The Angel of Music

by aeipathy.

Notes: I was so happy to find so many reviews in my inbox! It's been so long since I've done this sort of thing that receiving comments is both miraculous and inspiring. Thank you to everyone who gave me praise, including BohemianCane04, All Apologies, and Laura Kay. Dimac99: I'll try to update again soon, I promise! CloudxInxCrimson: Thank you so much for putting me on your lists! I'm sorry it almost made you cry. Marie Erikson: Your reviews are always so eloquent and full of things worth conversing more thoughtfully; would you mind if I emailed you to respond to your comments? Chibi Hime: Thank you so much for the compliment! I was hoping that I was doing all right portraying them, particularly Giry. Bettamutter: I always love it when people tell me particular parts that they were most fond of. Detail and imagery are very important to me, and it's wonderful to have you tell me that I succeeded at my attempts.

Part Three

Her shoulders were heavy with guilt as Giry took her leave from the chambers; she had no choice but to leave Erik alone, with only the coiled rope as his companion, until she was to return some hours later. She wanted with unprecedented desperation to stay with him — it seemed that leaving him alone was the greatest possible sin she could commit — but knew that her presence would be required by the other ballet girls; she would need to explain her absence that evening, and only after they all retired to bed would she be able to return to Erik's side.

He had stopped her, as she'd tried to leave; asking almost inaudibly, in a halted voice, for her to give back the crude excuse for a mask that he had been confined to for the majority of his time with the gypsy carnival — the canvas sack, the garish eye-holes its only window to the outside world.

Giry had been reluctant. "Why do you want it?" she had asked quietly, his grubby hand still clutching the edge of her skirts to stop her. "You have no need to hide your face from me."

Yet he was still unable to look her in the eye, his face uncovered as it was, and he could come up with no response. It seemed that speaking was still unfamiliar to him — Giry was partly surprised that he had any knowledge of the French language at all, considering how rarely he had likely been permitted to speak in his time with the gypsies. As it was, Giry had tried to speak to him, to question him, but he answered only when absolutely necessary — only when he felt confident that his response would not garner a blow or an insult.

She had studied him for a moment, and finally conceded. Perhaps it would comfort him in her absence. "Very well." She held out the crumpled sack, exhaling. "But please, do not put it back on."

He took it and was silent, turning away, but he did not move to defy her.

That evening, Giry caught up with the other girls, who had somehow garnered the courage to poke at her and tease her relentlessly for her disappearance from the carnival. She surprised them all with a smile in reply, stiffening only when one of the girls came out with a sudden and unexpected announcement:

"You left too early to hear of it — it seems that one of the freaks escaped from the carnival, and while we were only in the next tent!"

Another joined in, growing excited by the recollection. "They say that he killed one of the gypsies and broke free from his cage. No one knows where he is — there's been no sign or sighting of him in all of Paris."

She was quiet for a long moment, relieved by the last piece of information. They gathered round, looking at her curiously, puzzled by her silence. Realizing her error, she turned back to them and her smile came back, though thinly. "That's terrible. I hadn't heard a thing about it. I'm sorry to have worried all of you, but I began feeling horribly ill, and all I could think to do was return home. I was afraid that I might faint."

A girl laughed at her, eyeing her. "You, faint? What a sight that would be."

The room was silent and dark, the shades pulled, and the last candle had been blown out; only the faintest outlines of shadows were visible, the angles of the beds, the draping bedcovers, a stray pair of shoes, a chair. The blackness was tinted with blue, casting an otherworldly hue to the forms of the girls of the ballet as they lay sleeping — Giry watched them from beneath her blankets with the hard, wary eyes of a hawk, waiting until the last girl's breath had become even and quiet, until the last restless shifting beneath the sheets had died down to a soft stillness.

Discreetly she slipped out of her bed, the touch of her bare feet on the floor as light and noiseless as the weight of a mouse. In only her nightdress, she felt along carefully until she made her way to the door of the ballet girls' dormitory, searching blindly for the bundle she had tucked beneath the oak dresser earlier that evening.

She had managed to convince Francis, one of the servant boys, to lift for her a pair of trousers and a man's shirt from one of the costume rooms, promising him a favor in return. Tucked within the clothes was a covered plate of food that she had spirited away when the cook's back was turned, and a flask of water; some unlit candles, a box of matches. It would be a task, carrying the entire bundle through the dark hallways until she reached the corridor behind the kitchens, where the door to Erik's chambers was located. She would hold a candle in her hand, but to keep herself from dropping it, or burning herself, would require coordination with which she did not trust herself.

On several occasions she nearly tripped along the way, rushing to wrap her arms tighter around the bundle lest a part of it spill and fall to the floor. Her feet, covered now only by slippers, were prickling with the coldness of the floors and carpets, and her eyes strained to see through the darkness — the candle provided only a minimal illumination. It was a strange urge that compelled her forward through the obstacle course that was comprised of unlit hallways and precarious corners — she felt that any delay was a failure on her part, and worry consumed her. She felt weighted down with icy fear of the possibilities that might have befallen Erik in her absence — he had spent the scarce hours alone and afraid, and he was like a child, so closed from the world, so ignorant of the reality of humanity; he had been shown only the darkest and most brutal facets of his race.

At last she found the door, the candle throwing a pale light on its edges, though it blended into the wall and had been covered with the same wallpaper — someone, it seemed, had tried to rid themselves of the memory of its existence. She shifted the weight of the bundle and the candle, and managed to retrieve from her pocket the ancient brass key to which the door corresponded.

Erik was in a far room from the door; there were a number of stone corridors and sewer-like passages through which she tiptoed on her way to find him. His chamber, accessible by the grate on the sidewalk outside the building, seemed an eternity away.

Like a dog that has been commanded to stay, he was exactly where she had left him, curled up against the wall, just outside the squares of pallid moonlight from the grate.

"Erik?" she asked in a low voice, holding up the candle. It threw a feeble light on his form, causing him to curl tighter around himself. The mask lay on the ground by his feet.

He said nothing.

Giry was comforted, strangely, by his silence. She stepped down onto the cobbles of the floor, and knelt, setting the candle down beside Erik's body, along with the bundle of clothing and food. Pushing aside her nightdress, she lowered herself to sit beside him, wincing at the coldness of the stone against her legs, and she turned to him while taking out the unlit candles and pressing them into the cracks of the stone. As she lit them, more tiny lights were born, lending slight warmth and feeble glows to the darkness of the chamber.

"I've brought you clothes, and food," she said expressionlessly, unsure of what to do or say. Though she longed to comfort him, she doubted the possibility of his acceptance of her efforts, just as she doubted her own ability to display the maternal affection she felt she ought to.

He slowly looked over at her, his face still uncovered, his hair taking on an even more filthy semblance in the glow of the candlelight.

"You must be hungry," she said, feeling sadness press down her shoulders like a physical burden. She couldn't bear to look into his eyes. Instead, she turned to the bundle, unfolding the shirt from it and putting it to the side. She set down the flash and uncovered the plate, selecting first a chunk of bread that she held out to him. He looked at it with an intensity that belied his hunger, but something seemed to keep him from reaching out and accepting the food.

Giry furrowed her brows, puzzled by his reaction; she had half expected him to lunge at her, to rip the bread from her hands in his ravenous hunger and devour it immediately. His hesitance bewildered her. Guessing blindly, she broke off a small piece of the bread and put it in her own mouth, chewing and swallowing visibly.

"Please eat. I'm sure you're starving." She held out the bread a second time.

Erik slowly reached out and closed his hand around the bread, taking it from her gently. She had to keep herself from recoiling from his fingers — the streaks of dirt and mud, the overgrown fingernails, the cuts and scrapes and splintered skin.

After watching her eat the bread, grim proof that it was neither poisoned, nor spoiled, nor in any other way unfit for consumption, Erik seemed consoled by his earlier, unfathomable fears. Giry could not begin to wonder why he would think the food poisoned, and quickly avoided continuing on the train of thought; she didn't want to consider what other forms of taunting and torture to which he had been subjected by his previous caretakers, whether they were gypsies or perhaps even his own parents. She cleared her mind of such thoughts and concentrated on feeding Erik the meat, the cheese, the spare tomato she had rescued from the cutting board.

It became blatantly obvious to her that Erik could not allow her to watch him eat. After accepting the bread he had immediately turned himself away, hunching his shoulders and bowing his head, eating in the secrecy of the curtain of his hair. He was clearly ashamed of his crudeness, the fervent and uncultured way in which he ate, like a scavenger; she did not blame him for his lack of manners, as she doubted there had been anyone willing to teach him proper conduct. Despite her urge to turn him back around, she didn't want to make him more uncomfortable, and simply accepted his style of eating, allowing him to keep his back to her. When he was finished with one piece of food, she would simply hold out another, offering him the flask of water afterwards — it was the water he seemed to enjoy most, drinking it down so rapidly that drops would trickle from the corners of his mouth and fall from his chin.

When he was finished, she put her hand on his arm, saying nothing, but her request was clear; and obediently, but heavily, he turned back around, his hands on his knees, his face barely visible behind them. He stared at her now, her face more than her eyes; he was baffled by her kindness to him.

"As for the clothes," she said, pulling them nearer, "I'm sure they will be too large. But I think you'll find them at least more suitable than what you've been given."

Saying nothing more, she deposited the trousers and shirt into his hands, and then promptly turned herself the other way, as he had done while eating. There was a silence behind her — he did not understand her actions, but didn't dare ask her to explain them. Giry thought to herself that he must never have been treated with such respect; even past presenting him with clothing, no one would ever have turned the other way to allow him to change without supervision.

Without turning around, she said, "I will give you privacy while you put them on. You needn't feel embarrassed; I won't look."

After a moment, she heard soft scuffling and uncertain movements, and only when there was stillness again did she turn around. Erik had not risen, but remained crouched on the floor, now dressed in the awkward trousers and shirt — the cuffs of the trousers formed folds of excess length around his feet, and the sleeves of the shirt dangled beyond his fingertips, but they would do — they would have to do.

She attempted to disguise her disapproval of his filthiness as she regarded him with a critical stare. "I'll find a way to bring you hot water," she said, more to herself than to him. "I'll bring a pair of scissors and a comb, as well — to try to salvage your hair."

He only nodded, very slightly, looking down at his sleeves.

"I'll visit you at nighttime," she murmured, thinking pensively. "I think around now is the only time I will be able to see you without anyone suspecting anything. I'll try to sleep as much as possible during the day and then I will come down to see you when everyone else has gone to bed."

Erik was silent for a moment, clearly absorbing her words. Slightly surprised by the profession that she would make such sacrifices for him, he said hoarsely, "Thank you, mademoiselle."

Giry was startled from her reverie, and nodded.

Before she could say more, he continued speaking, taking her again by surprise: "But you shouldn't do that."

Her face was blank as she said, "What?"

"You've done enough — by bringing me here. I should be fine on my own. I can't ask — it wouldn't be right to ask you for more." His tongue snaked out and ran over his dry, cracked lips. "Thank you."

"Don't say such things." Giry's voice was brisk, hiding her emotions, and she shook her head, folding her hands and placing them in her lap. She looked straight at him, her eyes scanning his hair, his face, his body, all about him that required attention, guidance — she felt that by rescuing him she was now obligated to care for his needs, to teach him how to live. But more than that, she felt that she truly wanted to. "I can't leave you alone now — I wouldn't."

His eyes were dark, his voice cracking from negligence. "I've been alone."

"You won't be. Not now."

Erik's eyes were suspicious as they looked at her, almost threatening. Despite all her kindnesses thus far, he was unable to trust so easily — though by now even he could see that her intentions were good, he could not simply give himself over, place himself in her hands with no further hesitations. He seemed lost in his confusion, the dilemma of whether to surrender his trust to her or to refuse, to return to the risk of isolation.

At last he spoke again. "I — can't." His voice cracked again, but this time it seemed it was due to emotion. His hands begun to rub up and down his arms through the sleeves, unaccustomed to the sensation of being covered. "I don't know what it's like — not to be alone."

Giry looked at him. She swallowed, and reached out her hand. "You will learn."

Erik's chin trembled slightly, and he put his face down, his forehead on his knee, as though he couldn't bear to watch his own movements as he extended his own hand blindly until it bumped hers in the relative darkness. She wrapped her fingers around his and clutched them tightly. "I won't hurt you," she swore, and continued with precise sincerity that was almost methodical: "I won't lie to you. I won't leave. You must trust me — you must believe me."

A shiver ran through his body as though his instinct was to break his hand from hers and move away. "Why?" Silence, and then, his words barely distinguishable from the beginnings of tears that were filled with fury only at himself. "I don't understand. Why are you doing this? Why?"

"Do you think I'm so cruel? Do you think being kind requires so much effort?"

"But my face — my face —"

"That doesn't matter." She sought out his eyes, his lips, even the spare protrusion of his nose, but it seemed that he commanded the shadows, summoned them to hide him from view. "A man is a man — the worth of his soul is not tainted or lessened by the destruction of his body. This is what God tells us, Erik." She swallowed her own past doubts over the words of God, believing in nothing more strongly than what she now claimed.

He let out a choking, bitter laugh. "God...? God does not exist for me, mademoiselle. He gave me up — he left me to the vultures." A sob shook his body, his frame convulsing with what still was nearly laughter. "Vultures, they were all vultures — they fed on my flesh like carrion!"

Giry felt her stomach twist, growing nauseous from the strangled, enraged despair of his words. "No, Erik, don't think of it. Don't think now of the ones who hurt you — you must try to forgive them. They were blind."

At these words his hand tensed and he jerked it back, one of his legs falling sideways to the floor, his back collapsing against the wall. His arm on his knee, he now bowed his head only over his chest, his matted hair like a hood. His chest rose and fell raggedly, overtaken by his unsteady breath. "If only they had been blind! If only my face hadn't called to them like some sort of foul beacon in the darkness." He wiped at his eyes intolerantly. "I broke my own leg to make them take pity on me — so I would have to heal instead of be shown in front of all those eyes. I climbed my bars and threw myself to the ground. I couldn't walk for months — and still they locked me in my cage and showed me to the world."

Giry lowered her head, at a loss for words; breathing had become painful. She reached out again, inching forward on her knees, but he evaded her hand. "Calm yourself, Erik; please."

"They branded my flesh so I could never escape them — they scarred me with their names so they could always find me." Erik tore at the loose collar of his shirt, and though the candles' flames were weak they shed a tiny light on the visible shreds of his bare chest, on the small, scattered marks that clearly would never leave him. "You ask me to forgive? You ask me to pardon their brutality? I will never forgive them... I will never forgive a God who can abandon his children so easily!"

Her face burned with shame at her earlier words. It was beyond her, how she could have thought that words of God would comfort someone who had seen nothing but the ugliness of the world. She felt certain that she would be sick — the room seemed to spin as she paused before him and put her hand on his shoulder, her forehead sinking until she almost touched the back of her palm.

"Forgive me, Erik — if I could take it away I would. I would take it all away. Please, forgive me."

Erik slumped down, his breath shuddering out. "It's not you — it's not you." Helplessly he put his hand on her back, so bewildered by intimate physical contact that he was at a loss for what to do. "I'm sorry — I said too much."

"No." She shook her head. Realizing her actions, she pulled back, taking a deep breath and trying to compose herself. It had felt like such a long night that she was surprised that the room was still dark, that the sun had not yet begun to rise, its slumber shattered by the pain in Erik's voice. She shifted away from him and rose to her feet, her fingers clutching the fabric of her nightdress, and she moved into the shadows, out of the fractured shafts of moonlight that drifted through the grate and out of the reach of the tiny candles.

"Tomorrow night I'll bring you more food, and more candles. I'll try to find some clothes that would fit you better." Her face was calm again — throughout her childhood she had found that calling upon numbness was the best defense against breaking down. "And there's the hot water, and the scissors — the comb —" She counted upon her fingers blankly, trying to think of everything that would be needed.

"I'm very familiar with the chambers down here, below the Opera. I'm sure that everyone else has forgotten their existence, since the blueprints were destroyed and the doors locked — but I know the way, and I can show you the rest."

He nodded; he seemed to agree with her theory, and his face as well had gone relatively empty. He continued to rub impatiently at his face with the coarseness of his sleeve.

"Do you know how to read," she asked then, "or write?"

"No. I never learned."

"I'll bring books, then, and papers, and ink. When I can find time I'll teach you, and then you'll be able to read when you're bored, and write down your thoughts. I've found that it's a very soothing way to pass the time." Giry took a breath. "Is there anything else you would like?"

Erik opened his mouth as though to say something, but closed it and shook his head.

"No," she said, furrowing her brows. "What is it? What can I bring you?"

"I feel ashamed to ask."

"You shouldn't. If I can, I'll get whatever you'd like."

His eyes flicked down and to the side, without being conscious of doing so, and after a moment she followed the direction of his gaze with her own. He was looking unsurely at the crumpled remains of the canvas sack, the eye-holes staring through furrows of cloth and dirt back up at him. "I would like a new mask, if you could get one," he said. "One that isn't quite so — restrictive."

Giry began to speak, to protest by saying that she had already told him not to fear revealing his face to her; but after the conversation of the last hour, she felt too timid to do so. Instead she nodded, resolving to do her best but also to discuss the matter with him later.

As she moved towards the passage that would take her back up to the light, she looked at him over her shoulder, her face weakening and displaying tenderness.

"Good night, Erik."

To be continued.

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