by KnightMusic
Part 3
Disclamer: The Phantom of the Opera is not mine, neither character nor story. Nor can I claim Javert. He belongs to Victor Hugo. But I promise that neither shall come to any harm under my care, and shall be put back when I'm done with them. I'm certainly not making any money off this, so copyright infringement is not intended.
It had taken longer than normal for the Opera house to clear out after the performance. Wealthy patrons had, of course, stayed around to hob-nob with the managers and singers. But that was to be expected. This had been, after all, the gala opening of the newest production. But now, even the singers had retired to their respective quarters, and only the far off tittering of a few stray ballet girls could be heard.
Javert stepped slowly out onto the stage, his keen eyes taking in every available detail of the Opera. Ornate sculptures and curtains adorned the walls on every side of him, and cast a thousand shadows that flickered in the candlelight of the chandelier. 'But which one,' he wondered as he stood there, 'is watching me watching it?'
Stepping forward, he lowered himself to one knee and peered down into the orchestra pit. The stands and chairs stood there, as they had for the performance, and a stray piece of music littered the floor. This, at least, was one place that offered no hope of concealment. Straightening himself, he prepared to move to the side to inspect the wings, but stopped when three haunting notes soared softly from the pit.
He whirled around sharply and returned to the edge of the pit in two long strides. Again, he looked down, and again his eyes met only emptiness. He stood there for a moment, senses alert, ready for the slightest sound to lead him to the source of the phantom violin. For five minutes, he stood there, frozen and waiting for anything. Finally, he shook his head and headed back off towards the wings.
He had not gone two paces before a slightly louder reprise of the melody lifted itself up to the ceiling and reverberated there, hanging in the air even after the sound had ceased. Javert turned again and walked back to the pit, faster than before. This time, he did not wait at the top, but lowered himself slowly down into it and began to examine the enclosure in full.
He did not have long to wait. Upon his arrival in the pit, the violin broke forth. This time not only with the simple three note melody, but with a haunting soulful sonata that rose to heights only dreamed of by eagles.
Javert stood there, aware of nothing but the music of this invisible soloist. As the violin glided effortlessly from one note to the next, he stood there, awed. Javert was not a man well educated in the arts, but for some reason, this experience had robbed him of all thoughts, all motivations, and all desires save one; to hear this music. Disembodied as this whole ordeal was leaving him, he became aware of the hairs at the back of his neck raising slightly. Whether this was due to the violin's aria or the thought of the ghost who must be playing it, he was never sure.
Javert suddenly found his eyelids growing heavy, and though he fought against it the room began to spin around him. 'Strange,' he thought as he sank into oblivion, 'the music keeps getting louder...'
And then he was wide awake again, staring not at the walls of the Opera house, but at an intricately carved ceiling. He frowned at the ceiling, puzzlement and disorientation washing over him as he tried to recall where he was. Slowly, he sat up and took in the room, and equally slowly he began to piece together his memory.
Yes, he was in the Opera house, but down below, in the lair of the Phantom. Erik, yes, that was his name. This infamous murderer had a name. Although the rest of his identity was still a secret.
A slight sound caught his attention, and he tried to turn to face its source. That proved futile, as it emanated from all sides of the room, as if the walls themselves were causing it.
Still and silent as the carved angels that greeted the Opera patrons at the entrance, he sat there; waiting, hardly breathing as the sound grew in volume. A violin. That was what it was. Someone, somewhere was playing a violin. For a moment, he wondered if he was hearing rehearsals from the orchestra above before a startling realization crept into his mind. He knew this music. It was the song that so recently had held him captive in his dream. And this time, he knew who was playing it, and what that meant. Erik was awake.
Within moments, Javert had dressed himself and was out in the corridor following the sound of the violin. Although studying decor was not what he had intended to do as he set out, he could not help but notice it and be puzzled by it. Dark, leering demons and gargoyles turned their black, lifeless eyes to stare at him, while at the same time, angels and other heavenly deities smiled from the corners of the ceiling. "What life is this?" he wondered aloud as he slowly moved down the hallway, "to be forever crossing the threshold of heaven and hell, to exist in both, yet live in neither?" The only answer he received was the ever louder song of the violin.
Finally, he reached a large carved door. It was already slightly ajar, and required only the slightest push to open. The hinges were well oiled and made no sound as he entered. Stealthily as a cat, he moved into the room. Erik was indeed there, his back to the door, and thoroughly engrossed in his music.
Despite Javert's almost soundless steps, Erik broke off the song he was playing and turned to face him. "Ah good, so you didn't run off to your little gendarme friends," he said, setting his violin down on a nearby chair. "I must say I'm glad you didn't Javert, it would have been a shame if I had been forced to kill you."
Javert swallowed. No, he decided, he would never be able to grow accustomed to Erik's mannerisms. Particularly his habit of casually describing Javert's death. He shook his head slightly, trying to remove the uncomfortable feeling this conversation had caused.
"Would you care for breakfast?" Erik asked, his manner suddenly quite amiable. Without waiting for a response, he ushered Javert into an elegant dining room that contained an elaborately set table. Javert regarded Erik for a moment. Erik merely laughed.
"You worry far too much boy," he said, pushing Javert down into a chair, "You are my guest. I've never had a guest before, but I do not believe I am in the habit of killing them."
Javert looked at the food, suddenly aware that he was in fact very hungry, and then back up at Erik who made a dismissing gesture. "I have eaten," he said simply, and with that, he exited the room, his black cape billowing out behind him.
Later that morning, after Javert had finished breakfast, he found himself exploring Erik's realm. He had told himself, as he began, that he was looking for a way out of this place, but as he was continuously unable to find anything, he began to take an interest in the details of Erik's home.
Grimacing as he passed yet another smiling skeleton woven into a tapestry, he opened a door and found a small library. He let his gaze rove for a moment over the spines of the books, but was rapidly disinterested. Instead, his eye was drawn to a small portrait contained in an equally small silver frame. He walked over to the mantle where it rested and picked it up. It was of a young woman, not much older than Javert, and exceptionally beautiful.
"My mother," came a voice from behind, causing Javert to jump. Erik appeared next to him a moment later and took the picture from Javert's hand. He laughed softly. "I don't even know why I keep this around. She wouldn't have cared enough to do the same for me." A slight edge was beginning to creep into his voice as he gripped the small picture tighter.
He laughed again. Not the soft laugh of a moment before, but a savage, rough-edged laugh that sent a chill down Javert's spine. "She hated me," he whispered. His voice had dropped in volume, but still, it took on an almost maniacal ferocity that caught Javert unprepared.
"She hated me because of this," he said, fingering the mask. "I know that, I'd be a fool not to know. No loving mother shuts their son away in an attic because he is ugly." He looked at Javert, the anger suddenly replaced by pain.
"Not that hiding me away did any good, oh no. All that did was circulate rumors." His expression hardened again, "If I could find those who had dared to say such things now..." His grip tightened, and the glass in the picture frame began to buckle under his fingers.
As if he had just become aware of the situation, Javert reached forward and removed the picture from Erik's hand. "I have found," he said, setting the offending portrait back on the mantle, "that some things are better left in the past."
Erik laughed. Again, it was a different laugh. As intimidating as the last, but hollow. "You have learned, you say? No one has learned life's lessons better than I; there is no better teacher than the hatred and prejudice of this world."
"They are cruel teachers. But there are better ways to put their lessons to work."
Erik favored him with only a dismissing snort. "Hate that is taught can only be returned. You above all others should know that. I've seen how your people are treated," he returned.
That he had struck a chord in Javert was evident by the sudden lift of his chin. "My people and the treatment they endured was one of the things I found better left in the past. Just one of many things that would be better forgotten."
Erik smiled. "It would seem that we are not that different in some ways boy," he said, turning to leave the room. "But there are some things that cannot be ignored or changed. I can only hope that life would spare you from them as it did not do for me."