This is my first POTO piece. I've read many, and I've been a phan since I was about 11, roughly a year before the Webber movie was released. I've listened to all available musical soundtracks and watched all available movies. It's kinda of an obsession for me, haha. Which makes it weird, in my mind, that I've yet to tackle writing a single POTO piece. I think I've been scared to touch my favorite book because it's really been done before...and, though the philosophies and complexity of the book is dear to me, few writers hold much regard for it. It's always the romance...
Anyways. This is my first. It's just an bit of musing.
DISCLAIMER: POTO isn't mine. It's many people's - Webber, Hill, Yeston, among many, and first and foremost, Leroux.
Certain bits of dialogue are from Hill's musical, which isn't the best musical, but hey, it's a neat adaptation.
-XXX-
"I wish'd you weep for me like that." I say from my position in the furthest corner of the room, watching her delicate shoulders shake. The blades are pointy and sharp, showing far more though the thin fabric of her chemise than in previous months. Stress is causing her to withdraw from meals. The sources of that stress were numerous. Her new role as lead soprano, her strained relationship with her lover…and, perhaps, though I would be reluctant to admit it, me. I ignore the clenched feeling in my abdomen to shift closer, looming until I see my shadow fall across those shoulders. My darkness takes her. Shadows claiming. I savor the idea.
"I did…once." She stutters between heavy sobs. I slide the cloak resting on the armchair beside us over her with a small flourish. Though she sits by the fire, her shivers cannot be attributed solely to her sorrow. "I cried for you like I c-c-cried for no one!"
And she had. Once.
"Out of pity," I sneer. "Never love."
This simply causes her to cry harder. Her entire body is wracked with sobs. I back into my corner once again, unsure of my next actions.
I wish to tell her of our most certain future. I want her hopeful, not miserable. If she could just know that in time, in good time, we shall be the most happy of people…perhaps then, these tears might cease. But I cannot speak. Instead, I hang back in my corner, watching with wide eyes and shaking hands, moving every so often as if to offer…something. Comfort. Yet, I couldn't allow myself to reach out more than a few inches.
She cries until falling into a fitful sleep. When I am positive she's fully unconscious, I lift her from the chair, carrying her to the bedroom designated as her own. Laying her on the bed, I removed her slippers and slid her beneath the covers. For a few moments, after she had physically settled into her new resting place - turning into the pillows, curling her limbs inwards – I stood, quietly watching. Though I've examined Christine's angelic features a thousand times, I couldn't help myself. My eyes trail down her soft neck, tracing the slightly-parted pearly-pink lips, the curve of dark lashes against white flesh. Her golden hair tumbled down to rest on thin shoulders and made something of a halo around her, almost emitting a faint yellow-y light. She is utterly beautiful. A perfect contrast to my monstrosity. One caress of her ivory cheeks, and I removed myself.
I choose not to sleep, but neither can I compose. My heart is far too heavy, fingers too tired, mind too weary. While I wait, I claim Christine's chair, book in hand. But I am not to be distracted. Within the hour I set the tome down, sighing. For the remainder of the evening, I muse before the crackling fire, staring into the purple-gold flame, picking out images from the wisps of fire. It was like watching clouds. But clouds are not filled with vengeance.
The night – if it is night, for I do not care to know the true hour – is long. I let her sleep, hoping the shock might wear off with the weariness.
She will be happy. Once the sorrow fades, once she realizes how happy we can be, Christine will grow to love our life. We shall sing every day…have a nice little house, in the country. Everything will be so simple. And we shall be happy.
The opera was never to last long – she is young, and talent like that is better going out young, leaving them wanting more. She will be legendary. Fifty years from now, they shall turn to one another, on occasion, upon seeing Faust, upon hearing a new young soprano, and they will say, "Do you remember that Christine Daae? The one who sang like an angel?"
As for the boy…well. She will see he's a fop, nothing more. "He will come for me!" she had wept when I dragged her down to his place. "Raoul will come!" But he won't. He cannot. And should he succeed in arriving at the lake, he shan't last long.
Thinking of the boy made me bitter. Oh, she would weep for the stupid, silly fop. But not for her angel. I shifted in the armchair, clenching my long fingers into the cushioned arms.
"I will not let you down," she'd sworn the day I'd discovered the fool lurking about. My rage had been tenfold from anything she had seen before – no amount of tardiness or missed noted could equal that. "I could not. My angel…please. I sing only for you."
"I will not leave you, Christine," I had replied solemnly. "The Angel of Music shall never leave you, Christine Daae."
At the time there had been such relief in her brimming blue eyes. She was reassured, so comforted by the thought that I would never part from her. What had happened to change those feelings? It troubled me long into the night. For, despite my most wretched face, I was still her angel. Always. How could she simply stop her dedication? Her feelings?
"Christine," I sigh into the fire. "Oh, Christine…."
She shall never cry again for me, for my sake. No matter my delusions, she can no longer love me, for whatever cause. She will cry not for my pain. Never again.
And yet….
But the story must continue. The show must go our, our parts to be played. No matter the farce. I've come too far. Done too much. The toll high, the cost already paid. Why shouldn't I continue? Despite being locked onto Christine, who loves me not, why should I not proceed? We shall go on. We will have our house, our music, our Sundays…everything. It will be without love – though, perhaps fondness might grow – but it shall be our life. Away from the opera. From the fops, and the city, and the silly dancers. And she would cry. Cry for leaving it all behind.
But not for me.
In good time, all will be well. In good time we will be happy. Our lives will have truly started. And Christine and I will have found such comfort and inspiration in one another. It's the thought that has warmed me for many months. Oh, we shall be blissful. In good time.
-XXX-
I returned from disposing of the boy to find not a faint and fading girl awaiting me, but a rosy and living bride. My wife sat before the fire, amid the flowers, reading from a small book. Her skirts were smooth 'round her legs, which were curled beneath her. She was fully engrossed in the novel. And she was…alive. Christine looked up when I entered, stood to greet me, offered her forehead and her hands. As though it were…like she was my wife. And I her husband.
It struck me then, how alike the words "wife" and "life" were, how my life would begin and end in her, and how perhaps that might be sooner than later….
She knelt on the floor before me, her head resting upon my quaking knees. I am terrified to touch her, but somehow my skeletal fingers find her skull, gently stroking the fine gold strands. It's difficult to believe she has come to me. She let me press a kiss into her smooth forehead. In that moment, I could believe we would succeed. We might last. She didn't shun me, no longer shivered at the sight of my dead form. It was Christine who removed my mask, and Christine who looked into my eyes. Not my dead bride, but my living wife.
"Oh, poor Erik!" she murmurs. "Poor, poor Erik."
When I felt the wetness against the fabric of my pants, saw her thin shoulders quiver, I couldn't go on. With the greatest of care, I titled her chin upwards, gazing into the red-rimmed crystal-coloured orbs. She is weeping. Weeping for me.
I am undone.
For perhaps I minute I gazed upon her. Then, I stood, crossing to the mantel. Still kneeling on the floor, Christine is confused.
"Erik?"
When I return to crouch beside her, the girl sits up. Without a word, I press the tiny brass key into her pale palm. Her forehead crinkles in confusion. "Erik? What…what is this?"
Oh, I dare not speak for fear of my voice breaking. I manage. "Go, Christine. Free the boy. Go, live."
"What?" Her eyes crew wide.
"I cannot have a living bride for the dead Erik. Oh, you have made me so happy, Christine. So happy. Please…go."
She is at a loss. "I don't understand. You want me to leave?"
My chest clenches. I cannot say it again….It is taking all of my willpower, my faltering energy to let her go. To stop the play. The farce that I'd hope would become our life.
"Christine, go." I falter, my voice very faint. Her hands have found mine, and they squeeze. Our combined skin – mine white and thin, almost papery, hers rosy and warm – makes my heat flutter. Though the words are difficult to voice, I speak lightly. "You've made me happy. But you must go. Go to the boy."
Blinking, she shifts closer. "But, I…I promised. I said I would stay."
"No harm will come to anyone," I assure her. "You are safe. They are safe. I am releasing you of this…marriage. Thank you. For being my…living bride."
At that she cries all the harder. I caress her cheek – her perfect, smooth cheek, marred only by tears – then take her hands in mine to help her rise. Once on her feet, I pressed the key into her palm again, my fingertips lingering on the ring finger of her left hand. My little gold band sat there, twinkling faintly. I touched the gleaming metal.
"When I die," I rasp. " Please, leave the ring with me. Tell me you will come here, and put it on my finger."
Her response is to heave a heavy sob.
"Christine, promise me."
She swore.
"And, when that time comes…don't cry for your poor angel. Your phantom."
"Oh, Erik."
I let her go. Sent her to find the boy, then guided them out of the caverns, not saying a word the entire time. I watch their figures descend into darkness, Christine's form standing taller than Raoul's as she supports the young man. "She will always stand taller," I think bitterly.
And then, I remove myself back to the world of the dead. Weariness has claimed me entirely. I simply fall to my organ bench, letting my head bow, resting against the polished wood. The smell of wax and roses saturates the air. If I inhale deeply enough, I can catch the scent of her. But it will soon fade, I'm sure. Closing my eyes, I let myself sink, for the last time, in the scent. The crystal-clear voice I'd spend so long grooming sings quietly in my mind, a low aria from Aida - fitting, as I am too, locked in a dark, lonely place, bemoaning the loss of a love.
In good time, they would forget the Opera Ghost. They would sleep full nights, pass days, and live out their entire lives with the poor, cursed angel of music only a shadow in the back of their minds. I would turn to nothing more than a faint memory of a nightmare. The man with the voice of an angel and the face of a demon who, for a few years, haunted their lives and that of the Opera's. All in good time….
-XXX-
Quick note - Aida was probably released a little too late to fit within the Phantom timeline, but I'll keep it...mostly because researching soprano arias set before 1865 is time-consuming and most people probably won't notice or care.
Reviews would be golden. Thank you for reading!