A/N: So here it is, the new and improved version of my first fic. I'm sure at least, like, 5 of you will be glad. Sorry for taking it down but I was unhappy with it and figured the easiest course would be to start fresh. As I am basically overhauling the entire structure - and correcting some of my lazier writing - I'll post as if it were any other story, chapter-by-chapter. Think of it as a whole new story!
For those confused or unfamiliar, this story picks up roughly two years after the events of the 2004 movie. Erik has fled Paris to places unknown and been forced to move on with his life while Christine has married Raoul and must face the consequences of her choices.
It is absolutely, 100% an E/C pairing (so much so your teeth will hurt from all the gushy sweetness) but it doesn't start out that way - after all she is married to another man. However, I promise things will move quickly once the plot is set in motion so you guys done have long to wait.
Erik is his usual self but with a background drawn directly from Kay's novel. As for Christine, she has matured somewhat and is just trying to figure things out.
Lastly, it deserves a firm M-rating for sex and all that good stuff.
*I think it goes without saying - but I'll say it anyway - I don't own the rights to PotO or the works of Susan Kay.
Spring 1873 - France
The woman stared at her reflection for what felt like hours; the looking glass itself was lavishly ornate, its wooden frame decorated with long, scrolling vines, gilded leaves and roses in miniature. Her father had designed and built it for her when she was no taller than his knee; the girlhood her had known he was a famed architect but could not hold back the astonishment when she learnt he had worked the wood himself.
It was little wonder her parents had been a smart match, her father with his divine hands, a creator of elegance, and her mother, a rare beauty and worthy muse - as a child she had often considered them angels. But, such puerile fancies were just that, ignorant as they were innocent. The reflected creature was not the same guileless girl who had pretended her mirror was the magical one from the tale of Sneewittchen, this version had known love and loss and sadness, so much sadness.
She had been selfish, vain and cruel—with her parents and husband buried there had been no one to intervene, to guide her down the right path—because of this she had lost everything that mattered.
Now, older and made wiser by regret, she truly looked into the mirror and by extension into herself: she saw her mother's beauty and charm, her father's talent, and none of their kindness. What a wretched, twisted thing that wide-eyed girl had grown into! She was nothing like Sneewittchen and everything like the evil queen.
No, it was worse than that.
Unlike the queen she had betrayed her own flesh and blood.
Could one answer for such a heinous crime?
If only she could go back...
—if only...
All thoughts dispersed as her maid rushed into the room. The young woman issued a half-frantic apology, clearly surprised that her employer was awake.
"Madame, please forgive me! I hadn't expected you would rise so early, I've not even heated your water..." She eyed the maid's reflection in the looking glass, head bowed in contrition and hands clasped in front of her - likely anticipating a scolding. Her reply caught them both out.
"No harm done, Mathilde. I have some important engagements, please see to it that I am dressed and inform Mrs. Thatch to send up my breakfast."
A tray was brought in just as Mathilde was pinning the last of her mistress' hair: kippers, fruit, and fresh pastries. For a French lady the old woman had odd taste in food, even going so far as to hire an English cook, a decision that earned her more than a few derisive snorts; the age-old hostility between the English and French was still felt especially strongly in the country. Years in London had evoked a fondness for the native cuisine and why shouldn't she enjoy their food? Her mother had been English after all, it was in her blood.
Doubtlessly the servants and those in the village thought her addled yet she cared not, she had endured the terrible effects of gossip, been a victim of the violence borne from hateful superstition. No amount of idle talk concerning her 'failing wits' could match the tragedy of her past.
The carriage was ordered after breakfast. As she made her way to the foyer a door captured her attention, it was slightly ajar. Had it been closed she would never have noticed it; she paused on the landing before pushing it open and ascending the stairs.
It was a decision made on a whim, a product of human curiosity. She was fully aware of where it led, of course, having lived in the house for over three decades. With every step more and more breath deserted her lungs, very little of it owing to exertion; the old woman began to question her decision, she had never liked visiting the attics. The aversion was irrational, there was nothing sinister lurking, no spirits or poltergeists, only memories.
Yet, memories could haunt just as effectively as ghosts, maybe more so.
Her eyes wandered the room and its spartan furnishings: the small bed, the chest, the drawings, the chamber pot, the scattered books and toys. So many memories...
She trailed an aimless hand across the pillow halting when she detected a change in texture. Slowly she picked up the bit of cloth and dropped it just as fast, her vision clouding with moisture. Anyone else would think it a handkerchief or scrap but she knew better.
Good God, what had she done?
"The carriage has been brought up, Madame." her maid announced, "Madame?" Mathilde repeated an edge of concern in her voice.
"The door was open, Mathilde. I was just..." She couldn't bring herself to finish whatever she was going to say.
"Sorry, Madame, Sophie was cleaning this morning and must have forgotten to shut it; I will have a word with her."
"There's no need for that, I'm sure it was a simple mistake." A deep breath and her air of stoicism returned, "Did you say the carriage was ready?"
"Yes, Madame."
o o o
It was a gorgeous spring day, although the fields leading away from her manor had become a swirling ocean of brilliant color, so absorbed was she her own mind that she hardly took note.
What if this was it, the key to reuniting them?
Would they be able to start anew? Would he even recognize her? Would he grant her an audience or would he toss her out on her ear?
Furthermore, what would he be like?
In no time at all the carriage pulled up in front of the provincial police station. Time, what a concept! Too much gone by and most of it wasted. How much time was left for her, for this?
An officer was waiting at the steps, he met her with a smile. The poor, old woman had been coming round the station ever since he began his career twenty years earlier. Countless detectives and investigators had taken on her case, every attempt ending in failure; he pitied her a touch more with every instance, knew how crushing the pain must be, and eventually resorted to praying on her behalf.
Holy Father and Spirit, please guide the lamb back into the fold, he'd implore the heavens.
Five years became ten, which became fifteen, until nearly a score had marched on. Still he continued to plead, despite the futility. Surely, God would extend his mercy to a lonely, grieving mother and help her to find her son. Then, some years ago she had hired Benoît Poincare, a Parisian investigator with an impressive reputation; it was said he could track better than a pack of hounds. If anyone could bring about a miracle it was Poincare.
She followed him wending through the collection of people and desks, head held high in quiet dignity. His fellows tipped their hats in respect, all of them familiar with her story. At last they reached the tiny room in the back that had been become a de facto workspace for the case. A paunchy, balding man sat behind a desk too large for the space. He jumped to his feet when they entered, somehow managing to avoid knocking anything over.
Formerly a storage closet the room was incredibly cramped. It was a marvel how a man could sit in here amidst the crowded furniture, boxes, and stacks of files and not feel as though he was suffocating - a child could scarcely maneuver through the junk without unleashing a torrent of paper. The officer took his leave with a polite bow glad he did not have to remain.
"Ah, Madame, what a pleasure to see you again!" Poincare effused mopping at his sweaty brow with his handkerchief.
The woman silently appraised the man's face: the pronounced laugh lines encircling his mouth; the ruddiness of his cheeks; the twinkle in his eye - he looked like a child's favorite uncle rather than 'the ferret of France' as he was called.
"Yes, yes, I am here as requested. I do hope you have something worth an old woman's time." The words came clipped and dismissive. She had not come here for conversation; his summons had sounded urgent and she was impatient to discover why. A desperate longing, previously believed to be dead, unfurled within her bosom.
"Ah, well, we have certainly had our share of false and unreliable intelligence over the years, Madame, but this time I think I might have found something promising, very promising, indeed."
"Well, go on then! Just how long do you intend to keep me in suspense?"
Inspector Poincare sat back in his chair and regarded the woman seated before him, after many fruitless, desolate years, she had retained every bit of her haughty candor; age had not mellowed her one jot. Any other woman might have given up, but not Madeleine, her perserverance could rival his own and he admired her all the more for it.
"I've had reports from London, reports of a very mysterious composer; few have ever laid eyes on him and those who have keep mum. It is said he is so secretive that on the rare occasion he leaves his home it is only under cover of darkness..." Here he trailed off for dramatic effect. Annoyance flashed in Madeleine's steel-grey eyes; her throat gave an almost imperceptible quiver.
"An eccentric composer is hardly a novelty, Benoît. These 'artistes' always have their quirks, each one stranger than the next, when they're not parading bears through the Cambridge grounds, they are writing duets comprised solely of cat noises." She scoffed, "How can you be sure these accounts hold any relevance?"
Poincare paused in thought. This was his longest running case, all others had been resolved in mere months; his excellent record was the basis upon which he was recruited and yet, he was no closer to unravelling the mystery than he had been when he first took the job. It vexed him to no end.
Innumerable leads, auspicious leads, and every single one ending in a cold trail. There were two options as he saw them: either - and most probably - the boy was deceased or he was as skilled at hiding as Poincare was at finding. And, really, what were the odds of the latter? However, even death could be expected to yield evidence; they had nothing. His quarry might as well have turned into a ghost and vanished into the mist for all the clues he left behind. He suppressed a chuckle at that last thought.
Becoming a phantom, imagine! No, if he was alive the boy was likely at the ends of the Earth ensconced in some far-flung colonial settlement. That, or he was milling about London right across the channel.
...hiding in plain sight.
He had to concede there was a particular charm in the idea.
"I acknowledge your concern, Madame, but these idiosyncrasies are not what piqued my interest. I've uncovered that the composer in question won the commission to design the Royal Albert Hall, for his talent is not limited to the realm of music, an architect he is also; according to my sources he even devised a system allowing the building's thousands of gas lights to be illuminated in seconds and drafted the plans for the pipe organ, one of the world's largest. Lastly—and most compelling I believe—my sources say he hides half his face in shadow, the result of a fire that obliterated his childhood home and killed both of his parents."
A ravenous gleam blazed to life within those solemn grey eyes. No words passed between them, there was no need. Madeleine was positively glowing, a corpse turned living flesh once more; her chest constricted before expanding with such violence she swore her heart would burst through her ribcage. The prior feeling, the one of anxious yearning, returned. Grateful fingers curled round the edge of her seat, it was the only thing preventing her from crumpling in a heap upon the ground.
More than twenty years of doubt and disappointment and now...
At last a light at the end of the bleak, callous tunnel of time; at last an opportunity for her wrongs to be made right.
After so long spent searching...
—a mother and child reunion.
Her mind ran rampant with thoughts and questions, every one about him. She wanted to both sob and shout with joy, it was a sensation most bizarre. Somehow she remembered to speak before the task was beyond her, for she was rapidly approaching that pinnacle of emotion wherein smiling and respiring are the sole functions the body can manage.
So many questions.
All of them soon to be answered.
Was this happiness? She had long-since forgotten. Oh, how much she had forgotten! Her head was spinning, in this mire of tangled notions one thing was clear:
"We must leave at once, Benoît."
Hope you guys liked it! You could always let me know with reviews. ;)
A/N: The tale of Sneewittchen (original orthography), more commonly known as Snow White, originally appeared in the 1812 edition of Grimms' Fairy Tales.
*The 'parading bears through Cambridge' is about Lord Byron, who was so desperate for a pet after learning dogs were not allowed on college grounds, he decided to get a bear. Apparently he walked it all over campus just like a dog.
*The 'duets comprised solely of cat noises' references the Duetto buffo di due gatti, commonly attributed to Gioachino Rossini - although, it was not written by him but is a compilation taken from his 1816 opera, Otello. Interesting fact, Otello was based off a French adaptation of the story, not Shakespeare's version.