The Angel of Music

by aeipathy.

Notes: I want to thank those who read and reviewed; it's very courteous of you to do. Snickers: I'm so glad you're enjoying it! Marie Erikson: You in particular left a wonderfully detailed and receptive review; thank you so much — I'm so pleased that it has spoken to at least one person. Macbeth's Lady: In response to your question, I was a little hesitant to classify this story as a romance, as it's not strictly a love story — I'm not too sure of where it's going to go yet, and there may be some slightly romantic tones to it, but it won't be a straight romance at any stage. I hope that isn't disappointing to anybody; I don't know enough about love to write a strictly romantic story.

Part Two

In the darkness of the street, the creature seemed less conscious of his appearance — rather than trying to hide his face he seemed concerned only with escape. However, the moment he found himself confronted with the cold air of the evening and the pale illumination of the street lamps, his pace stumbled and slowed, and he looked around, confused and lost.

Giry looked around quickly, and then turned to the creature, preparing to run again. "Follow me," she said, keeping her voice low to avoid attracting attention from those outside the alley, "I know of a place."

The building in which she studied to become a member of the girls' ballet was only a matter of minutes away — when she pulled the creature forward and led him around the nearest corner, the dark silhouette of the Opera Populaire loomed comfortingly past the row of shops and markets, a black beacon in the night. She had spent her time at the Opera so far learning not only how to hold her arms and twist her feet, but as well how to navigate through unlit passages and sneak through abandoned catacombs, impressing the other girls with both her fearlessness and also her disregard for their awe. She knew entrances to the passages in the Opera that had been overlooked even by the hired help and the stage hands.

They approached the building softly but stealthily, the boy tripping on unfamiliar ground behind her as she led him by the rope. His hands were still bound awkwardly in front of him, the canvas bag that had been used to eclipse his face and head now clenched in his fingers, and she pulled him along as though guiding a sheep on a line.

The grated window on the ground along the sidewalk, she knew, swung open easily if tried with some semblance of force — and once entered it would lead the way to a number of labyrinthine stone passages accessible only by a locked door near the kitchens that no one entered; she had stolen the key long ago, and its disappearance had attracted no notice. There were rooms and caverns, places that were still covered with dust from years of negligence and secrecy — he would be safe there — he could hide.

She stopped him and crouched, wrapping her fingers around the bars of the grate, and gave it a sharp jerk towards her. After a moment it gave a loud creak and jumped open, nearly bowling her over, but she regained her balance at the last moment.

"Go in, quickly," she said, hushed, pushing at his shoulder and trying to guide him into the grate.

He nearly fell to the ground, all his motions jumbled and confused, but he managed to lower himself and slide through the open grate, landing on the stone ledge that waited inside the hallway and chamber below, about two feet above the floor. Giry, still clutching the other end of the rope that bound his wrists, looked around hastily, reassuring herself that they had not been seen, and then slipped in after him, finding that he had moved to the floor already and left the ledge open to her.

She pulled the grate shut behind them hurriedly and dropped to the floor as well, trying to catch her breath now that they had safely escaped. She listened, but heard no chaos from the street above them — only the typical hoof beats and chatter of the busy Parisian evening.

Trying desperately to regain her composure, unexpectedly jostled by the ordeal, she pressed her hand against her chest to calm her racing heart, and exhaled. The other girls of the ballet would be missing her, but she would devise an appropriate explanation later; she had been sick, she had felt faint, the exhibits had frightened her (would they believe such a thing?) and she had hurried home by herself to sleep early.

"We should be safe now. They won't come for us here — they won't know."

The boy was similarly shaken by the experience, his breath rattling in his chest, his eyes shifting around the chamber warily and with obvious fear; pressing his back against the wall half in and half out of the range of the light that shone through the grate, he sank down, pulling up his knees.

Giry found that the rope was still in her clutches, and she remembered abruptly that his wrists were still bound. She looked up quickly and saw that his hands were resting on his knees and still forced to face each other — in that position, with that look of uncertainty and desperation, he had never looked more as though he was praying than at that moment. Without hesitation she hoisted herself up from the floor, leaning on the wall for support, and then walked towards him.

"Forgive me — I forgot that your hands were tied." She found herself at a loss for a moment, crouching before him to inspect his hands, not noticing the wideness of his eyes as he stared down at her and unconsciously backed even further into the wall.

She wouldn't be able to undo the knots with her hands — they had been done with exceptional skill and strength, to be certain that the creature could never free himself during the middle of a show, ruining the exhibit with an outburst of violence and possibly even an escape. She scanned the stone walls and floors with her eyes, searching for something sharp enough to cut through the rope, and eventually laid eyes on the shard of a stone that had likely been disturbed from the wall and then shattered on the ground.

She grabbed his hands, ignoring the way he jerked immediately at her touch, and began to carefully saw through the rope with the sharp stone, watching so as not to cut either him or herself. At first nothing seemed to happen, but as the first threads gave way, the others followed suit, and after the work of a minute or two the rope fell from his hands, landing in a coiled, dusty heap on the floor.

Putting down the stone, she eyed him, at a loss. "Your hands must be numb," she said simply.

He looked down at his wrists through eyes as large and staring as the sockets of a skull, and then rubbed them with his fingers, trying to stir up the life in them. He was silent, though his lips twitched and his throat moved as though he was trying to force out a sound.

Giry inched closer, waiting patiently. She had cared for her younger siblings; she had learned patience.

For a moment he tried to look at her face, his own overtaken with shock — he seemed utterly lost as to why anyone would try to help him, and her kindness to him thus far was something he had never encountered. He seemed to know that he should feel grateful for it, but at the same time he couldn't help fearing her, suspecting that her generosity was a facade and that at any moment she would reveal herself to be simply another horrified spectator, another person determined to take advantage of his hideousness for her own benefit. Yet his instincts toward gratitude outweighed this suspicion, and he struggled to find something to say to thank her with sufficient clarity.

Before he could come up with the words, the boy's eyes fell on the bag next to him, which he had dropped upon sitting down — it reminded him that his face was uncovered and in plain view for her to see, and this seemed to distress him terribly. More rapidly than she could stop him, he snatched up the bag and pulled it over his head, turning his face away from her and hiding in the folds of canvas, even his eyes invisible in the shadows that fell from the ragged holes. His recently freed arms wrapped around himself as though trying feebly to hide his body from her as well, and he shrank away.

It was almost a relief when he hid his face, though she was ashamed to admit it — now that she had secured their safety her mind was present and able to observe his deformities without distraction, and it was difficult; it took a great deal of strength to look him in the face without showing her wonder, her pity.

However, she wanted not to hide her reaction but to extinguish it — she felt contempt for her own thudding heart when she saw his face, and hated that she could not look upon him as she could anyone else. After the risks she had just taken she wanted nothing less than to make him feel that his disfigured features frightened her or revolted her as they clearly did everyone else with whom he had come into contact.

It was fortunate that his face was turned away, that he couldn't see her as she reached out and closed her fingers around one of the knotted corners of the bag. In a quick motion she pulled it back off his head before he could grab at it, and hid it behind her back.

He scrabbled immediately to retrieve it, his eyes flashing with rage, but saw that his attempts were futile and pulled his hands back to himself. The rage dissolved first into terror, that he was revealed again, and as he tried to burrow into the wall he looked sideways over at her, clearly expecting a gasp, tears, or even silent dismay — but she had managed to contain herself well, and all that showed on her face was quiet pity and understanding.

The boy stared at her, more shocked by her reaction than she was shocked by his ugliness. His shoulders trembled and he lifted his hands to cover his face, trying to hide as much of his scarred flesh as possible, his voice coming out soft and muffled from beneath his palms.

"Don't look at me," he said, between begging and commanding, his voice harsh in contrast to his imploring words. "Please, don't look at me — don't ever look at me."

Giry was astonished that his voice came out so normally — that it sounded so human, so clear and even beautiful, its tone and timbre emphasized by their contrast to his deformed face. She had not cried for years — she didn't often feel the urge to cry in response to sadness or misery — but the pleas that he had made struck her as suddenly as a downpour. While normal, his voice had sounded so full of sorrow, so hateful of his own body — so desperate to avoid frightening her away in the same manner that his appearance had destroyed so many chances of human friendship in the past.

She felt her throat constrict and it became difficult to breathe, and though her vision blurred slightly, she did not allow herself to weaken further. She reached out with both hands and took his wrists, pulling them away from his face — at first he resisted, but feeling her force, he relented, and looked back at her with the same shock as before, his own eyes having overflowed shamefully and spilled down his ruined face.

"Everything will be fine," she told him in a soft but firm voice, trying to reassure him. "This place is your home — where you will live from now on."

The boy swallowed visibly, his throat shifting again. He seemed not to believe her.

Giry found that it was becoming easier to look upon his face, now that she had glimpsed his humanity. The fury in his eyes as he had strangled the gypsy seemed impossible as the childish tears shone on his distorted cheeks; he seemed incapable of any such act, the victim of lifelong violence as he was.

"Tell me your name," she requested kindly, still holding onto his wrists, but keeping her grip light.

He was silent for a long moment, leading her to wonder whether he had a name at all — whether it had been stolen from him along with his dignity and his childhood. However, after what seemed an eternity he cleared his throat and said, his voice still hoarse, "Erik."

With effort she found a way to smile at him. "Erik," she repeated, and with reluctance introduced herself as well. "But you may call me only Giry; everyone else does." It seemed silly to talk of such things now, and she took a breath, folding his hands inside her own. "I will take care of you, Erik. No one will ever be able to find you. You will be safe here, I promise — I will protect you. I will make certain that no one ever harms you again."

To be continued.

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