A.N: Just to let you all know, the lyrics in this part are from a play called "Samson et Dalila"…yes, I did my research! It's in French…or Latin? Italian? I don't know. I have the translation after it…but they're singing the French/Latin/Italian. I'm not sure where the lines I got fit into the play, so I made it the beginning. If you know otherwise, let me know. I don't know if I'll be able to fit it in correctly, but it's always nice to know these things.
Also, I want to thank each and every reviewer. Each time I get that email notice that says "Review Alert," I get this big, goofy grin on my face. Please keep it up, guys. You only inspire me more.
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RENEWAL
Two Years Later…
-
"This new performance is highly anticipated by the public, Monsieur LaFerve. It is to be a full house, as promised…?"
"You need not fret, Baron. Your generous donations to the Opera de Moncharmin will not be in vain. Once we have the theater up and running it will be the most popular Opera house in Lyons…France, for that matter. You will have your fame and glory soon enough…not to mention a large percentage of profits…" The Baron de La Borderie took note of the manager's subtle metamorphosis from hasty promotion to sullen displeasure.
"What makes you so certain of the theater's success, Monsieur?" the Baron questioned, raising his eyebrow.
LaFerve took a sip of his champagne, the drink bubbling violently in his small glass chalice. "Our dancers are undeniably the most skilful in this part of the country, Baron. And we have also found a new, undiscovered lead soprano…" Monsieur LaFerve pointed across the hall of the opera house to a young woman who stood anxiously awaiting the start of the play.
"She is quite attractive, Monsieur…" The Baron de La Borderie peered at her through his monocle. "But can she sing?"
"We shall see, shan't we?" Monsieur LaFerve murmured to him, smirking, his eyes locked on the girl's small physique.
"What is her name?"
LaFerve glanced at the baron hesitantly. "Well, the other performers know her only as 'Erika,' Baron," he replied after a pause. "We don't really know much else about her…"
The Baron turned to the manager sharply. "Nothing else? Where she came from? Her last name?" LaFerve dropped his gaze to the ground and shook his head. "What did you write on the programs?"
Anxiously, LaFerve fidgeted with his black bowtie with pale, pudgy fingers. "We simply wrote, 'Mademoiselle Erika as Dalila.' It seemed sort of…mysterious, enticing in its own right."
The Baron de La Borderie watched as the woman, "Erika" as Monsieur LaFerve called her, ran her fingers through her long, curly brunette hair, biting her bottom lip nervously. There was something about her... Something that radiated the sensation of dark, hidden secrets...
-
'How long has it been?' Christine asked herself moments before the curtains opened. 'It feels like an eternity…'
As soon as the bright lights hit her face, she felt a rush of nervousness mixed with an undeniable sense of excitement. Her gaze flew to the nearest theater box on the left-hand side… "I will be watching you…watching and waiting…you have excelled so much in the past few years…"
She felt his gaze, even though she could not see him. He was there…inside her mind…
The man who stood before Christine reminded her a bit of Signor Piangi from Paris, considering his curly black hair, olive complexion, and obesity. He strode towards her, the listeners' attention focused on each step. He held out his hands, the fingers pointed at her chest, before reaching out and touching her cheek lightly. She took an involuntary step backwards, her ornate emerald skirt rustling against her exposed legs lightly.
"Spento è quel sol,
quel sorriso,
Quel raggio che mi fa vivo -
Che mi fa lieto!
Tu alfin, Clemenza,
Pio genio immortal
Dal roseo riso,
Copri il tuo viso santo
Coll'orrida larva infernal!"
(Extinguished is that sun, that smile,
that ray that gave me life -
that gave me happiness!
But you, oh Mild One,
pious eternal spirit
with the rosy smile,
go cover your holy face
with the horrid mask of hell!)
He raised his fist dramatically, his mood changing suddenly. Christine put on a mask of shock, purposefully over-dramatic, as the man strode toward the edge of the stage, addressing her character but singing out into the audience.
"Ah! Dannazione!
Pria confessi il delitto
E poscia muoia!
Confession! Confession!
La prova!"
(Ah! Damnation!
Let her confess the crime
and then die!
Confession! Confession!
The proof!)
Christine cast one last fleeting look at the box, and she would have sworn she saw him nod to her comfortingly. She took a deep breath, opened her mouth, and began to sing…
-
"Damn," he murmured to himself as they sat down on the luxurious Prussian velvet seats. Raoul rummaged furiously around in his suit jacket pocket, groaning in frustration.
"What is it?" the young woman beside him asked gently, placing a white-gloved hand on his arm.
The Vicomte relinquished his search. "My opera glasses…I seem to have misplaced them."
His fiancée laughed good-naturedly, tossing her short mane of golden chestnut locks. "You seem to have misplaced a lot of things lately, dear. Just sit back and enjoy the play."
Raoul glanced at her, watching the string of diamonds around her dainty beige neck glitter in the dim lighting. In just a few short weeks, the woman beside him would be the Vicomtess de Chagny, wife of one of the wealthiest men in Paris. She was so different from Christine… Sabine was so feminine, so high-strung; these traits, both a blessing and a curse. Raoul knew his fiancée would enjoy simply hanging on his arm, listening to him talk…she would be the perfect little wife. And yet, he longed for Christine's fieriness…
Sabine ran her fingers over the back of his neck, snapping him out of his thoughts. "So, how are you enjoying the city, Raoul?" she whispered in his ear. Their trip to Lyons had been spur of the moment; Sabine had wanted to see the Opera de Moncharmin… And though operas were anything but enjoyable for him, Raoul, in his efforts to please (if not spoil indulgently) the future Vicomtess, had made all the arrangements to spend a romantic weekend in Lyons.
He smiled warmly at her. "It's beautiful, darling." After kissing her softly on the cheek, Raoul turned his attention to the program he held in his hand. Samson et Dalila. It had been a good seven…no, at least eight years since he had even stepped foot in a theater. Dear Lord… The memories flew around his head as if sent on the wings of Heaven. His thoughts were interrupted by the deafening voice of a tenor; Samson had made his momentous introduction. Raoul glanced back at the paper. Samson was played by some Italian, a Donato Di Carmine. And Dalila…Mademoiselle Erika? "Sabine…" Raoul murmured, nudging his fiancée lightly. "Have you ever heard of Mademoiselle Erika?"
"Who?" she asked, her eyes locked on the man on stage.
"Mademoiselle Erika...the girl who plays Dalila."
Sabine shook her head. "I do not recognize the name. She must be new, darling." Mademoiselle Erika began her overture with a chromatic archipelago, the notes filling the air with a sweet, haunting melody. "She's quite good, whoever she is."
Raoul didn't answer. Her voice…how it reminded him of Christine's… He shuddered subconsciously.
"Are you alright, dear?"
The Vicomte blinked. "Yes, fine…"
-
The coach stopped by the gate, the moon hidden behind the clouds ominously. Christine glanced up at the house, completely encompassed in darkness, before stepping out of the carriage and signaling the driver to move ahead. Clutching her cloak to her body, she continued up the winding steps to the front door.
She still expected Madame Giry to welcome her in, but Christine kept reminding herself that Madame Giry had left for Paris a few months before in hopes of catching her daughter's new performance. Christine opened the door quietly, gazing through the glass in hopes of seeing Erik in the foyer. The corridor was blackened, covered in shadows. She stepped inside, her feet touching the soft wine-colored rug delicately.
"Erik, I got the job!" she called, her voice echoing through the room. "I'm the Opera de Moncharmin's newest diva!"
The mansion remained as silent as a tomb.
Christine set her bags down next to the closet. "Erik?" The curtains in the parlor fluttered noiselessly, and she wandered into the room, shutting the open window tightly and latching it shut. "Erik, are you home?"
Of course he was home; Erik had promised to be waiting for her when she got back. He left a few minutes early, in order to avoid the after-performance rush. "Just in case," he had said.
She looked up at the grand staircase before her, and it almost seemed to stare back. It had never appeared so foreboding, so impending as it did then… Christine shook away the thoughts of dread that lined her mind, scolding herself for her unfounded pessimism. She took a hold of the banister and started up the steps.
Christine trailed her hand along the oak paneling of the wall, a creak resonating through the hallway as she stepped on the top stair. "Erik…?"
The door to their bedroom was ajar. It was the last room in the corridor, on the left. She felt her heart beat quicken slightly…Erik always closed the bedroom door when he slept. Christine pushed it open cautiously, climactically…
A single candle flickered in the darkness. The figure that sat in the chair beside it wore no shirt, his hair combed back smoothly. Slowly, he raised his head, his face glowing in the candlelight.
Erik watched her cross the room, an enigmatic and alluring smile lining his lips. Christine was speechless with her own desires…how strong and enticing they were… The ebony mask that covered the right side of his face mirrored the shadows that danced across the room. He held a single blood red rose in his hand, a black ribbon tied tightly around the stem.
"Good evening, Christine."
-
Even before it happened, Christine had known this time was matchless, unrivaled by any other night. Erik stood and stepped towards her, running his hand up the curve of her neck to her chin. He tilted her head up towards him, but Christine pulled away, a small, captivating smile crossing her face.
She pulled off her shawl slowly and tossed it onto the bed. Erik's eyes glittered in the darkness, and he trailed his hand over the sleeve of her silk blouse. Encircling her in his arms, his fingers played gingerly with the lacing of her corset. Christine ran her palms over the sculpted muscles of his chest, kissing his skin passionately. She felt the pressure of her garments against her skin ease up and drop to the floor, and she was met with the glorious warmth of his lips at her breasts.
It was slow, careful, expectant. Sweat dripped from Christine's brow in anticipation as he lowered her onto through the black curtains and onto the bed. She led his hand as it removed her skirt, delicate and graceful. Everything about it was strange, different from the flurry of intensity and fervor she had known before. It was good. Black and white, dark and pure, a paradox in its own existence. And she wanted it…she needed it.
Christine clutched his shoulders, feeling her nails break his skin and enjoying it. She looked into his eyes for a fleeting moment and knew that he did, too. Pressing her mouth to the side of his neck, she felt a surge of wonderful, throbbing pain take over her body, and she bit down impulsively. Long red scratches left their mark on his shoulder blades, and her legs wrapped themselves around his waist. She found him, and in that moment she was in her own Heaven.
It was then that Erik, who had always been silent, always a man of concealed enigma, cried out into the night. "Christine, I love you," he said in a rush, folding his arms around her small back and pressing her to him. "I have never...known...such a love...in my entire being..." he panted into her ear. A sigh escaped his lips, and he kissed the corner of her mouth.
Christine paused, only for a brief moment, and looked into his eyes. And she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that what he said was true.
-
Had there ever existed a contentment to compare with what she felt? No, this was true bliss, genuine and untainted in all its splendor. Christine lay against Erik's upper body, settling atop his chiseled torso, engrossing herself in his existence. She began to lose herself in the steady resonance of his soothing breaths, reminiscing about the night before…
"Christine?"
She looked up at him, her honey brown eyes softening in the subtle glow of sunlight reflected in his mask, and she trailed her fingers down his chest. "Hmm?" she murmured pensively.
For a moment, Erik remained silent. He simply gazed down at her, his hand running across her shoulders lightly. "You gave your name as Erika." It was not a question, but even without asking, Christine understood he had been taken aback by her stage name.
She buried her head deeper against him, nestling herself between his arm and his waist. "It seemed only fair, Erik. You have never received any credit, any of the honor you so desperately deserve." She traced her lips down the length of his chin and across the light shadow of developing beard along his jaw. "Even if…" -she kissed his neck, gently nibbling the lobe of his ear- "…I'm the only one who will ever know…" -her tongue crept out of her mouth and met his willingly- "…it's more symbolic…" Her words were interrupted by his persisting lips, and she did not mind. "Your spirit and my voice, in one combined…" she murmured between kisses, her voice dancing across the line that related speech and song.
Erik expected to be thrown back into reality at any moment. He awaited the end of the dream, foresaw it, dreaded it. And yet, that whisper in the back of his mind kept haunting him, deliciously, telling him this was no fantasy. Christine really lay beside him, and he was indeed holding her in his arms, and he loved her. "Christine…"
But she had drifted back to sleep, enfolded in the comfort of his embrace, small wisps of air trailing past her lips and caressing his skin. Christine did not awaken until much later, when the noontime sun was high in the sky. Something stirred within her, something not felt but sensed, and she placed her hand lightly over her stomach absentmindedly.
