Author's Note: Thank you so, so much to those who reviewed and followed! Fun fact regarding the last chapter ― Erik's name means 'eternal ruler' as his name is a combination of ei (ever, always) and ríkr (ruler, king). Woah, right? Anyway, so we all know that Erik's got a conceited ass too, right? God knows that one of the reasons he loves being the Opera Ghost is because of the attention he gets from everyone. Don't forget to leave a review!
( nine )
MUSE OF MINE
La beauté de Mount Annes was another success for the Opéra Populaire despite the setbacks and drama that had occurred during production. It became a cause for celebration after four months of a hectic production, and Jovan had foolishly agreed during the celebration after opening night to Elea's 'prize' of being able to choose the redhead's outfits for the whole week-long break that would follow. In exchange, Elea agreed to stay for the week to accompany Jovan.
Jovan was beginning to regret her ridiculous bargain with Elea. She vaguely recalled agreeing only because she'd had a bottle of whiskey that night that clouded her judgement, something that her friend clearly took advantage of. It was her first time to get drunk ever since her arrival at the opera house. Jovan groaned in her bed as Elea finished rummaging through her chest at the foot of her bed.
"I am never drinking again," she whined, burrowing deeper beneath the sheets that covered her. She couldn't even remember why the idea of getting drunk had appealed to her on that night.
"Get up and stop moping. We had an agreement," Elea answered as she pulled away the curtains of Jovan's bed. She tore away the blankets from the redhead.
"For f― Elea, it's cold!" Jovan protested.
"Watch your mouth, young lady. I will not have you cussing like a sailor when I have you wearing appropriate clothes."
"Just please, not a corset."
"No, you brat! We had an agreement," Elea scoffed before raising up a black walking skirt for Jovan to see. "See? It's not so bad."
"Oh, that's comforting."
"Get out of bed, Jo."
"I don't even see the point ― more than half of the staff aren't even here to see me wearing that―"
"That doesn't matter! I've had enough of you cross-dressing like some uncultured prat!"
"Well, I can't exactly work in the rafters in dress, can I?" Jovan gave a scoff.
"Look, all I want is for you to gain even just a little bit of respect from the imbeciles trotting around here. Get. Up."
Elea assisted Jovan with lacing the corset while the redhead struggled to adjust to the undergarment. After spending eight months wearing nothing but a mere binder under her work clothes, Jovan had grown unused to the more restricting form of a corset. She gasped as Elea finished lacing it up.
"It's too tight," Jovan whimpered.
"No, it's not, you ninny. You act as if you've never worn one before."
"It's been eight months since I last wore one."
Jovan was grateful that Elea chose to disregard her dresses in favor of a white button-up blouse along with the black walking skirt she'd shown her earlier. She felt like a doll as Elea began to work on her hair, her red tresses now hanging a bit past her shoulders. Elea deftly styled her locks into a half up-do and even tried to add a diamond-studded clip. Jovan refused it, seeing as it wasn't hers and she feared that would only lose it.
Elea gave a smirk of satisfaction at her 'work' when she was done.
"Now you look like a lady," she remarked smugly.
"Ayesha, darling. I can hardly compose any music with you causing such a racket," Erik gently chided the Siamese cat lying across the far divan. She merely gave a lazy blink of her eyes before turning away from her master. Erik began to wonder if he was spoiling her too much, the candlelight catching in the small white gems that hung from the necklace around the feline's neck.
He ran a hand through his hair as he stood from his bench. He'd tried playing on his organ but nothing new would come to him. His fingers would dance across the keys but only old tunes would resound in his lair. He was out of ideas, he had no muse to inspire him. Nothing exciting had happened to him ever since he cut the backdrop to stop the fuming stagehand Sacha, and that had been over two months ago.
Erik walked towards the divan where Ayesha lay, careful in his steps to avoid the numerous papers that littered the floor of his lair. Forgotten lyrics and unfinished compositions they were, his own work that he discarded once it became apparent that he had no idea where to go with them or how to finish them. Erik was a fickle man, with a mercurial mood that Antoinette loved to poke at from time to time. The papers on the floor were proof of his nature.
He knelt before the divan upon nearing it and reached out to scratch below the cat's chin. She gave a pleased purr. If only Ayesha proved to be a more amusing companion then Erik wouldn't have to look for a muse elsewhere. But, alas, a cat just wasn't the most excitable companion to have around. He adored her, even after the first months when they arrived from Persia where she was initially spiteful towards him, but he knew very well that she was just not enough to fill the hole in his chest.
Whether or not Erik admitted it, he craved for a human connection outside of his home. And though he and Antoinette acknowledged the fact that they were more than acquaintances, they weren't exactly the closest of friends either. From time to time, the ballet headmistress would just suddenly barge into his home out of anger with another of his 'pranks.' He didn't appreciate her intruding for the most part, and he knew that she wasn't pleased with him either for wreaking havoc in the theater above. As a result, whatever they had between the two of them had grown into more of an off-key partnership. Still, he could not deny that he did care for the stern woman, especially after all that she had done for him.
Erik stroked Ayesha's chin one last time before he stood to his feet. A quiet sigh escaped him. But how could he ever forge a connection with the world outside when he was surrounded by superstitious fools who ran away at the sight of him? He walked over to the nearest mirror and smoothed out any creases on his waistcoat and shirt. Heavens, opera people were just too gullible for their own good. When rumors about a ghost haunting the halls and walls began to circulate not long after he made his home in the bowels of the opera house, Erik just couldn't help himself and fanned the flames himself to add some plausibility to the stories about him. Until, eventually, he became the very character that was the subject of many tales. And he'd been having fun ever since then.
The Phantom. Opéra Populaire's infamous resident ghost. A rumored poltergeist, a rumored monster, a rumored madman. Indeed, Erik was many things.
But to one other person (Antoinette was the other one), he was simply a man and nothing else. He made up his mind not long after to give that certain person a visit. He was in the mood for jesting, their encounter in the chapel long abandoned at the back of his mind.
He decided to forego his usual cloak and his hat this time as he put on a cloak with dark red lining instead. He fixed the similarly colored cravat on his neck before he set off.
Erik navigated his way through the darkness of his passageways with much ease. After all, he knew these halls like the back of his hand long before they were actually created. He'd had months to memorize these tunnels when he made his revisions with the blueprints of the Palais Garnier, before it was reconstructed as the Opéra Populaire. He effortlessly avoided the numerous traps hidden throughout the labyrinth of tunnels as he neared the surface, a smirk tugging at his lips at his own ingenuity. No one else would ever know these halls better than he did. Even Antoinette only used a few of the passageways of which she knew where to avoid his traps. Erik was quite sure that even after all this time, she still failed to grasp just how massive and intricate the maze was that hid within the Opéra Populaire. And, of course, he had designed every single part of it.
He considered slipping through the two-way wall mirror in the dormitory Jovan shared with five other girls but he thought better of it, unaware of who might be occupying the room at the moment. To be honest, he didn't even know where to start looking for her. Would she be in her room? Backstage? On the rooftop? The chapel?
He decided to check the chapel first, seeing as it was probably one of the most desolate places within the opera house. It was as good as any place to start. He had all day to waste in his search for the red-haired stagehand anyway; it was not like Erik had anything better to do.
He found that he was in for a surprise when he arrived at the chapel. A gap in the walls provided him with a complete view of the chapel's interior. Peeking through it, he saw a a feminine figure positioned before the altar. Erik couldn't believe his luck. He found himself stupefied at the sight of the person. She was wearing a blouse and a skirt. If it weren't for her flaming red hair, Erik would have never believed that it was Jovan that he was seeing right now.
He felt himself falter for a second. And what could have possibly possessed her on this particular day that drove her to actually dress like a lady? Even her hair was fixed! Erik narrowed his eyes. This didn't have anything to do with his scathing remarks when he interrogated her before, did it? He did say a comment or two about her appearance and the way she dressed, and something about her hips as well... Good God.
There was only one way to get the answers to his questions. Erik felt for a certain part of the wall that was not quite aligned with the rest, then pressed on it when he found it. The wall shielding him shifted before it quietly slid away. He stepped into the chapel as the tunnel behind him closed without a sound.
The very thought of Jovan in the chapel puzzled him. Didn't she say before that she didn't believe in God? Or something along the lines of that? He noticed that before her, only three of the candles were lit. In her hands, she held a piece of parchment. Her lips moved but no sound slipped from them. Her skirt was a black pool around her as she sat on the ground.
She looked so at peace in deep reverence, a tranquil air to her that contrasted sharply to the last time Erik had spoken to her. The light filtering through the glass stained window only added an ethereal detail to her, soft colors painting the white of her blouse and her pale skin. Erik felt a sudden urge to paint ― she would've made for a lovely subject for a portrait at that very moment.
And her hair. Heavens, her hair. Red was Erik's favorite color, but something about seeing her red tresses cascading down her neck made him want to run his fingers through them. Now that she was wearing her hair down, with only a few locks being held up by a few pins, he could clearly see that her hair had grown since he last saw her up close. They now reached a bit past her shoulders.
Erik cleared his throat to make his presence known. Jovan flinched and her grip on the paper tightened, causing the edges to crumple. He watched as she frantically searched the room for him until her astute gaze landed on him. Her soft expression shifted into an unreadable facade.
"You again," she remarked dryly.
"A keen observation, mademoiselle," Erik replied. "And may I ask what force compelled you on this day to dress appropriately for once?"
"You have a sharp eye, monsieur," came her sarcastic response. She returned her gaze to the paper in her hands. "But a gentleman would not ask about a lady's appearance. Nor would a gentleman interrupt a lady during her prayers."
"Prayers? And I thought you didn't get along with God, Miss Rousseau."
"And where in the world did you get that idea?"
"Oh, didn't you know? In my opera house, walls have ears and doors have eyes."
"Of course, silly me. I should've thought of that," was her droll reply.
Erik eyed the paper in her hands but failed to comprehend the messy handwriting that covered it. What could be so important about it that it rivaled Jovan's attention for him? He watched as her eyebrows creased in discontent ― whatever it was that she was reading, it was obviously ruining her mood.
Without any sudden warning, her hands crumpled the parchment as she heaved a sigh.
Erik blinked. "Whatever did the poor paper do to you?"
"I feel like the Star in your blasted story right now," she ground out, still refusing to meet his gaze. "Damn writer's block."
His eyebrows rose. He was not expecting this. So the girl was a writer? That would explain the stack of blank papers that he saw in her trunk when he went through her things in search of any suspicious articles, some time ago. He also recalled asking her whether she could relate to the Star's plight when he'd told his little tale; she had agreed, much to his surprise then.
"What was it?" He gestured to the crumpled paper she now held in one hand. "A story? Poetry? Lyrics?"
"An elegy." That would explain her reason for staying in the chapel. She had probably written the piece for a deceased loved one.
"Having a terrible piece of work is better than having no work at all, Miss Rousseau," he remarked.
"Jovan," she quietly answered. Her stare remained on her own hands.
"Pardon?"
"Call me Jovan. Enough with this 'Miss Rousseau' nonsense. I keep hearing Monsieur Reyer's voice whenever you call me that."
Erik almost felt insulted at her words but he let it slide. "Jovan is a boy's name," he commented with tapered eyes.
"Jovan is my real name. If you have any complaints about, feel free to send them to my parents' grave. They were the ones who gave my name, after all."
A ghost of a smile played on her lips. Erik was stunned at the mention of the deceased state of her parents but there was something that startled him more. The way she talked about her parents were free of any traces of harshness or resentment, and it even sounded as if she were reminiscing. He felt the cold stab of jealousy for a second before it vanished. He instantly knew that she held no grudge towards her parents. What she did have though was a grim sense of humor. It was probably something she inherited from her parents, the same people who thought it would be a wonderful idea to give their girl a boy's name.
"If you insist, Jovan," he said, but as her name slipped from his lips, he made sure that she only heard it as a whisper as he threw his voice. Her reaction was visible as she lifted her eyes from her hands and shot Erik a bewildered look. Finally, she was looking at him. Her clever green eyes locked with his gaze.
"A ventriloquist as well, I see," she said before a small smile of awe crossed her lips. "Musician, artist, magician, inventor, architect, ventriloquist ― did I miss anything?"
His lips curled into a smirk as an idea invaded his head. "The Devil and the Emperor."
Jovan felt her hand's grasp on the crumple paper tighten. But it wasn't out of fear or anger but, rather, because the air suddenly grew heavy around them as those five words slipped from Erik's mouth. Just what on earth did he mean by those?
"Pardon?" she breathed out.
He took steps towards her, his gait lithe and even. She felt her heart race as he began to near her but he stopped before he could get too close. He simply extended his arm down towards her, offering his leather-gloved hand to her. Jovan blinked in surprise before she hesitantly took it with her hand that wasn't holding the paper. Erik pulled her to her feet without any visible effort, and she found herself stunned at the strength he hid behind his lean figure.
As he let go of her, Jovan found herself recalling his iron grip on her wrist from their last encounter. As if his hand was still wrapped around her wrist, she felt an imprint of his grasp on her skin. She tried to shake off the feeling as she stared into the distance. What in the world was she doing? Conversing with the feared Opera Ghost in the chapel? Did she really enjoy playing with fire that much?
"If I asked you to write something for me, would you heed my request?" he asked with a glint in his eyes.
Jovan licked her lips. "I just told you ― I have writer's block. You haven't gone deaf, have you?"
"Writer's block? Miss Rousseau, that's because you write about the wrong subjects with the wrong muse."
She gave him a withering glare. "You don't even know what I write about."
"Of course I do. An elegy? Don't use the dead as your inspiration, Jovan. If you want to write poetry, write about the things that make you burn."
Jovan watched as Erik took her hand that held the crumpled paper. She found herself unnerved by his touch as he pried away her fingers one by one gently, so unlike the rough way he had caught her wrist before. After taking away the paper from her clutch, he smoothed it out and was careful not to tear it as he stepped closer to the altar. He raised the paper above the lit candles before lowering the corner of the paper towards one of the flames. The paper caught fire and began to burn.
She stared, startled. "What are you doing?"
But she soon found herself unable to take her gaze away from the burning piece of paper as she was entranced by the sea of flames. The fire quickly consumed the paper, its tongues licking the words she had written on its now creased surface. Rippling shades of orange fused into a violent and passionate dance as they devoured ink and paper with palpable hunger. The small inferno left nothing but ashes in its wake.
Before the fire could let its ruin reach the part that Erik held between his gloved fingers, he released what was left of the paper, and it fluttered down towards the altar and chapel floor along with its the ashes. The flames died as fast as they had consumed its prey, a metaphor of sorts for karma.
Jovan let out a breath that she didn't know she was holding.
"Do you know what you've just witnessed, Jovan?" Erik's voice broke the silence.
"Tell me."
"Passion, Jovan. Fervor and fury, rapture and rage ― call it what you want." A spark came to life in his green and amber eyes as he took a step towards her. "This is what you must write about. The things that make you smile and the things that make you angry. Things that stir your thoughts, that awaken your imagination. What sets your soul on fire? What makes your spirit soar? Don't be afraid to let your fantasies unwind!"
The longer he spoke, the more the spark in his eyes grew into something more. His arms were spread out, gesturing fluidly to the space around them. His gaze on her became an intense one, heated by the ardor in his eyes that matched the fervid emotion in his voice. All Jovan could think of was how unearthly he looked at that very moment, the soft candlelight reflecting in the white of his mask with his cloak spread behind him as if they were wings of darkness.
Erik moved closer and brought his hand close to her face. Her breath caught in her throat as she froze, still as a statue. Her eyes locked with his. His gloved fingers neared the line of her jaw, hovering but never touching her skin.
"Don't just write, Jovan," he whispered. "Bleed."
