Hello! Major apologies for not updating as quickly as usual. I had four 8 hour work days in a row and I didn't want my frustration to leak into the story. But now they are over and my joy overflows! It may leak.
Thank you Reverend Squid, You Are Love, and monsieurenjolras-everything for their kind reviews! To Reverend Squid and You Are Love, thank you for your plot opinions! Thank you monsieurenjolras-everything for your praise!
WARNING: CONTAINS MORE VIOLENCE AND INNUENDO THAN PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. THIS STORY HAS BEEN CHANGED TO A "T" RATING AS OF 12/22/11.
Enjoy!
Previously...
Erik stalked the catwalks, anger and frustration boiling within him.
Of course they'd sell Box Five to the wretched boy, he seethed. Of course the fools would disregard my orders. Christine had seen it coming. I should not be so surprised.
But there was something incredibly disturbing about seeing the boy in Box Five. His face lit with a smile, his eyes never drifting from Christine. He beamed down at her with a doting expression that grated on Erik's nerves. There was something in that expression, something that seemed to gnaw at Erik's chest. He'd realized instantly the Vicomte's intentions regarding Christine. But something about this whole scenario seemed eerily familiar to him as if he'd seen it all before. He'd never been one to believe in déjà vu.
Erik walked even more cautiously than usual, unable to watch Christine as closely as he would have liked. He did manage to see her eyes dart around trying to find him, but he also saw Buquet's paying extra attention to the scaffolds and so did not attempt to leave a sign for her.
But it was after the first act came to a close that he truly felt dread bleed into his heart.
Little Giry, who he'd hardly minded at all in her life at the Opera, was steadily earning his ire. Lately, every time he saw her he felt a cool wave of resentment. It seemed to rise up without any conscious effort from him, and Erik had started to justify it to himself. Firstly, she was always the first to scream "The Phantom!" Erik had assumed that she guessed more at his existence than the others due to his association with her mother, so he did not truly care. It had actually been somewhat amusing, at first, until every time something miniscule went wrong she got the rats up in arms over him. Secondly, she'd dragged the Vicomte along to find Christine, despite Christine's obvious attempt at escape. And now, thirdly, she was trying to coach Christine on how to win the boy's heart! Intolerable!
However, what hurt the most was Meg's reasoning. Christine, his Christine, deserved to be catered to, to be waited upon, to be revered by the upper class. She was kind, gentle, and loving, lacking the cruelty inherent in so many others. If no man on Earth deserved her, then the nobility should be the only ones close enough to try.
An image, unbidden, rose in his mind. It was so powerful he had to grasp at a plank of wood. Christine and the boy, embracing each other, complimenting one another perfectly in their beauty and affection. For some reason unbeknownst to him, he envisioned them twirling together on the roof of the Opera house, lost in each other's eyes. He did not pay much heed to the setting, only swallowed painfully and gasped as they kissed each other quickly. He closed his eyes and covered them with his left hand, his right squeezing the wooden beam painfully.
What had Little Giry said? Something from a fairytale, the long-lost lover returning to claim his princess.
He gasped again as air seemed to stick in his throat, shaking his head and blinking rapidly to dispel the image. Such an event had never occurred! His mind was starting to unravel even more, no doubt, to be able to conjure such illusions so vividly.
He unconsciously reached into his breast pocket, withdrawing Christine's letter. Her love letter, as he'd taken to thinking of it. He opened and read it again, having memorized the words and needing to see proof of their existence.
Yours, Christine. Yours, Christine.
"I myself have been chasing another."
He was surprised at the incredible pain he felt, like a knife twisting inside him. How could the hints of her devotion, of her affection for him, cause such pain? Why did it all seem so false now?
A tear fell onto the paper.
So lost was he in his turmoil that the Opera Ghost was, for the first time in his reign, caught unaware as the slimy stagehand approached him from behind.
Buquet had kept a very close eye on the scaffolds for this performance. He'd been so certain that the Phantom would make an appearance. The managers had completely disregarded his demands; surely he would strike back? And when he did, that would be when Buquet made his move. But to his frustration, neither the Vicomte nor Carlotta suffered any accidents. He decided to curb his anger in a bottle of gin from which he drank subtle amounts, maintaining most of his lucidity.
One thing he did notice, however, was that Christine Daae was constantly glancing upwards. And he remembered overhearing the managers, just that day, saying that the Opera Ghost had demanded Christine Daae play the role of the Countess.
So, he thought with a smirk, perhaps I have found the one who dares to dine with the ghost.
It was during the intermission that he saw it. Just above where Daae stood chatting with her fellow rats there was a glimpse of white. He wasted no time. As quickly and quietly as he could he made his way up the levels, bottle in hand. Through the slight drunken haze he was vaguely surprised by what he saw. The tall, almighty Opera Ghost was not looming over his domain glaring at the stage. He was hunched over, clinging to a beam. Was he in pain? Buquet could hear him gasping. The figure was shaking, slightly, but notably.
He crept up behind him, stumbling once or twice. It wasn't until he was mere feet away that his presence was known.
As the man turned rapidly, Buquet made a lunge, raising the bottle high.
The masked man leapt backward easily and Buquet's swing came down wildly on the floor, smashing the bottle. The glass scattered, embedding itself in his face, chest, and right hand, the liquid seeping into his shirt and wounds. The blood flowed over him, creating the image of a monster equal to the Phantom himself. He cursed, hissing at the burning combination of sweat and alcohol in his cuts.
The Phantom looked at him for a moment, his eyes hard and deadly. He did not move forward, but watched the stagehand calmly. Buquet felt fear creep up his spine at the uncanny resemblance between the man and a vulture watching its prey. Its dying prey.
Buquet still clutched the top of the bottle in his bloody right hand, pointing it forward as he started to rise. His left hand slid along the ground and, glancing down for a moment, he saw a small piece of paper beneath his hand. Even in his disoriented state, the pain seemed to help sober him long enough to see a rather crucial line on the paper.
'Christine'
The stagehand started to chuckle to himself; barely a sound at first, but it grew loud enough that the uppermost opera goers looked about in fright.
The Phantom looked down, mildly perturbed at the man's raving. He was more concerned with people looking up and noticing him, or worse, disturbing the performance and breaking his promise. After a moment of staring, he was furious and horrified to realize that Buquet had his love letter under his hand.
"So, those chorus girls really will do anyone, won't they? Even a ghost. Is this your deal? You bring down Carlotta, and she lies down for you-?" His snickering was cut off as the Phantom brought him up by his collar before throwing him against the solid Opera walls.
The Opera Ghost was vaguely aware that despite their noise, no one seemed to be rushing to help. Buquet held up his right hand again, preparing to brandish the broken glass, when he realized it had fallen from his grip, leaving only a few shards embedded in his completely stained palm. It had landed next to the paper, which the Opera Ghost was carefully folding and tucking away.
He stumbled away from where the Ghost had thrown him, crawling on all fours toward the ledges above the stage. He heard quiet, calm footsteps behind him. But if he made it far enough, he could shout and make them look up, make them see… Now bearing numerous injuries, suffering from blood loss, and the effects of alcohol, Buquet knew no restraint in his taunts. "She hits them high notes pretty well, doesn't Miss Daae? Does she wail like that in your bed, too?" He grabbed the beams to steady himself as he tried to rise, turning to face his adversary.
Once more, terror penetrated the haze at the look of pure murder on the Opera Ghost's face. His eyes seemed to burn, his whole body tensed, like one of the big cats about to pounce.
Buquet swallowed painfully, watching as his vision started to blur and consciousness began to fade. If he died here, he'd take the bastard with him. "What's she like between the legs, Phantom? Does she moan in tune? Or aren't you even real enough, man enough to get it up-" He was cut off once more, but this time by the silken strangulation of a Punjab Lasso.
The Phantom pulled the rope tight, feeling supreme satisfaction with the way Buquet's eyes bulged and his tongue seemed to choke him. "Vermin like you have polluted this planet with your very existence for long enough." The Phantom stalked up closer, reeling in the rope like a fishing line until his fist reached the knot. "You will never," he whispered quietly, just beyond Buquet's ear, "insult her, again." Buquet's body sagged beneath the rope, his eyes rolling up into his head. The skin on his face started to turn purple, and his facial wounds stopped flowing.
Only a few more moments…
An angel's voice suddenly overtook his senses, and his grip on the rope slackened. His head whipped around to face the stage where Christine, his beautiful Christine, was singing, dressed as the Countess!
"What?" Erik breathed.
Her voice seemed to float upwards as though carried by a gentle wind; it was so ethereal and beautiful. So angelic, like a sign from heaven.
He blinked rapidly, watching her move gracefully about the stage. She smiled out at the audience, but still continued to glance up toward his hiding places, and her eyes shone brighter.
Her face, twisted in horror came to his mind, her cheeks stained with tears as she ran from him. She would never shine for him again if he did this, and she knew. And part of his mind insisted that she would know. She'd begged him for promises for that very reason.
Buquet's limp, but still living body, felt heavier in his hands. Erik looked down at him in disgust, every angry fiber of him wanting to finish the job, but Christine's voice flowed through him, and he slowly loosened the rope from his neck.
Quickly tucking the lasso back into his sleeve, he dragged the body back toward the shattered bottle. He laid the unconscious man near it, putting his right hand atop the fragments. Buquet was well-known as a drunk. No one would think anything of it.
Erik quickly positioned himself backstage, trying to understand what he had missed. He saw Christine's Pageboy costume on Meg Giry, who pranced about her beaming. Carlotta was off backstage, her maids fanning her and presenting her with more water.
She collapsed on her own, he thought, with no assistance from me!
He went back out to lean over the railing, watching Christine as though looking away might cost him his life. He remained there, almost completely still if not for his breathing, for most of the play. Until Christine looked up at him again, and this time he knew she saw him. She gazed at the spot where he stood, and her singing somehow became even grander.
Erik pulled out her letter once more as his emotions, swept in a storm by the last two days, finally started to claim him.
Hope that everyone enjoyed the chapter! Just a quick word to any readers: If you haven't seen LND, you might want to look into it if you haven't already. Obviously, this story was set up assuming LND happened, and… then, we sorta went back in time, so it didn't… WIBBLY WOBBLY TIMEY WIMEY!
Anyway, there were certain character developments made in LND that are going to come up in this, now the Christine at least knows what to expect from people. Certain… aspects may take a different light. So if you get confused in the next few chapters, I apologize! And if at the end of in story explanations you still don't understand, PLEASE feel free to question it via review or message me. I will totally try to explain it better.
