A/N: I mulled it over and decided to hold off on posting any of my other stories. This will give me a chance to get ahead in chapters. This little tale is one I wrote about a year ago. I had tried to post it here one time but I didn't really know how the sight worked and ended up posting the whole story in one chapter. I took it down and since it was past Christmas I decided to wait until this Christmas season to post it. It is only 12 chapters long so I could do it in 12 days or twelve weeks. I chose 12 weeks to give myself more time to work on other stories.
I went online to look up French nobility and they didn't have anything that came after a Vicomte so I just sort of gave Raoul the title of Count which would have been given by a king. In this timeline that title would not have been given as after the Communards titles were basically meaningless other than as prestigious standings. So my Raoul is a count making his bride Christine, a countess.
The Gift of Christmas
by Hot4Gerryby Hot4Gerry
Chapter One
Soured Notes
The shadow looking down from the flies of the theatre lay lazily along the boards crisscrossing the whole of the upper area of the theatre. Boredom and boredom alone had drawn him from his dark cavernous home. Why must there always be a December first? The whole month sickened him. He hated this time of year. Everyone was so damn happy. Families gathering to exchange gifts. Eat lovingly prepared meals. What did he have? Nothing. No presents. No family. No love. Well, there were always the rats. Perhaps he should suggest to Antoinette the possibility of hiring another man to assist the present rat catcher. The vermin were getting somewhat out of hand.
As was the case when he was bored his mind drifted from one subject to the next. Until something would grab his attention. So far today nothing earth shattering seemed to present itself hence his disjointed and random thoughts. the shadow got up to move to another position that would afford him a better view of the area below.
His music had sounded too forlorn to continue. He had enough melancholy thoughts without his music adding to his depression. Sitting down on one of the walkways he lay down on his side idly swinging a piece of rope to give his hands something to do other than pull his hair out. That occupation he could not afford as a small portion of his deformity included a small area where his hair grew sparsely.
Since Christine had bared his secret shame to the whole of Paris he no longer bothered to wear the wig. The damn thing was always slipping and sliding. In the summer it made his scalp itch and sweat. He did not regret getting rid of that at all. The mask was a different issue altogether. That he would more than likely wear as he rotted in is coffin while tons of earth covered his rotting carcass.
Not liking the morbid turn his mind had taken he concentrated on something positive. His hair actually seemed to be thickening. Perhaps he was looking at his head with optimistic eyes. What hair he did have had a healthier sheen. He had not cut it in quite some time. The longer length suited him. When he composed for long hours it did tend to fall onto his forehead in an untidy mess. What he considered an untidy mess women would consider an attractive disheveled look that invited fingers to run through the silky strands to try to smooth them into a semblance of order.
He considered cutting loose one of the ropes supporting a piece of scenery. Further reflection made him decide he did not want Antoinette hounding him with her censure. The woman was like a dog searching for a bone when it came to finding him to deliver one of her lectures concerning his antics in his theatre. Damn it, he should be allowed some leeway considering how much he contributed. He had given up his Punjab lasso. Could he not at least be allowed a few harmless pranks? Had he murdered anyone this last year or so? No. Had he threatened to kill anyone? Well perhaps that was not a good example as threats hardly counted and those idiots that had called themselves managers still irritated him from time to time.
When Christine had entered his life he had finally thought he would have what he wanted. What he had always wanted to feel whole. To be part of the world that scorned him. Well he had certainly been slapped back to reality. There would be no wife or children for him. He was doomed to walk alone. Just once he wanted to walk in the sunlight and have another person's shadow beside his own.
Well at least it would be another day he put behind him. Each day marked a closer path to the afterlife. Everyday was one day closer to the grave. That was something he looked forward to, the release from this earthly hell of his existence. The shadow had actually taken to marking off the days of the calendar at one time but had quickly become bored with that occupation. When death came it came. The time in-between was superfluous.
What garnered his hatred the most was the slap in the face he received each year watching as others shared this special time with those they loved. He shared all his days with the darkness and the rats that dwelled in the cellars of the opera house with him. Idiot that he was he refused all of Antoinette's invitations.
His mother had never celebrated this or any holiday with her son. He could never remember a time he had shared a meal at the same table as his mother. Of course, having been given away to the Gypsies at the young age of seven, did not allow for many memories at least not any pleasant ones. Her hatred he remembered all too well. The many beatings he had received at the hands of the Gypsy Javart only added to his mother's contribution.
Another thing that earned the shadows censure was having to watch as everyone went off to join their families. They would share a meal then exchange gifts. Singing and laughter would be the perfect ending to a perfect day. Even those less fortunate found someone to share this time. A hot cup of chocolate or cider around the shared warmth of a roaring fire sounded quite pleasant.
The shadow sighed forlornly. Why did he do this to himself? Did he not feel enough pain each day as he mourned the loss of Christine? Was that not enough punishment? Only a few days ago he had read the announcement in the paper of the birth of a son to the Count Raoul de Chagny and his beautiful wife, Countess Christine de Chagny. It had not been enough his rival had been a Vicomte. Now that boy was a count. God laughed as the shadow suffered. He must find pleasure in the suffering as indignities were heaped on his head daily.
When he had been insane with his love for Christine God took pleasure in his pain. He was sure of it. Why else had he been cursed with the horror of half a face? No one could bear to look at his face without fear, revulsion and disgust showing on their faces. Not his mother and certainly not Christine. Her horror had been evident when she had first snatched the mask from his face. She had recoiled as if from the most poisonous snake.
Two years and he still missed her. He visited all the places he had shared a memory with her. In truth the whole of the place brought aching memories. Her presence could be felt everywhere. He now regretted ever bringing her to his home below as each day he had to relive those few precious moments she had been with him. Not all the memories were pleasant. Those unpleasant thoughts he tried to erase or ignore. The swan bed she had graced with her angelic body now was where he sought slumber instead of the coffin that had cradled his sleeping form all the years he had lived underneath the opera house.
Why a coffin one might ask? Simple really. Death was a most welcome guest in this domain. At least as far as the shadow was concerned. He sought death but could not quite bring himself to attain it by self inflicted means. If asked he could not have said why. It was not because he was afraid of death. No, he had the welcome mat out for that dark angel.
It was more likely because of the little instruction he had received in religion from his mother. Not a devout woman by any means she had still held a sort of belief in the creator. Some part of what she had forced him to listen to must have stuck somewhere deep in his subconscious mind. All he knew for sure was he felt it would be wrong to end his sorrowful life by his own hand.
A disturbance below him brought his attention back to what was happening in his theatre. Ah, Antoinette. Perhaps he could pay her a visit after rehearsals. Tonight was their usual night to meet to discuss the running of the theatre. If she returned to her office he would follow.
She no longer instructed the ballerinas. That illustrious position was now held by her daughter Meg. He could no longer refer to her as little Meg as she was a grown woman of twenty. In his mind she would always be Little Meg. The squirming bundle of squalling humanity Antoinette had introduced him to all those years ago.
He had only been a youngster himself. A few years after her birth, he had gone to Rome, Russia then on to Persia. That period he avoided thinking of at all costs. No pleasant memories there. Well he had met Nadir. Sometimes he considered that a blessing. Mostly it was a curse. Nadir had a habit of wanting to play the part of his conscience. A position he took much too seriously as far as the shadow was concerned. Nadir hardly allowed him to move these days without questioning his motives. It was damn annoying. He was after all a man. He was a man of thirty-one years for God's sake. Not some snotty nosed little boy needing his father. Well, perhaps a father would not be so bad. He personally never had one. He had one he had just never met him. In fact he knew absolutely nothing about the man who had planted the seed in the woman who later became his mother. Just as well he had never met him as that would be another murder to mark his already black soul.
There following close behind Antoinette was the little mouse. Her name he pretended he could not remember. He knew it well. He was not ready to admit how much he liked the little mouse just yet so he pretended he had no interest whatsoever. Why Antoinette allowed her to stay was beyond his comprehension. The young woman barely spoke two words all day at least none that he had ever heard.
She was a skittish creature. She was shy, soft-spoken and pretty. Not as beautiful as his beautiful Christine. No one could match his angel in beauty. This woman had a quiet beauty. At first glance she seemed ordinary. Upon further inspection one noticed the deep blue of her eyes. One could look into those dark depths and lose oneself in their purity. Her lips were the softest shade of pink. Her lips were quick to draw upward in a smile. Soft laughter trickled out tingling down his spine when he heard it. He would shiver with the pleasure of that sound. Her hair was an ordinary brown. It did shine when the light hit it at certain angles. When her hair was left loose, it fell in waves down her back reaching to a delectable back end package. Not that he had really noticed anything of the sort. He had often wondered if it was as soft as it looked, her hair that was, not the back end package. He would have been shocked to realize just how often he contemplated how soft those silky strands would be. Deep in his subconscious he wondered often about that back end package as well. He would have been mortified to be aware of this.
Taller than what was considered ideal for a woman she nonetheless had a trim figure. Certain areas of her anatomy drew his attention more often than he realized. If asked he could have given her proportions quite accurately. If asked he could have given a detailed description of her heavenly scent. Not that he had gone out of his way to sniff about her skirts. Could he help it if she left a trail of perfume behind as she walked along? If he happened to be walking the same route was it not inevitable he would catch a whiff of fragrance? He certainly did not go out of his way to follow that mouse around.
He could tell if asked what color Christine's eyes were. Brown. He knew her hair was a dark brown. She was petite in the accepted sense. Her voice was competition for heaven's angels. He had of course wondered what her physical body looked like beneath her clothing. He had even caressed those hidden curves through the fabric of her clothing. He had not lingered where he had touched her as he had not wanted to frighten her. Now it was hard to bring back the picture he had held of her at that time. He remembered how she looked. He just could not remember how she felt under his hands. He knew he had enjoyed it. He loved her otherwise he would not have lost his sanity and nearly destroyed his home or killed to possess her.
He ignored the image flitting across his inner eye of a certain mouse of a woman. He drove the thoughts from his mind how his hands itched and twitched to touch soft skin. How his eyes bore holes in fabric imagining what was under all that cloth. It was harder to ignore how a certain errant part of him reacted whenever she was around. As hard as he tried his body betrayed him at every turn.
It was not from any desire for her in particular. She was simply a woman. He was a man. Ergo certain things were inevitable. He completely ignored the fact that there were many half dressed ballerinas who were more beautiful. If he were to notice a particular one sometimes his fantasies took over. He was after all a man. A very virile man even if he had not had the opportunity to indulge in that most intimate act between lovers. His needs were met by his own initiative. Since first discovering at the age of twelve that there were physical differences between males and females he had indulged quite vigorously in self-gratification.
In the intervening years he had tapered off somewhat. Honestly not much but a little. He no longer had to rush to the privacy of his home to relieve the painful hardness resulting from watching the women on stage or in their dressing rooms. The latter practice he had curtailed upon making the decision to be a gentleman. At least as much as one can be gentlemanly while living as a ghost haunting the opera house.
Trying not to watch her every movement he forced his eyes from where they seemed to be pulled with magnetic force. It irritated him. Why could he not be within sight of her without his eyes perusing every inch of her? It mystified him. Did he search for some glaring flaw in her appearance or personality? If he did he never found one.
A disgruntled growl began to rumble from his throat. He had momentarily forgotten where he was. When he heard his growl resonate around the theatre he caught the next one in mid growl. Luckily he was in an area where darkness covered him. Even his glaring white mask was hidden.
If he weren't so frustrated he would have laughed at the reaction of the little ballet rats. Squeals of delightful fright echoed along the auditorium. Shouts of The Opera Ghost were bandied about. The Phantom of the Opera had come to steal another young girl. As if he would commit that folly again. That madness had left him as Christine and that boy she loved rowed away in his boat.
Damn it, his boat still had not been returned. One would think the gentlemanly thing would have been to return it. Erik had not been able to bring himself to fetch the damn thing. If he needed to travel along his underground realm he used the many passageways. Not as romantic as a boat on the lake but just as effective.
He noticed the disapproving look Antoinette shot in his direction. Marvellous. Now he would have to listen to another lecture about not disrupting rehearsals. What did she expect from him? Was he not the resident ghost? Many thought he had become a real apparition after the fire resulting from him bringing down the chandelier. Not one of his better plans. His only excuse was his claim of insanity at the time.
He wondered where the two little mice were. He supposed they were up in the rooms Antoinette used as an office and her personal quarters as well.
Mirielle, the seamstress watched them now that she had two new assistants to do the actual labour. Her duties were to make sure the costume designs were followed to the letter and repairs were made in a timely fashion. That left her free to pursue other interests.
These past few months she had taken to watching over the young woman's young charges. Her children or her siblings? The shadow was uncertain. He had not been in a receptive mood when they had arrived four months ago. They looked to be between four and five. Perhaps a little older. He was not a good judge as he had been around so few children. There was the little blond haired girl and a boy with hair a shade darker. If he dared broach the subject with Antoinette he would have to answer questions he would rather not contemplate as he had no clear answers. Or rather none he wished to reveal to himself or anyone else.
The opera house had been running much smoother with Antoinette at the helm. Those two twits who owned/managed it before now left the running to Antoinette and of course The Opera Ghost. Their interest was strictly the fattening of their purse. the Opera Ghost made sure the opera house was kept out of all the conflict around the city. His deep pockets bought allegiance even from enemy camps. The limitless wine cellar in his underground home only added to the profuse declaration of loyalties.
The Paris Opera House was left alone and allowed to continue with performances and the money and the wine continued to pass from one hand to another. The recent troubles had allowed Erik the luxury of not having to elude the authorities. They had much more important matters to see to. Such as survival from one day to the next.
Notes were no longer a necessity. At least not the threatening kind. He did miss watching as the recipient of said notes opened them with fear and trepidation. Now he was reduced to face to face conversations with Antoinette. She insisted. If he wanted to have a say in what occurred in the opera house he must come to her room at precisely eleven o'clock on Wednesday each week. Today was Wednesday. He was allowed only the occasional non-threatening note.
She certainly had not listened when he objected to adding three more responsibilities to the opera house with little or no return he could see. His anger at her dismissal of his objections had deafened him to her reasons for bringing them into her home as well as his. Now he wished he had paid more attention. He could ask her about them. No doubt she would have dozens of questions of her own. As he had already established he had no wish to answer those questions at this time.
He would have to resort to his old method of learning things, spying behind the walls of every room. He still had access to all his secret doors. His two way mirrors were still in operation. He had not used one since he last spied on Christine.
How he had loved to watch her sleep or move around the room in her daily routine. That was until he had come upon her and that mongrel boy kissing and pawing each other. That had soured any desire to use his mirrors for access to the different areas of the opera house or for looking in on the people on the other side.
Antoinette had put the little mouse in one of the rooms that did not possess one of his mirrors. He had moped for several days without any discernable reason as far as he could see. He had just put it down to one of his inexplicable irritable moods. It certainly did not have anything to do with the fact that the mouse could not be observed at close range. Why would he want to?
How convenient it was that a slow leak had suddenly and quite inexplicably rendered it temporally unusable. It most definitely had nothing to do with the attempt he had made to install a peephole to her living quarters. He would not have been so careless to poke a hole in the water pipe. A rat must have been the culprit. It was not him.
Only out of kindness had he made the suggestion of allowing the mouse and two smaller mice to stay in the larger room. One equipped with one of his special mirrors. He had not used it yet. Necessity made that an inevitability. He had to know what had brought her here when clearly she had no talent for song or dance. Or at least none she was willing to share. He could not imagine her being brave enough to stand in front of a crowd of two let alone two thousand when the opera was completely sold out. There were fifteen hundred seats not counting the twenty-five private boxes. His of course remained reserved for his use. Over five hundred people worked in the opera house at any given time.
He should return home so that he could prepare for his meeting with Antoinette. He had an idea for a new opera. He had not been accustomed to asking for or getting advice on any of his compositions or operas. Oddly enough he found he received sound criticism from her. When discussing anything creative she left sentimentality behind. She was a shrewd woman who could read what people wanted even when they were not sure what they wanted themselves. Which was one reason he was reluctant to ask her any questions about the three mice. Her antennae would be searching through every word he said. She would add two and two and get five. He had no personal interest in that little mouse. He just liked to know every little detail about those who lived and worked in his opera house.
One last long lingering look at the little mouse of a woman then with a swirl of his cloak the shadow left. He disappeared as suddenly as he appeared.