A/N: I'm gonna keep several points of view in this first paragraph, just to establish a few ground emotions and motives. Then, once the chapters are arranged (and I will try to make them obviously tilted to one character's POV) the viewpoints will be less confusing.
Just a warning: There are A LOT of flashbacks in this story (I love thirty-something year old Erik…and his haunted cellar!)
Please please please review::ahem, tries to retain scrap of remaining dignity: Adjusts cravat and opera cloak: Let the phanfiction begin!
Chapter One: Of Ghosts
"Hello there" said the little girl between handfuls of hyacinths, her dark curls draped over the soft blue flowers. She seemed to be speaking into thin air. There was no one around her, only a field of yellow and blue with a carriage in the background. Inside was the girl's mother; her father was getting the horses ready to set out once more. They still had around five miles left to travel before reaching the cemetery.
"Are you going to visit your grandfather as well, Monsieur?" she asked her invisible companion. Her pale face brightened, a rosy color tinting her cheeks; the dark shade which remained semi-hidden behind a faraway oak answered with a nod. Anyone listening to her would have probably dismissed her joy as little more than childish enthusiasm, fantasies of an overactive imagination. But to this gentle child, the shadow was very real, no less real than her parents. She placed one of the hyacinths by the tree, and quickly ran back to the carriage, as she heard her father's authoritative, though not unkind, call.
"Erin!" repeated the tall, intensely handsome man. His thirty-some odd years had not yet taken any of the strength from his features. His eyes, though beginning to show signs of age, had yet to lose their icy splendor. He picked her up in a single graceful swoop and placed her inside the carriage, next to the intriguing woman in black. The woman's name was Christine Daae, and though she had not sung in over a decade, rumor had it that her voice was like that of an angel. Her hands lay folded over her lap, holding what seemed to be a single red rose. Each finger rested gracefully over the deep green stem, her creamy white skin a sharp contrast to the intense crimson of the bud. The mother seemed to wake from a dream as her daughter took a seat directly in front of her and began to play with a rather ratty looking figure of a monkey.
"I really do hate that thing. Why don't you throw it away, Erin? " said the mother, offsetting the chiding words with a warm smile and a loving tone.
"No," answered Erin without so much as the flutter of an eyelid. The little girl returned the smile, though her gaze remained fixed on the toy. In better times it would have resembled a monkey; in its hands were two yellowish disks, cymbals. All in all, the plaything bore its marks of wear and age with somber mysticism. Time had been very cruel to that toy. But Erin adored the trifle, more than any other specimen within her vast collection of toys. Both Christine and the Viscount had hoped to divert Erin's attention from the monkey music box by purchasing a varied assortment of other, more expensive (and certainly more handsome) toys for her. In the end, the parents had reluctantly accepted the antique toy box as part of their daughter's life.
Once again, Christine's mind began to wander. Her eyes stared out the window, past the velvet curtains and into the green countryside. She stared but she did not observe, she looked but only saw ghosts. A stag ran alongside the carriage, its mighty legs pounding the cold, damp soil as its nostrils ejected humid puffs of breath into the air. Without quite realizing what she was doing, Christine began to hum a tune, a song from her past. Soon the gentle hum became a whisper, much as the song had been serenaded to her all those years ago. Every day that passed added a new nostalgic sort of value to that song. She could only love this melody the way Erin loved her monkey, with a purity and strength that can only be found in the heart of a child. And Christine had indeed been a child when that love was founded. Childhood love, she remembered bitterly, cannot survive the cruelty of reality.
Christine stopped herself just in time to hear the last note echo into the setting sun. But, what was this? Had Erin been the one to sing that final note?
"Erin, angel, did you say something just now?" asked Christine, a distinct tone of worry in her question.
Hugging her toy, Erin lifted her eyes at last and faced her mother. Her pink cheeks aglow, she nodded her tiny head, tendrils of black hair hanging over her eyes. She continued the song, this time humming a second portion to the harmony.
Christine's heart skipped a beat, though she tried to cover any sign of tension for the sake of her child; she did not want to put Erin through any undue stress.
She began another question, but found could not carry it to fruition. Her words had run dry.
"E-Erin, where did you hear that tune?" She paused, not wanting to continue this line of questioning, fearing the answers.
"Did someone-" A gasp of air. A heartbeat. "-who taught you that song?" she choked out at last. She felt exhausted, as if all her energy had been drained by that single tune. The song which her own daughter now hummed.
She recalled those words from so long ago: You cannot refuse me, Christine!
No one, mother," lied little Erin. The child looked towards her monkey and asked it for strength. She hoped his smile would make lying to her mother somewhat bearable. The toy brought with it thoughts of her invisible companion, her teacher and friend. These memories comforted Erin deeply, helping her escape from her lie.
-Why must I keep you in darkness, master?
-Your mother, your father; they must never know. They are not part of our world. I am for you, sweet child. You alone.
Christine's gaze shifted to the doll, and a chilling sensation shot down her spine. She tried to comfort herself, repeating over and over that she was simply overreacting. They were miles from the infamous opera house where so many of Christine's own secrets lay buried. Still, secrets can only find rest in flesh, not stone. Had the ghosts of memory found new life in the present? Clearly Erin held a place for the past in her heart, even if it was only in the melody of a phantom. This thought, of course, frightened Christine more than any specter of memory.
"Erin, you must tell me who taught you this song. Where did you hear it?" Her voice became uneasy and the black veil she wore over her eyes now waved with the ardor of her breath. She took Erin by the shoulders -the girl's expression turning to one of shock and horror- and pleaded for the truth.
"Mother! Mother! You're hurting me!" Erin's plea snapped Christine back to the present. She let go of her daughter –now seconds away from bursting into sobs- and muttered an incoherent sort of apology. She hugged Erin, throwing both arms over the trembling, startled child. Erin was deceptively strong, crying very few times throughout her early childhood, but this outward show of fortitude belied a truly fragile heart. Christine felt her heart break under the child's pained expression. She recalled someone else who had awakened these same feelings of pity and love. She saw him-his eyes, his vulnerability, and his kind nature- within this girl, this little angel. Christine prayed that some of that kindness remained within him still.
Christine longed to hear him sing once more. She knew it was an awful thing to wish for, that song could only bring about pain and anguish for both her and Raoul. But oh to hear that voice which the heavens must loathe and envy for its beauty, and the infernal fires of hell must scorn and ridicule for its perfect righteousness! An angel in exile from Heaven and Hell alike.
They reached the cemetery a short time afterwards. Christine followed Erin as she deposited the blue flowers in front of her grandfather's mausoleum door. Erin knew her way around the cemetery quite well, every Sunday the three of them would come to the Daae tomb and place fresh flowers over her grandfather's grave.
Christine hesitated. She saw Raoul flinch out of the corner of her eyes. He could sense it, too, the musky smell of freshly dug up soil.
"Mother?" asked Erin with a look of complete confusion. Erin felt her father's protective grasp on her shoulder. She sensed that he knew more to this scene than he was willing to divulge at this time.
He called to Christine. "Let me come with you" said the Viscount, brow knitted in concentration.
Christine simply shook her head; she always preferred to spend some time alone inside her father's tomb.
Erin watched as her mother stepped into the shadows of the Mausoleum. She remembered the time she had escaped her father's side and had sneaked inside the tomb, her eyes had widened in surprise. She had heard the voice of an angel as soon as she had stepped inside the tomb. The angel, she later found out, had been her own mother.
Raoul's eyes followed Christine through the portal as well, but his mind reeled with fear and anxiety. This was a stark contrast to Erin's thoughts of music and angels. Raoul hated to leave Christine alone, even if it was for only a short ten minutes. He always felt like he could still lose her. He had learned never to take her for granted.
She heard his voice whispering her name Christine…
She disappeared into the darkness of the mausoleum.
Suddenly, as if haunted by the very demons of hell, the horses from Raoul's carriage began to buck and kick madly, threatening to pull the carriage apart. Raoul ran over to calm them, or at the very least, prevent them from causing further damage. He did not see Erin walk over to the mausoleum door.
Christine felt her knees weaken all of a sudden. She thought her heart would pound itself into oblivion it was beating so fiercely within her chest. She opened the door, without taking so much as a single look back towards Raoul, whose voice seemed so far away.
"Father." She heard her own voice resounding throughout the marble walls. There were statues of various sizes arranged throughout the site, some holding the scales of justice, symbolic of eternal peace and tranquility. There was a bust of Pallas before the portrait of her father. Just below the statue was a violin. Christine's heart sank into her chest; she gulped anxiously. No. This instrument was in excellent condition; it bore no signs of age. Fourteen years of sitting in a damp, cold Mausoleum and the violin had not a speck of dust! This was not her father's violin. Her mind raced. She could not contain her thoughts or her emotions any longer. She did the only thing she could.
"Think of me
Think of me fondly
When we've said goodbye
Remember me
Once in a while
Please promise me
You'll try
We never said
Our love was ever green
Or as unchanging as
The sea."
She couldn't bring herself to finish. The tears overwhelmed her. She fell to the cold marble and could sing no more.
And yet, to Christine's great surprise, the tune refused to die. The pristine soprano of Erin's voice continued the melody, thriving where Christine's song had faded. Kneeling on the icy floor, Christine turned her head in the direction of her daughter's voice. Erin was now at the threshold of the crypt. Her skin was quite pale, making her dark hair and cool green eyes appear supernatural and ghostly.
"Think of
all the things
we've shared and seen
Don't think about
The way things
Might have been
Think of me waking
Silent and resigned
Think of me
Trying too hard
To put you from my mind…"
Erin's voice froze in a strange mixture of terror and fascination. Her mysterious tutor was there, close to her. Though she could not see him, she still felt his presence, his warmth. He finished her song.
"When you find
That once again you long
To take your heart back
And be free
Just promise me that sometimes
You will think…"
The owner of the voice moved into the light, one step at a time. His face, though half-hidden by his carefully sculpted porcelain mask, melded sorrow and joy into a single expression. His eyes were the same dark green as Erin's. The girl felt hypnotized by his face. It seemed to her both distant and familiar all at once.
Erin walked as if entranced towards the man in the mask. He welcomed her with open arms and embraced her with the tenderness of a father, an angel. The girl felt a drop of water land on her cheek. Can a phantom cry? Her own tears soon followed.
Christine could do nothing more than sit and stare at the scene before her. She looked at the man who had once inspired her purest, most beautiful song, the man who had given her life by sacrificing his own happiness. She knew what he wanted, but had always hoped he would have reconsidered his demands. Perhaps she had hoped that the generous angel who had restored her freedom might spare her child.
Erik pulled back from the embrace just long enough to gaze lovingly into Erin's eyes. She seemed more beautiful to him now that he could finally adore her from up close. No more distance, he promised himself. He kissed her forehead. She fell into his arms like a wounded bird.
That's right, my dear, sleep. It is better that you do not see… He thought inwardly. For a moment he allowed himself to believe that Erin would indeed forget. He allowed himself to hope for her undying, untainted, love and approval, knowing she was the only being in the world capable of this feat.
He would have gladly stopped time right then and there, with this pristine, saintly creature lying peacefully in his arms. He thought it so odd that, though she had been the one to faint, he still considered her infinitely stronger than himself.
"You cannot have her," said Christine, gathering the strength to stand from some unknown place. Suddenly a torrent of anger flooded her voice, her hands shaking in controlled fury.
"All I wanted was you." The phantom whispered breathlessly, his voice uncharacteristically hoarse.
Christine took note of the tears welling within his eyes, those eyes which had entranced and fascinated her so long ago. Had things really changed so much? She questioned inwardly. No. The deep, overwhelming green of the iris and the penetrating way he used the eyebrow to express emotion still made her weak at the knees.
Christine was not sure to whom his words had been directed. Did he mean the child in his arms or the child of her past? He regained his former composure and continued in his usual somber tone.
"The night you left me I thought I would never love again. I had nearly given into the jaws of despair, ready to transform into the monster the rest of the world believed me to be. But she rescued me; her birth gave me new life. You cannot deny me life, Christine."
She saw his eyebrow lower over what had become a mere slit of an eye. A flicker of dark green was all that remained of the iris.
The Phantom threw back his long black cape and tossed some unseen object onto the marble floor. The object shattered; an explosion of smoke immediately followed the deafening boom. He carried Erin's tiny body in his arms, appearing all the more menacing and powerful because of the wall of smoke that enveloped him.
Raoul could see smoke coming from the Mausoleum entrance. Forgetting the maddened horses, he rushed over to the tomb as quickly as his legs could carry him. He drew his rapier by its curved, silvery hilt, the cold blade reflecting the white snow.
Raoul entered the mausoleum, his breath uneven and fitful. Night had begun to settle over the cemetery, and he could hardly make out the shadowy figures inside the tomb.
"Christine!" The Vicomte de Chagny's voice pierced the night air like the sword he so expertly maneuvered.
"Raoul!" Cried Christine, her brow furrowed in desperation.
Raoul ran into what seemed a black wall of smoke and vapor. He recognized the hallmark of the Phantom's trickery. Smoke and mirrors, thought the Vicomte with disdain as he continued to venture deeper and deeper into the foggy haze.
He searched the darkness for the ominous green eyes of the Ghost. The dark cloud stung Raoul's eyes and they had begun to water. Still, he was unsure whether this was due to the effects of the smoke or at the idea of losing his only child.
Suddenly, the ground gave out from beneath his feet, sending him crashing down into a sizable opening in the mausoleum floor. Once the smoke had cleared, he could hear Christine's sobs echoing faintly throughout the tomb.
AN: Want to read more? Well, I'm sure a few reviews will scare away the ghosts of writer's block :wink wink: