All Hallows Eve
by Kryss LaBrynStill own nothing except Jean Claudin.
Bal Masque: All Hallows Eve: Second Movement
I awoke some indeterminate time later with a raging headache, in near total darkness. Only a single lantern, turned low, relieved the unrelenting blackness. I was slumped against a rough stone wall; stone flags were hard beneath me. The chill of them had seeped into my bones; I shivered.
"Ah, I see you are awake," Claudin remarked brightly; he had been sitting quite still in the shadows; I had not noticed him until he spoke. "You must be thirsty. Here!" A small waterskin landed near my feet.
I said nothing and did not touch it; I only drew my feet away from its damp touch. I did not trust him to not drug me again.
He tsked in annoyance. "It's perfectly safe," he said, swooping down upon it and squirting a short stream of what looked to be water into his open mouth. "If I wanted to drug you again you wouldn't be awake!" He capped it, and once again tossed it at me.
I was thirsty; I still did not trust that he hadn't added something to it, something that he might have an immunity or an antidote to, but as I cautiously tasted it, it did indeed seem to simply be slightly stale water. It tasted rather of the leather bag, but my thirst from the ether overtook me and I drank deeply.
"That's better," he observed approvingly as I wiped my mouth and glared at him. "There's no need to look at me like that; I have no intention of harming you! As I said, I simply wanted a word in private."
"Why have you brought me here?" I asked him, my voice pitched low to hide the quaver in it. Where was Erik?
"I told you," his face twisted with annoyance again, "I wanted to have a word in private. Don't you ever listen?"
He fairly vibrated; his face was alarming to behold. Perhaps he sensed my fear, for he sat back on his heels, taking a deep breath and visibly composing himself. Only his quivering nostrils betrayed his agitation.
"There is more to this Opera Ghost business than anyone thinks, and I believe you know more about it than anyone! I know," he added, giving me a hard look, "That you knew him; I know that you stayed here with him!"
"Here?" I glanced around, unsure as to where in the depths of the cellars, for I assumed we were still within the Opera itself, we might be. "But where are we?"
"We are in his house!"
"His house? Really?" I looked around me as best as I could in that dim light; indeed, we might have been in Erik's former abode, but, stripped of its furnishings as it was, I would never have recognized it. Gone to our new home were the tapestries, the paintings and shelves of books that had warmed the stone of the walls; gone were the comfortable furniture and the warm Persian rugs. The only sign of human habitation now apparent, besides the lamp, was a rather rickety-seeming cot and other few odds and ends that I could barely make out, shoved into a distant corner. It was a far cry, indeed, from the cosy little haven that Erik had made of it. It almost made me weep to see it in such a state.
"Do you still pretend to not know it? Then what do you make of this, Madame?" He thrust a rumpled piece of paper at me. By its shabby appearance, it had been crumpled up, perhaps to be tossed away, and since smoothed. The note it held was written in the same stiff hand as the additions to the memorandum book upstairs, but in black, rather than red:
My Dearest Christine;
You are safe. I have stepped out for a moment, to make arrangements for the care of your Mama, should you wish to stay. I shall be back shortly. Please make yourself at home.
Your Angel
"I have never seen it before," I said in all honesty, returning it.
"No?" He folded it and tucked it away in a pocket. "Perhaps not; I found it abandoned in a corner, as if it had fallen out of a dustbin and missed. But can you deny that you yourself are the Christine it addresses?"
If there was one thing that my father's fairytales had taught me, it was to be mindful of a turn of phrase. I took him literally, and answered, again, quite truthfully, "I can."
I could indeed deny it; I would be lying, but I could do it. I never had seen the note before, but I could guess at its origin: Erik must have written it while I was refreshing myself after my first visit to his home. He was there when I emerged; he must have written the note, but, finding me still occupied upon his return, must have discarded it as unnecessary.
However, Claudin gave a great shudder at my words before once again reining himself in. "You lie," he hissed; "I know it's you! I know you know his secret—I must know where he is! He's gone, for the moment—when will he return? Is he still alive, even? Will he notice me here?"
"You?" I laughed, incredulously, despite myself. "Even supposing that such a man ever existed, why would he care about you? Stay out of his home, if that's what this is; stay out of the cellars that all know to be his; leave off your pursuit of him, and what reason could he ever have to trouble himself about you?"
Claudin gave me a hard stare. "There cannot be two Ghosts about, Madame!"
"Two? Why would there be--" I trailed off. Did he honestly mean that he intended to take Erik's place? Was that why he was so intent upon what I might know?
"Ah," he sighed, a satisfied sound, "I see you have hit upon it at last! And why not? Why should I not step in, if he has left? Why should I not live here, in private, without any landlords fussing about rent?" His voice rose with each sentence; he was working himself into a frenzy. "Why should I not be the one to control the Opera? Why should those francs not be mine?"
He strode up and down, ranting; but even as he frothed, I felt a change in the air about us. I could not put my finger upon the reason, but suddenly, I thought we were no longer alone. I strained my senses to the utmost as he continued to rave…
"He could do it, he could fool them all; why not I? Why should I not paint my face to scare the little rat dancers? Oh, it is a tidy deal he has here, a tidy deal indeed!"
Did I hear the slightest of sounds in the dark, as of silk gently, slowly sliding over stone? I dared not let the sudden hope I felt show; I dared not let him suspect that someone else might be near, might be stalking him. I had to keep his attention focussed on me. "But why would anyone do such a thing? Why would any perfectly normal man paint his face up like a skull and run around scaring chorus girls if he didn't have to? Why in Heaven's name would anyone consign himself to these depths if he didn't have to? Your theory makes no sense!"
"My theory," he spat, "Makes perfect sense. Obviously no sane man would have done such a thing; obviously he therefore could not have been sane!" He paused. "Is that why you won't admit it? Do you fear his mad wrath?"
"Monsieur," I began, pleading now, "I do not know how I can convince you; I do not know what you're talking about!"
"Liar!" he roared suddenly, terrifyingly. The blow to my face half-stunned me and threw me back against the wall. Crumpled into a heap at its base, I shook my head to clear it, only to find myself staring into the end of a pistol.
It wavered slightly, like a mesmerizing snake; like a helpless bird, I was mesmerized. I swear I could see the ball of lead within, so still, that at any moment might fly out faster than the eye could follow…
"I know you knew him!" he raged; "Why won't you tell me?"
Oh, Monsieur, I thought, torn between fear and pity; that was your third mistake.
I did not realize that I had spoken aloud until he twisted his fingers in my hair and forced me to meet his eyes, thrusting his face down to be even with my own. "What three mistakes, Madame?" he grated. The tip of his pistol dug painfully into the underside of my jaw. "What mistakes?"
"The first," I choked out, hardly able to speak with my head wrenched back so, "Is thinking that he painted his face; he has no need. The second is thinking that he is mad…" He snarled; I added, "He is quite, quite sane, I assure you."
"And the third?" he spat, as a silent black shadow rose behind him.
"The third," I glared straight into his eyes; "The third was hurting his wife!"
His eyes widened in astonishment. But he must have caught some flicker in my eyes, some hint, for he dropped me again and whirled around. Off-balance, I fell against the wall again and did not see what happened, but there was a loud crack from the pistol, echoing in that empty place; a second, almost simultaneous, duller crack; and the thud of a body falling limp to the floor.Oh, sweet merciful Heaven, thought I in sudden, heart-rending terror, please don't let it be Erik... let him be all right..!
When I looked up again, the Opera Ghost was bending over me, eyes full of anger and concern. The real Opera Ghost…
Gently, he gathered me into his arms, and took my chin in his hands, turning my face this way and that, examining me as best he could in the dim light. "It'll probably bruise," he said, "But that's all, I think. You were wrong," he added almost conversationally, resting his own chin upon my head as I curled, sobbing in relief, into his lap.
"Wrong?" I gasped.
"Yes. His third mistake: He forfeited his life for his treatment of you long before that blow was struck!"
I lay in his wonderful, familiar embrace for several long minutes before I noticed the wetness against my hand. "How did you get here?" I asked. "Surely he must have taken the boat; did you swim?"
"Swim? No, I came through the third cellar; it was the fastest way."
"Then why are you… wet…" Even as I spoke, I realized the truth. The liquid soaking his side was not water, but blood… "Oh, Erik!" I straightened at once, and tried to get his coat off. "You're hurt! Oh, God, Erik, he shot you…"
"I'll be fine," he gripped my hands, forcing them away from his coat and back to my lap. "It only grazed me." But even as he spoke, I could see, now that I knew to look, the size of the dark patch soaking his coat, glistening slightly in the lamplight, crimson on crimson; I could see it slowly growing.
"Nonsense," I said, frantic at the thought that I might lose him. "You're losing a lot of blood, Erik! Please, let me tend to it!" I wiggled out of one of my petticoats. "Here, we can make a bandage…"
"No!" he said sharply, then, doubtless noting my shocked stare, added, more gently, "No, Christine. Not here. Not with that… thing there. Besides," and he forced a lighter note into his voice, "There really isn't enough light; we'd just have to redo it anyways."
"But Erik--"
"Give me your petticoat," and he bundled it up and thrust it inside his coat, buttoning it up tightly to hold it in place. "It'll do for now. You can see to it properly in your old room, if you must. But first, I must attend to this… unwanted guest."
I didn't understand what he meant, and said so. He sighed, his weariness suddenly apparent. "We can't leave him here; if he just suddenly goes missing they'll have all sorts of search parties looking for him, and then sooner or later they too will stumble upon my secrets, and that, sooner or later, will lead them to me. To us." With some effort, he climbed inelegantly to his feet, ignoring my proffered hands. "If they find him in the lake, however, they will assume that he simply slipped on the ledge and broke his neck as he fell; it's happened before." He went to Claudin, bending to slip his hands beneath his arms. "And if anyone whispers that the Ghost was involved, so much the better; no one will officially believe it, but they'll be less likely to allow anyone else to come poking about."
Erik was possessed of a wiry strength, and was usually much stronger than one would think, given his thinness. Now, however, the loss of blood must have made him weak; it was all he could do to stand up while holding the remains of his would-be successor. "Grab his legs," he gasped; "He's too heavy."
God, that was the last thing I wanted to do! I did not want to touch that corpse; I did not want to simply cast him into the lake like a dead fish! "Must we?" I asked. "It doesn't seem right…"
Erik lowered his burden and straightened. "If it makes you feel any better," he said, panting slightly, "He'll be found soon enough, out there; they'll see to it that he has a Christian burial. In here, he'd just rot. They'd never find him. Certainly not while he was in any kind of decent shape." He pressed a hand to his side, wincing slightly. "I can't move him alone, Christine. Not right now…"
I hated to do so, but I couldn't permit Erik to struggle alone and perhaps injure himself further. Besides, he needed attention now, and if helping him was the only way to do so… I bent down and grabbed the trousered legs as Erik once again stooped, himself.
It was a struggle, I can tell you, and a hateful task; I am not strong, and Erik was rapidly growing weaker than I had ever seen him, so we as much dragged as carried our pathetic burden through the still-concealed door, I trying not to notice how his head flopped like that of a broken bird. He looked all too much like Erik in that dim light, with his face painted as it was; it was difficult to not let my concern for Erik overwhelm me.
We finally managed to get him to the lakeside outside; as I murmured a small prayer under my breath we lowered him in. There was no light; with the dim lantern in the room behind us we had to work as much by feel as anything else. It made the splash that much louder; I felt that I should hear its echo in my ears for ever.
Erik sat down as soon as his hands were free and rested his head on his knees. I knelt beside him. "Are you all right?" I asked gently, concerned.
He sighed. "I'll be fine. I'm just tired, that's all." He paused, then added, "I've had much worse than this; I think the bleeding's mostly stopped. I just need to rest for a moment."
"You've lost a lot of blood, love." And he couldn't have all that much to spare, not in his thin frame.
"Your petticoat helped, and I think it looks worse than it is. Give me a moment to catch my breath, and we'll be off."
I sat down beside him; we sat in silence for several long minutes before I felt him stir. "I think I can walk now," he murmured. "Shall we?"
It was painful for him to climb into the boat, and I had to row, clumsy though I was, for it pulled too much at his side. But the walk back to my dressing room, while long, was not as bad as I had feared it would be; Erik, rather than weakening further, seemed to be slowly regaining his strength, for which I was deeply thankful.
Still, we had to stop and rest a few times, for both our sakes; it had been a difficult evening! At one such pause, as we rested near a little fountain, Erik remarked, rather distantly, "We should make a point of mentioning to Richard how annoyed we were to be dragged off down to the cellars and abandoned by his silly young student friend."
Oh, no! I hadn't thought about it, but… "We were the last people to see him alive!" My hands flew to my mouth. "Oh, Erik; what if they guess what happened? What if they know that we--" murdered him, I couldn't quite say.
"He had a pistol pointed at your head, Christine, and he shot me. He threatened your life, and tried to end mine. Shed no tears for him; nor for yourself! I hardly think that ending his life under such circumstances counts as murder." His eyes snapped in recollection for a moment, before he added, "Besides, no one yet even knows of his death! So if we simply complain of how he left us in the dark to make some silly point or other and disappeared, leaving us to find our way back up alone, then any suspicion ought to be averted. As I said, men have slipped and died there before. The edges can be treacherous; it's why the workers inspecting the footings are not permitted down there alone."
It was not too much later that we finally found ourselves behind my mirror once more. Erik was able to release the catch, although he remarked that he'd need to repair the counterweight system before he could use it properly again. I left him on the little sofa and, taking up the pitcher from the washstand, I went in search of fresh water to clean his wound.
I was not gone long; there was a basin down the hall a little ways in a lavatory where I was able to clean and fill the pitcher. I returned sooner than I had thought; apparently Erik was not expecting such a speedy return, either, for when I opened the door it was to find him trying to tend his wound himself.
He had partially disrobed; he must have been extremely absorbed in his task for I do not believe he heard me enter. His coat lay on the floor in a heap, but his shirt, although also removed, seemed to be stuck to the thickening blood at his side; he was trying, without much success, to loosen it without reopening the wound.
"Here, let me help," said I, placing the pitcher on my dresser and moistening my handkerchief in it. "If you don't use water then it'll just pull open again..."
"Don't you ever knock?" he said abruptly, turning away and attempting to cover himself again with the remains of his shirt.
I scarcely heard him. "Oh my God; Erik--"
Weak-kneed, I sank to the sofa beside him. His back, his poor dear back, and a good portion of his sides, were criss-crossed with scars, flat and pale with age against his skin, as though he had been repeatedly flogged. He eyed me warily; I think he must have been afraid of my reaction to his body itself, but truth to tell, all I could see were those ancient injuries. Trembling, I reached a hesitant finger to a scar curled like the lick of a whip around his right side; he twitched at my touch; I pulled my hand back as though scalded.
"Who did this to you?" I whispered, scarcely able to speak through a thickening rage. Of their own volition, my hands clenched to fists, my teeth ground in fury. "Who did this to you?"
I wanted to scream, to howl my wrath to the sky like a beast; I wanted to find whoever had done this to him and tear out their throat with my teeth. I could barely see through my fury...
Looking back at it, I must have seemed like a ravaging Pomeranian, a ridiculous lapdog snarling to protect its master. Erik, bless him, took my rage at face value and did not laugh. He did not take me in his arms; I could not have borne restraints about me, however beloved. He did the only thing that could have cut through my anger: He spoke.
"They're dead," he said, low, certain; "They're all dead. Not a one who laid a hand on me survived. They're all dead..."
His words finally penetrated my fogged brain; I still wanted to kill, but robbed of any prey I had no choice but to calm myself... somewhat. I sat down again, twisting the handkerchief in my hands. "Who did this to you?" I repeated, staring at the wall opposite lest the evidence of his suffering send me off again.
"It was the gypsies; some of the gypsies."
"When you... traveled with them." I had not forgotten the night he had told me of being forced to display himself in a cage; I had simply not considered what might be required to force this man to do anything against his will.
"Yes. When I escaped, I made sure that those who had... treated me so were... suitably punished." He sighed. "I have never had a problem with any Rom since..."
"When was this?" I dared to look at him, his own eyes, unlike my own, dry, distant.
"A very long time ago," he replied, briefly meeting my gaze before examining the wall behind my head. "You were not yet born."
Oh, Erik... "How old were you?" I whispered, already fearing his answer.
"Not old," he said softly. "Truthfully, I'm not even really sure how old I am now. My birth was not something to celebrate..." He barked a dry laugh, still not meeting my eyes, and continued, "Somewhere around nine or ten, perhaps..? Not older than ten, I think."
Oh, God. Oh, Erik… "I'm so sorry," I said, and with a great dry sob threw my arms around him, crying for the man I loved, and the poor little abused boy he had been. "I'm so sorry!"
"It was a long time ago," he murmured against my hair, "And I was avenged. It's the shock, my love; there's no more need for tears." He paused. "And I'm still bleeding…"
Instantly I pulled away, horrified at my insensitivity. "Oh God, Erik; I forgot! Wait here." Hastily I rewetted the crumpled cloth, and hastened back to his side.
As careful as I was, he still grimaced, and grunted once or twice; I think I must have caused him some pain. However, it wasn't too long before we had his ruined shirt freed and his wound cleaned.
In truth, it wasn't very deep at all, for which I was deeply thankful; the bullet had scored a shallow gash along his side, but the bleeding had almost stopped already, although despite my care it was oozing slightly again. However, enough of his shirt remained unbloodied for us to make a makeshift bandage, although my petticoat was ruined, and a bare ten minutes later I was finished.
"Well, it's not quite the way I had intended to wear it," he remarked, tentatively rotating his arm against the pull of the bandaging, "But I think it'll hold until we get home. You did a good job, my love." He smiled; I blushed.
Reaching for his coat, he continued, "I don't think anyone will even notice anything odd about my dress as we leave. Frankly, it's late enough that I could probably walk past on fire and no one would even blink…"
"Do you have to?" I blurted as he slipped an arm into a sleeve.
He cocked the wisp of an eyebrow at me, puzzled. "Set myself on fire? No, I don't think so…"
I blushed deeper. "No, I mean… Do you have to put your coat on? Right away, I mean…"
He paused, the coat still half-off. "I had assumed that you would want to go home as soon as possible, after such an evening," he said carefully, warily. "Was I wrong?"
"No," I hastened to assure him, "No, I do want to get home, only…" I paused, embarrassed.
"Only what?"
"Only…" I paused, then said in a rush, "I never get to see you!"
"Good God, Christine, whyever would you want that?" His amazement was plain.
"Why would I..? Why wouldn't I want that? Erik, you are my husband!" I was blushing furiously now. Surely he could feel the heat from my face where he stood… "Why wouldn't I want to look upon you, as you look upon me? I know it makes you uncomfortable, but…"
He sighed, and doffed the coat again, draping it over the arm of my sofa. "Come here, Christine," he said, and I stepped into the circle of his arms, cautious as I embraced him lest I hurt him again. He held me a moment in silence, then said carefully, "I cannot… I cannot fathom why on earth you would want that…" He paused.
Because I love you! I thought, but I held my tongue and waited.
"I do not like being stared at," he started again, then said, in a voice touched with disbelief, "Why on earth would you want to look at me if you didn't have to?"
"Because I love you!" I looked up into his uncomprehending eyes. "Do you doubt that? My love for you?"
"No…" he breathed, still uncertain. "But God, Christine, honestly! I look like a corpse!"
"I know, Erik, but…" And then, in a moment of revelation, it hit me: It was not simply that he had been stared at, inspired terror by his very appearance alone. Had none of that ever happened, had not one woman fainted at the sight of him, not one child screamed, not one man cursed him, he would still have spent his life trapped in that body. He needed no one to tell him what he must have known almost from the moment of his birth: He was a horror. He was a perfectly normal man, with perfectly normal desires, interests, emotions; and he was trapped in the body of a corpse.
As terrible as it was to behold him, how much worse must it be to be him! To be surrounded by that dead flesh, unable to run from it, to close one's eyes to it; utterly unable to escape it in any way… I was suddenly surprised, shocked even, that he had lived for as long as he had without going mad or becoming addicted to opium or some other such drug. In his place I do not think I would have lasted long without the oblivion of the embrace of the poppy that I had read about.
I swear that the floor shifted beneath me, so profound was my realization. "I know, Erik," I whispered, and for the first time I saw the recognition in his eyes that I did indeed at last understand. "But I still love you!"
He breathed out a great sigh, a long-pent-up breath, still looking at me, half quizzically, half in wonder. "But how can you?" he asked helplessly. "How can you love… this?"
"I love this body because you're inside it. I married you because you are you." I paused, then gave a small chuckle. "You're still waiting for me to come to my senses and leave, aren't you?" I teased.
He chuckled slightly, nervously, himself. "Am I that obvious?"
"Only to someone who loves you. And I do love you, Erik! You aren't going to get rid of me that easily."
"Thank God," he whispered, and lowered his mouth to mine.
Fiercely, desperately, I returned his embrace. The scare I had had, the fear that I might have been lost to him, and he to me, inspired a hunger for him that I could barely have controlled, had I even wished to. And he answered my hunger with his own, pressing me to him with almost painful strength as his mouth devoured my own. My own hands devoured his body in turn, caressing him, exploring him as I had so longed to ever since our very first meeting, our first kiss, in this very room, so long ago. This time, however, he lowered me not to the floor, but to my small sofa, then divested me of my own blouse, stays, and camisole with an impatience that almost tore the sturdy silks.
I lay back against the cushions, bared to his eyes as he was, finally! to mine, as we drank in the sight of each other for a long moment. My husband. Erik.
Then, with a low growl, he was upon me, and I upon him…
A/N: ...And now you know I'm evil, because I'm going to make you wait for the rest. Next update on Hallowe'en!
