"There, there now..." Christine hushed Richard gently, stroking
his hair, as she tried to get past the bulk of her pregnancy. Richard de
Chagny, at age one and a half, wanted nothing more to be up and playing
again, and wanting little more of his overprotective mother and her wide
girth.
"No." He muttered darkly, trying to pull away. "No. Wanna play now."
"Well, if you played now, you'd be too tired to play in the morning." She responded logically, hiding a smile as he thought this completely through.
"But, Mama..." The protest was lost as he at last laid back down in his bed.
"Hush, now..." She murmured softly again, her hand stroking back the rich, dark hair atop his head, and then the voice that had won the heart of an angel began. Although it had never been used the way Angel-she shied away from thinking of his name, and if she thought of him at all it was as her Angel-would have had her use it, but Christine couldn't not use it at all. And sometimes, late at night, when she sang to her son, sweet memories inundated her with the times she sat by the mirror and sang duets; a dark but infinitely rich tenor haunting her thoughts.
As what always happened the moment she was swept away by the music, she lost complete track of time and herself, and when she finally ended her song and looked down, Richard was fast asleep. A small smile coaxed the tired corners of her lips upwards for a brief moment, and then she sighed again and turned away. The soft melody seem to drift gently through the room, and it was only after a long moment that Christine realized with a start just what she had been humming; almost painful flashbacks of a masked man bending over her, singing as he gingerly laid her on the bed, gently pressing her hair back from her face. Erik, Erik was the one singing, Erik was the one holding her so gently close; she had fainted, he must have thought her still unconscious, for he was handling her as though she was made of glass, as though he wouldn't wake her for the world. Her eyes were only the tiniest sliver, watching him, half-frightened, half-craving of that angelic voice... Yes, her Angel, her guardian, her teacher... her lover... Lost...
The banging of the front door opening and slamming shut tugged her back to the sad reality. No, no, she wasn't under Erik's grace anymore. She was with Raoul.... Raoul...
"Christine?" The voice was harsh, her name slightly slurred; he was drunk again.
~~~~~~
Maurissa watched the little cub, idling playing with the violin his father had crafted for him. Gifted, she thought bitterly, oh, yes, he was gifted... A gifted little monster! He didn't even deserve the name that she had blessed him with; didn't deserve the same appellation of his father, that wondrous, magnificent creature of magic and beauty. Oh, yes, with your Angel's face, she thought, slowly moving over to the book case, and pulling one of her own books from the shelf; behind it lay a small vial, which she had been careful to conceal entirely from Erik. Your Angel's face with which you think you've won us all... You didn't... No, no...Your father may think you blessed, may think you are so wonderful that you do not bare his face, and you may have one that stupid manager, André's adoration, but you are nothing but a little, hypocritical, worthless pretty-boy!
Of course, she didn't say this aloud, knowing how exceptional Erik's hearing was. He was outside, handling a hole in the bottom of the skiff. No, it would be much better if he stayed out there during this; he would be angry with her, for a while, that she had no doubt. But it would be much better that he stay out there, so that he couldn't stop her from doing what had to be done, to save their child. Yes, I may have birthed you a worthless rat, but you will be your father yet, my son... For the first time, gentleness and motherly affection washed over her; she didn't hate her son, no, in fact, she did this because she loved him. She would save him, she would protect him, she would be his salvation; she would rescue him from himself, and from his looks. At least he was completely unsalvageable; he took after his father in brilliance and talent, now, all he needed was a new face...
"Erik, sweetheart... come here..." She used her most syrupy voice to draw her son close, and then, before he could move or called out she pushed him down, onto the tabletop. A triumphant smile flared across her lips as she unpopped the cork of the vial with one slender finger; she began with the left side of his face. Slowly the acid-concocted by Maurissa herself-began to eat away at the white, pale face, and little Erik began to scream at the searing pain.
She was too caught up in the moment; too caught up with watching the faint acid steam, watching her son writhe as she held him down, watching the acid make his face a replica of his father's, to hear the oaken portal slam open, and to see a desperate, alarmed Erik rush in.
"Nooooooo!" It was a hoarse roar as Erik with sudden, awful clarity, comprehended what was going on; what Maurissa was doing to his son. He rushed over to her just as she turned to fend him off. His strong, large hand shot out by reflex and gripped her throat as he knocked the half-full vial out of her hand. Most of it splashed up on her, making her gasp with the sudden pain that she had brought on their son... Erik lost complete control of himself, then, listening to the agonizing cries of his little boy, knowing he was already too late to save his child's face, and feeling the need-the desperate ache-to kill boil through his veins....
He lost control of himself, and what he did to Maurissa that night, was lost in a haze of forgotten anger.... He only remembered that he had- must have-ripped her apart, completely, and savagely murdered his wife, and afterward.... He had managed to save at least some of his son's features. While the acid had eaten away some of his flesh, even to the point of showing bone, he had managed to save his eyes, mouth, and the right half of his face. With the sadness and bitterness that threatened to consume him once again, loathing himself for not being there to protect little Erik from the madness he had known was in Maurissa, he had fashioned the one garment he had finally convinced himself his son would never need;
A mask....
A child's, white, half-mask...
"No." He muttered darkly, trying to pull away. "No. Wanna play now."
"Well, if you played now, you'd be too tired to play in the morning." She responded logically, hiding a smile as he thought this completely through.
"But, Mama..." The protest was lost as he at last laid back down in his bed.
"Hush, now..." She murmured softly again, her hand stroking back the rich, dark hair atop his head, and then the voice that had won the heart of an angel began. Although it had never been used the way Angel-she shied away from thinking of his name, and if she thought of him at all it was as her Angel-would have had her use it, but Christine couldn't not use it at all. And sometimes, late at night, when she sang to her son, sweet memories inundated her with the times she sat by the mirror and sang duets; a dark but infinitely rich tenor haunting her thoughts.
As what always happened the moment she was swept away by the music, she lost complete track of time and herself, and when she finally ended her song and looked down, Richard was fast asleep. A small smile coaxed the tired corners of her lips upwards for a brief moment, and then she sighed again and turned away. The soft melody seem to drift gently through the room, and it was only after a long moment that Christine realized with a start just what she had been humming; almost painful flashbacks of a masked man bending over her, singing as he gingerly laid her on the bed, gently pressing her hair back from her face. Erik, Erik was the one singing, Erik was the one holding her so gently close; she had fainted, he must have thought her still unconscious, for he was handling her as though she was made of glass, as though he wouldn't wake her for the world. Her eyes were only the tiniest sliver, watching him, half-frightened, half-craving of that angelic voice... Yes, her Angel, her guardian, her teacher... her lover... Lost...
The banging of the front door opening and slamming shut tugged her back to the sad reality. No, no, she wasn't under Erik's grace anymore. She was with Raoul.... Raoul...
"Christine?" The voice was harsh, her name slightly slurred; he was drunk again.
~~~~~~
Maurissa watched the little cub, idling playing with the violin his father had crafted for him. Gifted, she thought bitterly, oh, yes, he was gifted... A gifted little monster! He didn't even deserve the name that she had blessed him with; didn't deserve the same appellation of his father, that wondrous, magnificent creature of magic and beauty. Oh, yes, with your Angel's face, she thought, slowly moving over to the book case, and pulling one of her own books from the shelf; behind it lay a small vial, which she had been careful to conceal entirely from Erik. Your Angel's face with which you think you've won us all... You didn't... No, no...Your father may think you blessed, may think you are so wonderful that you do not bare his face, and you may have one that stupid manager, André's adoration, but you are nothing but a little, hypocritical, worthless pretty-boy!
Of course, she didn't say this aloud, knowing how exceptional Erik's hearing was. He was outside, handling a hole in the bottom of the skiff. No, it would be much better if he stayed out there during this; he would be angry with her, for a while, that she had no doubt. But it would be much better that he stay out there, so that he couldn't stop her from doing what had to be done, to save their child. Yes, I may have birthed you a worthless rat, but you will be your father yet, my son... For the first time, gentleness and motherly affection washed over her; she didn't hate her son, no, in fact, she did this because she loved him. She would save him, she would protect him, she would be his salvation; she would rescue him from himself, and from his looks. At least he was completely unsalvageable; he took after his father in brilliance and talent, now, all he needed was a new face...
"Erik, sweetheart... come here..." She used her most syrupy voice to draw her son close, and then, before he could move or called out she pushed him down, onto the tabletop. A triumphant smile flared across her lips as she unpopped the cork of the vial with one slender finger; she began with the left side of his face. Slowly the acid-concocted by Maurissa herself-began to eat away at the white, pale face, and little Erik began to scream at the searing pain.
She was too caught up in the moment; too caught up with watching the faint acid steam, watching her son writhe as she held him down, watching the acid make his face a replica of his father's, to hear the oaken portal slam open, and to see a desperate, alarmed Erik rush in.
"Nooooooo!" It was a hoarse roar as Erik with sudden, awful clarity, comprehended what was going on; what Maurissa was doing to his son. He rushed over to her just as she turned to fend him off. His strong, large hand shot out by reflex and gripped her throat as he knocked the half-full vial out of her hand. Most of it splashed up on her, making her gasp with the sudden pain that she had brought on their son... Erik lost complete control of himself, then, listening to the agonizing cries of his little boy, knowing he was already too late to save his child's face, and feeling the need-the desperate ache-to kill boil through his veins....
He lost control of himself, and what he did to Maurissa that night, was lost in a haze of forgotten anger.... He only remembered that he had- must have-ripped her apart, completely, and savagely murdered his wife, and afterward.... He had managed to save at least some of his son's features. While the acid had eaten away some of his flesh, even to the point of showing bone, he had managed to save his eyes, mouth, and the right half of his face. With the sadness and bitterness that threatened to consume him once again, loathing himself for not being there to protect little Erik from the madness he had known was in Maurissa, he had fashioned the one garment he had finally convinced himself his son would never need;
A mask....
A child's, white, half-mask...
