A Conversation in the Dark, a phantom of the opera fanfic

A/N-This short story is the first of the Night Encounters stories, one of a series of unrelated vignettes based on the ALW musical and set during the fortnight Christine spent underground with Erik, when she was uncertain of her feelings for him. These stories follow the Red Rose timeline, but some are darker than Red Rose, as they are set in an earlier, more tumultuous period of Erik and Christine's relationship.

Updated 2016 to correct formatting errors.

Summary—A nightmare from his past leaves Erik unable to sleep.

Disclaimer—All characters used in the Night Encounters series belong to Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Andrew Lloyd Webber, or the RUG. In regard to the French language, Paris, history, and the Opera Charles Garnier, all errors and liberties taken are mine, and for that I do apologize. The slightly changed semi-quote is of course from Susan Kay…it is too good a line to ignore.

Thank you for reading, and please review.

-Riene

A Conversation in the Dark

Hands, reaching for him, dragging his sleep-deprived body violently from the iron cage, striping his remaining clothes as they had stripped his dignity, his humanity. Rough hands, cruel and merciless, digging hard into his emaciated body, flinging him against the tree where other hands seized his wrists, bound them tightly together, his bare chest scraping painfully against the rough bark of the tree. Someone seized his ravaged face and slammed it against the trunk. A voice sneered, "Turn that away from us, gargoyle, we don't have to see it and by God, we won't." Taunting laughter…

Gasping for air he sagged against the ropes; knowing what was to come made the waiting no easier…

Stifling the strangled cry he hoped fervently he had not actually uttered, Erik reared up in the coffin, sweat-soaked and shaking, finding himself in the warm and familiar blackness of his underground lair. With a groan, he buried his face in his hands, running his hands across his twisted, distorted visage and on through his thin hair, still somehow able to feel, oh God how he could still feel the lash, the blows across his scarred back. He had been beaten so many times, humiliated and reduced to a quivering screaming lump of flesh so many times, till his cries became the hoarse screams of an animal, until finally he had no voice left with which to scream. It had taken nearly a year after the fair, before his voice had returned to something passably human…

Painfully, stiffly, he climbed from the casket, flicking aside the red curtains, hobbling to the washroom to splash handful after handful of icy water on his face. Erik stood for a minute, hands and face buried in the towel, shuddering. These nightmares came so often. It was never possible for him to sleep more than a couple hours at most, until once again the years spent with the fair, memories he ruthlessly thrust down into his subconscious during the day, rose to torment him again at night.

Shaking, he turned and limped back into the bedroom, donning a warm wool robe against the chill of the outer rooms. At his doorway he paused, listening intently, but no sound emerged from the Louis-Philippe room. Thank God, he thought. I have terrified that poor child often enough in previous days. At least I have not broken her innocent slumber with my horrors.

He walked as soundlessly as only the Fantôme was able, a deliberate caution against being detected, of being caught ever again. Erik limped quietly to the library music room and collapsed into the deep wingchair, staring helplessly into the dull crimson coals buried amidst the ashes in the hearth. He would sleep no more tonight, he knew. With a stifled groan he leaned forward, burying his face in his hands again, shoulders shaking, stiff with remembered pain and tension.

Christine lay trembling in her bed, her heart racing. Night after night, that shattered cry of inhuman terror and pain jolted her from slumber. At first, she had been terrified of his response, of the threat of danger implied in that inarticulate horror, but when Erik failed to discuss it the following morning, Christine had not the courage to inquire. She could hear his slow, painful footsteps, walking about the underground house and wondered what could possibly cause such terrible nightmares. An unwilling twinge of sympathy rose in her chest. This tormented man must have known such rejection and humiliation in his life. He had said once, in a barely audible whisper, that he had never known the comfort of a human touch. Scarcely aware of she was doing, Christine rose soundlessly from her bed and pulled on the pale pink silk wrapper that matched the lovely hand-embroidered nightgown she wore, and belted it tightly. She slid her small feet into the warm slippers he had provided for her, wondering for the hundredth time how Erik had managed to procure these exquisite items for her.

She crept to the door and opened it cautiously. Though she no longer feared his reaction to whatever caused these troubles, he had told her sharply to never come out from her room at night, and had pointed out the bolts set on the inside of her smoothly paneled door.

"They are here for your presence of mind, Christine," he had explained tiredly. "You will see there are no keyholes on the outside, no way that I may access your room if you do not wish me too. Bolt the door, Christine, and sleep without fear. I will see you in the morning." He had turned from her then, but she had seen the unhappiness in his black eyes before they flickered away from hers. Shaken, she had quietly shut the door, but made no move the slide the bolts across the almost imperceptible crack of the doorway, hoping he would hear and know she did not fear or despise him as much as he obviously expected her to.

She paused in the doorway. The underground house was totally dark. She waited, letting her eyes adjust after the dim candlelight in her room. Erik's slow footsteps had gone past her door, toward his impressive library where his piano stood, dominating the center of the room. It was there she would find him. Running her hand along the edge where the wainscoting met the plastered wall as a guide, she walked quietly forward.

Erik heard her hesitant footsteps in the hallway, and his head snapped up in alarm. Oh, God, the mask. It was lying on the table by the doorway of his room. She must not see him like this…

"Go away, Christine," he snarled. "Go back to your bed and your pleasant dreams. Didn't I forbid you from coming out at night?"

From behind him came her voice, that hauntingly lovely sweet soprano voice. "Yes, Erik" she replied softly. "You did. But I was…worried about you."

His chest constricted with pain. No one worried about him, no one ever had. His voice was softer, less rough when he answered. "Did I awaken you?"

She stepped closer. "Yes," she admitted. "I often hear you in the night. Are they…nightmares?" she asked timidly.

"Yes. And none of your concern. Go back to your bed," he repeated harshly.

Behind him, she took another step closer, pulled by the deep anguish in this man's black velvet voice. Somehow, it was easier to be brave in the darkness. "Erik? Could I help you?" A memory rose, of her father lovingly holding her hand as a child, when she had been beset by frightening dreams. "Would you like me to stay with you a while?" she asked softly.

"No!" he said sharply, then made an effort to control his voice. "No, Christine. I…do not have on my mask, and I have no desire to give you fodder for your own nightmares."

His bitter voice wrapped itself around her heart and she risked another step. Now she could see the outline of his elegant profile against the dim red light of the coals, turned away from her and toward the hearth.

He heard the rustle of silk as she now stood in back of him. His graceful hands tightened painfully on the arms of the chair. "Christine, I said go away. Please, just do as I ask."

"Erik, I'm not sleepy, but I am cold. May I sit here, in my chair by the fire?" she asked quietly.

He could not take the risk that she become chilled, to fall ill while under his care. And how long had it been, since she had wanted to be anywhere near to him?

Taking silence for assent, she walked carefully around the low table and with the smooth, unconscious grace of her dancer's body, sat next to him in the tapestry-covered chair, staring into the coals. She could feel the tension that rose off the man like smoke, felt the weight of his silence next to her, the rigid self control in her presence he never allowed to falter.

His face kept carefully averted from her, they sat as the minutes drew out. Finally he spoke, his deep precise and cultured voice throbbing through her, affecting her as it always did with its undercurrent of controlled emotion. "I'm sorry, Christine."

"For what?" she asked reasonably, gently. "No one can help from having nightmares."

Erik drew in his breath painfully at the compassion in her voice. "No," he whispered. "I suppose not."

Sudden shame burned her cheeks. If this man had been 'normal' would she be sitting here in careful silence beside him? Or would she have crossed the barriers between them, reached for his hand to offer comfort, brushed her lips across his hair, perhaps even held him? Her thoughts twisted in on themselves. With the exception of his mercurial, explosive temper, her teacher was always kind and considerate, thoughtfully providing for her needs and giving of himself, more than she thought he realized, through his music. His behavior toward her was in every way, that of a gentleman. So why was it so hard to treat him as human?

Perhaps it was because he never allowed any physical contact between them, after her first horrified recoil when his cold fingers had accidentally touched her hand. Her angel had not even been able to meet her eyes for days afterward… Christine's slim square hand traced an embroidered flower on the arm of the chair, barely visible in the shadows of the firelight. What would she see now, she wondered, if she dared meet his gleaming eyes?

Erik shut his eyes in a desperate effort to control the sudden longing that bled through him like a rush of pain. Such a simple thing, really, to reach for her hand, to hold her close in his arms until the terrors went away. He swallowed hard. If she were his wife, if she slept by his side, would he still waken with horrified shouts, reliving the nightmares of his past? Or would she turn from him in the night, disgusted by his repulsive face, shrinking from his cold hands, horrified she lived with a madman? Oh, but to touch her, to hold her for a moment…

Christine blinked back tears. Was it so hard, really? She risked a glance at him, at that noble, even handsome side of his face barely visible. Her own foolish actions had brought the knowledge of what terrible features were turned away from her. Steeling herself for courage, she reached toward him.

But Erik rose suddenly instead, keeping his face hidden in the deep shadows of the room. "Come, Christine, you must not stay here, for you must sleep." He attempted a smile. "Your voice will not be at its best tomorrow, I fear."

He stood waiting and she rose, unaccountable disappointment piercing her heart. A moment more….

In silence they walked back to her room and stopped outside the door, the soft velvet blackness of the night air becoming fraught with words unsaid. They stood so close that Erik could smell the sweet scent of the cologne he had purchased for her, could feel the heavenly warmth emanating from her soft feminine form, felt the gossamer tickle of the curling, silken tendrils of her hair where they brushed his wrist. Oh, this was madness, to stand so close, so close….

Say something to him! she thought desperately. Slowly, her small hand reached mutely through the darkness and encountered the soft woolen cloth of his sleeve, warmed by the steel-hard, fluidly mobile muscles and sinews of his arm. Christine felt the tremor that ran through him at her touch. Never before had she initiated any contact between them, and she was suddenly acutely aware of his very masculine presence, of the enticing scents of spice and wood smoke, mixed with the underlying essence of sandalwood that pulsed toward her with his movement. Slowly, her hand slid down that strong, well-formed arm, certain beyond doubt that in this darkness she needed no reason to analyze her confused feelings for this enigmatic man. Here there was no angel, no father figure, no tormented suitor, only this solid warm presence beside her in the darkness.

Her gentle fingers closed over his cold hand and squeezed it reassuringly. It was as if the air were forced out of his lungs as well. He could not conceive of a time when someone had touched him with caring, with concern. The torrent of emotion, of longing, of shock that ran through him left Erik unable to form the words of an response.

"Good night, Erik. I hope you sleep well," she whispered.

"Good night, Christine. Perhaps I shall," he whispered.

They would say nothing of this in the morning. It would be as if this night encounter had never occurred. But unbeknownst to either of them, a slender, tenuous bond had formed that night, in the silence of the underground lair. A bond that might one day lead to something more…..