Hey guys! Thanks for all the wonderful reviews. I see some more readers from "Threnodies...", and I'm glad you're enjoying this story, too. The next chapter will probably be delayed while I'm gone, but I'll try to get it out within two weeks.
I hope you enjoy this chapter. The second POV took a little extra effort. ;)
Read and Review!
No mention was made of the incident involving Joseph Buquet over the next several days, save for Raoul asking her if she had been injured during the following evening. A slight twinge remained in her wrist, but she made no mention of it, not wanting to worry her fiancé any more than she had to. Christine continued with her voice lessons, and the masked man said nothing of his several seconds as her rescuer. He continued to instruct her, his temperament less frightful with each lesson. She didn't know whether she was simply becoming used to his darker presence, or if he was truly acting with less hostility.
Nadir had delivered a midnight-blue velvet robe to her, along with several more short-sleeved shirts and a hair clip. Looking around her little bedroom, one would have assumed her to be a guest in the house. Neatly folded clothes were stacked on the top of the dresser, and the toiletries were lined up against the wall. She kept her two books in an accessible place by her bedside. Although an impending feeling of doom still occasionally accompanied her, especially during the hours of the night, she at least lived somewhat comfortably. Christine wished there was a way to share the luxuries with her weakened fiancé. Any attempt to do so, though, would likely not end well for either of them. Especially if her suspicions about her benefactor were true.
As the days passed, Nadir no longer led Christine to the dining room, merely unlocking her door every evening and giving her a brief nod. By this time, she was always grateful for the short escape from the confining space, no longer fearing for her life. There was also the anticipation of singing, the hope that she would hit a new note that day or stay within the right key throughout an aria. To be able to strive for something took her mind off everything else. To have someone care if she did well or not, someone who would tell her outright of her successes and failures, was strongly motivating.
She could not have done it alone. She did not have the strength.
For the first time since she had been receiving lessons, the masked man was not in the dining room when she entered that evening. Gnawing at her lip, Christine glanced back toward the closed door, wondering whether she should leave or stay. Noticing several sheets of paper scattered on the dining room table, she curiously walked over and looked down. Lines of musical notes were scribbled on them in dark red ink, along with an occasional word in French or a term in Italian.
She squinted down at the handwritten composition, trying to make some sense of the awkward rhythm and measures. After a moment, the patterns started to come together. Forgetting her surroundings, Christine hummed the first few lines with intrigue. It had a somber sound, likely written in a minor key. The melody was somewhat foreboding and occasionally dissonant, the music never really resolving itself in a way that was pleasing to the ear. The notes would sometimes repeat themselves in almost a drone. At other times they would rapidly jump up and down on the scales, meant to be played quickly and in staccato style. Even with the variety of modern day music available, Christine had never heard anything quite the same.
Suddenly sensing a presence behind her, she whirled around to see the masked man silently standing there with his arms folded. How long had he been there? She hadn't even heard the door open. Their eyes were locked for a moment. Christine could feel her hands tremble, fearing he would be angry at her intrusion.
"I told Nadir a half hour later than usual," he tonelessly stated, making no move to come near her.
"I..." She swallowed. "I'm sorry."
The masked man stepped in front of her to the table, and she drew back several feet to her normal position. He quickly gathered up the sheets of music into his hands and aligned the corners with delicate precision. "It was not your doing. You were told to come here."
She nodded, relaxing slightly as she realized that no ill will was held toward her. Christine's eyes traveled back to the music. "Is that...did you write that?" she softly asked.
A long pause followed, his gaze also focused on the sheets in his hands. "I did."
"Oh. It looks difficult. I've never seen anything like it."
He looked down at her with an unreadable expression in his eyes. "It is part of a longer work. An opera. My Don Juan Triumphant. I have been working on it for a decade. Yes...a decade, now." His voice changed slightly, less guarded and more conversational. "I find it to pass the time quickly. Days and nights can go by when I am absorbed in it. "
"An opera?" she softly asked, delving cautiously into the uncharted territory. "What's it about? Are there lyrics?"
He wryly chuckled, although it wasn't necessarily hostile. "It is complicated. And..." He paused. "The meaning has recently been altered, the music significantly revised. There is a story, of course, but it would tell you little of the meaning. There is no way to properly explain it."
Christine was quiet for a moment. "Could you play that part? I'd like to hear it."
"No!" he exclaimed, causing her to shrink back. "No," he repeated more calmly, as though the outburst had been unintentional. "It is for no one but me. It will be buried with me, where no one else can ever lay their eyes upon it. I do not wish to discuss it any longer."
"All right," she gently replied. She was vaguely aware that something had changed in those few moments, though. A flicker of humanity had revealed itself during that odd display of emotions. Of course, it disappeared within another second. He instantly regained his cold composure, again becoming an emotionless shadow as he took out the violin from its velvet-lined case.
"We have wasted enough time now," he abruptly stated. "Let us begin your vocal lesson."
She obediently nodded, although the event lingered in the back of her mind throughout the lesson. After their regular warm-ups, they went through both Bastienne's and Despina's arias. She was becoming more confident about the former but had difficulty with the latter. Still, after she was finished for the evening, he nodded once toward her. "We are progressing faster than expected. My expectations are rarely so surpassed..."
Christine murmured a thank you of appreciation and left the room. As she passed by Raoul door, she whispered that she was completely exhausted. It was the truth. All energy was lately being put into her voice, into making it better than what it had once been. On one occasion, it occurred to her that she had subconsciously made the choice to wait her captivity out rather than make a feeble attempt to run away. The task of escaping with Raoul seemed no more possible than it had been before. In fact, she had an inner feeling that the masked man would be even more furious under the current circumstances.
Luxuries continued to arrive in large numbers. The following day, Nadir delivered a silver hand mirror wrapped in tissue paper and an extra pillow with white lace around the edges. Before he could quickly make his leave, Christine jumped up from the cot and ran over to him. He looked up in surprise, his hand still wrapped around the doorknob. In almost a whisper, she spoke. "All these things that I'm getting. Are they really from you?"
He was silent for a long moment, running a hand through his dark hair before looking her directly in the eye. "No, Christine," he replied with a sigh. "Although I wished your stay to be comfortable here, I could not have gone to such extremes. I could not have afforded it."
"Why...?" she whispered, picking up the mirror and turning the circular frame over in her palm.
Nadir seemed to understand the unfinished question. Why would he? He answered it honestly and with a shrug. "I do not know, Christine. I truly do not know. "
Where had it begun? Alone in the dining room, he pondered this.
When the girl had cowered before the lasso on that fateful evening, dirty and bruised and crying, he had chosen to spare her life. The idea of using her as a device to make the boy fully cooperate was logical and well-constructed. She was Chagny's precious jewel...his most prized possession, no doubt. The boy would do anything to ensure her welfare, of this he had been sure. No other intention had crossed his mind that evening. He had not even put any conscious thought into her ultimate fate. It had been a trivial matter, whether the girl lived or died.
He liked to think that he could have easily killed her that night, that had she not been useful to the situation, he would not have thought twice about snapping her delicate little neck bone. It was only her unusual chime-like voice that had intrigued him and made her worth his while. She was no different than an instrument he had perfectly tuned. Her voice, not her, had placed her in a favorable status. This was what he convinced himself of for some time.
But a nagging thought had penetrated his mind over the last week, as he sat up in the still and quiet hours of the night, hunched over his miserable composition. What if, even on that very first evening before he had ever heard her voice, he would not have been able to do away with her? What if it were her essence and not her voice that kept Christine unharmed? He despised this train of thought, storming out of the house and into the thickets of gnarled trees in an attempt to clear his traitorous mind. But it would not go away.
The food, the clothing, the analgesic...all of it was purchased with the conviction that she would only sing to the best of her ability if she were in a state of perfect health. Yes! That was very reasonable! One could not properly use their vocal chords if starving or freezing or in pain. Very reasonable. But he had gone to extremes! Why the expensive lotions and soaps? And the wretched mirror! He had obtained them as though blind...without reason and purpose, only later wondering why had so mindlessly done so.
And several nights ago, when that pathetic excuse for a human being had entered the girl's room, it had enraged him. It was far beyond the anger he would have experienced over the disturbance of any other piece of artwork he had created. Buquet did not know how close to death he had come for touching her. What grand satisfaction would come from draining the life from that man's eyes! If he did touch her again, Buquet would die.
His pale, bony hand curled into a fist atop the dining room table.
So far into this mission, he had remained in control, all his moves perfectly calculated. For practical purposes alone, it needed to stay that way.
The most logical path would be to cease the lessons...to keep her locked in her room and out of his sight. That would solve everything, wouldn't it? Put the focus on his mission and away from that intrusive girl.
There was suddenly a noise behind him, the door to the dining room creaking opening. Merely from the footsteps he knew who it was, an ability he'd always possessed.
"Should I bring her down now, sir?" came the hesitant voice of Nadir Khan. Had any other man possessed as much knowledge as Mr. Khan, he would be dead. Nadir was alive.
He stared down at his crimson composition in silence. He could say 'no.' Do not ever bring her down here again. I have no use for her any longer. She is irrelevant. She is nothing. "Yes. Bring her to me now." He did not turn around.
"Of course." There was a pause. "Are you well today? The air in here can be stale. Even my lungs are..."
"I am currently in perfect health, Nadir," he harshly interrupted, clenching his hands in annoyance. "And if I were not, it would be an auspicious occasion. Now bring her."
"Of course." The footsteps faded away, and the door closed.
Nadir. Had it not been for Nadir Khan, he would have possibly gone his entire life thinking that the sun's rays were deadly to his skin. Nine years of his childhood had passed with that false belief, his mother constantly panicking and keeping every shade in the house closed, then trembling because he was the only thing left with her in the dark.
His poor, unhappy mother. It had not been her fault...not that belief...not really. Raised in the countryside on folklore and superstition, she was pathetically gullible. It was a rather clever ploy by them, sending an official letter that informed her that her deformed son was also literally allergic to sunlight. With the face of a cadaver and the propensity to melt in the daytime, he would be forced to hide in the darkness for eternity.
But Nadir had changed that. For this and many other reasons, Mr. Khan was alive and would likely stay that way. Likely.
Nadir was the first person he had visited after ten years in supposed solitary confinement, where he had spent the latter part of his life. Strange. Very strange. He remembered little of escaping...just the deafening crack of many necks snapping...the glint of terror in the eyes of guards as the rope swept over them, the flashing of bright lights and the occasional echo of a gunshot. It was a pity he didn't remember, lost to a frantic madness like a trapped animal. It had really been quite the feat. Half-starved and with severely atrophied muscles, he had singlehandedly left behind a long trail of bodies. But he did not clearly remember that night of freedom. His mind had completely left him. Then again, perhaps it had been a feat that was only accomplishable without sanity. How much of the world had been altered by the minds of insane men? Much of it, he thought.
The door again opened behind him, softer footsteps following this time. His shoulder muscles tensed. He could feel those two blue eyes watching him, always wide with fear and uncertainty. He'd learned to inspire terror long ago, always to his great advantage. And yet, he was beginning to tire of that particular emotion in the girl's eyes.
He turned to face his pupil. She watched him quietly and expectantly. The last lesson was the only time she'd spoken first, enquiring about his masterpiece.
She was dressed in one of her newly purchased outfits, and her hair was neatly brushed and washed. Indeed, it was a great improvement from when she had first arrived with torn and dirty clothing. The better state of health had revealed itself in her voice over the last week. Gone was the weak tremble, slowing being replaced by a strong and powerful timbre that would make many professionals envious. His project was turning out more successful that he had ever imagined. It had been so long since he had created something of such value and grace...all in the voice of Christine Daae. Yes. That was why he continued to bring her down here despite his better judgment. That was why. These short moments in the dining room, hearing his creation...watching her, were invigorating.
Without another word, he took out the antique violin and began their familiar set of warm-ups. Her range grew every day. The texture was smooth as he played legato style and carefully concentrated on her pitch. He often wondered how far she could go. He could picture her wrapped within the spotlights of the stage, stunning masses with her natural instrument. By even the brutal standards of society, she was visually appealing. Her face could even be considered an asset. She could have had everything and anything...if not for her engagement to that...that...
But it could be a very short-lived engagement as things now currently stood...
He came down too hard upon a string, sending a sharp and unpleasant squeal into the air. Christine jumped and stopped singing. It was the first error she had likely ever heard from the instrument, and she was looking at him as though he had yelled at her. "The strings need to be tightened," he stated through clenched teeth, quickly gathering his composure. She rapidly nodded. "That is enough of warm-ups, anyhow. Let us begin with Despina's aria now. "
"All right." There was the slightest tinge of enthusiasm in her voice. "I've been looking over it in my spare time."
Yes. She desired to improve as he desired her to. "Very good, then. We will examine your progress."
He began to play again, carefully concentrating on the melody and keeping his mind away from those thoughts that angered him. She started out decently, but her voice wavered later in the song, particularly during the crescendos. At one point, her voice became completely flat. "No, Christine," he stated after the fourth time, keeping a calm tone. "Concentrate. Listen to the violin. To each note."
"I am," she replied. "I'm sorry." A frown twisted her mouth. "I can't get it. This is harder than most of what I've sung before. I'm sorry."
He turned away from her, spinning a new idea around in his mind. It would be dangerous to do it. Yet...it would also serve a greater purpose. He did want to see her reaction; even he could not deny that. But it would have a purpose, he convinced himself. Yes. He would do it. He turned to look at her again. "I will demonstrate how it is to be sung. Listen." She appeared surprised but quickly nodded, blatant curiosity in her eyes. A grotesque thing such as yourself can sing?
Indeed it can.
He sang several lines in a lower octave with little effort, just loud enough to send his astounding tenor voice throughout all the rooms on the first floor. Her reaction was predictable. Her mouth had fallen agape, and her eyes were wide with something other than fear for once. For once, there was no terror. "Repeat," he stated with calmness, as though nothing extraordinary had occurred.
She blinked. "But you can..."
"Did you think I would instruct you had I not some ability myself?" he eagerly enquired, feeling the corners of his malformed lips twitch. "Now repeat."
Eyes still wide with surprise, Christine did as she was told, her voice hesitant at first before growing in strength. She was in tune this time, even at the higher notes, obviously attempting to mimic the perfection of his voice. Several more times that day, he gave a demonstration, always capturing her undivided attention.
The line had been crossed now. At the end of the vocal lesson, he shamelessly indulged her for several minutes with his singing of one of Ferrando's pieces from Così fan tutte... flooding her mind with his poisonous voice. But didn't he have the right to sing like anyone else? The hypnotic quality was certainly not his fault. With this unstable conviction, he continued. She motionlessly watched him, her eyes slightly glazed over. He could have walked to mere inches in front of her, and she would not have immediately noticed.
"Christine..." He purposefully said her name in a softer volume, not surprised when she didn't respond. He paused, studying her for a moment before speaking again. "The lesson is finished now," he sharply stated. "You may leave."
She blinked several times and stared at him a moment longer. The look of wonder was replaced with the former one of nervous uncertainty, only now it was mixed with confusion. "All right," she replied, taking several steps backward and swallowing. "I'll be back tomorrow." She then turned and left. He could hear her quick footsteps over the floorboards and up the stairs.
He sat down at the table and folded his hands together, absorbing the silence. Within another second, the door opened again. He flinched in annoyance and glanced up. Nadir stepped into the room, his own eyes wide with shock. "Was that you singing...?"
"Obviously!" he snapped. "I was demonstrating a technique. Now leave me."
"But you haven't..."
"I said to get out!" he exclaimed with venom. "Make sure she is not speaking with Chagny as you are supposed to be doing!" He turned back around, daring Nadir to utter another word.
The sound of retreating footsteps and the abrupt click of the door latch signified that he was alone again. The silence was calming. Retrieving his composition, he began to furiously scribble...note after note...line after line...all in bright red ink.
