A/N: Well hello there, fellow Person Who Can't Get Enuff Erik, and welcome to the first chapter of my Very First Fanfic, "O Désespoir". The title has a double meaning - the first, more literal one is "Oh, Despair", and the second is "In Despair" as "O Désespoir" is a homophone of "Au Désespoir". I actually found this out by accident while flicking through my Larousse...(evil gloating laff) The story itself is sort of a sequel - well, more of a "What If Erik Didn't Die" fic - and it is loosely to do with the ALW version, though the Erik featured here is not a Gerik. The Erik in this fic is how I thought him to be when I first read the script, and isn't the Erik of the books/musical/movie in particular, though most aspects are based on them. Please review! Constructive criticism welcome.
I don't own or take credit for The Phantom of the Opera, and the characters ain't mine either...well, some of them are, but not the Leroux/ALW characters...now I'll shut up and let you carry on in peace.
For days, weeks, possibly even months now, this cave had been plunged into darkness. The last flickering candle had long sputtered out in the humid darkness, taking with it all vestiges of light or hope. The candelabra stood tall and dark at their stations, their candles unlit. Obscurity claimed everything, smothering all hints of light or colour, and the place under the Opera House that had once been bright and golden now lay dark, sombre and dead. Not even a brave stagehand or other person from up above with a lantern would bother trying to pierce the blackness out of curiosity, for the lair was now visibly unfit for residence. How could anybody live in such darkness? It did not seem possible. This deterred all treasure-hunters and thrill-seekers, for the utter obscurity still held a strong sense of danger about it. The shadows in the abandoned lair were oppressive, threatening, and most outsiders were convinced that even the promise of whatever they sought was not worth the terrible sensation that they were trespassing in a place of the dead. The ghost was gone, they believed, but his former home was still to be respected and left alone - especially since it was so gloomy and inhospitable.
Despite the fact that the Opéra Populaire was in devastation, spirits were lifted by the knowledge that the notorious Phantom would trouble and torment no longer. To them, he was forever gone, dead, no more.
But in the heart and mind of a certain ballet mistress, he was most certainly not...
Madame Giry gripped the pole tightly as she inexpertly propelled the gondola forwards. She had found the boat lying on the stone floor of the passageway, out of the water. Obviously the last person to have moved it would have been the young Vicomte upon his arrival at the mouth of the passageway with Christine, since the boat was usually in the water, tied up and out of sight. This was a sure sign that its master had not used it. Perhaps this was because he was stranded in his lair, surrounded by the icy lake? No, she knew this was not the case. He had his dignity; if he had wanted to escape he would have built a new boat, or at least made a makeshift one to take him across the water. Doubtlessly he was still there in the darkness, unmoving, and she dreaded to think what state he would be in.
The pole slipped on the algae-covered ground, and Madame Giry gave a silent curse when she almost lost her footing. She was lacking in practice at this type of boating; she had rarely used this gondola and had little experience with it. However, she was a determined woman, and she knew she was drawing nearer to his lair from the distant sighing of the wind - the cavern his lair was in was shaped in such a way that the underground air made a particular sound when blowing through it. The phantom himself had told her this, musingly, when she had come to see him once many years ago. He had been barely twelve years old at the time - still a child, but noticing things that even she, an adult, would never have remarked. Incredibly perceptive for a child, he had been...with the mind of a genius, too. But what had become of him now? His wounds had been too deep for the ballet mistress to heal, and she now knew that they had deepened as he had gone from boy to man. They had deepened, then they had been torn open...and now he was left to die from them. If she had taken better care of him, would any of this have happened? Would Buquet and Piangi still be alive? Would the Opéra Populaire still be in full running order? Would Christine Daaé be getting happily married without the burden of the tortured Phantom on her mind?
But what was done was done, and there was nothing Madame Giry could do to change it. Poor boy...he deserved better than such a fate...but what had become of him now?
Abruptly, the low ceiling rose up, and she was cruising along in a larger passage. From the distinct note of the wind, the Phantom's lair was just ahead. Madame Giry had brought no less than four lanterns with her, as well as a tinder-box, for she did not like the idea of being lost underground in the darkness with only the blind fish and a heartbroken phantom for company.
The passage up ahead slowly became illuminated, as well as the heavy iron portcullis that blocked the entrance to the lair. Madame Giry brought the gondola to a stop, unable to continue. The portcullis barred her way, separating her from the blackness beyond. She squinted uselessly through the gloom, but to no avail; there was not a candle lit, not a single glimmer of light anywhere within. There was even no sound to betray the presence of a living person. Had her insticts been wrong, then? Was the Phantom truly gone for evermore?
The gondola's prow gently knocked into the moist iron of the portcullis, and the lantern perched precariously on it toppled into the water with an unbearably loud splash, its light extinguishing immediately. Madame Giry crouched forwards quickly, managing just in time to close her fingers around the ring at the top of the lantern as it sank, and she pulled it out of the water, regretfully placing it in the bottom of the boat -
Suddenly, a deep, resonant voice, with so much menacing authority it could have been the voice of a vengeful angel, intoned all around her:
'Le Fantôme est mort. Allez-vous-en!' The Phantom is dead. Go away!
Hearing such a commanding, harsh voice so close to her made her limbs tense with shock and fear. The primal terror that came with being in blinding darkness with the promise of danger all around threatened to seize her, but Madame Giry took a deep breath, putting her hand over her heart to still its rapid beating. He was only throwing his voice again to instil fear, and he could not scare her with that any longer.
Gathering herself bravely up to her full height, she called out defiantly: 'Erik ...je sais que tu es encore là - c'est inutile de te cacher ainsi!' I know you are still there - it is useless to hide yourself like this!
Her voice, disappointingly high and tremulous compared to the glorious thunder of the other, echoed around the large stone chamber beyond. There was a long pause, and then a low, venomous voice replied to her.
'Je n'ai rien a vous dire, madame. Laissez-moi mourir en paix.' I have nothing to say to you, madame. Leave me to die in peace.
Madame Giry frowned, the lines on her face deepening with concern as she gazed blindly into the darkness.
'Erik, I still have faith in you. I am willing to forget all that has happened and to help you.'
'Faith in a mere ghost, madame?' the voice hissed mockingly. She ignored his taunting, concentrating instead on locating the secret lever that could open the portcullis from the outside. It was very well-hidden indeed, and if she had not known Erik and his clever method of hiding things in plain sight she would never have found it at all. Once she had found it, she tugged on it sharply. Cogs and wheels began to turn inside the walls, and the huge iron portcullis began to rise. She allowed herself a brief smile of triumph before punting forwards, ducking her head as she passed under the rising gateway.
The cavern was dark, but the light from the three remaining lanterns in the gondola helped Madame Giry navigate towards the bank. She breathed out a sigh of relief as the boat's underside scraped the slope, and stepped out lightly, placing the pole in the boat and picking up one of her lanterns.
'Erik?'
As she had expected, there was no response when she used his true name. So be it, she thought. I shall have to find him myself.
Raising her lantern high, she shuffled along the floor, her footsteps rustling the sheets of music that lay strewn everywhere as if thrown by a child in a rage. A candelabrum lay on the ground, and she stood it up again, pausing to light its candles with her own lantern. Without more light, she knew she would never find him, and she also feared for a wild moment that he would creep up behind her in the darkness and choke the life from her. However, she knew that even though the man had almost no limits to his impulsiveness when in a rage, he would never raise a hand against her. He never harmed those who had helped him, and now he was in need of help once more.
Madame Giry made her way from candelabrum to candelabrum, lighting each until the lair was bathed in a golden glow that was dim but far better than the blackness that had preceded it. As the lair slowly became visible, the damage to it also became noticeable. Sheet music lay everywhere, torn, crumpled or simply thrown down, and beautiful works of art were ripped to pieces. It was only when Madame Giry's gaze fell upon the wreckage of the once-grand organ that she realised it was not Erik who had caused this devastation. The angry mob that had pursued him down here on that fateful night had utterly destroyed this place of art and music, spoiled its beauty and ruined its secrets. Only God knew how Erik had managed to stay hidden from them while they had torn to pieces his lair - but of course, Erik was a master when it came to hiding and disappearing. Madame Giry picked her way over battered works of art that rivalled even the masterpieces of great artists but were ruined beyond repair. It saddened her to see his sanctuary in such a state, but she also felt anxious about the state that the man himself was in. Wherever was he hiding?
She held the lantern high. The whole lair was now visible, all of the detritus and wreckage making it look even more abandoned than ever. Madame Giry stood very still, looking around for any sign of movement other than the flickering of the candles -
She stiffened. Somewhere to her left came the sound of faint wheezing; he was here! Pinpointing the exact location, she strode forwards, only to have something snap loudly beneath her foot. Looking down sharply, she covered her mouth with a hand as she saw she had stepped on the skeleton of some small unfortunate animal that still retained a few scraps of gristle on its crushed, pale ribcage. She realised with horror, by the way that the spine was broken and the fur and flesh stripped away, that this must have been a previous meal of Erik's. What had he become? Was he really so weakened and isolated that he was forced to prey on the rats that invaded his home?
Grimacing with disgust, Madame Giry paused to listen. Yes, she could hear the terrible wheezing sound nearby, in the darkness ahead...
'Erik?' she called again.
Silence. Only harsh, painful breathing. Then, from the shadows before her:
'Am I never to be granted peace?'
Her heart jolted in her chest - his voice, which had been so harsh but thunderous and brassy a moment ago, was now weak and hoarse. His last traces of energy seemed to have been spent through attempting to warn her away. Madame Giry hurriedly came forwards, holding her lantern up. The light from the candle illuminated a sorry heap of damp, torn clothing and shivering, skeletally thin limbs lying on the floor. She gave a small gasp at the sight, then hesitantly knelt down beside him, hand over her heart.
Erik, the former Phantom of the Opera, was curled up on the cold floor where he lay like a broken puppet, his eyes closed and still swollen from the tears of black misery he had so recently shed. His face had been laid bare to the world, the paper-thin flesh even more cadaverous than ever, his coal-black locks tangled and unkempt. His skin had acquired a yellowish-white tinge, and he had all the semblance of a corpse. Madame Giry would have believed him dead herself had she not noticed the unsteady, feeble heaving of his thin chest as he breathed.
Tentatively, still as wary of him as ever, she leant closer, holding her breath against the smell of death. His trembling lips were stained brown and his hollow cheeks smeared with what looked horribly like the blood of the small rodent he had killed. Damp covered his deathly-pale skin, making it gleam clammily in the light.
'Erik?' she whispered again. Yes, she could definitely hear the wheezing sound he was making.
He gave her no answer. Was he still conscious? It was hard to tell. She watched his fearsome face for a clue, her eyes lingering pityingly on the gaping black hole that was his nose. He must have taken off the mask to terrorize anyone who found him when he was dead. How like Erik that was, indeed...bitter and sarcastic to the end.
And the end was obviously very, very near. His breathing was laboured but faint, his skin was a ghastly corpse-like colour, and his arm felt icy cold and damp when she touched it -
In a brusque movement, his arm sprang to life and jerked away from her touch as if burnt, his dark eyebrows drawing together briefly. This movement seemed to disturb the death-like peace that had descended upon him, and his breath began to rattle horribly in his throat.
'Erik, you are very, very ill,' Madame Giry told him, her face lined with concern. 'I cannot leave you here to die - it would torment me for the rest of my life were I to abandon you in this cold underground cavern.'
One purple-tinged eyelid opened fractionally, and a sliver of an amber eye glinted from beneath the dark lashes.
'So, out of guilt you return to me...' he mocked hoarsely, his voice still strong but the way it cracked betraying his feeble state. Madame Giry frowned at him drily.
'I see you have retained your sense of humour even though you have not retained your health,' she commented sharply. 'Death will solve nothing, Erik.' When he did not respond, she narrowed her eyes. 'For how long precisely have you been lying down in this way?'
She heard his sigh.
'A day...a week...a month...time does not behave in the same way when one does not pay attention to it,' he replied idly, still with his eyes firmly closed.
'Your shirt is damp and barely covers you,' Madame Giry remarked sternly, seeing the way the material clung to his bony, lean frame. 'Erik, this is terribly dangerous for your health, and you are foolish indeed to neglect yourself so. If you would only -'
Two blazing, fever-brightened amber eyes opened abruptly and glared at her with a seething, furious gaze. Erik bared his teeth, incensed. 'You dare come and disrupt my final sleep with talk of my foolishness? Can I not be left in peace to die as I was supposed to long ago? I do not belong here - this is no place for me! If everybody has told me all through my life that I am hell-spawn and belong in the nether world with the Devil, why should I not accept this and make my way out at last?'
Madame Giry sighed. He had truly been hurt far too deeply - the way he had been shunned all of his life had taken its irreversible toll on him. He never truly saw the beauty in himself...and nor did those who tortured him so.
'Erik, you must see sense. What others believe is not necessarily true - those who speak of you in such a way have not seen past your face.'
Unexpectedly, the fevered man took great offence at this. His long fingers curled into fists, his knuckles whitening. 'Damn you! Damn you and your sickening pity!' he snarled in sudden rage. 'If it is not revulsion, it is pity...the screams and curses I can stand, but being pitied...!' He tried to continue his rant, but was impaired by the sudden bout of coughing that overtook him. Madame Giry watched silently as the coughing fit shook his malnourished, wraith-like frame, until he fell quiet and still, his breath wheezing more than ever.
'Listen to me,' she said calmly, in the tone she used when dealing with hysterical young ballerinas. 'You need to be cared for, since you are so uninclined to do so yourself. For this you must cooperate. I know a very trustworthy doctor -'
Her supplication was interrupted by a series of odd, harsh sounds from the prone man. With a start she realised he was laughing, his body trembling with mirth.
'Erik, please -'
'Have you no sense?' Erik cried, eyes wide and staring suddenly in pure outrage. 'A doctor? No mortal man would ever agree to tend to such a hideous creature as I!' She pursed her lips as he continued to rant and rave, until he was forced to stop lest another bout of coughing take over him.
'Docteur Bayard has seen you before on one occasion,' she explained. Seeing the look of disbelief and shock on his face, she continued: 'You were but a child then. The diseases and infections that riddled you from the travelling fair had brought you near to death. I was in despair, so I called upon my old acquaintance to help. He did not flinch even when your face was uncovered; it is thanks to him that you recovered from the diseases.'
Erik stared into middle distance for a while, then his feverish, over-bright golden eyes became suspicious.
'Why do I not recall any of this?'
'You were unconscious for almost an entire week,' Madame Giry said quietly, recalling the despair she had felt upon seeing the sick young boy covered in rashes and fainting constantly. She had felt so useless, so desperate, since nobody knew about him but her...and then Bayard had come and saved the boy's life, not even commenting upon his face. The man was a saint...any lesser being would have shied away from Erik in revulsion, but he had done no such thing. Now the question was, could he save Erik once more?
Two days later, Victor Bayard was under the Opera house, bending over an unconscious Erik. Madame Giry hovered anxiously by, wringing her lace handkerchief.
'I tried to make him see reason, but he would not listen to me,' she told the Docteur as he pressed his forefingers to the pulsing artery in the prone man's white throat. 'I was forced to use the drug you gave me to calm him.'
Docteur Bayard nodded, looking calm and serious with his large moustache and kindly blue eyes as he inspected Erik. The unperturbed, tranquil way in which he dealt with Erik never failed to amaze Madame Giry; the sight of the taut, papery skin of his face with the web of blue veins beneath it and the black crevice of his nose was enough to make even her shiver inwardly, despite the fact that she had seen that awful sight countless times. She watched as Bayard carefully measured Erik's pulse, and listened to his breathing. After a while, he looked up at her.
'His condition is quite grave,' he said. 'He is dehydrated and half-starved; on top of it all, he has a slight fever and a minor chest infection brought on from the cold. It is very fortunate indeed that you found him when you did - a couple of days more and he would be dead.' This was not hard to believe: Erik already had the seeming of a man long dead, inside as well as out.
'However,' continued Docteur Bayard, 'he cannot remain here. This environment is too damp and cold for him to recover in; he needs warmth and light.' He glanced at the unconscious Phantom, a small smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. 'I suppose in a way his current unconsciousness is a blessing - he will not be able to struggle as we take him away from here.'
Madame Giry's face creased in worry. 'But whatever shall become of him if he cannot stay here? He has nowhere else to go -'
'I can provide shelter for him in my own home,' reassured Docteur Bayard. 'There is a spare bedroom I have in which he can stay.'
'Oh, however can I thank you, Victor?' sighed Madame Giry, feeling weak with relief, but Docteur Bayard only smiled and said: 'I am merely doing my job, Antoinette...besides, you are in need of a favour.'
Madame Giry smiled back. 'He only needs to stay with you until he is well - I can arrange for a small apartment to be bought for his use, as he has told me where he hides his extensive earnings.'
'Very well,' said Docteur Bayard. Both of them looked down as Erik gave a small moan, his eyes opening. His dilated pupils focused on the doctor and his eyes narrowed, teeth bared in a snarl. The doctor reached out a hand, supposedly to calm him, but this only enraged him further.
'Do not touch me, monsieur!' he hissed, his voice strained, ribs rippling under his skin as he gasped for breath. Then he seemed to calm down, and a faraway look came onto his awful face. 'It makes no difference,' he said cryptically, sounding tired, and then gave a small, soft laugh. 'No, it makes no difference at all. I shall be free of this world soon, even though it shall only be to roast in the flames of the Hell that awaits me...I daresay it shall be considerably warmer than this cold cavern...hah!''
'He is delirious,' Docteur Bayard remarked gravely.
'Erik, please do not speak in such a way...you are not dying, you are simply fevered,' Madame Giry entreated the recumberant man. 'We shall help you...'
'Help...?' repeated Erik absently, his eyes rolling back as he reached the brink of unconsciousness then came back again.
'Yes, monsieur,' replied Bayard, then he looked up at Madame Giry. 'Would you be so kind as to hold the lantern? I shall bear his weight.' She obliged as the Docteur leaned down and hooked Erik's limp arm around his neck. The man struggled feebly against him, teeth clenched, but was unable to put up any form of resistance. Soon he had sunk back into a semi-conscious state, hardly able to keep his head up. His chest heaved with laboured breaths, eyes barely visible beneath the hooded lids that covered them, and he was obviously in desperate need of help. Slowly, awkwardly, Docteur Bayard began to walk forwards, supporting Erik, whose feet were dragging uselessly on the ground as his head lolled forwards.
'No...' groaned Erik. 'No, you foolish man, I cannot leave...no...'
'Do you need help?' asked Madame Giry anxiously, pausing. Docteur Bayard shook his head.
'No, no - he is light enough, despite his substantial height...' he replied truthfully, for even though Erik was a very tall man compared to Bayard, he was quite a bit underweight. This was not surprising, considering the weeks of starvation and self-neglect he had gone through.
Soon they reached the gondola, and a now unconscious Erik was placed inside it, while Bayard took the pole and climbed in beside him. Madame Giry was about to take the Docteur's politely proferred hand when she suddenly remembered.
'Oh - please wait just a moment, monsieur...I have forgotten something!'
Picking up her skirts and swiftly going back, she cast about, searching for the essential item Erik would need if he was to leave this place. It took her several minutes to find the hard white leather mask, but at last she saw it, lying on the floor where it had been thrown. Miraculously, it was unharmed, and she picked it up, running back to the boat with it in her hands. Upon seeing the mask, Docteur Bayard looked grave but passed no comment, understanding that not all were as tolerant as he. After courteously helping Madame Giry into the boat, he pushed off with the pole, feeling above all thankful that the gondola was sturdy enough for the three of them.
