Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its adaptations or characters.
Title: Songbird
Summary: After the death of her father, Christine finds herself at the mercy of an aunt she hardly knew existed. With her entire world changing in an instant, her future never seemed so uncertain. Yet, the mysterious masked lord may just be able to offer her a life unlike anything she ever imagined.
Author's Note: As it was brought up in the last chapter, Madame Giry did mention that Erik had told her everything. To clarify, that is not exactly so. He certainly imparted some things to her, but he did not say anything that would get Christine into any additional trouble. Just to put all of your minds at ease. -.^
Also, I am in no means a singer. I may have at one point taken one semester of choir, but I can't even remember if I did or did not. So please forgive me if I should get anything about technique or whatnot wrong. I will try to stay away from it as much as possible…for all of our sake.
Chapter 6 – The Song
Christine hesitantly knocked on the door. Her breath was caught in her throat while she waited for the response. She knew she had to be strong, as well as careful. She didn't want a repeat of what had occurred the day before. But at the same time, she knew that just because she resisted and stood up for herself, he wouldn't immediately dismiss her from the property.
Instead of the usual voice on the opposite side of the door, the handle turned and the door swung inward on the master himself. Not once in their meetings had he actually opened the door for her. She could already sense his shame and penitence.
Without a word, just a single glance between them, she entered into his lair.
After having closed the door, Erik removed several sheets of paper from the piano and handed them to Christine, who stood in her usual spot nearby. He cleared his throat then quietly informed her, "I took the liberty of looking over the lessons I laid out for you and tweaking them a bit."
"Thank you."
Christine knew that she would never get a full, verbal apology from him. He would never come out and say that he was wrong and that he regretted what he had said to her. These little things he did, though, showed her that instead.
"Shall we start then?"
She nodded, and he took his seat. Slowly, they went through one scale then repeated it again. Then he stopped. He stood up again, silent, and went to her side. She was slightly alarmed at first, not quite sure how he was going to react, for she knew instantly that she hadn't performed to his high expectations. However, he remained gentle and calm.
"Try drawing breath from here." He started to reach toward her torso, but hesitated midway, withdrawing his hand completely. Instead, he touched the middle of his chest, nervous to demonstrate on her. "If you open up your airways and not try to push the sound out of your throat, you won't be lacking air so much."
"I think I understand. May we try it again?" she asked politely.
"Yes, of course." He nodded, resuming his seat.
Christine took a deep breath. Then, when the notes began to chime on the piano, she sang. She could feel and hear the difference. The revised instructions on the pages in her hands made better sense to her, as well, and she was performing accordingly. She had absorbed the suggestions and teachings that Erik had given her and learned from them.
As the scale came to a close, Erik turned his head toward her. With no smile, no show of emotion, he said, "Better."
The softest of smiles upturned Christine's lips. A little flutter touched her stomach at the notice of immediate improvement. Though it could hardly be labeled as praise, she thought of it as such. And, at that moment, that was all she wanted from him.
Erik slid off of the piano bench and walked toward the wall with the windows. "Tell me something, Mademoiselle Daaé, that day you were singing by the fountain, what were you thinking about?"
The question seemed to come out of the blue. She didn't know why this would be relevant in her studies or what sort of end he could use the information for. She didn't want to come out and tell him of her father or of her past. So far she hadn't revealed that information to anyone in the chateau. There was nothing that made this man different from the rest. Well, perhaps…
"I-I don't know," Christine lied. She had never been very good at it.
Erik seemed unperturbed by her answer. Instead, he leaned closer to the open window, as if attempting to make out something very small on the ground below. "Of course you do," he insisted. "You had to have been thinking of something."
"Nothing, really," she insisted right back, but started to feel rather nervous. She knew she couldn't keep up the charade for much longer. "My mind was completely clear—free of all thought."
He turned. "Nobody who sings like that has an empty head, Mademoiselle Daaé."
"What is it you want me to say, Erik?" she addressed boldly. "I am growing tired of these mind games."
"The truth, that is all." He began his slow stroll back to where he had left her. "The song is dated, so you must have learned it sometime in your past. If that is the case, it was probably from some relative or close friend of yours. Perhaps, for one reason or another, you do not see this person anymore, but something triggered you to recollect a memory that he or she was a part of. Please tell me if I am at all nearing the answer."
Christine swallowed the lump that had arisen in her throat. She was angry and sad, but mostly offended by what he was saying. She was insulted that he was showing no remorse, no understanding of her situation. She was no longer an individual with individual experiences and feelings. He had put her into a large pool of people with shattered pasts.
"It was my father who taught me that tune. He is dead now," she told him coldly. "I had been thinking of him, yes."
"Yes, that would be an emotional event for you, I'm sure."
The tone of his voice betrayed him a little, for it seemed that he had already known of the event. It enraged Christine even more. Her hands tightened into fists at her sides. "Thank you for your comforting words. I can see how sympathetic about it you are."
"Death walks hand in hand with life, my dear," Erik said rather harshly. "Accept that. Embrace all of the emotions that life and death have to offer. That is where passion lies."
"I've had enough of this," Christine announced, actually on the verge of tears.
For her, the death of her father was still too fresh. She couldn't be having this sort of conversation with someone she couldn't even say she knew. She dropped the sheets of paper onto the piano and veered toward the door. She had known when she had been ascending that spiral staircase to his chambers that it was a bad idea. She had to learn to trust her instincts more.
"You are running away," Erik told her, remaining where he was near the piano.
"I am not," she insisted.
"Yes, you are. You are trying to run from the feelings I just stirred up."
Christine ceased walking and whirled around, tears quite apparent in her large eyes. "That's right. Take credit for these feelings of hatred and detestation. You are horrid and miserable, and you are only content once the world around you feels the same way."
Erik seemed to close the distance between them in several large strides. "Use that, Christine. Sing. Let me hear your emotions."
With little other options before her, she closed her eyes gently, took a deep, unsteady breath, and opened her mouth.
Nothing had been planned. She didn't know what words would come out, what melody. She didn't even know if what she sang was an actual song. She didn't listen to the lyrics. She realized that the lyrics didn't matter. She could feel all of her anger letting loose in the song. As it was coming out in her words, she could feel the strain leaving her body, as well.
She reached the end of her song. Awareness flooded back into her. She glanced around at her surroundings as if she had never seen them before. Her ears caught the last few chimes of the piano that had been accompanying her. Her eyes came to rest on Erik, who was seated at that very piano, dole out the last remaining notes. Then all was silent.
Erik got up and steadily approached Christine. All she could do was watch in confusion. She didn't know what had just happened or how he had gotten to the piano. She recalled him being right next to her only minutes before. Her gaze never left him.
His face was as stoic as the white mask he wore. It caused her to be uneasy, more so because she was still attempting to regain her consciousness. She had felt as though she had been to another world and back. She had been so overwhelmed with emotions, the outpouring of which seemed to have completely drained her. So she stared with tired, unsure eyes.
Then, he smiled.
It was the smallest of smiles, but it looked good on him. She supposed that she couldn't even call it that. It was more a hint of a smile, like a little preview. It seemed to confuse her even more so than his normally emotionless nature.
"I didn't want to do that, but it was necessary," he explained. He brought his finger to her cheek and, unsteadily, brushed away a stray tear that had fallen. "That, my dear Christine, is how you sing."