"These shadows of memory tell, indictinctly, of tall figures that lifted and bore me in silence down - down - still down - till a hideous dizziness oppressed me at the mere idea of the interminableness of the descent. They tell also of a vagure horror at my heart, on account of that heart's unnatural stillness. Then comes a sense of sudden motionlessness throughout all things; as if those who bore me had outrun, in their decent, the limits of the limitless, and paused from the wearisomeness of their toil. After this I call to mind flatness and dampness; and then all is madness - the madness of a memory which busies itself among forbidden things."
- "The Pit and The Pendulum", E.A.P.
,')-'-,-'----
The repetitive tapping upon the hard, wooden floor of the stage had, to Madame Giry's immense relief, died away long ago, leaving only silence to echo off the walls within the Opera. The day had been a particularly long one, due to the fact that the company was preparing – torturously laboring, more like – for the newest production, Les Hugeunots. Everything, however, seemed to be against the company, as the show seemed to be running amuck. The chorus was atrocious, the orchestra was missing three of its chair members, and the actors were simply unpracticed. As for the ballet, they were horrific – as usual, the Mistress noted grimly – but it was not to be expected. The corps knew their faults, as they were constantly reminded of such when their exercises were doubled, even tripled, after embarrassing practices.
Yet one improvement seemed obvious to the entire company, even if the improvement was only apparent to the ignorant and the blind.
The Opera Ghost was notably absent.
It drew many suspicions into the minds of the performers, and from those suspicions, rumors arose. Where was the Ghost? Was he coming back? Was he planning something particularly dreadful for his return?
And, above all others:
Was there ever a Ghost at all?
Those who knew better, such as Madame Giry, could owe the Ghost's disappearance to many theories, but none knew better than the Ballet Mistress of the comings and goings of the Phantom. Indeed, ever since the arrival of the Ghost – or herself, whichever had appeared first, she was unsure – she had kept a steady, if not namable watch over the Ghost. She knew his habits, his pleasures, his displeasures, and she could even detect his presence when he was close. However, she did not know him as she would have liked to, as he was still an unpredictable and dangerous character, to be sure. In her time, the Ghost had caused many a troublesome circumstance, putting the entire company back in terms of rehearsal for several days. Yet without the Ghost's insistence and careful ministrations, the company would most certainly not be as creditable and profitable as it was.
However, even with all these missing factors considered, the fate of the next production was not the foremost worry on Mdm. Giry's mind.
Few had not heard about the disappearance of one Christine Daae, the fiancée of the Vicomte de Chagny. It had been quite the intrigue in the Opera world, as many had seen the young girl arriving to and leaving from the Opera, speaking to few and appearing anxious and distant. According to the reports of the ballet rats, Mademoiselle Daae was a strange girl, seen sneaking around the Opera House with no apparent reason, and searching shadows for a presence that was simply not there. From the very beginning, anyone who had observed Christine in the months before her disappearance would have labeled her 'odd'.
Despite this fact, many were still ruffled, even upset by the disappearance. Not only were there multiple searches for her around the city, but there were very few who did not know of the girl's plight and the worries of the de Chagny family. It was made known to all that award money was available to anyone who had helpful information towards the investigation, and though many seized the opportunity, the whereabouts of Christine Daae remained a mystery to all.
Yet what was startling about the disappearance of the young girl was that her vanishing act had occurred only days after the last letter from the Ghost. In his last letter to the managers, he had stated his last wishes for the production, asking upon them to obey his usual commands - namely, his box and his salary. His instructions for the production, however, were few, and were not as intensified, or as negative as usual. The managers had rejoiced, saying the Ghost was finally withdrawing his hand.
Madame Giry, on the other hand, had only become uneasy.
Then, as if by the oddest of coincidences, Christine Daae had gone missing only a few days later. Suspicions running high on Mdm. Giry's part, she immediately set off to Christine's 'dressing room', the room in which she and the Ghost – or Erik, as she knew him by – had conversed on more than one occasion. Hearing no sound from the other side of the door, her suspicions were not quieted, only magnified. Having no solid evidence, nor clues as to the truth of the matter, Madame Giry simply evaded the discussions over the Ghost and the girl, telling herself that what she suspected was simply not so, and that he would never go so far as to kidnap the girl into his home.
Or would he?
Madame Giry knew Erik to be authoritative, manipulative, and controlling – but would he take another human being into captivity? She did not understand the schematics of their business relationship, but what of their personal one? Her impression had been that they shared a codependency that, at the time, seemed very curative, on both parts. Now, however, it seemed that one might have been more dependent than the other, a possibility which made her skin crawl with a reasonable amount of fear and guilt.
He wouldn't do anything to harm her, would he?
Heaven help us all if you harm her in any way, Erik…
Unlike the rest of the city, Madame Giry was able to make a connection between the shared truancy of Christine Daae and the Ghost.
And she no longer approved.
,')-'-,-'----
It was cold. The skin on the back of her neck prickled uncomfortably, as did the flesh at the ends of her fingers, both with the feeling of ill foreboding. The entire room – her room at the Chagny manor, she noticed with ephemeral bafflement – was swathed with shadows, deep, sinking pits of darkness that she knew would swallow her whole, should she step into them. She removed as far away from them as she could, moving towards the pool of moonlight that graced the center of the room, as if it were a stoplight from a stage.
Suddenly, the door in front of her burst open, as if in some twisted plot in a previous story, a sense of déjà vu filling her consciousness. The object of objection was none other than Raoul, but a very different Raoul than she expected. She felt her own face light up when she recognized him, but felt dripping disappointment and trepidation slide down her face when she saw his eyes. They were brutal, callous…murderous. He was holding a pistol, and it was aimed between her eyes, the cold glint of steel momentarily blinding her vision, along with all of her other senses.
"Wench," he said slowly, icily, murderously, "your betrayal shall cost you your life!"
He took a step towards her, reaching for the hair upon her head, and roughly grabbed a handful, forcing her face into his. At this proximity, his eyes seemed to flash like fire, and it was with some small feeling of relief that sparks did not actually fly out of them and burn her.
"Worse than all of them! Him – him – her! They all betrayed me, but none as well as you!"
"Please, Raoul, it's me – what…?" she whimpered painfully.
"SILENCE!" he roared, his voice filled with a deadly thirst for justice, for vengeance.
He then released her hair, his mien turning from lethal to sad and miserable. There was also a hint of dejection.
"Did you not say it was me you loved?"
The face and body of Raoul soon transformed into that of Lady Sorrel. Her fiery red head shocked the darkness like the flames of hell, as did her ruby lips and pale, gloriously beautiful demon face.
"Little lamb," she cooed sweetly, "I always win in the end." Her smug expression soon dispersed, as did the rest of her body, in a fading, inky black sea of moving particles that swirled and swirled and were no more.
Out of the corner of her eye came a figure, a figure she recognized all too well. His entire form was of shadows, even his face, but his voice was the purest sound she had ever heard. It was as if the Greek god Cupid was before her. He was majestic and wise, loving and true, but she was not allowed to gaze upon his face. And as long as she did not look, she would always be free to believe it was what she wanted it to be.
He held out a hand to her, a hand she knew would be warm, gentle, strong. She hesitated, tottering on uncertainty and fear.
"I will never harm you," the angel-voice said.
She took the proffered hand and was soon standing right in front of Him. He took her face in his hands, his warm, gloved, glowing angel-hands, and she saw the most beautiful eyes gazing into her face. Soft, golden, smoldering eyes…smoldering with love.
"Oh, Christine…" he said breathlessly. "Why won't you give in to the music of the night?"
"I'm afraid," she whispered achingly.
"Of what, ma petit?" he murmured gently.
"Of being lost forever."
She felt her skin being caressed, the gentleness of his fingers sending strains of comfort and warmth up her spine. Suddenly, her entire body was glowing. She adored the feeling. It felt like home
"You will not be lost. For I shall always be there to find you and bring you back into the daylight."
Always…
I will not lose you…
,')-'-,-'----
She awoke breathlessly. Taking great, shaking gulps of air, she forced the cool, stale oxygen into her lungs, squeezing her eyelids shut against the images that were replaying in her mind. Her heart was racing painfully in her chest, battering its' strong muscles against her ribcage, making her clutch at her chest in agony. The pain, however, was not only due to the physical aftershock resulting from her nightmarish dreams.
Mon Dieu…
She knew it to be nothing more than a dream, a nightmare…but it had felt so real! Everything from the prickling in her fingertips to the sweet scent of sandalwood, the cold glare of the weapon, the strangely intoxicating sensation of Erik's gloved fingers on her neck…
No!
She didn't just think that. She couldn't have. For heaven's sakes, he lied to you, betrayed you, abducted you…
And yet…
Despite all the fabrications and deceptions that he had conveyed to her in their time as acquaintances, she knew that her mind hadn't lied to her when she dreamed of him. She could not remember a time when he had touched her in any way that was objectionable, any way that was unforgivable. He had plenty of opportunities to do so if he wished it, yet he hadn't demanded anything of her. Save for, of course, her singing.
He was a monster! A beast! She hated him!
But she didn't.
What she did feel towards him, however, was another subject entirely. And it was a subject she dared not breach in her current vulnerability.
Of all the wrongs he had done her, however, he had inflicted none so brutally upon her as the one she brought upon him. She made a promise to the one person she could not, she should not have promised anything to. From the moment she had requested that he teach her to sing to the moment she asked him to let her prove herself, she had offered him a forbidden fruit that was not to be accepted. Granting him that part of her was like offering something completely and utterly intimate, as if she were sharing a piece of her that could only be shared with…well, with whomever she would share all that was.
But she couldn't.
Such was the discomfiture her dreams had endowed her with. What was once perfectly clear and simple was now contorted and complex. What had once been had now become something she could not recognize. The feelings that grew within her heart were foreign and strange, and she had no way of labeling them. True, the very concept of Erik filled her with bitter rancor. The essence of him filled with her trepidation and intimidation. His presence…
Her face felt particularly balmy, as if a candle were being held to the tips of her scalp and warm, gooey wax was spilling down her head and onto her shoulders. Repercussions of the fever, she mouthed to herself. But that wasn't the cause for the suddenness pressure of her pulse in her head, nor the slick, sweatiness in her hands.
It was Him.
She pushed her musings to the back of her mind, deigning them to be distracting and repressible. It was vital, now, more than ever, to stick to the plan of action she had engendered.
Successfully, she drew her line of thought in another direction, but that direction seemed even less desirable than the one before.
She owed the frightening episode that took place in her dream-world to be nothing more than the frightening embodiment of demons that haunted her conscience. It had been with remorse that she realized had thought of him less and less as her stay drew out longer in Erik's mysterious and indescribable home. She felt utterly exiled in his abode, yet even so, her thoughts did not retract to the details of her seemingly mundane life outside of his domicile. Her thoughts had concentrated solely on two things, and two things only: how she could possibly escape Erik's clutches, and the strange, sordid affair that had landed them in such a compromising situation.
Not to mention Erik himself.
As much as she tried to blame Raoul for driving her to take flight in the – she blushed to think of it now – reckless way she had, she knew it was none of his doing. He loved her, both her cruel dream Raoul and her youthful, noble Raoul. And deep within her heart, she knew she loved him, too.
But was it the nature of love that had driven her to seek a further source of happiness?
Of fulfillment?
From her childhood, she had pictured her life to be shared and spent with Raoul, and only Raoul. There had been several occasions when she had wondered what it would have been like to be Raoul's wife, and had imagined it to be something like that of being a princess. He was her handsome, brave prince, her savior who would ride on a pure white steed to rescue her and whisk her into the sunset.
As she grew older, the fantasy died away, as did her father. When he reentered her life, Raoul had reentered as well.
'Erik has never left you, no matter the times of trouble you faced', an annoying voice whispered in the back of her mind.
Yes, but I have known Erik for a far shorter time than I have known Raoul.
'Indeed, but has Raoul stayed in your life for as long as Erik has?'
That's beside the point, she shot back irritably.
'Wrong again, Christine. That's exactly the point.'
"Enough," she whispered to herself. She was speaking to herself, a very dangerous pastime. Much like a madwoman would do, she thought, shuddering.
Without her consent, the images from the dream replayed in her mind. The most jolting of all the personas in her dream was that of Sorrel. She knew what Sorrel embodied, however.
The woman had been nothing but a snake, using the power she wielded to slink her way into the good graces of the de Chagny family. She was dangerous, and Christine was only too glad that her body had dissolved into inky nothingness, and had only existed in her dream-world for but a mere moment.
Guilt tore mightily at her heartstrings, as well as indecisiveness. She knew that she had crossed a bridge, and, inevitable as it was, she would have to go forth with Erik's proposals, or, rather her own. The only problem, however, was if she would be able to withstand the intensity he provoked from her, and if she could subdue the feelings his dream-self had spurned within her.
,')-'-,-'----
Am I making several of you wince with the direction this story is taking? Or do you like it? Honestly, it has fabricated into something even I hadn't foreseen, but that does not mean the ending will be changed. I may say now that I have the ending pretty well outlined in my head, and I have already begun the workings of a sequel. Yes, a sequel. I indubitably will write one, as it has an angle that is simply irresistible.
Alright, there's your cue. Send a little review my please, if you please.
