Chapter Fourteen: A Dance with Death
They have fought, and neither triumphed. Because of me, both the maestro and the viscount live. I do not know if I should be glad there was no bloodshed, or only frightened of still being doomed between two men.
I suppose I cannot say there was no bloodshed, as Raoul suffers a small wound from the encounter—though it is nothing in comparison to what could have been.
It could have been over! In one moment, all the complexities would have been at an end, all the lies and pretenses of the opera ghost vanished; the angel of music transported to heaven for good.
But I stayed Raoul's hand.
How fitting it would have been for the specter to be vanquished at my father's grave. A monument to all the obstacles I've endured. I did love my father—truly—however humbly he insisted we live, however his life impeded my aspirations.
A light snow was falling, and icy roads meant that the driver had to take more care. I thought I had escaped the opera house without waking Raoul, who keeps a constant vigil outside my door, but he must have followed close and quietly behind.
My hand wavered as I lay the roses on the steps of my father's tomb. I have said before that I am not a superstitious person, but I felt suddenly that perhaps I was shaming the memory of my father by grasping for such lofty things when he lived in poor conditions. Perhaps God was punishing me through Erik.
No. It could not be so. My father only ever sought my happiness. He lived with little so that I might have more. How much worse would it be to make his sacrifice in vain?
I knelt beside the roses on snow blanketed steps. The one thing I would spare no expenses on was my father's place of rest. It is an opulent, stone structure, fitting for a man of his remarkable talent. It was no little task to have it constructed in secret, and insist to Mme. Valerius that I would take the matter of his burial into my own hands. Two giants of marble stand on either side of the tomb, supporting the roof with thick, sculptured arms. The name Daae is deeply etched in the arch over the iron gate that seems alive with black scrolls, slithering into symbols of eternity.
I may have imagined it, but there seemed a warm glow from within the gated crypt. The roses rustled in a cold wind that tried to scatter them, and I was glad to have bound them together. The wind continued to buffet the exposed petals, and though they strained and fluttered, they did not break away.
I allowed myself a quiet cry, and I bowed my head and prayed as I have not done in some time.
When Papa died, Mme. Valerius took me in at once, and I was not much alone to grieve. I decided I must grieve now.
My prayer and weeping were interrupted by a single, drawn out note. It hovered, lingered, strained against the angry wind, which could not overcome the aching, sweet insistence of the string. Just before the note had faded, before the spell might have broken, another note followed; stronger, sweeter, more tragic even than the one preceding it. I could no longer weep. The tears clung to my cheeks, bitterly cold. There is a sorrow that surpasses tears, and nothing but a master violinist can capture the sound of such sorrow. He played upon this haunting ache, and in the tragic serenade, our sorrow was one sorrow; captured in the weeping melody at my father's grave.
And the voice!
I knew now, had felt and seen tangible proof that maestro was no spirit, but my senses rejected the notion as the hairs on my neck and arms stood on end, and my body felt impossibly warm, as if I was overtaken with fever.
I was standing—how, I no longer attempt to explain, but it was not of my will. My soul may have departed my body and left my limbs to move as a puppet upon strings. Yes, the strings of maestro's violin.
My feet drew me near the heavenly glow. I had no thoughts, nor reason; they had fled with my soul. There was only the music, and the need to follow it.
Everything shattered when a firm hand gripped my arm, and a voice so earthly and solid, warned me not to go a step further. Raoul had come. His sword was drawn, and he wore no cloak or jacket in defense from the cold.
There was an outburst from above; a fearful growl that left no room for doubt as to the presence of Erik. He swooped upon the startled viscount, and a duel of steel began.
Perhaps I was not yet recovered from the entrancement of the violin and the voice, or my knowledge of swordplay too limited, but it seemed to me but a strange dance of turns and leaps intended to kill.
By the end of it, the phantom of the opera; the great and powerful voice that proclaimed himself an angel of music, the unmatched maestro, was bested by a cunning play by the viscount. Erik is in unquestionable control in matters of his dominion. Where shadows and spirits may lurk about in every corner with the echoes of his voice, and trickery is key, he has full reign. Against the open attack of a skilled swordsman, he is no more than an accomplished skill, and no match for Raoul.
In that instant, while his sword was raised over Erik's defeated form, I stopped him. Foolish, foolish thing to do!
Do not call it compassion. Do not call it mercy. I know I only spared him for my own, selfish need.
I am weary to death of these games! I long for this charade to be ended, one way or another. Let them fight the battles. I shall play one final part and accept the victor to claim the spoils. No matter the course, I shall have my opera.
Let the final curtain fall. I am ready.
A/N: This was another long wait, and for that I am sorry. I am drawing to a close with this; working on the last few chapters tonight. I do want to revisit previous chapters after I've done, and see if I can't improve and extend them. I apologise for all the construction it's undergone already; inconsistencies needed to be fixed. As ever, I appreciate every review, and hope you'll enjoy the last few installments of my twisted Christine story!