Lachesis' Weavings
by AngelCeleste85
Disclaimer, Blame and Setting: Same as before. I'm not making any money off of this, Melpomene hasn't made her signature appearance yet (though she's thinking about it), all the blame so far is mine, this whole thing is right after the ALW version but don't be surprised to find Leroux details in here as well, I keep them straight well enough in my own mind but like to mix them. Ah. Victorian-era swearwords lightly pepper the story but I don't think there's many here.
Other notes: To everyone who has so far read and reviewed, thank you very much for your comments! They're just the encouragement I need to continue with this since this is not going to be an easy one for me to write.
To Bubonic Woodchuck: I'm not much of a fan of E/M either, but that's how this one has to work in order for it to fall out right. I'm still not certain of how it'll end, but I'll burn that bridge when I come to it.
Don't worry about Christine, you'll hear from her soon enough. I'm not saying a word more.
[[ Erik's thoughts ]] {{ Meg's thoughts }}
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lachesis' Weavings by AngelCeleste85
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Ch. 5 - Twisted Every Way
Erik became aware of a very soft, dim glow of red. [[ So I'm going to Hell at last. A fallen angel in hell. There's something rather appropriate about that. ]] He waited, but the dim light didn't seem to get any stronger. [[ How very kind they are, to leave a light on for me. ]]
It was then that Erik became aware of a dull hunger, and a thirst that was growing stronger every moment. The dead weren't hungry or thirsty, were they? There could only be one explanation.
He was still alive. Memory crashed home, and with it an overwhelming grief.
[[ Damn it all anyway! ]] Tears would have trickled down his cheeks, but his body hadn't the moisture for it yet. [[ I remember everything. oh God, why did You not let me die? ]] Perhaps it was a measure of his despair that Erik called on a being he had no belief in. For some time he cried, his body wracked with dry, silent sobs.
Eventually he regained some control over his raw nerves. [[ If I'm alive, I'm somewhere. Where? ]] Erik didn't seem to be able to open his eyelids, they felt like lead weights. With his other senses he explored the room.
He lay on something warm and soft - [[ I'm not in the chair? How did I get here? ]] - and the scent of lavender was strong in the air. It made him wince under the weight of too many bittersweet memories. The room was silent, except for breathing: two different breathers. One was raspy and dry, too quick and too shallow to be healthy, laboring for every breath. In surprise he realized that was his own breathing. [[ Damn, what did I do to myself? ]]
The other one was steady and regular, slow but deep: he could feel that warm breath on his cold hand, where a weight seemed to be pulling that soft surface he was resting on downward. All the pieces fit together suddenly. [[Christi- No! It can't be! I won't let her! ]]
Erik forced his eyes open, started to straighten himself up. and fell back with a great sigh, eyes closed again and exhausted from the effort. He knew where he was now, and who slept beside him. Christine had never had quite that shade of hair even when she wore wigs for various roles, and her raven tresses had always been in slightly better condition than the golden curls that tumbled about the face that was turned toward him.
There was a gasp and the sound of fabric rusting as the weight on that side of the bed vanished.
"Monsieur?" Shit, he'd woken her. As if the face was not all the identification he needed for her, the girl's trembling voice named her.
"Little Meg," he croaked out. Not the proper form of address, he knew, but he was much too tired for anything else. [[ I sound worse than Carlotta. ]] "What are you doing here?"
"I'm here to help."
"Don't bother," the man rasped. "Nobody can help me now."
Little Meg seemed rather alarmed by that statement. "That's not true, Monsieur. Maman says there's always hope as long as a body breathes."
"Don't talk to me about hope!" Anger gave strength to his voice and body and he sat up straight to fix a dark glare on her. "Hope just makes the darkness darker." His long, elegant hands, curved even at rest from forty years of playing music, clenched into fists at his side. The gesture was not lost on Meg who stepped back a pace, blue eyes wide.
"I came here to help you, Monsieur Erik," Meg said, her voice trembling again. "If I'd found you dead I would have buried you, but I found you alive and so help me God, that's how you'll stay."
That name, spoken with such determination. it took all the fight out of him and again he fell back. Meg's hands, small but deft, caught him halfway and eased him back down onto the pillows. "Why, when there is nothing left for me to live for?"
Meg was silent a moment before answering. "Are you thirsty, Monsieur?" was all she said. He shook his head, but something cold and metallic pressed at his mouth anyway. He could smell water. Before he knew it he had drunk the little the spoon contained. A sound of cloth tearing, the sound of cloth being submerged and then wrung, and something cool and damp was patted around his cheeks, forehead, throat, hands.
[[ She didn't answer the question. Why did she come down here? Why does she want to help a monster? ]]
There was a little tugging at his shirt - [[Good grief, she's less than half my age. I refuse to be undressed like a child, by a child, her mother will have a fit! ]] Then the cool cloth patted the bare skin there as well, a cool relief against his hot skin. With an effort he caught her hands and opened his eyes. "Don't," he rasped. "Go away. Leave me."
Erik was reminded very firmly of Madame Giry at her strictest, teaching the many undisciplined petite rats to dance as one body, one corps de ballet. "I can't do that," Meg replied calmly and freed herself from his grasp. "Not permanently, anyway." She laid the damp cloth across his forehead again and took up a blue-glazed pottery bowl, badly chipped. "I'm stepping outside to get you more water, Monsieur, and to see if the damp has left anything edible that the mob spared. I expect to be able to get back in here when I return." That was with a significant look at the bolts on the door. She even sounded like her mother! The comparison brought a smile to Erik's lips, tiny and unwilling, but a smile nonetheless.
He froze. The rare smiles he permitted himself always twisted his face in a way that made him very aware of the subtle pressure of the mask on his face. The pressure that was missing now.
[[ My mask. She's seen me without my mask. No wonder she recoiled. ]]
It didn't occur to him, as he relapsed into sleep, that it hadn't stopped Meg from caring for him.
~*~*~*~
Meg knelt by the lake and scooped another bowl of icy water. Her mind worked furiously.
{{ He's alive, he's speaking. He's weak, I think all he really needs is rest and food and water and time. He'll pull through. . . And then what? }} Meg sat back on her heels, staring at the glassy smooth ripples the bowl had left on the otherwise pristine surface of the lake without really seeing them A faint mist covered the lake's surface.
{{ If he survives, what now? I couldn't let him die. . . but how many have I condemned by the hand of the Phantom of the Opera? How many will die now, because I took pity on a murderer? }}
She was reminded of Christine's soliloquy. . . "Twisted every way. what answer can I give?" she whispered. "Am I to spare his life, and end another's chance to live.?"
Meg's salty tears fell, one by one, into the bowl she clutched in her lap.
~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~
That last was a twist *I* didn't expect, please tell me what you think! Your opinions mean a great deal to me!
AngelCeleste
Disclaimer, Blame and Setting: Same as before. I'm not making any money off of this, Melpomene hasn't made her signature appearance yet (though she's thinking about it), all the blame so far is mine, this whole thing is right after the ALW version but don't be surprised to find Leroux details in here as well, I keep them straight well enough in my own mind but like to mix them. Ah. Victorian-era swearwords lightly pepper the story but I don't think there's many here.
Other notes: To everyone who has so far read and reviewed, thank you very much for your comments! They're just the encouragement I need to continue with this since this is not going to be an easy one for me to write.
To Bubonic Woodchuck: I'm not much of a fan of E/M either, but that's how this one has to work in order for it to fall out right. I'm still not certain of how it'll end, but I'll burn that bridge when I come to it.
Don't worry about Christine, you'll hear from her soon enough. I'm not saying a word more.
[[ Erik's thoughts ]] {{ Meg's thoughts }}
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Lachesis' Weavings by AngelCeleste85
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Ch. 5 - Twisted Every Way
Erik became aware of a very soft, dim glow of red. [[ So I'm going to Hell at last. A fallen angel in hell. There's something rather appropriate about that. ]] He waited, but the dim light didn't seem to get any stronger. [[ How very kind they are, to leave a light on for me. ]]
It was then that Erik became aware of a dull hunger, and a thirst that was growing stronger every moment. The dead weren't hungry or thirsty, were they? There could only be one explanation.
He was still alive. Memory crashed home, and with it an overwhelming grief.
[[ Damn it all anyway! ]] Tears would have trickled down his cheeks, but his body hadn't the moisture for it yet. [[ I remember everything. oh God, why did You not let me die? ]] Perhaps it was a measure of his despair that Erik called on a being he had no belief in. For some time he cried, his body wracked with dry, silent sobs.
Eventually he regained some control over his raw nerves. [[ If I'm alive, I'm somewhere. Where? ]] Erik didn't seem to be able to open his eyelids, they felt like lead weights. With his other senses he explored the room.
He lay on something warm and soft - [[ I'm not in the chair? How did I get here? ]] - and the scent of lavender was strong in the air. It made him wince under the weight of too many bittersweet memories. The room was silent, except for breathing: two different breathers. One was raspy and dry, too quick and too shallow to be healthy, laboring for every breath. In surprise he realized that was his own breathing. [[ Damn, what did I do to myself? ]]
The other one was steady and regular, slow but deep: he could feel that warm breath on his cold hand, where a weight seemed to be pulling that soft surface he was resting on downward. All the pieces fit together suddenly. [[Christi- No! It can't be! I won't let her! ]]
Erik forced his eyes open, started to straighten himself up. and fell back with a great sigh, eyes closed again and exhausted from the effort. He knew where he was now, and who slept beside him. Christine had never had quite that shade of hair even when she wore wigs for various roles, and her raven tresses had always been in slightly better condition than the golden curls that tumbled about the face that was turned toward him.
There was a gasp and the sound of fabric rusting as the weight on that side of the bed vanished.
"Monsieur?" Shit, he'd woken her. As if the face was not all the identification he needed for her, the girl's trembling voice named her.
"Little Meg," he croaked out. Not the proper form of address, he knew, but he was much too tired for anything else. [[ I sound worse than Carlotta. ]] "What are you doing here?"
"I'm here to help."
"Don't bother," the man rasped. "Nobody can help me now."
Little Meg seemed rather alarmed by that statement. "That's not true, Monsieur. Maman says there's always hope as long as a body breathes."
"Don't talk to me about hope!" Anger gave strength to his voice and body and he sat up straight to fix a dark glare on her. "Hope just makes the darkness darker." His long, elegant hands, curved even at rest from forty years of playing music, clenched into fists at his side. The gesture was not lost on Meg who stepped back a pace, blue eyes wide.
"I came here to help you, Monsieur Erik," Meg said, her voice trembling again. "If I'd found you dead I would have buried you, but I found you alive and so help me God, that's how you'll stay."
That name, spoken with such determination. it took all the fight out of him and again he fell back. Meg's hands, small but deft, caught him halfway and eased him back down onto the pillows. "Why, when there is nothing left for me to live for?"
Meg was silent a moment before answering. "Are you thirsty, Monsieur?" was all she said. He shook his head, but something cold and metallic pressed at his mouth anyway. He could smell water. Before he knew it he had drunk the little the spoon contained. A sound of cloth tearing, the sound of cloth being submerged and then wrung, and something cool and damp was patted around his cheeks, forehead, throat, hands.
[[ She didn't answer the question. Why did she come down here? Why does she want to help a monster? ]]
There was a little tugging at his shirt - [[Good grief, she's less than half my age. I refuse to be undressed like a child, by a child, her mother will have a fit! ]] Then the cool cloth patted the bare skin there as well, a cool relief against his hot skin. With an effort he caught her hands and opened his eyes. "Don't," he rasped. "Go away. Leave me."
Erik was reminded very firmly of Madame Giry at her strictest, teaching the many undisciplined petite rats to dance as one body, one corps de ballet. "I can't do that," Meg replied calmly and freed herself from his grasp. "Not permanently, anyway." She laid the damp cloth across his forehead again and took up a blue-glazed pottery bowl, badly chipped. "I'm stepping outside to get you more water, Monsieur, and to see if the damp has left anything edible that the mob spared. I expect to be able to get back in here when I return." That was with a significant look at the bolts on the door. She even sounded like her mother! The comparison brought a smile to Erik's lips, tiny and unwilling, but a smile nonetheless.
He froze. The rare smiles he permitted himself always twisted his face in a way that made him very aware of the subtle pressure of the mask on his face. The pressure that was missing now.
[[ My mask. She's seen me without my mask. No wonder she recoiled. ]]
It didn't occur to him, as he relapsed into sleep, that it hadn't stopped Meg from caring for him.
~*~*~*~
Meg knelt by the lake and scooped another bowl of icy water. Her mind worked furiously.
{{ He's alive, he's speaking. He's weak, I think all he really needs is rest and food and water and time. He'll pull through. . . And then what? }} Meg sat back on her heels, staring at the glassy smooth ripples the bowl had left on the otherwise pristine surface of the lake without really seeing them A faint mist covered the lake's surface.
{{ If he survives, what now? I couldn't let him die. . . but how many have I condemned by the hand of the Phantom of the Opera? How many will die now, because I took pity on a murderer? }}
She was reminded of Christine's soliloquy. . . "Twisted every way. what answer can I give?" she whispered. "Am I to spare his life, and end another's chance to live.?"
Meg's salty tears fell, one by one, into the bowl she clutched in her lap.
~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~ ~*~*~*~*~
That last was a twist *I* didn't expect, please tell me what you think! Your opinions mean a great deal to me!
AngelCeleste