Resonance by sheshakes

Chapter Ten: Artiste de L'évasion

Unwanted tears began to wet her cheeks as Christine walked down the dimly candlelit hall, her narrow shoulders tense and head held high despite the devastation she felt within. "What gives him the right?" she thought angrily, clinging to her bitter fury in a vain attempt to delay her inevitable descent into aching sorrow. Suddenly, heavy footsteps pounded in the dark hall behind her, shattering the tangible silence of the household.

Christine's heart leapt in her chest, both in fierce hope and intense terror. The latter of the two reactions taking precedent, she blindly raced from the approaching footfalls and violently threw herself through Meg's bedroom door, desperate for sanctuary from the presumably enraged Phantom who pursued her. Abandoning discretion in her hysterical fear, Christine forcefully slammed the door shut behind her and fumbled at the lock, feebly attempting to defend herself and Meg from what she imagined to be cruel wrath.

Erik was only feet behind her when the bedroom door slammed shut with a force that made the entire household shake. He stopped dead, statue-still and alone in the dim hallway while the beautiful dream he had shadowed barricaded herself behind a flimsy bedroom door and an ancient lock.

"What did you intend to do?" he whispered scornfully, finding that he himself had no real recollection of what his intentions had been should he have caught the girl in her panicked flight. Wincing slightly as he heard Christine still scrabbling desperately to secure the lock on the inside of the bedroom door, the Phantom searched his mind for answers. He shut himself within his dark bedroom and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself into a near state of clarity. Succumbing to the ventures of his mind, Erik found himself running through the candlelit hall, following close behind Christine as she ran in blind terror with her white nightgown floating in the dim light behind her, a wedding train. He caught her in his powerful arms, desperately wrenching her around in the heavy darkness of the hallway to fiercely assault her warm lips with his own. Even in the fantasy he felt her impulsively stiffen under his forceful touch, only to soften after few tense moments and return the passionate kiss. Erik could taste her intoxicating flavor on his tongue as he lay alone on the cold floor of the guest room, eyes closed as feverish dreams overwhelmed his sense of somber reality. Christine moaned into his mouth as they unsteadily fell back against his bedroom door, arms tangled around one another in a longing embrace. The door swung open and they tumbled through the entrance to the cold bedroom floor, still deliciously entwined with one another while their lips locked in a rough kiss. Erik reeled deliriously, utterly besieged by the intense pleasure his body roared with as he felt Christine's soft curves under him, her smooth legs wrapped around his in a pleading embrace.

Erik sat up with a jolt, cold sweat coating his face as he frantically shook himself from torturous fantasy into bleak reality. His thin muslin shirt was soaked through with perspiration and his hands were trembling uncontrollably. He tried in vain to slow his breathing, to bring under control the flaming lust that burned within his body. Sapped of all energy, Erik dragged himself across the cold hardwood floor to his narrow bed and pulled himself into the tangle of sheets, eager to escape hopeless veracity and hide in thoughtless sleep.

Madame Giry paused momentarily as the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall reached her ears. She returned to her cooking, carefully lifting the crisp edges of the delicate crepe to peer underneath.

"Lunch?" she asked, flipping the perfectly browned crepe onto a rather worn plate and turning to present it to her silent guest. Antoinette sighed in exasperation as she was met with a fierce, blue-eyed stare. "Not hungry?" she asked wryly, meeting his look with an equally stern one. She paused suddenly, startled by his appearance; Erik was meticulously dressed in his finest attire. The black gloves, silk cravat, and elegant overcoat were all in place, although the elegant clothes and sinister mask did not cloak the residual weakness detectable in his pale countenance.

"Where is the Vicomtess?" Erik asked coldly, ignoring the woman's sharply calculating gaze. Madame Giry brusquely set the plate of crepes on the table and brushed flour from her stained apron, still regarding Erik with her cold gray eyes.

"He looks terrible," she thought to herself, taking in the yellow pallor of his complexion and the dark shadows below his intensely blue eyes.

"The Vicomtess left early this morning. She had some business to attend to." Madame Giry watched knowingly as the blood quickly drained from Erik's already ghostly visage and a look of extreme displeasure crossed his gaze. "She will be back tonight, I'd expect," she said sternly, still eyeing him. Erik opened his mouth as if to speak but thought better of it, setting his noble lips in a hard line as he stared at her in silence. He seemed to be considering this information carefully, weighing his options before responding.

"Breakfast?" she urged, gesturing to the plate of cooling crepes and berry jam.

"Merci, Madame Giry, for all your help. But, I should be going. I have overstayed my welcome," Erik said quickly, glancing away from her to look around the modest kitchen. Antoinette snorted at this, gray eyes narrowed with scorn.

"Monsieur, you are not well enough to-," she began sternly, stopping as he cut her off with an uncompromising tone.

"No, Madame Giry. I am well, and I shall go now. Thank you." With that said, Erik abruptly walked from the kitchen without looking back. Madame Giry resisted the urge in her chest and did not follow him; she sat quietly at the table and began to slowly eat the warm crepe, flinching only slightly when she heard the front door slam behind him.

"Erik, you stubborn fool," she whispered to herself, setting down her fork and staring at the crepe on her plate, appetite gone.

Although the late spring morning was warm, Erik wrapped himself tightly in his heavy black cloak, anxious to ward off the stares of any curious pedestrians he might encounter on the streets of Paris. The Opera Populaire loomed over the buildings before him, a massive shadow over the sunny streets and buildings of the city. He could smell her presence clinging to the fine fabric of his cloak and he grimaced, unable to stop himself from drawing in a deep breath of the midsummer aroma he had come to dread and desire simultaneously.

Glancing around to check for any suspicious spectators and finding none, Erik hurried up the steps of the Opera house to force the doors open and disappear within. He found the oppressive silence and unbroken darkness of the theatre comforting; the stillness was far more appealing to him than the sounds of the crowded Mason de Giry. Not pausing to examine his domain, he hurried down into the vast chasms of the resonant basement into the perpetual night – his isolated home. Erik found the cavernous alcove pitch black, all the ivory candles extinguished by time.

The darkness suited him and he found he was strangely tempted to leave the candles unlit. Deciding to remain in comforting night for now, Erik sat at the organ bench and lightly caressed the ivory keys with his gloved fingers, bitterly remembering the last time he had roused the grand instrument from its silent slumber. Trembling slightly, he began to press down on the keys, only to find that he could not bring himself to do it. The notes would feel as empty to him as his hollow home, his tender heart.

Erik lifted his hands from the keys and dropped them to his sides, finding the eerie silence of his home both reassuring and repugnant. His ears pricked as he heard a splash, the sound distorted by distance and resonance. "A falling stone?" he thought, laughing silently at his own anxiety. Again, a faint sound echoed in the hollows of the basement and Erik compulsively shivered, a tingling chill running up his spine. He glanced around his home and sighed as he remembered that he had never lit the candles; the darkness of the room would provide the perfect concealment for him, should anyone foolishly choose to enter his domain. Erik quietly rose from his seat at the organ bench and made his way into his familiar hideaway – the dank hallways behind the shattered mirrors through which he had once made his frantic escape.

The splashes began to draw closer, the sounds amplifying and multiplying in the vast darkness. Erik crouched low in the shadows, peering out into the infinite blackness of his realm with sharp eyes squinted but predominantly useless. Suddenly, a pale shape began to materialize in the darkness, shimmering in his the distant reaches of his imperfect night vision. "A ghost?" he thought, only to immediately scold himself for resorting to ridiculous superstition. Erik grinned slightly, whispering to himself, "Foolish Phantom, don't you remember that you are the only ghost?"

Under the echoes of the splashing footsteps he began to hear gasping breath, the ragged tones of sobbing. His jaw dropped as he stared out over the watery plane; Christine was inexplicably standing, crying and soaked at his somber doorstep.

He stared, immobilized in disbelief, as she deftly broached the heavy gate and made her way into the still lake that bordered his cavernous lodgings. Christine's plain working dress floated in the dark water around her, a modest wedding train for an even humbler gown. Erik drank in her delicate form with his keen eyesight, unhindered by the familiarly perpetual night of his intimidating surroundings. For a moment he lost himself in the vast abyss of memory – Christine was not the callous Vicomtess, but instead the beautiful Mademoiselle Daeé, naïve, untouched, and innocently adoring. He quickly freed himself from this fantasy with a brusque shake of his head, noting rather bitterly that the Vicomtess de Chagny was as (if not more) beautiful than Mademoiselle Daaé had been.

Dropping even lower in the shadows of his dark alcove behind the mirrors, Erik tried desperately to slow his ragged breathing to a dull murmur. "She must not know that I am here," he told himself silently, embittered mind battling to control the urgings of his raw heart. Christine ascended the shore of the murky lake, dragging the coarse fabric of her paltry dress from the frigid water onto the sand and squinting to see in the pitch black of the resonant chamber. He could hear her breathing in the heavy silence of the room, fast and frantic, until she interrupted the crystalline spell with the sound of her voice.

"Foolish girl, to think you would find anything here but darkness," she said to herself, scorn saturating her tone. Frowning into the blackness that surrounded her, Christine hoarsely whispered, "Oh, Angel…" Erik unconsciously flinched at the haunting sound of her sweet voice producing his dreaded nickname, but made no movement to shed his concealment. Doubt flooded his consciousness – his mind told him that to foolishly place his emotions on the guillotine would be absurd. Simultaneously, every fiber of his being willed him to end his desperate charade and plead, beg her to forgive him for his stubborn cruelty, his madness. But he could not, would not. He cowered behind the broken mirrors and frayed curtains, hiding from both the memory of heartbreak and the terror of hope. As Erik mournfully watched from the darkness, Christine began to sing, almost whispering the words into the empty night that enveloped her.

Raoul I've seen him – can I ever forget that sight?

Can I ever escape from that face,

So distorted, deformed that it was hardly a face in the darkness?

Darkness…

Erik felt tears threaten his fragile dignity as pain flooded him, drowning him in an inescapable wave of self-loathing. They felt like acid, poisonous and searing in their intensity. He closed his eyes, trying weakly to shut out the painful reality of her lonely serenade and shelter himself in darkness. Christine tried to choke back the rising sobs in her throat and continued, torturing herself with the foolish words she had once so naively sung to the innocent boy she was to eventually marry.

But his voice filled my spirit with a strange sweet sound…

In the night there was music in my mind.

And from music my soul began to soar,

And I heard as I'd never heard before.

Erik winced as her words floated through him, softly tearing from him all grasp of pride he had desperately retained. The tears began to overflow from his eyes, crashing waves of salty sorrow flowing over pale cheeks and beneath the cold, unflinching leather of his mask. The Phantom quietly answered Christine's song, the words he had once angrily listened to in concealment expelled in a shaking breath that he bitterly wished could be his last: "What you heard was a dream and nothing more…" His broken voice was lost into the vast cavern and Christine did not hear him above the mournful resonance that encompassed her.

Yet in his eyes I saw all the sadness in the world,

Those pleading eyes that both threatened and adored.

Christine stood stiffly in the dark as the lingering echoes of her song slowly faded into nothing. Erik carefully rose in the shadows of his hiding place and turned from the devastating beauty of his former pupil, walking silently into the labyrinth of dark passageways that would eventually liberate him from the depths of his waking Hell.

"What you heard was a dream and nothing more…" Christine whispered into the crystalline silence, feeling as though something crucial had finally shattered within her chest.

Erik habitually balked under the unforgiving light of the garish summer sun, shielding his gaze from its alien brightness with a gloved hand. He did not turn to glance at the ruined Opera Populaire, though he knew it still loomed ominously over the Parisian landscape as he continually avoided the charred skeleton of his inescapable past. The Opera house was a nagging reminder of all he wished to forget as he desperately threw himself into the construction of his new life.

"Monsieur Claudin? Would you like to see it now?" Erik turned to the speaker with a scathing sneer already coloring his intimidating countenance.

"Oui, Fabrice. I am always overjoyed to see what new havoc you and your craftsmen have wrought on my home," he spat venomously at the portly man staring at him, obviously distressed by his master's familiar scorn. Fabrice paled, nodding slightly and shuffling up the steps to the grand household, sweat pouring down his brow. Erik grimaced at the sight of him and strode into the unfinished Mason de Claudin, prepared for whatever new disaster his repugnant contractor had given birth to.

"Fabrice, did I not instruct that the staircase was to reflect my designs precisely?" Livid with his now characteristic fury, the masked man brusquely gestured to the blueprints spread across the dusty floor while staring fixedly at the beautifully constructed staircase before him. Fabrice fumbled with the blueprints, glancing in terror from his detectably enraged master to the meticulously crafted banister pieces and curving mahogany steps.

"Oui, Monsieur Claudin. I am sorry – we shall fix it right away," the terrified craftsman sputtered, nodding apologetically before frantically running from the room to find his crew of workers. Erik snorted in disgust, fixing the imperfectly assembled staircase with a searing stare. It had been over a month since he'd abandoned the Opera Populaire and Erik had since devoted his life to his new home – a tedious project conceived more to occupy him than out of real need. His years at the Opera Populaire had left him with a small fortune that fueled his eclectic pursuits without the slightest difficulty, even if the current enterprise demanded the purchase of a rather large estate along with the necessary modifications and furnishings.

And still, his thoughts constantly clung to Christine; at night he was haunted by the lingering image of her standing alone in the dark abyss of his dungeon-like home as her pleading song faded into an eerie echo around her. "You do not love her," he whispered softly, countenance frigid as he glared at the dissatisfactory staircase. His derision was interrupted by a tug at the sleeve of his black overcoat and plaintive voice.

"Monsieur Claudin? Letter for you," chirped a disheveled young boy, his blue eyes wide with curiosity as he stared unabashedly at Erik's mask. Erik rolled his eyes in bitter exasperation as he took the letter, dropped a few coins into the boy's dirty hand, and brusquely gestured him to the door, desperate to interrupt the youngster's prying examination of his leather façade. The boy hesitated for a long moment before he could tear his fascinated stare from the mysterious man and skip from the house, humming merrily as he did. Erik sighed in exasperation and ran his hand through his dark hair, staring at the crumpled letter in his hand before moving to break the seal.

Erik,

You stubborn bastard. It's taken weeks to come across any word of you at all, let alone obtain your new address. How horrifically rude of you not to contact us. That aside, I am writing to inform you that the Vicomtess de Chagny has fallen ill. Naturally, Meg and I are taking the necessary steps to bring about her recovery, but I fear her condition is not improving as we would like. I thought it fit to inform you as such, despite any disagreement you may have with me on the matter. Come and see us, please. If not for her, for me.

Sincèrement,

Antoinette Giry

Madame Giry deftly folded the envelope shut and poured burning wax over the crease, moving quickly to firmly press down the heavy seal while the wax remained hot. She sighed as she considered the sealed letter in her hands, weighing the possible repercussions of its contents. Christine stirred in the bed behind her and Antoinette set down the letter, turning from the desk to regard the ailing girl with her forehead creased with worry.

"Am I doing the right thing?" she murmured to the fitfully sleeping girl, more asking herself than any one else in the silent bedroom. Christine did not answer and Madame Giry nodded to herself, sadly knowing in her heart of hearts that Erik was the only remedy that could cure the young woman of her resilient illness.

When Christine had knocked weakly on the door about a month ago, Madame Giry had known without a doubt that something was very wrong. Antoinette found the girl slumped against the door in the dark, chilled to the bone by the cool nighttime air. Christine's modest work dress was soaked through with water and Madame Giry feared she knew its origin all too well. Exhausted, Christine hung limply in the older woman's grasp, pallor almost blue and lips white. It had been a day of surprises, between Erik's abrupt departure from the Giry household and Christine's disappearance on "business". And less than twenty-four hours later, Madame Giry found herself supporting every ounce of her houseguest's slight mass in a house that had recently seemed so crowded, but in the dark of night seemed eerily empty. It was in the following days that Christine had numbly surrendered to her illness, seemingly abandoning all will to live upon Erik's unexpected disappearance.

Madame Giry watched mournfully as Christine tossed in her sleep, her delicate face shining with perspiration as she unconsciously mouthed soundless words to people who were not there, or would not listen. Antoinette rose from her seat and took the letter from the table, carefully concealing it in the pocket of her overcoat.

"Hold on, my beautiful girl, hold on," she murmured to the sleeping girl, gray eyes brimming with rare tears.

The servants both flinched as another crash resounded through the house, sending reverberations through the hardwood floors and crystal chandeliers. Gaspard shook his head, glancing at Seraphine nervously as they watched the clear water in the crystal pitcher ripple.

"What is he doing?" she spat angrily, throwing her knitting on the table next to the pitcher and shooting a disdainful look down the dimly candlelit hall to the master's bedroom. "Trying to tear apart the house he just had rebuilt?" Gaspard sighed heavily, staring blankly at the table as his wife huffed.

"It's none of our affair," he muttered, reaching out to pour himself a glass of water. Seraphine stared at him in disgust, dark eyes narrow with fury.

"None of our affair? Well, I am the one who's going to be cleaning it tomorrow! None of our affair…" She trailed off, cursing colorfully under he breath as Gaspard tried to ignore her and calmly sipped his water. When she did not stop ranting, he set down the glass and turned to his volatile wife, honest eyes pleading with her.

"He was kind to give us a job. Remember that, Seraphine." Gaspard frowned slightly, remembering the strange events that had led to their current position. He and his wife had been living in Paris for less than a year and had spent most of that time trying to scrape by with meager earnings they pinched here and there. They had worked as street peddlers, hired help at a small patisserie, and eventually, beggars. On a warm night in the last days of spring, they had been looking to stay the night at a cheap inn when they stumbled across a strange man passed out in an alley. His face was half obscured by a fearsome white mask, which Seraphine found distressing. She was just insisting they leave when the man stirred, suddenly looking up at Gaspard with a startlingly blue gaze.

"Do you need help, Monsieur?" Gaspard asked quietly, slightly taken aback by the intensity of the man's eyes and the sinister presence of the white mask on his face. The man smiled mockingly, his noble lips twisting into a bitter sneer. "Beg pardon, Monsieur. We'd like to help if we can." Seraphine tugged urgently on his arm but Gaspard found himself strangely drawn to this alarming man, and resisted.

"No. I do not need help. Go," the man said gruffly, his voice deep and apparently unhindered by the drink he had obviously consumed. Gaspard hesitated, unsure, and the man spoke again: "GO!" Seraphine snorted, suddenly struck by the rudeness of the strange man they had happened upon and unwilling to tolerate it.

"Excuse me, but I do not think you are in any position to be giving orders, Monsieur," she sneered, startling Gaspard and momentarily rendering the stranger speechless. He stared at her coldly, seeming to consider her with his frigid gaze.

"Fine. Help me then. What do you plan to do, Madame?" he said mockingly, lips curling slightly into a malicious grin. Seraphine paused a moment, ruefully regarding the appallingly gauche man before deciding on a response.

"We will take you home," she said abruptly. Gaspard's jaw dropped as he turned to stare at his wife in disbelief. "Where do you live?" she asked, ignoring Gaspard's dubious stare.

"Madame, I do not need help. Thank you, but no," the masked man laughed bitterly, the sound forced and frightening and his eyes absent of any trace of amusement.

"Monsieur, I insist." Seraphine stared at him stubbornly, now inexplicably resolved to aid this unforgivably discourteous drunkard. His face went cold and he fixed her with a long, calculating stare, as if judging the strength of her zeal with his eyes alone.

"As you wish, Madame…" he hissed, disturbing Gaspard with the venom in his deep voice. The masked man proceeded to eloquently direct the two peasants to his home while they supported him between them, both reeling slightly under the limp weight of his powerful form. His stumbling gate betrayed his drunkenness and hindered their progress, but in a short time they reached a towering mason. They helped him up the step, both glancing rather doubtfully at one another as they regarded the grand estate and the drunken man before them. To their collective surprise, the man produced a key from the depths of his dark overcoat and unlocked the heavy doors, throwing them open with ease and stumbling into the dark entryway.

"Come in! You might as well, dear patrons. Dear Samaritans. Come!" Glancing at each other rather nervously, Gaspard and Seraphine stepped into the dark residence, pulling the heavy doors shut behind them. "Feel free to stay the night!" their patron slurred in mock cheer, the weight of his drink obviously sinking in more severely now. He disappeared down the barely candlelit hall, swaying precariously to the last door and throwing it open to vanish within. Both Gaspard and Seraphine started as the door slammed behind him and squinted to try and make out their vast surroundings. The grand estate was in obvious disarray; the staircase was in the midst of being torn down and some of the gaudy wallpaper was stripped haphazardly from the walls.

Shrugging, Gaspard grinned sheepishly at Seraphine and murmured, "Well, you got us here. Shall we stay the night?" Ignoring the mocking in Gaspard's tone, Seraphine glanced nonchalantly about the dark entryway, as if feigning that none of the events of the evening were out of the ordinary. "Strange fellow, eh?" Gaspard muttered, abandoning his playful attempt to needle his quick-tempered spouse.

"I rather like him," Seraphine said bluntly, surprising herself as well as Gaspard with her unexpected statement. "I suppose we should find a room," she said quietly, glancing at her husband before making her way down the dark hall.

Gaspard smiled slightly as he remembered the bizarre events of that night, now more than a month behind them. The next day, after waking from a drunken slumber, their masked patron had introduced himself to his puzzled guests as Monsieur Claudin and unexpectedly offered the couple positions as servants in his vast household. They had accepted immediately, too desperate for work to reject the strange man's generous offer, despite what eccentricities he had displayed thus far.

"He never thanked us properly, you know," Seraphine muttered offhand, taking a sip out of her husband's glass of water.

"Oui, I know," Gaspard said, listening to the powerful rumblings of the master's continued assault on his own bedroom. "I know."

"Good God!" The Phantom threw the elegant bougeoir at the mirror, finding only fleeting pleasure in the resulting crash as glass shattered all over the luxurious burgundy carpet. The crumpled letter burned in his pocket, searing his flesh with its mere presence and the painful reminder of its message.

"Why? Why, Antoinette?" he bellowed, reaching to tear the letter from his pocket and violently throw it across the room. He watched as it floated softly to the ground, landing lightly on the twisted sheets of his grand four-poster bed. "Why did you have to do this, you stubborn woman? Leave me be…" Erik's fierce voice faded into a hoarse whisper as he fell to his knees on the thick rug, hands held to his face. "Leave me be… Christine." He felt the leather mask beneath his fingers and ripped it from his face, throwing it across the room with all the force he could muster. He tore the black gloves from his hands and feverishly ran his bare fingers over the ravaged skin of his face, the skin wet with angry tears. Erik dissolved into rasping sobs, choking out the piteous words he had once spat in the face of the beautiful woman he would have done anything for. That he would have killed for, died for.

Hounded out by everyone, met with hatred everywhere.

No kind words from anyone, no compassion anywhere.

Christine… why? WHY?

Gaspard pushed the key into the lock of the master's bedroom door and slowly pushed the door open, careful not to make any sound that would disturb the fearsome man. The sight that greeted him did not surprise him in the least; the dimly lit room was strewn with broken furniture and glass, and a bottle of brandy lay empty on the floor at his feet. Circumventing the elaborately curtained master bed, Gaspard walked to the window and eased open the draperies, relishing the effect sunlight had on the gloomy bedroom. No sound came from the bed and the manservant let out a small sigh of relief, glad that the master had at last succumbed to peaceful sleep.

Hesitating only momentarily, he quietly tiptoed to the grand bed and drew aside the velvet curtains a fraction of an inch to peer upon the sleeping man within. Face blanching in shock, he forcefully threw aside the heavy tapestries, gaping in disbelief at the obviously empty bed before him.