut in her clumsy hands, and contented herself with knowing they must have torn long before she'd touched its fragility. Christine once more opened it with a light touch, and her brows furrowed, eyes widened, and then softened as she observed the timid and poignant writing of a child. It far exceeded regular talent in youth and yet she saw its raw inexperience with each penned word. It was as if she blocked out the words, so sorrowful and strange they were to her, but in her subconscious she found herself longing to see their author and reach out to them, to understand this!
She closed it softly, refusing to allow so personal an account to her knowledge when it was clearly so precious, even in its forgotten state. Better left untouched. She slipped it back in, poking it further for good measure, then wiped her dusty hands upon her dress and looked for the higher rows above her.
Her eye caught upon a shelf behind where she had been, with more colorful and engraved covers, fanciful writing sure to guarantee a splendid work of fiction! But longing was in vain for it was so aloft she could never hope to reach it. Suddenly she spotted a long and narrow contraption that seemed to wind through unending shelves like a track, and it was a ladder with footsteps of bronze metal that could ascend to even the highest of places. Why was it so misused; did this man indeed never take advantage of such a magnificent collection?
She made up her mind most intently and with a dash, set her arms upon the steel and with a creak moved it steadily around the corners to the spot she most desired. It was heavy and bothersome; it would not budge at times, but what a triumph when she succeeded in her endeavor!
As her foot slowly tested the rungs for a secure footing, she climbed up several rows until she reached the desired volume. With a misstep, the ladder began to move upon its hinges to the left! She was shocked by the movement and clung to the ladder, but nothing happened. It put her just out of reach… she should have moved the ladder just a little to the right. With one foot close to the ledge, she leaned forward until half of her torso was extending dangerously above ground and her fingers just touched the engravings on the binding.
Just then, she sensed that all too familiar feeling. Why was it so keen upon her senses? From the several years that a seeming divine presence had taught her, ingrained in her mind to know? When she had looked forward to her lessons so much, gifts from her father, himself, that she could anticipate him? She shivered, and in doing so turned just in time to see the man in the mask standing feet below her, crossing his arms and watching her with steely amber eyes. This suddenness shocked her so that she lost her footing, tripped upon the rung and fell.
Her eyes closed upon instinct, and she let out a cry of shock, preparing for the inevitable crash upon the floor; pain singing her eyes along with adrenaline, darkness ensuing thereafter. She was shocked when instead, she was caught within two cold but sturdy arms that wrapped around her form and kept her from lying injured on the ground.
Her eyelashes fluttered, eyelids opened in fear, and she met the eyes of the man that had saved her and scared her equally. The dizziness made shapes unclear, but she saw the sincerity in his eyes, and a tinge of worry cracking the cold irises. He was close, so very close. She felt his breath upon her cheeks, proof he was human once more making her sick inside. Yet how curious...she glimpsed the strange skin behind the holes in his mask, dark and hollow, where his eyes bore into hers. He seemed intimidated almost, as if by this discovery by proximity. Her lips parted, as she struggled for something to say to break the awful silence.
"Thank—" she cleared her throat. "Thank you."
Quietude hung stagnant in the air as she never left his gaze for those few moments before his arms, which were trembling violently, placed her lightly upon her feet as he supported her against his chest. "Can you stand?" the voice of her former angel asked, in a tone most casual and tentative that she could never get used to. (To think that the angel's resonant, sacred, disembodied voice could come forth so naturally from a mere man!)
"I believe so." She dared to inch away from him, shaking on her feet as she remained balanced and crossed her arms nervously to her chest.
"It was not meant to be used."
"What?" She turned abruptly.
"This contraption," he gestured with a flourish towards the strange ladder. "I have not perfected it yet, and it has remained in disuse for a considerable time."
"Oh," she replied softly, remarking on how even his slightest movements had a strange amount of grace to them.
"You were retrieving a book."
She turned towards the voice again, somehow still refusing to look more carefully upon his face and the disturbing whiteness.
"Yes," Christine admitted, looking back toward the shelf she'd plummeted from.
"Allow me," he replied, pulling his long under-sleeves down and gripping the shelves. She watched curiously as he managed to climb each shelf with such quick ease and skill, that it seemed they'd been meant for the exact purpose. He returned to the ground in a single sweeping movement, with the exact book she'd sought in his long, gloved hands.
"...Merci," Christine took the book from his hands and was overjoyed to see it contained children's stories. She opened the book, intrigued, as he seemed to stand there in silence and observe her without words.
"You are fond of folklore," he spoke all of a sudden.
"Yes, I am," she returned politely.
"I remember you saying so. That you used to read such tales with your father."
This sent a pang of regret and remorse through her, as Christine was once again more aware that this man had been under a false guise for so long that he knew everything about her—even the most intimate details such as these, and yet she knew nothing of him that was not a deception and a lie.
"Christine…" he began as if able to sense her upset. "I do not want you to...mistrust me. I want you to see me—oh, that is hardly possible, for you to see me as before. That point has been passed. But I want you to remember that I am one in the same with your teacher. All of your trust forged in the past is not in vain. I am still he that guided your voice."
She looked down upon the ground, longing to sort out the raging feelings within her. A part of her hated him. He had made her cry so viciously last night after she'd realized what a farce it all had been. He did not know this, she'd made sure to be silent and polite as a guest in his home, but she had every right to be infuriated! He'd taken a beloved dream of hers, a most precious hope and twisted it to hide his true self! Yes, he is the Phantom. And his mask the mark that bestowed this fitting title.
"I do not see how it will be easy," she whispered. "I thought you an angel."
"I am clearly not, as you are painfully aware. The farthest thing from it. But if you ever held any faith in me, in he that I was...oh, fie it all!" he said bitterly, stamping a normally soundless foot upon the hard floors and echoing through the chamber ceilings. Christine jumped with fright at this action, wishing her beating heart would calm.
"I wished to know you more...I did not know this would happen. I was naive," she whispered, looking at him for some sort of validation. She regretted speaking so openly of feelings best concealed, but this issue must be spoken of for them to move forward.
"You did not know that the dreaded curse upon this opera was your teacher," he returned sardonically, yet the hate seemed directed elsewhere. "This would never have happened, I could have gone on with it all but you seemed so earnest. I believed you."
Why did he evoke guilt in her, when she clearly owed him none? All he had done had been in good interest for her, until she thought upon his selfish cruelty in twisting her beliefs, in ruining a memory and disrupting her entire world now.
"You cannot be a curse," she attempted, looking sympathetically towards the man that was like a captor. "You...you are still the one that could sing so beautifully. I was sure you were an angel after I heard your voice. It made me believe."
He turned his head suddenly, odd, intricate eyes questioning her sincerity but all she could do was try to avoid staring directly at his masked face. The covering concealed from her both sides of his face, leaving only his lower lip and jaw to her knowledge, the rest to imagination. If he had been so careful to conceal himself before, why did the opera ghost need to continue with such pretenses now that she knew the truth? It made no sense, so surrounded in mystery was he! It was infuriating, disturbing her deeply with questions for unending curiosity which she possessed.
He looked about to say something of importance, as his eyes held a strange light she had not yet glimpsed...but they turned away when he noticed her staring. Her own eyes flitted away in shame and the color rose to her pale cheeks. "Yet you are still afraid of me," he noted in a low tone.
This was something she could not deny, but to cower away would be weakness and she needed guidance and reassurance, now more than anything. In order to make it through whatever fate befell her and to move on in the future, rebuilding this strange, broken relationship seemed a most-important first step. "I would not be so, if you told me what I wish to learn."
His bowed head tilted upwards. Perhaps he did not expect this. Suspiciously, "And what is that, Christine?"
"A simple introduction. Who you are, why you live down here, why you ever decided to teach me and...I require an explanation, Monsieur," she asserted more determinedly, hoping the strain her voice was not evident.
"Simple, you say? If only it were. I assure you that this is hardly the case. Some questions are better left as mysteries."
"Oh, yes? Such as one that takes the identity of a promise from a beloved father and twists it to fit to their own whim?"
Her pupils turned to pinpoints as he immediately spun on his heels and she wished the words had not left her mouth, but what a tempest she could be when truly angry! Although by the flashing fires of his eyes and the tightening of jaw and stance, she felt as though she was soon to discover his temper to be infinitely worse.
He stopped before her, as if realizing his effect would not help his cause. "I did all of this to benefit you! You ungrateful—"
"No, I do not wish to be! I only want to understand all of this!" she cried, cheeks flushed with righteous anger that she could not conceal.
He paused, and both of them were quiet for several moments, Christine trying to breathe more evenly as her eyes looked sorrowfully upon the textured cover of her book.
"Do you not see? You want fiction, Christine. You prefer tales, extravagance of light and hope; ideals that are just so, and suit you well. Reality is dark, relentless, powerful, and you'd be better off not knowing, for yourself most of all."
Such blatant facts met her ears and she knew every bit was true. She was naive, innocent, and idealistic. Christine was willing to hold onto her dreams as the only way to survive, to move forward. For the past two years she had been able to find purpose, in dedication to her lessons with her Angel of Music that had not forsaken her! She knew the masked man spoke the truth, for an overwhelming part of her longed for that ignorance once more, that she wouldn't have found the lie out in the first place!
And yet how outraged and saddened it made her all at once! And her guilt—oh! That miserable guilt she felt somehow for this man was all the more maddening. How she could care for him, wish to please him and repair things, still! There is so much the wrong with me! Deluded, childish! Unprepared, not ready for the truth she sought...he was right, all too right.
"Do not cry, please," he suddenly begged at her silent pain, reaching a hand towards her and instantly retracting it, stepping even closer to her than he had been. "I fear if you knew, you would only hurt more, and that is why I cannot give you the answers you seek."
The power that mournful voice could contain sent a shudder through her body. She looked up at him with cinnamon-brown eyes, opened widely as if unbelieving of his words. That much fear and sorrow could not be for herself, alone...he was afraid, afraid of the truth as her in equal measure. Her curiosity would destroy her, he had said. Perhaps it was her fate all along.
"How could you hurt me further?" she whispered despairingly, hating herself for her timidity in front of him when she should only be strong to survive.
This shocked him, and out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed one of his tendril fingers touch his mask in a strange and nervous tic before he turned to her once more. What secret did he hide behind that dreadful thing?
A bitter laugh, lifeless and without any warmth or joy came from him like a crackling upon still air. "It would appear as though this experience could not be any worse. But I warn you, it can. Oh, how it could," he whispered the last to himself and then turned to stalk away and leave her to her book. He sounded as though a madness overcame him.
"Wait." Christine said with surprising compelling. A command, it could have past for.
He halted in his spot, with his back to her, inclining his head slightly for her to see the shrouded profile of his face and the ties around his head beneath dark hair.
A deep breath she hoped he didn't hear.
"Will you at the very least tell me your name?"
Silence, again; tension, palpable and haunting. But an answer after all did meet her ears.
"Erik," a soft plea almost concealed itself behind the simply uttered word. "I am Erik."
As his light steps retreated from the room and she heard the slight shut of the door, Christine sunk into a chair before the crackling fire, burying her face in her hands and longing for some sort of clarity.
Another title to add to the list. Not the Angel of Music, Not the Phantom—Erik. Christine was so afraid that she would never know how she should see him. Phantom and Angel, as ghosts and spirits that conflict her mind relentlessly. It was as though the angel was a beautiful memory she longed for and the phantom the cruel mastermind which she hated.
With this new knowledge, could she somehow merge them together to form someone truly genuine in her mind? Did she even wish for such a thing?
The angel was dead; he had never truly existed. The phantom was not real, simply a guise created by this man for some strange purpose that boded no good.
Perhaps...Erik was her only chance.
Somehow, even this breach of trust made by him seemed too intimate; as though he had been a spirit and now suddenly a man. It was unnatural. Foreign to her.
She looked down at her book and then opened the pages, mumbling to herself this strange word upon her lips. "Erik."
He already owned her lips, for her voice was clearly his...no mistake, he sought to possess it, to possess her. Dread and longing filled her all at once. A realization.
This name was a fitting title.