Disclaimer: We don't need to tell you this, but you know, it's just here. We don't own 'Phantom of the Opera', though we would like to. That belongs to Gaston Leroux and the rest of the wonderful (or not so wonderful… * coughcoughFORSYTHEcoughcough*…) geniuses who have brought this story to life. Don't bother suing us; we don't make a penny off this.
Summary: A phic exploring the possibility of another person sharing
Erik's face.
A Story of Love: by Lady Death & L'Ange de Folie
* * *
"Hush, Lucie! You can't really mean that!"
"I most certainly do! What do we
know of him, after all? Lurking around
in that ridiculous mask and scaring everyone half to death. One of her
lot, no doubt. And up to something shady, you mark
my words! You simply cannot trust
people like that, my dear. Not one
bit. What honest man covers his
face? He probably wears the mask so
nobody will recognize him for the thief and vagabond that he is. Wanted by the police, no doubt. You know, I hear they found a dead man over
at the faire the other night! Just where was our mysterious guest then, I ask
you?"
There was an audible gasp. "You don't mean…"
"I wouldn't be the least bit surprised, child."
Pursing her lips irritably, Christine bent over the simmering broth on the
stove, determined to tune out the oblivious chattering of the pair in the other
room. Ignoring them was the best course
of action she could take – Lucie had disliked her from the moment she had set
foot in this house. Requesting her to
stop would remedy the situation only as long as the servant thought her
employer's wife was in hearing range, but beyond that, the gossip would
continue ten fold. And besides that,
Christine could not bring herself to consider dismissing this woman who had
worked in the de Chagny household since before she had been born.
The last vestiges of their conversation caught her ear through the thin kitchen door as they departed and Christine sighed. While she had been relatively bothered by the remarks at first, she did not think upon them too deeply anymore.
However, she could not help but feel somewhat rankled by the old woman's insistence upon passing such hurtful rumors about Erik along to the other members of the staff. It hardly mattered if she were the topic, she was used to it, but she felt it incredibly far more vulgar, obscene, crude, and infuriatingly distasteful when it was Erik they were discussing in such vicious measures behind his back.
She wasn't sure they even any
conceivable notion of what they were truly saying.
She was sure, however, that by lunchtime, Aurélie would be wholly infected by the propaganda, telling
anyone who would listen that she'd seen Erik dragging the bodies out of the
house herself. Completely ridiculous –
absolute moonshine – but if she happened to tell any of the village… or worse,
if Erik should overheard her…!
She flushed with embarrassment.
Perhaps she would have a discussion with him about the regrettably insensitive
and malicious nature of the servants before he chanced to overhear anything, as
he always seemed to do in the natural progression of things. It would be futile to think that such
blatantly stentorian words would not reach his ears – everything always did.
"And how am I to go about presenting this to him?" She thought, running several possible scenarios over in her head.
She wasn't even sure of how Erik would react to the information. His temper was so volatile and unforeseeable. Just when she was beginning to delude herself that she knew him well enough to predict such emotional explosions, something would always happen to destroy her beliefs and shatter her assumptions entirely…
The chandelier… The torture chamber… And now…
She could hold no illusions as to the identity of the man found dead at the
fair or to his cause of death. When she
recalled the memory of the night, and it was obvious what had clandestinely
transpired even if Erik hadn't been inclined to mention it.
While she knew perfectly well what had happened, she felt it slightly bewildering for a moment to think that Erik had lethally disposed of another human being, right there, on the spot, no qualms, no fear of repercussions, while they stood outside. And they returned home -- simply returned home as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. And that was it.
Of all the killings Erik was reported to have made, in the back of her mind, Christine found it almost hard to believe that he had actually commit any of them at all. It seemed inconceivable that her tutor, her angel, her friend, was also the heartless killer she had been warned of. It was impossible in her mind to connect the two people. It seemed to her as if Erik were a separate entity, only a relative of this Phantom of the Opera that had sent the ballet rats into titters of gleeful terror. She had only ever really seen the gentle, benign side of him…
And after all, she hadn't ever actually seen him murder anyone.
She had never actually seen
that legendary Punjab lasso at work…
…Not as if she honestly wanted to, of course.
Christine busied herself with the broth she had let sit.
The very thought
of Erik's well-suppressed, easily summoned, nearly undetectable homicidal alter
ego sent an involuntary tremor down her spine.
She felt horrible thinking these thoughts. Those ponderings -- accompanied now
with the growing realization that she had inadvertently, yet essentially
assisted in the murder -- gnawed at her conscience. In her downward spiral of thought, she couldn't help but doubt
her judgment in seeking out Erik for his help and expertise.
Somehow, she felt she had always known that this would be the consequence of
her decision, but never allowed herself to acknowledge that nagging fear. She had convinced herself that the situation
could be remedied entirely without violence and that their first excursion to
the fair had been a random incident.
She had trusted Erik to select an agenda to free the boy that would suit their needs without bloodshed. But, unfortunately, it seemed that Erik's mind was not programmed to work with such an inhibition.
And now another person was dead because of her and her poor judgment, and her idiotic faith that everything would work out perfectly; that they'd live happily ever after.
She closed her eyes briefly.
She of all people should know that stories never realistically ended like that.
Perhaps going to the police would have been a much better
option – something more rational than romantic. Perhaps it would have been better if she'd never gone to Erik
about Edward…
But if she hadn't gone to Erik, then the poor child would still be trapped in
that awful place, and none of her best efforts could have even come close to
the degree of success Erik had attained.
Even if she had even managed just that, how would she be
able to care for Edward? She certainly
couldn't have taken him home like some lost puppy and Raoul wouldn't have
permitted his permanent residence for long.
If she had pleaded to any sort of official help they would have taken
him away and sent him off to some orphan's asylum, which could be just as worse
as where they had rescued him for all she knew.
What she was willing to accept seemed impossible without Erik.
She knew it sounded absolutely horrible and depraved, but if Aldo's death was the cost of Edward's freedom, then she had to consider it…
It seemed a small enough price to
pay… wasn't it?
Yes, a small enough price to pay, that is, if the town didn't ascertain Erik's
identity and get it into their heads to hang him…
A mental image of Erik swinging from the gallows caused her to startle.
A chill ran through her body from that sudden, unexpectedly morbid thought and she realized that she had been uselessly standing there, holding the spoon motionless for some time.
She hastened to collect a small bowl and carefully fill it with the broth she had been working to fit to Erik's exacting specifications from yesterday morning. She placed the meager meal down on a tray next to a few small slices of bread and a glass of water.
Balancing the tray carefully, she nudged open the kitchen door as best she could and made her way around to the hall.
At the top of the staircase, her trembling hands caused a bit of the broth to spill over the edge of the bowl and dot the tray. With a sharp sigh, she paused to take a calming breath.
Considering the cause, it really wouldn't do for Erik -- or Edward, for that matter -- to see her so agitated. If she were to run into Erik as she had previously, and were he to notice her upset…
She had never been able to hide anything from him.
Ever.
He always seemed to know what was going on in her mind and sometimes it was unnerving. Those golden eyes seemed to be able to peer so deep into her soul… those eyes that could regard her with benevolent care one moment and flash with evil intent the next --
She took another deep breath, pushing away the unpleasant thoughts.
Dwelling on murder and Erik in the same sentence was not a conductive thing to entertain at the moment. In her sudden disquietude, she nearly dropped the tray. Gently placing it on a hallway table, she did not wish to discover whether or not her hard work would complete a successful meeting with the floor.
She waited to regain her composure, striving to calm her trembling.
As she rested against the small table Christine found herself recalling something Raoul had told her earlier in their marriage.
"There's nothing that can be done to change the past. All you're doing is causing yourself more pain."
The event had happened shortly after she and Raoul had married and moved away from gossiping, rumor-ridden Paris to this quiet little utopia. Her waking hours had been filled with ecstatic happiness as she reveled in Raoul's eagerness to please, but when Raoul's light slipped away and Erik's darkness reigned supreme, she was plagued by guilt-ridden nightmares.
As Raoul had whispered soothingly to her one difficult night, she could not undo what she had done under the opera, nor could she now undo what had happened at the fair.
And he was absolutely right.
She gathered the tray, and returned to a moving state.
Fretting over it wouldn't solve anything – it never did – though she realized it might very well alienate Erik when she needed him the most. Erik had never necessarily been proud of his frightening ability to kill and she shouldn't exacerbate that fact by worrying and obsessing over it.
Perhaps it was really none of her business, in the end. She knew she was still quite unaware of the exact circumstances.
Any number of things could have happened in that tent and she could hardly fault Erik if his life had been in danger at the time… it could have been, couldn't it? The whole event could have been an instance of self-defense!
Though, if she could find the nerve…
Perhaps she would have to ask him about the details…
Just for her peace of mind, of course…
While significantly more at ease than she had been before, she still hesitated outside the door to Edward's room.
She shuffled her feet, looking thoughtfully at the smooth grain door considering whether or not she should knock. It was the polite thing to do of course, but at such an early hour in the morning she was sure he would still be asleep. Erik had reassured her that Edward needed rest to heal and she certainly didn't want to wake him.
Even if he was awake, it wasn't as if they'd be able to communicate. It would be exceedingly awkward for the both of them.
And he is still so terribly skittish. He jumps and cringes away every time either of us so much as moves. I would hate to imagine how much something like an intrusion would frighten him…
Balancing the tray carefully on one
hand, she quietly resolved to ease open the door.
Inside, the room was dim, but not enough to make seeing impossible. It wasn't the consummate blackness Erik
preferred, but more of the soothing, caring shadow she associated with
untroubled naps during times of leisure. A faint, tenuous beam of early morning
sunlight shone through the partially opened curtains, revealing a small
delicate form still buried soundly in the sheltering mound of blankets on the
bed, a tousled mass of longish chestnut hair and one thin hand peeking out from
underneath.
A gentle smile crept across Christine's face as she stepped conservatively into
the room, silencing her footsteps as best she could. She began to maneuver
herself towards the bedside table, but she stopped almost immediately, her
heart giving a small leap and taking up a terribly uncomfortable pounding in
her chest upon the sight of another unexpected figure.
She peered into the room's depths with a sudden rush of fear and worry, but as her eyes adjusted more fully to the significantly darker environment, the person became clearer.
She was highly surprised, even shyly amused at what she saw.
Slumped in an armchair directly across from the bed, head lolled to one side, and apparently still quite sound asleep, was Erik.
Feeling pricelessly skittish, Christine ventured a diffident half step closer.
He was still fully attired in his mask and the clothes he had worn the day before, his normally crisply pressed shirt wrinkled from sleep and wear. He looked only politely disheveled, something never seen in the course of her existence due to near infatuation with the controllable aspects of his appearance. Christine couldn't help but regard the sight with quiet fascination.
He must have fallen asleep watching over Edward as he had spoken of doing so the previous night. It made her feel strangely content.
Somehow, catching Erik asleep thusly, as she had often caught her father napping on warm afternoons, made her mentor seem exceptionally and uncharacteristically normal. It was a marked difference from the nearly supernatural image he often presented -- of being beyond the need for such mortal necessities as sleep.
The all powerful Opera Ghost.
Christine resisted the urge to chuckle at the title. Of course she should know better than to allow herself to fall under such pretenses. Really, it was the kind of thing Meg or Jammes would say. She wondered idly what either of them would say, were they able to see him now, sound asleep in a chair.
It was not a terrible sight, overall, Christine concluded. Of course, she assumed he didn't usually sleep in the mask. In the safety of his own home or in private, she knew he wouldn't wear his mask more than was absolutely necessary…
I've never seen him asleep before…The thought struck her quite suddenly. He had always risen before her for as along as she had known him, and it was quite probable it was to avoid just this sort of situation.
What would he think of her if he awoke now and caught her staring at him – gawking?
It would be best to leave before she discovered for certain and spare them all that potential embarrassment.
As quietly as she could possibly manage, Christine crept across the room toward the small nightstand next to the bed, absurdly grateful for the carpeting which silenced her footsteps.
Carefully arranging the tray where it would be seen, Christine prepared to leave. At the door she paused to take a last look at the pair, a smile creeping across her face.
Edward was in good hands and Erik would be the attentive, patient mentor she had always known him to be. Things would turn out all right.
She listened intently; Erik's soft, steady breathing was just barely audible, mingled with the even quieter breathing of the figure in the bed. It was a wonderfully peaceful sound, almost lulling her toward sleep herself. Perhaps she would take an early morning nap before she proceeded with the day. Yes, that sounded nice…
It was an act of ultimate will power to back silently out of the room, shutting the door behind her with a nearly imperceptible click.
* * *
(A/N: Yes, yes, yes… we know, we know, we know… we apologize (re: grovel) for the absolutely appalling lack of updating we have done (re: none) in these past months, (re: ten). We have a spectacularly immodest list of excuses for you ranging from chapter-specific writer's block, to the immortal complaint of schoolwork; from the demands of real life, and to carpel tunnel, to pitifully mention a few.
Not that we haven't been working on this phic, though! This poor, particular chapter has been written and rewritten about twice now in a couple different directions, and this is unfortunately the closest we can come to something coherent. It's a dud. It's long, it's lengthy, it's Christine angst -- we're sorry! Don't hurt us!
However, we do have some direction planned for the phic, and we haven't been entirely lazy and stagnant for we have several other phics in queue, with actual – whole – chapters (imagine that!) waiting for their turn… just had to give this bunny a little break. But, we're getting back with it! Just need to get past a couple pacing chapters before things kick up. (Readers: "Get on with it!" )
Yes, yes, we're very sorry and very aware this sounds incredibly whiny and is amounting to length as long the chapter itself… * hides * )