A/N: Hey, its me again!
Disclaimer for the 4 lines of verse I used - I think its from somewhere, but I can't remember where. Is it enough to say I have no intention of reproducing afore-mentioned lyrics in any published document??
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter - and please review! Oh, and I posted the first chapter of another Phantom fanfic - please read/review it if you can be bothered...
Enjoy!
DarkSp'rit
Chapter 4
Sing.
Sing…
"Sing for the souls of the dead
Weep for the fallen light," she sings, trying desperately to stop, but caught in the compulsion of the darkness she has wrought.
"The dark wolf's cry through the realm is heard
Vengeance for the rise of the dark of night…"
The music releases her, and she falls to her knees before the horror-struck audience.
Later, one of the many ballet rats would sob to her sympathetic mother. In a moment of uncharacteristic eloquence, she describes the cause of her terror, choking out the words as she recalls.
"'Twas a siren's call, mama – like the siren that Celine was meant to play but she didn't 'cause she felt sick – so beautiful – and yet, so cold, so…dead!"
Brunette curls fluttering in her wake, the siren of the girl's memory flees the stage, pale hands covering an ashen white face.
"I curse you."
The cold, condemning words reverberate in her head.
Curse indeed.
"Christine, calm down," a firm voice says, warm hands grip her shaking shoulders, and she realises with a start that she is crying, the heavy, choking sobs racking her body.
With one last, shuddering breath, she regains tentative control over herself – enough to ask the question she dreads the answer to.
"What did…it…sound like?" she asks in a hoarse whisper – she simply can't refer to it as anything else.
The Vicomte bites his lip.
"Christine, maybe you should take a moment to-""
"No!" she answers vehemently stomping her foot childishly. "In a moment, you would have formulated a…a lie, a meaningless string of forced comfort! I do not wish for a noble's response!"
Her tirade is broken abruptly as she replenishes her wasted air.
"After all," she continues, more softly, "I am hardly a delicate gentle-woman, to receive such gentle treatment."
The Vicomte almost flinches at the unspoken accusation. It is the first time she has mentioned that one glaring difference between them.
The dividing line.
"Very well." He can hardly refuse her the truth – nor begrudge her wish to know it.
"Your voi…it, rather" he still shares something with her – her denial of that sound as her voice – "well, it was really quite beautiful, Christine, but…oh, must I continue?" Raoul beseeches her, only to have his appeal rejected immediately with a curt nod of her head.
"I don't believe I've ever heard anything so wonderful – or ever wished so for something to stop."
The words – even accompanied by tentative expression and gentle voice – are a slap in the face.
"In fact, it-" He stops once more.
"Yes?" she prompts dully, but he shakes his head.
"I can't say that, Christine – I can't!"
"Do you think me not mature enough, not strong enough to bear your opinion, Vicomte!?" she hisses, all remnants of her patience drained away.
Raoul sighs, giving in.
"It made me think of an angel's song, Christine," he explained, staring at the ground, "but an angel filled with…I don't know, really. Pain? Perhaps. Rage? Sorrow? But not the burning, aliveness of emotion. It was so cold, so…frozen…"
I lied to her, he thinks, still avoiding her relentless gaze.
He cannot tell her the truth – of how her voice had wrapped around its listeners, a web of agonising, torrential emotion. A malignant siren-call of hateful, harsh beauty. Frozen perfection.
He refuses to tell of the tears her voice caused to fall – of how three of the ballet girls were sent into a faint, others into uncontrollable hysterics.
She does not need to know.
Nevertheless, the Vicomte makes one last, supreme effort to fulfil her wish.
"You sang four lines, Christine – yet those four lines felt like eternity."
An eternity of horror, a myriad of torment and despair.
"Aren't you fortunate then," she whispers viciously, "that I stopped?"
Angered by her anger, his head whips up – but his glare dies away at her expression, and he averts his gaze once more.
He hears her clear her throat.
"Raoul, I must tell you something."
"Yes?" comes his polite response.
"He cursed me, Raoul."
"What do you mean?" he asks, and Christine smiles twistedly.
"He took my voice away – I dreamt that he had cursed me, snatched my voice."
"He?"
She raises a weary eyebrow, and the Vicomte sighs.
"Christine, the Phantom is de-"
"And you killed him, I know!" she breaks in impatiently. "But explain this, then!"
Following the line of her slender finger to her throat, the Vicomte finds himself unable to answer.
They stand in uncomfortable silence for a long moment.
"Would you do me a favour?" Surprised that she broke the silence, he nods dumbly.
"I have to leave this place – before he takes anything else away from me. Will you come with me?"
He nods again – the question was not wholly unexpected – and she smiles, satisfied.
"I'll ask Meg to help me pack, then."
Christine walks away, slight spring in her step – leaving the Vicomte alone to his troubled thoughts.
Meg Giry pads wearily down the long, dim corridor to her room. Christine had only just – after almost 3 hours – finally dispensed of her services, leaving her own room hurriedly, belongings compressed tightly into a small suitcase.
"What a day…!" she groans, ankles throbbing painfully.
Christine singing…
The brunette rushing to her and demanding assistance.
A promise, extracted to not reveal her best friend's departure…
The lamps flicker.
Darkness.
She halts.
"W-Who's there?!" she asks fearfully, reaching blindly out for the wall.
Behind you.
She turns.
Oh god.
Her scream echoes unheard through the deserted corridor.
So how was it? (I think I ask this question every chapter)