A/N: After a few years of reading fan fiction, I thought I'd give it a go. It is mainly Leroux-based and takes place following Christine's departure. So without further ado, I present to you "Darkness There and Nothing More," my first phic. Thank you. And because it is my first story, feedback is most definitely welcome. This first chapter is short, but it is only an introductory piece. The subsequent chapters will be longer.
Prologue
"Daroga."
The Persian rose from his seat and walked over to the window, dark hands behind his back, as the low, quavering voice called his name. His dark, bald head was unadorned with the usual astrakhan cap and his impressive height only succeeded in trimming his sinewy form further. His skin, dark and smooth, dully glowed in the adequate candlelight, giving off a damp, unapproachable aura. He pretended to occupy himself with the busy Parisian street, filthy and glum. He turned his head, but did not fully face the man, the monster, that sat in his private parlor. His heart beat unsteadily as he listened to the lamentable tale of the once formidable outcast, now only weak and desolate.
"Daroga, if Christine holds her oath, she shall soon return." The Persian finally turned to him, saying nothing, asking nothing. He only watched in sad silence as the sickly figure pulled itself up with strained strength. Long, haggard breaths accompanied each tiring motion. Every effort to stay alive was slowly killing him. The Persian stayed still, only watching the dejected creature, the man he called Erik, leave his parlor, leaving behind him the last that the Persian would ever hear from or see of him again. Erik, the immortal, who haunted the stage and fell in love with one of its most prized voices, was hit by a fatal arrow. The immortal Erik, the formidable opera ghost, was dying from a mortal wound – "dying," he said, "of love."
Chapter 1
"Christine!" The house by the lake echoed with inhuman cries, cries that did not fit in this world – so terrifying and so painful was the noise. The lake rippled subtly, recoiling from the terrible shriek. A crash. Shattered glass on the floor. Another shriek. Anguished screams reverberated sharply off the walls, thrumming against everything in their path. Agonizing sobs echoed in the cavernous home by the lake, crafted by skilled ghostly hands. The moaning creature was leaning against a wall, his bleeding hands trembling at his sides. A shard of glass pierced his skin as he sobbed in pain. He was a ghost, but ghosts did not bleed. His head pulsed incessantly from the Hellish pain, threatening to tear him apart. Soft, sweet words clawed at the fragile walls of his mind.
Poor, unhappy Erik.
The pained creature clutched at his sides, wrapping his arms desperately around himself as he had done in his meeting with the daroga. He lurched forward and fell to the ground, landing on his hands and knees. The stabbing pain pierced through his chest, causing him to arch his back and groan in the terrible agony. He could feel the cold blade taking the place of his heart – or where the heart should be.
"Christine!"
Surely, the world must have trembled at the terrifying noise.
Erik, the dejected creature, stumbled as he rose from the blood strewn ground. Blood. There was no more reason to close the wound. The red liquid dripped generously from his hand, a scarlet thread falling from sickly extremity. What was life? Life had been Hell before Christine had so selfishly injured him. He thought he knew the tortures of Hell before now. He clutched at his chest, covering the white dress shirt in a red dye, and stumbled forward past broken glass and furniture.
The vast room swayed before him as his legs, heavy as lead, moved on.
The air was still, but it was not quiet. Unspoken words smothered silence, filling the invisible void that separated two entities – angel and demon.
"Christine," the low baritone voice blanketed the cold, damp air. It was smooth and flowed easily from the ethereal throat. Christine's grey-blue eyes rose unwaveringly from the floor to her betrothed – a ghost. The only movement between them was the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. The demon looked at those captivating blue eyes, frightened and unsure. The angelic gaze told more than mortal words could in a lifetime. Each moment of staring into those eyes told of pain and acceptance – and of love.
Christine took a step forward, a smile suddenly appearing on her lips.
"Christine," the ghost said again. Christine, his Christine, his Angel of Music. The young child had blossomed into a woman. She had risen to heights that she never imagined reaching. It would not have been possible without his help. He created this Angel of Music, this linnet bird that could make the gods weep and could calm the fires of Hell. Her music was now his forever. Nothing could steal her away from him, not even death, now. She closed the gap between them and tilted her forehead forward. What was this? His eyes swept over the innocent face of his angel – the pale, porcelain skin, the rose red lips, the light blue eyes. The demon Erik trembled, his swollen lips quavering. She was his angel - his angel, his living, breathing bride. He leaned forward and kissed the warm flesh of her forehead.
His lips met nothing.
Erik opened his eyes in the darkness. Sweat dampened his freezing skin, making the air seem to freeze around him. Christine? He sat up from his bed, the mahogany coffin, the reminder of the eternal sleep. Christine? Where was she? His bride, where was she? He rose from the mahogany box and was immediately stabbed by a piercing pain in his chest. He cried aloud as it pinned him to the base of the coffin, suffocating him. His knuckles grew pale as he desperately gripped the sides of his box. He screamed into the darkness, the chords of his broken voice tearing against the stone walls. His chest was as heavy as stone. The pain would not go away. It ate at him, tearing away at flesh and heart. Its frightening jaws found their way through the darkest corners of a long forgotten soul. "Christine! Christine!" His broken cries grew weaker and weaker as the pain consumed him, swallowing him in indefinite darkness. What was left in the world?
Soon, there shall be nothing left of Erik – nothing left of "poor, unhappy Erik."