A/N (kindly read, thank you)
I put up Chapter 5 at super speed, and I'm actually
pretty proud of it. It's one of the longer chapters. There is light
smut and an answer to the E/C or E/OC question that is being asked so
anxiously and suddenly.
ANNOUNCEMENT: In addition to this new chapter I have written a new fic, an HP fanfiction actually. So if you like what I do here you may enjoy my take on HP. If you never normally Founderfics them, that's alright. People who never normally read those sorts and have read mine seem to rather enjoy it. PLEASE read it! It's a new thing for me, i've never tried fantasy before, really.
If
you haven't read the books it doesn't matter. It has
very little to do with Harry himself, seeing as it's a founderfic. It's
more like LOTR or Gormenghast, completely out of my own head pretty
much.)
The title is 'I, Ravenclaw', by Lady of Proserpine (duh) so when you're done here, go read it and review PLEASE!!
Thanks in advance! On with the story!
Madam Giry sat hard on the lid of her trunk, reaching down to snap down the latch that held it together. She rose and stepped delicately over it, grazing her hands together to rid them of dust. In the other room she heard a series of thunks and thuds as the girls attempted to organize themselves again. They would leave tomorrow.
Standing in front of a cracked mirror, the final object in the room and the only thing that would remain, Madam Giry appraised her aging figure, turning sideways to smooth her careful hands over her front where her corset laced any sagging features tightly. She smiled gently.
'Vanity,' she thought and chuckled gently to herself.
With a creak and a slam, Christine entered the room, carrying a small trunk setting it by the rest of the baggage.
Madam Giry watched her. "You will be glad to leave?" It was more of a consensual statement than a question.
Christine nodded. "I have missed Paris," She admitted, not looking up. Madam Giry watched her intently as she pushed her trunk against the wall. Christine froze, feeling the woman's eyes on her and she looked up. She could read the question.
"I am not afraid," she said. But then, she was always a good liar.
Madam Giry inclined her head slightly. "The police have ceased their searching," she confided, stepping a little closer to the younger woman. "But Erik knows when to keep his silence."
Christine did not reply. She held the accusing stare until she faltered and turned to lock her trunk.
Madam Giry said nothing, but turned on her heel and swept into her small bedroom. When she had gone, Christine put a burning forehead against the cool metal of the trunk lock and took a deep breath. A small click behind her signaled another appearance in the room and she sat up quickly, guilt at succumbing to such a sway of emotions made her jaw prickle unpleasantly. She crouched out of site behind a stack of trunks as Meg brushed past.
She was wearing a bonnet, her white gloves and a blue gown, all the preparations to go out into the streets but Christine could see she was hesitant. Christine watched with the spying curiosity of a small child, drawing her knees up under her chin.
With fingers on the door handle, Meg chewed her bottom lip fervently, throwing the occasional nervous glance over her shoulder to the door of her mother's room. And then with a decisive toss of her blonde tresses she opened the door gently and shut it noiselessly behind her.
In the stillness Christine could hear her tip-toeing down the stairs. There was no sound from Madam Giry's room, and Christine could hear the pounding of her own heart.
Where was she going?
For a moment she rested in the quiet until a small noise downstairs signified the slamming of a door. Christine leapt to her feet and, in a moment of wild impulse, swung her cloak around her shoulders and followed Meg downstairs and into the late night.
--
From her high window, Madam Giry watched a second skirted figure descend like a shadow into the night. She smiled grimly.
She knew where Meg would go. She always knew. And if Marie Giry did not know her own daughter— what faith could any mother have?
But the pair themselves were not without secrets.
Madam left the window and turned to the final open trunk. It was Meg's, full of clothes and shoes and ballet garments, but in the bottom far-right corner, there was also a secret.
Carefully, Madam pulled out the box, cautious not to disturb any of the carefully folded clothes. With a key tucked cleverly into a tiny hidden compartment she opened the box and pulled out something wrapped in red velvet.
Keeling on the floor like a child, she carefully unwrapped the object that swam out into the moonlight like a ghost.
It's unblemished white glow and empty eye socket was demon-like in the darkness.
The fine mold of it was the work of a wonderful and strange craftsman so many years ago, who experimentally took a cast of the young man's face and creating the ideal feature to mask his deformity. It was constructed in such a way that it clung flawlessly to every pucker of skin and every malformed shape of bone upon that hideous visage with gentle suction which was uncomfortable at first, but lightweight functional.
His mask.
Meg had brought it to her that day, offering it to her mother's keeping. Neither had any wish to destroy it nor did they have the courage to hunt down its owner. And so their goodness (or cowardice) had kept the haunting piece of evidence in their possession for all this time.
It was Madam who came to look at it on nights like these. Meg would have little or nothing to do with the mask if she could help it. But on nights where she would lie awake and frightened in the silence and the darkness her eyes would slip to the telltale box that hid a reminder of such horror that she had no wish to know.
Madam let her smooth, fine fingers graze over the cold camouflage, her shadow casting gray across it.
If they were to go to Paris tomorrow, she had no more excuse to keep it.
The mask must be returned to its rightful owner.
--
Christine's skirts rustled and her heels clicked into the darkness. The only other footsteps were those of Meg, not too far ahead of her. There was a creak of a door, and a small bell. Christine winced. She knew where Meg was going… and waited in the wide threshold of a neighbor's house to peer around the corner.
Meg stepped inside the bakery and Christine followed, sitting just below the window so she could tilt her head upward in such a way that she could not be seen. But that was no good, for the glass was swirled and unclear, and there was no sound. And so Christine crept to the door and pressed her ear to the crack. She burned with curiosity.
It was not in her nature to spy or peer, but she could not help herself. She heard footsteps, and Jacques' voice.
"Mademoiselle Giry?" He asked. There was awe in his voice. Christine felt her cheeks color in shame. She knew she was intruding. And yet she continued to listen. She could hear Meg's breathing. She must have been close.
"I…" Meg began. She hesitated, and Christine could hear half of a heel click against the ground as Meg almost took a step forward. "I'm leaving tomorrow,"
"Yes, I know."
"I wanted… to say goodbye." Christine could hear hands slapping together. She imagined Jacques was dusting his hands free of flour from behind the counter. He cleared his throat.
"I have made you a few loaves for the journey, as you asked… and a few cakes."
"Thank you,"
There was a rustle as the meals were wrapped in paper. Christine could feel her heart pounding in hope, and in fear. There was a silence, and she strained her ears to catch any movement. But there was none. There was a swiveling sound as Meg turned on her heel and Christine could hear quick footsteps on the floorboards before her.
"Well, goodbye," Meg said awkwardly. Jacques gave a grunt in reply that sounded like 'Umn hmmn'. Christine's jaw dropped. Was this why Meg had snuck out? Just to say goodbye and leave this man in his loneliness. Christine could feel her scalp prickle in annoyance. Footsteps were coming closer to the door.
Oh no you don't,
And so Christine quickly pushed all her weight upon the doorknob. She could feel a tiny click as one of the contraptions within it broke and, to make certain it was completely shut, pushed her back against the door to hold her captive safely inside. Meg tried the handle with a sharp clinking sound half a second later.
"Oh," she said in a small voice. "Oh dear," Muted strides were heard across the floor as Jacques came to examine the problem.
"It seems to be broken," he announced for the benefit of his customer. There was a rustle as Meg stepped back and another small 'Oh,' Then there was another silence.
Christine stretched her spine, keeping her body weight on the door and tried to make out the shapes through the window. Meg had apparently stumbled into Jacques' arms, and he had grabbed her by the waist to keep her steady.
Meg stared up at Jacques, both looking in form of shock.
"I'm sorry," Jacques muttered untruthfully. And his hands did not move. Meg looked up at him breathlessly.
"No… it was my fault." And silence rested again. They were frozen in time, both watching the other's eyes. Somewhere down the street in the distance there were footsteps. Christine's spying would be discovered soon.
But with one eye on the street and the other in the window, Christine watched with bated breath.
And her patience was rewarded.
Slowly, and with gently as though he were afraid he would break her, Jacques lowered his face to Meg's. For a second, she hesitated and then cautiously she brought her hand up behind his neck and tilted her face upward. Her lips parted slightly as they met with his.
And they shared their first kiss, with Christine as their witness through the distorted glass window.
Her fingers moved slowly, caressing the soft hairs on the back of his neck and he smiled into her mouth.
"Marry me," he whispered. Christine gasped in her hiding place.
Immediately Meg pulled back and stared at him. It looked for a moment as though she were about to say something but he pulled her in and kissed her instead.
When their kiss was over Meg drew back breathlessly. "Are you asking me to--"
"Only when you're ready… and only… If you would have me…"
The silence was palpable.
The footsteps were coming nearer. At such a time of night the senses were sharpened and Christine could hear the rustle of trouser legs.
"Will you marry me?" Jacques' voice came again. His voice was hushed and hopeful. "I'm sorry if I'm going the wrong way about this… I've never asked anyone before." Meg opened her mouth to say something but he shook his head. "Before you answer let me speak." He took a deep breath, and the words gushed out of him. "I know I'm no great nobleman, I'm just a baker and I can't offer you fine gowns or gold carriages. And I know you've gone through years of training to be a ballerina so you can dance upon the stage and become famous and have your portrait painted and hung on great marble walls, and I'll understand if you'll keep chasing that need until you catch it. And I do not have much to give you beyond a sturdy house and fresh bread every morning… But I love you. And if you will take me to be yours forever I will love you until they take my soul to heaven."
There was a small, breathy gasping sound and it seemed as though Meg was starting to cry.
"If you are not ready now--" He said quickly.
There was the sound of a kiss.
"Jacques," Meg said breathlessly, repeating it to herself. "Jacques, Jacques, Jacques…" And then there was another tearful noise. "I love you too well for this,"
"Well marry me then!" He pleaded.
There was the sound of footsteps as Meg crossed the room. "If only it were that simple…"
Jacques followed her. "You love me and I love you and we have wish to be together! What could be simpler?" Meg turned to him but did not let him taker her in his arms.
"It is not for myself but for my mother that I speak…" She said quietly. "And I cannot abandon my kin and dearest friend who will go to Paris tomorrow. My mother pursues her reputation and her own ambitions and I have been a part of them for a long time. And Chrisine--" Meg sighed. "Oh I could not hurt Christine like that… she has been through too much and I will not leave her now. And you--" She touched his face with her hand and he turned and kissed her palm. "You are too good to marry me. My life has been nothing but training for a future that burned to the ground with an Opera House. And now I have the chance to grasp it again. Have I any choice?"
Jacques stepped back from her.
"You told me I would not understand, and I will not pretend that I do… but Meg… Meg please do not leave me here without an answer."
And there was a brief silence. Perhaps in hesitation, perhaps in thought. Christine was glued to the conversation. Her heart was sinking.
"If we were to go to the church tomorrow morning and be wed and I was to stay here, I would regret it forever," She said quietly.
Jacques took a step backwards. "Is that all?"
She shook her head. "No, please hear me out. If I were to stay I would not know what would have happened if I had gone to Paris. Not for myself, for I know my fate would be to dance forever upon the stage and eventually teach it like my mother did. But I must go for the sake of Christine. She has seen too much to return to Paris without fear. And if I leave her now she will never forgive me. And I would never forgive myself. She is bound for great things, Jacques, but she will never find her way to them without a friend by her side."
Jacques nodded slowly. But Meg had more to say.
"But I will swear to you now that when that time is over and Christine is happy and things are as they should be—I will return. And I will marry you then."
Christine felt as though she were going to faint.
Meg, the friend she had always had and perhaps taken for granted, was going to give up her happiness to see her safe. Meg would stay to see her friend rise, perhaps even beyond the dreams of Meg herself.
And only when Christine was settled would Meg attend to her own happiness.
"Please understand," Meg begged. "If you love me as you say you do please understand. And please have faith. I will come back and we will make our life together."
Jacques paused. "You will write. You will not throw my letters into the fire and avoid contact with me," Meg caught his hand and held it to her cheek tenderly.
"Jacques," she said again. "Please," He rubbed her cheekbone gently with his thumb. "No matter what you believe, whatever they tell you, I love you. I have loved you and I will love you. And for now, let that be enough."
And she kissed him again.
--
Christine, in a daze, stumbled from the threshold just as the wandering villager rounded the corner. He tipped his hat to her and she nodded, gulping for air.
And she returned to the apartment at the run. Meg's words echoing at every step and a memory fighting for recognition at the back of her mind. There was a taste, a kiss, a shocked face with tearful eyes stumbling wildly away from her. There were the desperate cries of a man following her down the streets and through the alleys, always a step behind no matter how fast she went to try to outrun it.
She ran up the stairs and went to her room with every appearance of calm. Madam had apparently gone to bed herself.
And Christine sat on the bed, put her face in her hands and wept.
When Meg returned, her friend was fully dressed and sound asleep upon the mattress.
--
Annette watched Erik moan and tremble in his sleep. Her heart ached to see such pain but it was pounding in her chest, Anya's words echoing in her ears.
"D'you love him, then?"
'…Love him then?'
'….Love him…'
Perhaps it was the common way of mankind—to yearn for love, for someone to leash their affections upon and adore for all eternity. And Annette's case was feasibly different. It was not becoming of a whore to fall in love. And it was not proper to fall in love with a whore.
Was she even capable of such a thing?
She stood and took two long steps over toward him. She for a long moment, she simply stood behind him, watching him. And slowly she slipped a hand under his chin, leaning his head to rest gently against her breast. Still, Erik did not awaken. And she bent down as if she had all the time in the world; as if at any sudden movement he would vanish. Gently, she tilted his head upwards and slanted her lips over his. She could feel he was startled but then she felt him respond, his eyes still closed. His mouth was warm though his lips were somehow rough. Her pulse raced even faster.
One of her hands snaked down to his shirt and her fingers brushed the chain on his collarbone and to the fine, downy hairs of his chest.
"Christine?" He whispered reverently. He reached out a hand and a long forefinger brushed Annette's neck.
A stranger's name in her ears did not stop her. She knew what he thought but she did not care. "Yessss," Annette purred into his mouth, tasting him, licking him, wanting him. She pushed herself a little closer. "Yes,"
And Erik's eyes flicked open.
The speed at which he stood up knocked her over and she stumbled backwards.
"You," He hissed. She stood, legs hip width apart, staring at him as levelly as she could, cheeks flushed. She sucked her bottom lip through beneath her top one, still tasting him. Her hands balled into fists.
"Me," She agreed.
Erik went to his writing desk and slammed his great hands upon it. Locking his elbows, he leaned forward, bowing his head. His back was to her. "How dare you," was all he said. Annette said nothing. Her blood raced and her palms were sweating.
He whipped around to face her, wiping his mouth rudely and completely with one hand.
"I said how dare you!" He roared suddenly, rushing towards her. She gave an involuntary jerk at the volume, taking a step backwards. He was frightening.
"I…"
His face was red and his eyes were wild and dangerous. Annette glanced behind her, trying to find a way to make a quick exit.
But the only door was behind Erik.
"Why??" He shouted at her.
"Don't you..."
His breathing was a violent, sharp hiss.
"You little viper," Erik said through clenched teeth. "How dare you put your whore's tricks on me?"
Now she could feel a little part of her flare and then shatter. She could feel the corners of her eyes pricking. "It is not--"
He raised a hand before she could finish, as if to strike her and she cringed, ready for the tumbling pain.
They held that position for a long moment, like actors in a tableau. Several times he rocked forward as if to give himself strength for the blow. She simply froze face contorted and arms thrown over her face.
And then he let his hand fall limply to his side.
Very slowly, Annette turned to look up at him. Erik's head was bowed. She could see from the trembling of his chest that he had given way to emotion. He leaned his face into his palms.
"Have you no pity?" He said very quietly. She sighed heavily and reached out to touch him… But he shrugged her hand off his shoulder.
"Do you not know?" She murmured.
Erik drew his face from his hands to look at her. The red lining in his whites made his eyes look unnaturally blue. Annette's heart gave a painful wrench that made her breath come short.
The look he gave her was a haunted, empty look full of a distant yearning and puzzled resolve. And understanding flooded her senses like a chill.
He didn't want her, didn't care for her… This man loved another, and there would never be room for her. Her chest seemed to suddenly collapse in on itself.
"I'm sorry," She said thickly. "I'll go,"
She stepped past him without meeting his eyes and slipped into the shadows that kept him from seeing the tears that had begun to push themselves from her eyes. Her feet made no sound until she walked out from the underground and into the dim light of the morning.
And no one stopped the weeping girl to ask what the matter was, nor put a comforting arm around her shoulder.
And no one was there to hear a Phantom sigh.
(Liked it? Read and review, and go check out 'I Ravenclaw'!)
