1) First Phan fic. Long time Phan-first fic 2) Don't own nothing. Otherwise I'd be a Phan Owner (P.O.) and Erik (P.T.O) wouldn't leave my bedroom. (O.O)
Bitter Cup of Wine
Behind the grand mirror in her dressing room, Erik watched silently as Christine darted away-her deft steps carrying her out of his sight. Moments later, a gaggle of ballet dancers-chattering and chortling like talkative geese strolling around-enveloped her and she vanished in their midst. They congratulated her effusively and endlessly chatted about her success at the gala. It really was dramatic-the sort of romantic whirlwind success that lent the dusting of glamor to the lives of singers and dancers alike and helped blind them to the endless whirl of rehearsals, dress rehearsals, the endless performances and dulled the sharp blade of reality that someone else was always ready to take your place.
In the end, it was the competition and the public's endless hunger for the novel that killed off members of the Opera. There was always someone waiting in the wings with eyes open for an opening. During the years, he had seen it happen more than he would care to think about. It was almost as dangerous as the harems of the Orient. Someone with a larger part would "accidentally" eat something that disagreed with them or "unfortunately" slip on something and be unable to perform. The understudy, with glowing eyes, would eagerly offer condolences and gleefully fulfill the role. The Opera must go on and on like a careless machine chewing up the bones and hearts of the performers.
Even those with rich or well known patrons-the rich or nouveau riche who liked to amuse themselves by buying the company of lithe ballet dancers or talented singers-even they ended up falling victim to "pranks". The management would dub them "pranks"-lest one of the patrons become offended when his pet was targeted. Sometimes the member would leave-confident of the promise of marriage or security. Sometimes the member would leave to raise bear the fruit of the nobility's indescretions. Sometimes a jealous wife or husband would force a departure in some way. Or other performers would take a disliking, grumbling to management and generally causing mischief.
Erik himself had a hard time remembering the last time a performer's retirement had been voluntary.
Only the brightest and most famous had any form of protection or security. They were the true draws of the Opera-regardless of talent (or lack thereof in La Carlotta's case). If he were perfectly honest, it was a rare guest who actually came to see the performance, rather than to see and be seen . It was quite the thing and considered to be the sign of a cultured member of society if one could claim to have seen this one or that one perform. So, the Opera management carefully cultivated whoever they could manage to attract-keeping them amused and happy at all costs so that they audiences would be amused and happy. Then, with a happy audience, the Opera could attract more patrons with more money that they could spend attracting new stars.
That is what he wanted for Christine-that rarified and heady power that only a true diva with a masterful talent could command. She would be protected from the petty bitterness that ran rife through the chorus. Her place assured in the Opera, she could then afford to retire gracefully to a small cottage in her home town. (That small dream he had filched from her diary.) Perhaps she could write her memoirs or teach budding young singers herself and honor some city's local gentry with her grace and presence. At the outrageous prices divas commanded, she would be comfortable on the savings she scrupulously stashed away in her account. That was power-and everything he coveted. The glamor, money and social entree to go on beyond the stone walls of the Opera House to wherever and whatever she wished to do whenever she wished to do it.
Erik sighed softly-his breath a hiss through the mask.
Christine, bless her, understood nothing of this. It was the height of irony that, in her way, she was as innocent of the machinations of the Opera as a gypsy. So long as her little account book had enough for her to purchase an occasional new hat or dress or whatnot and she had her place at the Opera, she had truly no conception of wanting more. The needs of the moment were fulfilled and she hadn't aspired to climb the sheer rock face of the Opera hierarchy.
Erik carefully began packing his violin up. No, Christine had not aspired to more. That's what made that boy dangerous. His charm and good looks would have swayed many a maid. In addition to that he had both title and wealth, as well as the acceptance of the nobility of Paris. Subtly, he offered Christine all of the same dreams and draws Erik himself did along with a tremendously easier path to follow to get them.
All she had to do was say "yes".
It was a devilish hook-just say "yes"-and one that Eric loathed. Eric had seen many a singing girl wooed and won and tossed aside by a callous nobleman bent on conquest. Far better for her to achieve her success on her own rather than depend on anything so fickle as a young man's heart. Far harder, as well.
Eric snorted. That's what he had told himself in her company at least. It's what he tried to tell her as well, with the words dying on his lips unspoken. Better to achieve yourself rather than throw away your opportunities now for a possibility of the future based on a boy's promises.
...Love is patient. Love is kind... The words from his mother's bible came back to haunt him. He was being impatient. Kind was a debatable quality.
It was when he was alone, with no music to drown out the inner words that he wasn't so convinced. That darker side of him-uncontrollable as a wild stallion snorting and pawing in its paddock-whispered to him little suggestions and flourishes on how to bind Christine to him. She will undoubtedly be grateful. Once she gets her first taste of power that voice whispered to him. Perhaps the first time that she receives an ovation for her alone? Perhaps the first time the management bows to her whim as they scraped and bowed when Carlotta wanted to perform "Faust" instead of "The Magic Flute"? That voice was insidious, cackling at the thought of M. Firmin and M. Andre literally on their knees in front of Christine as she imperiously demanded changes. And who will she have to thank? You! The voice smiled softly in the dark of the hidden tunnels. That's right. You!
And her distraction with that milk-fed whelp was intolerable. He sent little gifts and bouquets and notes, messengers attracting her attention and taking her concentration away from her task at hand. He couldn't count the number of times that their music lessons had been delayed or interrupted. Just as well that her door was of thick wood-muffling any sound from within. And that the floorboards-carefully placed down the hall-squeaked in warning if someone was coming.
Perhaps, he conceeded in silence, it was time for her to be removed to some more remote dressing room or some such. Just to allow her to concentrate, of course the dark side winked slyly. Somewhere she won't be interrupted all the time. Eric scowled. He'd need a cage in the middle of a maze to prevent men from sniffing around her and taking up her attention since she was too kind to tell them to bugger off.
The darker voice laughed bitterly. There was a cage-a sturdy thing of stout wooden bars and a wooden floor that featured prominently in Méhul's "Joseph in Egypt". The walls were carefully pinned to allow them to be loosed and unfolded into various positions, allowing for a witch's cage in "Hansel and Gretel", a corner of a slaver's pen in "Djamileh", and the barred wall of Marguerite's prison in "Mephistopheles". Of course, the iron pins that held the walls together were forever "disappearing", so the whole lot was eventually abandoned in one of the lower cellars.
So there was a cage. And anyone would conceed that the five cellars and myriad passages were a labyrinth. Not to mention all the little cupboards and hidden rooms he had tucked in during the building.
Perhaps that would keep her mind on his instruction, he snorted to himself. Briefly he allowed himself to picture that. Christine in that cage, dried straw up to her ankles. Not that he'd allow her to subsist on such crude fare as the cliche bread and water from metal pans. He would ensure that she had ripe jewels of berries and heavy black agate globes of grapes, golden honey spread over steaming crusty bread, wine fit for a king and rich cheeses served on the silver platter from his mother's house. The cage was large enough to allow a full grown man to lie down, and with two or three featherbeds on top a small bed, and a few blankets, a rug to reduce the chill of the stone floor and a stand for some candles, it could actually be comfortable.
More comfortable than the cages he had experience with anyway.
Erik shook his head. As delightful as the image was-Christine at his beck and call-the image of the cage gave him the shudders. No matter if he made her a cage of purest gold as big as a palace-it was still a cage. And he loved Christine too much to heap such humiliation on her shoulders.
But it was intolerable that he had to constantly keep an ear out for intruders-invaders into the tiny world of magic and music that they created during their music lessons. Completely intolerable for them to be interrupted by a stream of visitors-little Meg wanting to get a cup of tea, some chorus girl wanting to borrow a copy of the latest score, or some errand boy with yet another gift from that idiotic suitor of hers. Was it really so much to ask for a few hours of uninterrupted time?
Eric's breath hissed through the mask again. This time I'll lay everything out on the table-tell her she's going to have to make a choice. He promised himself he'd do that. If she doesn't want to devote herself completely to her career, then she doesn't deserve the help. He sighed. No, not one jot of help if she couldn't be disciplined and reliable.
Eric's soft laughter fell in a toneless melody and he began thinking about his next lesson, knowing he'd do anything for her.
Anything.