The Usual: Yeah, I don't own these characters; credit there goes to M. Leroux and in this case Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber. At least I can manipulate them in my own little world. :)
Side Note: Thank you so much to those who have taken time to add a review. It really makes my day. I hope I won't disappoint any of you with the next chunky here.
I'm also hoping to put up some of the other one I'm working on soon but it's the end of the quarter and my teachers are trying to see what they can cram in before grades are due. (Next year, it'll be midterms instead so I won't complain too much). We'll see how much my computer cooperates, it was having a mini-siezure earlier today...
Happy reading everyone.
Anyway... enough of that... read.
The next morning, Christine and Madame Giry awoke with a start as strangled yelps and yells erupted from the hallway.
"Help! Somebody, anybody! Help!" The screams were most unbecoming for the Vicomte de Chagny as he pleaded desperately without thought toward dignity. Mme Giry burst out of the room and gawked at what she saw, suppressing laughter as best she could.
The Vicomte, for it was he under layers of stage makeup, was far from comfortable; almost in reaching distance from the edge of the stairs, he twisted madly in the ropes that held him precariously over the three story drop. His face camouflaged pasty white with splotches of brilliant color, he looked the part of a clown, all the way to a red nose, but for the costume. A mirror had been suspended in front of him, his own face being the first thing he saw when he woke up that morning… the floor several feet below him was the second. Ropes swathed about his body, some holding his wrists, others across his torso and more binding his feet. Each time he moved one rope, another part of his body jerked as if he were some sick human marionette. Raoul squirmed and thrashed but his efforts only succeeded in tightening his restraints. His eyes widened and his breathing became rapid and shallow once he realized that the rope about his neck was indeed rather taunt, indenting into the skin.
Christine made her way to the door, her sickly face nearly as pale as Raoul's powdered one. After she'd witnessed her fiancé's state, her strength gave out and she collapsed. Mme Giry ripped her eyes from Raoul and saw Christine back to her bed. Raoul's breathing had moderated but the veins in his arm and neck jutted out from his skin as his muscles refused to relax in his distress.
"I beseech you to calm down, Monsieur le Vicomte. The ropes will continue to tighten the more you squirm."
He didn't reply, other than a tiny nod, nor did he make a quip on his own discovery of the validity of her statement. Mme Giry made the call to arms and soon several stage hands, from the prop masters and scenery painters to those who raised the heavy curtain, rushed to Raoul's aid. Many snickered, some made efforts to hide their mirth, others grinned openly, and Raoul's eyes shone with anger and mortification.
Cutting the ropes was a tricky business as some were still attached for their original purpose, whatever it may have been. When the rope about Raoul's neck was cut, a large thunk echoed from the stage as a scene from Act Two crashed to the floor. A few ballerinas proved ample acrobats and scaled the ropes along with some of the men, in efforts to disentangle rather than slash thoughtlessly. When another rope about his chest was severed, the squeak of pulleys proved the only warning before Raoul was swiftly flipped upside-down, sending several of those around him scrabbling to grip another rope. Mme Giry ordered her ballerinas down for the rest of the rescue. The Vicomte's face flushed as time slowly passed; the men were taking no more chances.
Some two hours later, Raoul finally placed his feet on the ground again. The crowd cheered lightly, some laughing openly at the ridiculous nature of the whole situation. Raoul praised his rescuers before stalking off, eager to clean off his painted and sweat-streaked face.
Christine received updates on Raoul's condition when Mme Giry felt something had occurred of importance, certain that the girl would be concerned for his safety. Christine was at a loss; oh, she wanted to laugh, the whole ordeal was insane, but she knew it was wrong to laugh at Raoul's expense. Once Raoul had been freed and reportedly left, Christine enjoyed a few moments of unrestrained laughter until her physical state lead her into exhausted slumber. Before she had entirely allowed herself consumed by sleep, she swore she could hear soft tones of laughter rumble from behind the mirror.
Raoul grumbled furiously to himself, ignoring the stares of the driver. He felt each pair of eyes that followed him from the opera house and thanked God that he had found his coach quickly. He covered his face as best he could, willing the world not to see his disgrace. The journey seemed an eternity but he soon burst through the door of his home as if the devil were at his heels. His servants discreetly performed what their duties, making no references the master's bizarre appearance; Raoul knew they would gossip for the next week. Scowling, he scrubbed vigorously at his face as if wishing to wash away the embarrassment. He detested heights, feeling a wave of nausea each time he climbed those rickety stairs. The bath he'd ordered was still warm after he was finished with his face and he discovered several bruises from his ordeal.
He clenched his teeth, disregarding the pain in his jaw. There was no doubt in his mind; the Opera Ghost had performed this little prank, probably seeing it as rather funny.
He will pay.
Erik found the Vicomte's reaction deliciously funny. He'd noticed Raoul's unease on stairs before, politely refusing to take the outer path, and even that dreadful night on the roof when he'd stolen Christine the boy never strayed too close to the edge. His suspicion proved true and Raoul was indeed terrified by heights. Oh, but what truly pleased him was Christine's amusement. A tintinnabulation of giggles and mirth, he felt there was no better sound in the world than Christine's laughter, branching off of her symphonic voice. If every word from his lips could induce such joy, he vowed he would speak forever.
On behalf of the patron of the Opera Populaire, Mme Giry reprimanded all the wagging tongues speaking on Raoul's rude awakening; Erik took advantage of her absence and stole out of the mirror to speak with Christine. Her color was returning slowly and he sat by her as she slept, adoring her despite his own warnings. She's betrayed you, she would marry the Vicomte, she will leave you broken hearted, she will leave you with nothing but bitter memories, she will never reciprocate your love, she would never agree to marry you, she would never raise your children …but God she looks like an angel when she sleeps. His mind, a cavalcade of conflicting emotions, refused to rest. It's simply not fair, she wins by sleeping. Sighing resignedly, Erik raised her hand to his lips and rose. Without warning, the door sprang open. Grateful for the dark room and his general wardrobe of black, he quickly withdrew into the shadows and hid behind the dressing screen. Meg, brimming with brio as always, rushed to her friend's side. Christine struggled to sit up, awakened by the thunderous noise as the door thudded heavily into the wall.
"What's wrong, Meg?" Christine's voice was weak and Meg appropriately docked her normal enthusiasm.
"Nothing is wrong, per say, but did you hear what happened to the poor Vicomte?"
Christine grinned prettily and the mirth in her eyes glimmered in the candlelight. "I saw some of it, yes." Both girls began giggling and soon erupted into raucous laughter, until Christine began to cough.
Determined to conquer her physical weakness, she pressed Meg to continue: "I imagine Raoul didn't take it well?"
"Goodness, no! His face was purple he was so mad, and with all the makeup it was no easy task." She chuckled again and went on, "He very nearly ran for the door, growling like a caged beast. I think there will be serious repercussions from this. Do you believe it was the Phantom again?"
Christine smiled knowingly, "Yes, Meg, I do."
"Aren't you afraid?"
Christine thought for a moment and responded diffidently, "I don't think he would hurt Raoul, at least not in that setting."
"I meant for you, Christine, are you not worried, for your own safety?"
Christine was caught, forced to answer somehow, "No Meg, I'm not. He's never done anything to directly harm me. I don't think he ever would."
"How can you be so sure?"
"You mustn't tell anyone, but even as I've been sick he's come to see me."
Meg's eyes widened, "Then- then—"
"Yes Meg, some of the gossip is true." Meg looked down at her hands for a moment, curiosity bubbling within her. Christine sighed, "What do you want to know, Meg?"
She met Christine's eyes briefly then imposed her question: "Christine, why does he wear the mask? What's the real reason?"
Half-expecting the question, Christine nodded slowly before coughing and answering her friend. "Meg, he wears a mask because he's afraid to show the world who he really is. He's been rejected all his life, Meg; try to understand what that's like. He is a genius, a polymath, a true Renaissance man but an unfortunate scarring has left Erik alone in the dark shadows of this opera house."
"Erik. Is that his name?"
Christine bit her tongue, cursing herself for saying too much. "Yes, Meg, but you must not breathe a word of this to anyone." Meg looked questioningly at Christine, breaking down what she had really said, before swearing she would tell no one. "Was there something else you wanted to tell me?"
Meg suddenly recalled the reason for her earlier haste, "Oh my word, I nearly forgot. The Vicomte is on his way and he's still in quite a temper. He was stabling his horses when I overheard him talking to Maman. He's off to meet with the managers then to talk with you. I'll go fetch him."
She dashed out of the room before Christine could say another word. After several minutes of waiting, she soon felt the effects of her weakness again and began to nod off.
Erik stirred slightly behind the screen, creeping out slowly. Tears glimmered on his unmarred cheek and the polished surface of his pure white mask as aspiration beyond hope, rekindled and alive, filled his body. In his eyes, Christine truly was an angel. With a quick flourish of his hand, he produced a rose of such a deep hue it was nearly black and placed it on her bedside table. Glancing back one last time with a bemused smile on his face, the Phantom of the Opera disappeared behind the mirror.
Unfortunately, Erik was not the only one to overhear Meg and Christine's brief conversation, nor was he the only one to pick up the hidden meaning in Christine's defense of Erik's deformity. Erik, the thing has a name and she never told me. These new revelations added fuel to the flames of his rage. Raoul was no longer certain whether his idea to check on Christine first was a wise decision: surely he wanted to know more of his fiancée but perhaps ignorance would have been bliss compared to the crushing guilt, jealousy, and anger he felt now.
His stormy mood was noted by Firmin and Andre in the emergency meeting Raoul had called but they said nothing, already aware of the latest gossip. Soon, he set his new plan before them to be carried out when circumstances would allow and again Christine would be bait…
A/N: Dun dun duuuunnn. Suspense! Well obviously Raoul's a little ticked here but the next part may not be for a few days (I can't always keep up such a frequent update speed, sorry), but I'll do my best.
