Night streamed slowly down upon the Populaire, drowning its few
occupants and one lone man into the shadows he loved. He stood upon the
roof of le Palais Garnier, staring down almost regretfully at the beautiful
city that thrived below and beyond. One, large, ungloved hand gently
stroked the stone of an angel statue, which stood majestic on the parapet
beside him, the other held a thin, catgut rope, which his thumb idly
stroked as his mind wandered to other things. He knew that he shouldn't
stay up here long; young Erik was down below, and, though he would only be
five come the end of this month, he had inherited his father's mental
dexterity, and no doubt was trying to discover away to be free from the
labyrinth and wandering the upper levels of the Opera House. Perhaps he
already had; a thin smile creased the corners of lips hidden by a full,
white face mask. Perhaps he already had...
His eyes slowly flicked to the rope he held limply in his grasp; ah, the Punjab lasso, so sleek, so trustworthy a weapon... In his mind, he remembered whose neck had once hung in its grasp, and he pushed the thought roughly away. He had promised himself that he wouldn't think of her tonight... He should have known how impossible that task was; not a day, not a night, went by that he didn't picture his angel's face, that he didn't remember for at least thirty seconds that kiss that was all he had left to treasure. He was struck, suddenly, with a desperate urge to know where she was at this moment, and what she was doing. Immediately, he pushed that train of thought, knowing it would lead to further pain, and telling himself that even if he did carry on with it, he couldn't find his way to the small maison again, anyway. Yet, even as he tried to tell himself this, he knew without doubt the very path he could take to arrive there.
"Papa?" The small, soft voice that came from right behind him actually took Erik by surprise. He gasped softly and whirled, careful of his balance on the edge of the rooftop.
His son, hair mussed slightly, perhaps from his escape, and dressed in a small, white shirt and the dark pants that both father and son preferred, stood not four feet away from him. His eyes were slightly tired, and he shivered a bit in the cold night air. Quickly, Erik jumped gracefully down beside him, and swept the little one into his arms, suppressing a chuckle. He made his voice as severe as he dared, still fighting back his pride that his son had, after all, managed to find his way up, not only to the normal opera floors, but all the way up to the rooftop. "Erik, I told you to stay down below."
"But, Papa!" Laying his head upon his father's shoulder, eager to be held, despite the fact that he was a 'big boy,' Erik jr. matched his father's tone. "It is lonely down there, and I missed you! Why must I stay down there all the time when you go up? I want to be with you! I want to see what you see! Please, father, don't make me go back down, not without you."
Unable to force his child away after such a simple, sincere plea, Erik simply hugged his child tightly, still awed and wondering, even after five years, about the magic of being a father, and the gentle, generous love his son gave without thought of repayment. When the boy shivered, Erik drew his cape more securely around them both and went back down into the labyrinth that had always been home to them both. Still holding the child close to his shoulder, he kicked open the door to his room, and laid his son gently on his own bed.
"Papa... don't leave me..." Erik jr.'s voice was soft and drowsy, and he struggled not to release his father for a moment.
"Hush, now... I won't, I'm here, I'm here..." Very gently, he stroked the dark hair back, covering him up warmly, and sitting close... Then he began to sing softly, his voice no less hypnotic to his son than it had been to Christine and countless others. This time he sung a soft, sweet lullabye that he himself had composed, and moments later, his son rested in a deep slumber.
As he stared down at his son, mind more on his thoughts than the peaceful scene before him, he was again struck by the urge to see Christine again, this time more powerful. Would it hurt to see her? He questioned, and knew that damned right it would, and yet he was already up, donning his favorite cloak and hat, and letting the punjab lasso slip into the folds of his garments. It would hurt, and yet, he couldn't stop himself. Before he really contemplated just what he was intending to do, he was out on the streets of Paris, hidden by the shadows of the night, his long stride intent on the path he knew surprisingly well. Within moments, he was standing outside the balcony that housed Christine and her husband. Climbing the terrasse, and stood upon the balcony itself, staring in the glass doors, trying to see just who was inside. Perhaps they didn't even live here any longer...
And then he heard the voice; the soft, sweet, ethreal voice of his angel.... Christine... It had been five years, and yet, with the first exuberant notes of that tender soprano, all the memories, all the pain, all the lonely heartache, and all the love came streaming back into his soul, bringing tears to his eyes, and making him take an unthinking step forward. There she was! There she was, his Christine, his beloved, coming into the room, singing softly as she moved about, cleaning up. She was as beautiful as ever; he watched her, startled at first by how she had matured, how she had been changed by the years, and then equally as shocked by just how similiar she was. She still carried that air of childish innocence about her, still had that slightly mincing walk, and was still as beautiful and as graceful as when Erik had first fallen in love with her over five years ago.
She was singing, and with another violent shiver of surprise, he realized just what it was that she was singing; one of his songs! Something he had composed for her long ago, and given to her on the first night she had triumphed the audience with her amazing soprano. She remembered him, even in that one song, maybe just that one song, but she remembered him!
He was moving towards her before he had conscious thought of what he was doing, and at the last moment, seconds before she would have noticed his presence, seen him there, he jerked back into the blind safety of the shadows. He couldn't let her see him! He had let her go! He had promised he wouldn't... She had fallen onto the bed, and was covering her face with her hands, making odd, hiccupy noises. It took a moment before Erik realized she was crying. Again, it took all he had not go to her then, not to sweep her into his arms, beg her not to sob, wipe away her tears... She was crying! He had to do something; he could not stand to see her in such pain, could not stand to see her in any pain, let alone enough to make her sob.
"Oh, Christine...." He didn't even realize the whisper had left his lips aloud.
Immediately, her head jerked up, searching the darkness with frightened, eager eyes. She couldn't see him; he had been too cautious for that.. But her eyes searched for him anyway, searched the shadows that quietly kept their secret, uncertain that she had heard anything, and yet knowing with her soul that she had...
"Angel?" She slowly stood, the tears standing in her eyes, the rivulets of the last ones still showing their salty tracks, which glistened in the firelight.
Then he was gone.
He couldn't have let her see him... No, No.... He couldn't have... And in the darkness, in the stillness of the house as she had tried so desperately to find him, he had heard the sound of an infant.
His eyes slowly flicked to the rope he held limply in his grasp; ah, the Punjab lasso, so sleek, so trustworthy a weapon... In his mind, he remembered whose neck had once hung in its grasp, and he pushed the thought roughly away. He had promised himself that he wouldn't think of her tonight... He should have known how impossible that task was; not a day, not a night, went by that he didn't picture his angel's face, that he didn't remember for at least thirty seconds that kiss that was all he had left to treasure. He was struck, suddenly, with a desperate urge to know where she was at this moment, and what she was doing. Immediately, he pushed that train of thought, knowing it would lead to further pain, and telling himself that even if he did carry on with it, he couldn't find his way to the small maison again, anyway. Yet, even as he tried to tell himself this, he knew without doubt the very path he could take to arrive there.
"Papa?" The small, soft voice that came from right behind him actually took Erik by surprise. He gasped softly and whirled, careful of his balance on the edge of the rooftop.
His son, hair mussed slightly, perhaps from his escape, and dressed in a small, white shirt and the dark pants that both father and son preferred, stood not four feet away from him. His eyes were slightly tired, and he shivered a bit in the cold night air. Quickly, Erik jumped gracefully down beside him, and swept the little one into his arms, suppressing a chuckle. He made his voice as severe as he dared, still fighting back his pride that his son had, after all, managed to find his way up, not only to the normal opera floors, but all the way up to the rooftop. "Erik, I told you to stay down below."
"But, Papa!" Laying his head upon his father's shoulder, eager to be held, despite the fact that he was a 'big boy,' Erik jr. matched his father's tone. "It is lonely down there, and I missed you! Why must I stay down there all the time when you go up? I want to be with you! I want to see what you see! Please, father, don't make me go back down, not without you."
Unable to force his child away after such a simple, sincere plea, Erik simply hugged his child tightly, still awed and wondering, even after five years, about the magic of being a father, and the gentle, generous love his son gave without thought of repayment. When the boy shivered, Erik drew his cape more securely around them both and went back down into the labyrinth that had always been home to them both. Still holding the child close to his shoulder, he kicked open the door to his room, and laid his son gently on his own bed.
"Papa... don't leave me..." Erik jr.'s voice was soft and drowsy, and he struggled not to release his father for a moment.
"Hush, now... I won't, I'm here, I'm here..." Very gently, he stroked the dark hair back, covering him up warmly, and sitting close... Then he began to sing softly, his voice no less hypnotic to his son than it had been to Christine and countless others. This time he sung a soft, sweet lullabye that he himself had composed, and moments later, his son rested in a deep slumber.
As he stared down at his son, mind more on his thoughts than the peaceful scene before him, he was again struck by the urge to see Christine again, this time more powerful. Would it hurt to see her? He questioned, and knew that damned right it would, and yet he was already up, donning his favorite cloak and hat, and letting the punjab lasso slip into the folds of his garments. It would hurt, and yet, he couldn't stop himself. Before he really contemplated just what he was intending to do, he was out on the streets of Paris, hidden by the shadows of the night, his long stride intent on the path he knew surprisingly well. Within moments, he was standing outside the balcony that housed Christine and her husband. Climbing the terrasse, and stood upon the balcony itself, staring in the glass doors, trying to see just who was inside. Perhaps they didn't even live here any longer...
And then he heard the voice; the soft, sweet, ethreal voice of his angel.... Christine... It had been five years, and yet, with the first exuberant notes of that tender soprano, all the memories, all the pain, all the lonely heartache, and all the love came streaming back into his soul, bringing tears to his eyes, and making him take an unthinking step forward. There she was! There she was, his Christine, his beloved, coming into the room, singing softly as she moved about, cleaning up. She was as beautiful as ever; he watched her, startled at first by how she had matured, how she had been changed by the years, and then equally as shocked by just how similiar she was. She still carried that air of childish innocence about her, still had that slightly mincing walk, and was still as beautiful and as graceful as when Erik had first fallen in love with her over five years ago.
She was singing, and with another violent shiver of surprise, he realized just what it was that she was singing; one of his songs! Something he had composed for her long ago, and given to her on the first night she had triumphed the audience with her amazing soprano. She remembered him, even in that one song, maybe just that one song, but she remembered him!
He was moving towards her before he had conscious thought of what he was doing, and at the last moment, seconds before she would have noticed his presence, seen him there, he jerked back into the blind safety of the shadows. He couldn't let her see him! He had let her go! He had promised he wouldn't... She had fallen onto the bed, and was covering her face with her hands, making odd, hiccupy noises. It took a moment before Erik realized she was crying. Again, it took all he had not go to her then, not to sweep her into his arms, beg her not to sob, wipe away her tears... She was crying! He had to do something; he could not stand to see her in such pain, could not stand to see her in any pain, let alone enough to make her sob.
"Oh, Christine...." He didn't even realize the whisper had left his lips aloud.
Immediately, her head jerked up, searching the darkness with frightened, eager eyes. She couldn't see him; he had been too cautious for that.. But her eyes searched for him anyway, searched the shadows that quietly kept their secret, uncertain that she had heard anything, and yet knowing with her soul that she had...
"Angel?" She slowly stood, the tears standing in her eyes, the rivulets of the last ones still showing their salty tracks, which glistened in the firelight.
Then he was gone.
He couldn't have let her see him... No, No.... He couldn't have... And in the darkness, in the stillness of the house as she had tried so desperately to find him, he had heard the sound of an infant.
