Disclaimer: Nihil. Noppes. Nada.
Author's note: I know, I know! I haven't updated for ages! I'm so sorry! I was on a holiday! Please don't throw those rotten eggs, I made you a very long chapter, please... (gets arotten tomato in her face) oh, haha.
Special thanks to Duckey in Spandex, anonymous, Ripper de la Blackstaff, obsessedbyerik and Elentir for their reviews!
The last POVis a bit changed with the book, but, hey, I can be creative, right? (gets another rotten tomato in her face) Okay, okay, I get you point.
"I'm so sorry," Christine sobbed. "I'm so-" she shook her head and buried her face in the white handkerchief Erik had handed her.
They were still sitting in the blue room with the black, shining piano, the old, dark wooden grandfather's clock and the three cupboards of the thick, brown wood crammed with musical scores. Erik had bowed a bit closer to her, and she almost became sick when she saw those horrible, distorted futures so close to her own. "I'm making su-such scenes of myself," she muttered when she had calmed down a bit. She smiled through her tears at him.
"You don't, my dearest," he whispered, staring at every tear like it was sacred.
"Yes, I do. And you keep being so nice to me." She swept her tears away with his handkerchief and placed the white material on the piano.
His eyes flickered and he reached in the black clothes which seemed to be a part of his body. His yellow, parchment-coloured claw, standing out to his black, bat-like clothes, appeared again with between the bony fingers, a box with the size of a jewellery box, though a bit flatter. He handed it to her, being very careful not to touch her small, white hand. She examined it curiously, almost childlike, with big, blue eyes where the tears still dripped out, turning it around, studying the black-velvet box from all sides. "What's in it? Is it for me?" She looked up, excited.
"Of course it is, my dear. Open up." Her tiny fingers fiddled with the golden lock until the box, with a soft 'click', opened and revealed an arm chain.
Christine gasped. The arm chain was divine. It existed of golden chains linked together, and in the middle hung one golden music note, with a big, blue diamond. The diamond shone in the candlelight, almost hurting her eyes and flickering with appearing and disappearing starlight. It was as blue as ripples which softly caressed the beach, as blue as a cloudless summer sky, as blue as the magnificent dress which awaited her in her closet in the Louis Philippe room. It was as blue as her eyes.
"Erik…" He was looking very calm, but she saw his right hand clench in the black clothes. "Oh… It's so beautiful… I can't take this… It must have cost a fortune…" She was still staring at the jewel. He gazed upon her tenderly.
"You're worth it, my Christine," he whispered softly in her ear. "And I want you to wear it."
"Oh." She was speechless. "I… Erik… Thank you." She shook her head, still not believing it. "I… I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll wear it," he urged.
"I… Of course I will." She attached it around her wrist, giving him a quick look. His mouth was half opened, while a half enchanted smile crept up his –hardly worth the name- lips.
She still stared at the small music note, touching it carefully with a slender finger, and started when the big grandfather's clock in the corner behind them struck 2 o'clock. "Good gracious! Is it so late already?"
"It seems so," he replied, standing up. "Would you care for some lunch?"
"Well," she smiled, "I certainly wouldn't mind."
She walked to the door. There she turned around and noticed he hadn't moved. "You may go already, Christine. I will come right away." She nodded and left, not lightly surprised.
She had left. He looked up when the door closed. He turned back to the piano and carefully lifted the slightly moist handkerchief. He brought it slowly to his face and closed his eyes. He pushed it against his features, feeling the wet material against his eyelids, imagining he could smell her perfume, holding it against his lips. He once kissed it passionately, and then tenderly put it back in his pocket.
Just great. How could she have been so stupid? How had she been able to forget that she didn't know the way back to the dining room? Christine wandered through the corridors, which reminded her of the Opera corridors above her; they indeed resembled greatly; the only main difference was that here downstairs there was less show. She liked it more this way.
She stopped before the only painting in the house. She hadn't seen a painting when they went to the music-chamber. So she had walked entirely wrong.
Instead of turning around and try to find the dinner room, she examined the painting curiously. She didn't know much about pictures, but she liked it. It seemed to be nothing special; it represented Jesus Christ and his apostles, with a couple of women. This doesn't seem his kind of picture...
Jesus had a hand in the air, like wanting to call a halt to something, maybe the talking two apostles. One of the apostles lingered at the end of the group, with such a malignant look on his face that it wasn't hard to imagine his name. The others stared adoring at their Master. The women had also a doting look on their face and a clear halo. The one who stood straight up had to be Mary, the Holy Mother. She was looking demurely down. The woman at her right, with a slightly smaller halo and length, had to be Mary, the mother of John. Also she had lowered her eyes. And the woman on her left… Christine gasped. The woman on the left of the Holy Mother had to be Mary Magdalene.
The woman looked so alive that she could jump of the painting every second now. She was wearing a suggestive deep décolleté and the material fell around her body like water, but that didn't had anything to do with the look on her face. She was the only woman who looked up, to Jesus, and on her face and in the hazel brown eyes was a deep love and adoration. Her posture suggested a natural elegance and her lips were parted in a small, happy smile.
"Do you like it?" Christine whirled around. Erik had his head cocked aside and he examined her curiously.
"A lot," she smiled. "But I hadn't expected it in here."
He chuckled softly. "I kept it for her." His finger wavered for a moment before Mary Magdalene. "The rest of the painting could go into flames for all I care. She- reminds me a bit of you." She understood the compliment had nothing to do with the woman's job and felt herself blush with pleasure under the compliment.
"Where did you buy it?" She turned back to the painting.
"I didn't." At her wide-eyed look he chuckled again. "I didn't steal it either." She nodded quickly, turning red. "It was a… gift."
Did he know someone so well that that person gave him gifts? She tried to look away, so he couldn't read the question in her eyes. "That… person has another religion. He had gotten it from a Christian negotiator; otherwise he'd never have accepted it. He saw I liked it, and gave it to me."
She listened attentively. She had never known him to speak about his past. But of course… he had one. He had shouted about his parents at her. But apparently he had had friends also. Few, probably, but…
He deserves so much more than this haunted existence. A lump appeared in her throat. "I… I'd like to meet that person, I think."
He threw a look on her and an amused smile appeared. "Maybe you will, my dear."
They –or rather, she- ate in silence again. She was starting to dislike the moments in the dinner room. When they didn't do anything, his gaze was quite unnerving.
"I'll have to leave you for some time, my dear," he said when she had finished. "I need to check on my opera."
"You're… you're going to leave me alone?" she swallowed. She didn't want to be left alone. Not in this house alone. Please, say you won't go…
"It won't be for long, Christine," he said softly. "I promise it won't be for long." His eyes traced her face. "I'll be back quickly. I have to check what Richard and Moncharmin are doing…"
She nodded and looked away. She didn't want to be reminded he was the Phantom of the Opera. He was Erik. No angel, no ghost. Just Erik.
"Christine…" She started. He had moved so terribly silent again, and sat now before her on his knees. "I'll soon be back…" His normally so perfectly calm voice had a hoarse rang to it. "Will you… will you… miss your Erik a bit? Will you think of him a bit?"
"Of course," she whispered, trying not to look in those golden orbs.
He nodded, but she didn't think he had heard her. He was just staring.
"I'll soon be back," he huskily spoke, more to himself then to her.
"Mais qu'est-ce que on peut faire?" But what can we do? Richard stopped pacing and looked at his pale companion. Moncharmin hadn't been alright since they had sat in box 5 the night Faust was performed. Or, like some of the crew called it, the 'toad-night', or the 'ghost's triumph', or the 'chandelier's fall'. Every time Richard heard one of those names, he had a fit of rage, and everybody quickly made their getaway. Moncharmin still stared at him, a helpless, desperate look in his eyes. He was trembling all over and had hardly spoken a word since then.
"We do what we're supposed to do, of course," Richard replied sharply. "Run this opera!"
"That's not what I mean! What do we do… with him?"
Richard didn't answer. He had tried to convince himself the voice he had heard had been his imagination, that everything else had been an accident. But it was impossible. La Carlotta's voice… the bodiless voice in his ear… the chandelier falling on exactly those people's head… too much coincidence, he thought.
"And then something else," his partner continued, "that letter of the Daaé-girl. It was delivered in exactly the same way as… his letters are. What do we do with her? She writes she doesn't know when she comes back."
Richard paced up and down again for some time, sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. He felt a million years old and not for the first time he wished he had never heard of the Opéra Populaire or O.G.
"We do what he commands, Moncharmin," he said finally. "That would be the safest. And about the girl…" he frowned, "if she really has something to do with him, I hope she stays away long."
Moncharmin had been in the middle of a nod, but now he whirled around. "What was…"
"Qu'est-ce qui se passe?" What's happening?
"I… I saw something there…" Moncharmin gestured to a dark corner of the room.
Richard frowned. "You're imagination is running away with you, Moncharmin," he snapped. The other, knowing his companion's temper, quickly sat down again.
The Persian, like he was known in the Opéra Populaire, stalked through the deserted corridors. He had never developed the ability to be more shadow than person, like Erik, but he had a certain cunning to make himself… for not drawing attention. Thanks to that gift, which Erik had taught him, he had just been able to sneak into the managers' office and listen to their conversation. They weren't doing anything… probably the wisest thing to do. He leant against a wall, coughing hard in his hand. He was getting sick, stalking through cold corridors with a terrible cold. Maybe it would wiser if you kept out of his business too… He smiled bitterly. But he had to know what would happen to Christine Daaé. The managers didn't know anything. Of course, that was to be expected. He rubbed with his hand over his forehead. He had a huge headache.
"That's a nasty cough you have there, daroga," the wall on his left remarked. More out of a habit than because he expected to see anyone he looked around.
"I told you falling in lakes has a bad influence on one's health," the wall onhis right continued. What he immediately heard was the tone in the other's beautiful voice. He had never heard Erik sounding so cheerful -or so out of his mind.
"Alright Erik," he sighed. "Are you after the left or the right wall?"
"So little choices, daroga?" a mocking voice from above the Persian's head said. A small chuckle rose from betweenhis feet.
"Please Erik; you know I hate talking to thin air. It makes me look totally silly."
"What you are." His voice, now in the Persian's right ear, sounded a bit chillier. Somehow it was a relief. It sounded more like Erik. "A silly ass. I told you to leave Erik to his business. So why are you stalking through my Opera again and listening to conversations with myself as topic?"
The Persian was stupefied, though it had been stupid to think he wouldn't know. Erik chuckled again. "Ah, daroga, you should know me better by now… I told you I'm everywhere and I hear everything…"
"Please, my friend-" the other started, butErik interrupted him, colder with every word, but also a bit amused.
"Do you have such a small circle of friends, my friend?" he mocked. "Now use your brains, daroga," he added threatening.
"Why? Are you also going to use the Punjab-lasso on me, Erik?" the Persian asked bitterly.
"I'm being patient, my friend, very patient… and you know that is not something I'm good in. So keep your Persian nose out of my affairs! You're lucky, daroga… most people wouldn't get as far as you are."
"And the girl?"
"What about the girl?" he snapped, for the first time losing his temper. "She's happy with me! But you couldn't believe that, could you, daroga! It's impossible anyone could love Erik!"
"Erik, you know I don't mean it like that," he said wearily, rubbing with his hand over his face. Damned headache… "I only want nobody killed."
"Neither do I." he sounded calm again.
"I've noticed so,"the Persianreplied bitterly.
"You seem a bit sarcastic, daroga…"
"Allah help me!"he exclaimed. "He has let a chandelier fall on two innocent people, killed a poor stagehand, kidnapped a young girl and he complains I'm a bit sarcastic!"
"Calm down, daroga…"The Persiancould almost feel those two golden orbs rest on him. "You shouldn't get to excited. You've got a small fever. Why don't you go home and lie down?"
"Erik…"
"No, daroga. Strangely enough I'm concerned about that very tiring health of yours. Go home."
The Persian obeyed those last words, which were uttered a bit gentler than the others.
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