AN - Sorry my dears I'm am terribly sick. Hence, my lack of updateage. It might be like that for the next little while. More sleep, less... insomnia.
soccernat11 - You just wait, Raoul's very integral to my story now. When I first started writing it three years ago I wanted to write him out, in the end I realized he was someone I could use, for me, the story always ends when Christine decides to return to Erik, because after all. "Happily ever after." Yet the thing is, nothing is happily ever after, and I dont wanna know how bad E/C is compared to R/C. Because, in the end, there was only R/C, so the only alternative would be E/C, making it hopefully better. Is this making any sense?
LotRseer3350 -that is apart of the story, him finding the crazy killer, it helps with the crazy relationships tocome.
Rikku Ree - suppose right, if only Raoul wasn't still desperately inlove with Christine.
Computerfreak101- thanks for the review! I agree, the most challenging thing to do is to write a nice Raoul when you don't like him. I hope that I've gotten even the die hard Raoul haters feeling his pain, even a touch. By doing just that, I have begun to understand Raoul, I wanted people to realize he has his faults but their equal to his good qualities.
I Despise Raoul- wow, if I kept you that long, I hope you read/review again! glad to have you as a reader!
inkpems- thank you.
Clever Lass- I hope I don't dissapoint you, even if it were true... hopefully I'll still engage you with other characters.
All of my other Faithful Readers - thank you for your time.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Fall from Grace.
Once again
she is his . . .
Once again
she returns. . .
"I assume that Giry woman spent the night here again." Philippe stated from behind him. Raoul just sat there in front of the fire, never lifting his gaze from the glass of brandy in his hand. The liquor had warmed his whole body better than any fire could, but it had numbed his senses just enough that his mind could whisper the name Christine without him breaking into sobs. It had been three months since he last saw his wife and daughter, and already they're memory was beginning to fade around the edges. He clung to it desperately, trying to keep it close to his heart, but with time, all things fade. What am I doing? He thought. I shouldn't be staying here in the way of Philippe. He and his incessant nagging. It was true however, that he had to stay with Philippe for the time being. His home was nothing but ruins, and he wasn't ready to move on and create a new one just yet without his child and love.
"I'm not going to be so rude to send her late at night every time she visits." He said turning the glass in his hand. The study was his brothers but he had been spending more time in it than any other room in the house. It was, after all, where the majority of the liquor was kept. There was a fireplace, a comfortable chaise and divan to spend his time, and enough liquor to drowned in.
"It's not good for our name Raoul, people will talk." Philippe sighed.
"Let them talk." Raoul huffed.
"You have to move on my brother, this is undignified behavior."
"Have I ever really met up to your standards when it comes to dignity Philippe?" Raoul spat bitterly. It was then he finally decided to lift his eyes from the glass, his sight was drawn to the outside. The sun was shining brightly for a change. It didn't move him like he had wished it would. No sun, rain, or eternal darkness could move him from the comfort of the chair he sat in, next to that fire, with the brandy in his hand. Yet, it didn't stop him from staring. He stared out that window trying to ignore Philippe until his brother came into his line of vision.
"It's also unhealthy." Philippe said dropping his airy façade.
Raoul looked back at his brandy, it was empty now. Amazing how I mechanically drink now, he thought, I seriously cannot remember ever taken the last final sip of my poison.
Slowly he took out his pocket watched and glanced at the time; it was only seven in the morning. My! I must have started at seven last night, and had not realized how the time slipped by. Time is so capricious, some days, it goes by so fast I can barely keep track. Some days the merest seconds are slower than any hour I can remember. Meg was still sleeping, but she would be up within the hour. It was the same every time she was there. She would come down the stairs, dressed meticulously her cheeks flushed in small embarrassment at the situation. She would then try to dismiss herself cordially, only to have Raoul claim nonsense. He would escort her back to the opera, never mind her home. Most likely they would be late, as always, and her mother would lecture about the etiquette of a dancer, and how she was not one. He knew how much her mother's words always hurt her so he might as well get her up now in the mere chance they would be on time.
He looked to Philippe who was sitting in front of him. It was the first time he had looked at his brother really in a month, since the funeral. He had aged; the de Chagny blonde was slipping from his hair leaving it grey and old. Stern wrinkles surrounded his eyes and mouth far too quickly for his time. He was looking at Raoul with glassy eyes in desperation, like he was waiting. Waiting for Raoul to say something, anything to prove he would be ok. Philippe had never been never a good actor, one of the many things he needed to be when a Comte. Raoul felt a sting of pity for the old man; he had always loved Philippe, just as Philippe had always loved Raoul. It was obvious as he just sat there, waiting for a sign, waiting for some sort of absolution, something to quell his own fears. Something Raoul could not give him.
"It's time I take Megan home." Raoul said rising from his seat and leaving a distraught and lonely man behind him.
Oh how we have so much in common.
( ' ) '
-
Meg Giry. Are you a dancer?
Then come and practice.
Megan sat directly across from Raoul as they rode into Paris. Her blonde tresses were falling around her. She was not a rich woman but she had begun to take a small pride in her wardrobe. Christine had been the instigator of this infatuation with silk and lace. She was thrifty, modest, but pretty. It was a curse and a blessing that she rarely wore anything but ballet garb, because it meant she had a few dresses that were quite expensive, and at the same time, she was never seen with some of her favourites because she had had no place to wear them.
That was until she started to see the Vicomte de Chagny ever Thursday evening. There was talk, like there always was, that she and him were courting. However the extent of their relationship was a few kind words and presence. She looked at him with her green eyes to see that he was still staring out the window in the carriage. Sighing silently, she looked down to her gloved hands in her lap.
She began to wonder why they were spending time together. Was it because they both lost the dearest thing to them, he his wife, she her best friend? She wondered if it was to give the Vicomte a break from his liquor intake. It was obvious he had fallen out of society rapidly and was rarely talk of unless in scandal. Some had the audacity to say that she and he planned for Christine to be murdered so they could have each other. Her heart burned in agony at the hate in those comments. She had always been an aloof and naive person, but it was by choice, not by stupidity. She was not a dumb girl; she ignored the phantom of the opera, Christine's first love. She had known about their affair long before even Christine did. Angel of music? He most certainly was, playing his masterpieces on that majestic organ way down below the opera house so the sound would resonate up to her ears as she explored the catacombs underneath the opera house. She had heard her mother and him speak on more than one occasion, once even in her mother's apartment when she had been visiting overnight there.
Now both the famous lovers were dead leaving behind victims, none more devastated than the man in front of her. She remembered his smile, the way his blue eyes shone in the presence of Christine. Their wedding day, she was a bit drunk but she did remember how they stunned all of society by lovingly dancing freely in front of everyone. She remembered the happier times and wished with all her might that she could bring them back. Back for Raoul because seeing him like this pained her. She had heard through gossip that the family had not been so happy in the last few days of Christine's life. But gossip was a hard source of news to believe. Some of the ballet rats could say that the Emperors heir himself had ran away with a commoner and other such fairytales with such conviction that the Emperor himself might send a party to look for his son. Truthfully she did not know what Christine's last days where like, she hadn't seen her since the one visit she had with her after Danielle's birth. Raoul had been away on business so she could not see how they reacted and therefore doubted the tale.
Doubt as I do I could not muster enough courage to ask the one person I know to have that knowledge.
Raoul.
( ' ) '
-
665, ladies and gentlemen: a paper-mache musical box, in the shape of a barrel-organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes playing the cymbals.
This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order.
"Stop crying." Erik commanded the baby squealing in his arms. For a split second, he thought it had worked. She stopped her squealing and stared at him with tearful eyes, as she took a deep breath. Her perfect face made him smile when he thought himself successful, before it contorted into a painful mess as she began to howl again.
Well it was worth a shot, he thought as she continued to cry. Raising a child was so difficult. He had never thought it would be such a task.
"We are out of milk, I have to go get some tonight, I most certainly cannot leave now while number one, you are awake to scream, and number two it's light out. This is not to mention you were fed, merely half an hour ago. You shouldn't be hungry yet. You will merely have to wait, alright?" He said trying to reason with her as though she were an adult.
She continued to scream, adding a squirm to her pleas.
"Oh for the love of... here, Danielle? Dani?" He said trying to show her the item he procured with his hand. It was the first thing he could grab while she fussed in his arms. Of course, much to his dismay, it was the infamous music box. Sighing, he debated whether he should throw it against the wall or use it to try and quell her sobs. He realized he might as well carry through with the plan, throwing it would only make him feel better for a second, while it would scare her, and it probably wouldn't stop her from crying.
"Watch..." He said hushing her and put the three-month-old girl down on the divan. For a moment he watched as she rolled onto her side and tried to do more. She is always moving, he thought briefly to himself, as she continued to babble and bawl. He wound up the musical box and placed it on the table in front of the divan, then he sat down and propped her in his lap.
"Masquerade, paper face on parade, hide your face till the world will never find you..." he sang softly behind the brown hair of the girl in front of him.
"aaaah..." She gurgled and took a jagged breath. She then tried to reach for the music box but was unsuccessful. The irritation that itched inside his chest and fingers fell like the tide as soon as her piercing cries subsided. I wonder if all parent feel the urge to physically silence their children when they cannot comprehend what the little brat wants. Did he feel guilty at the thought of doing something irrational to Danielle? No, in fact, Erik was quite pleased with himself that he hadn't. It was a small, but successful step for him, and if he didn't recognize his own growth he would never be able to move on further.
"Wama?" She laughed looking at him with her blue eyes so very much like Christine.
"No, no touch." He said taking her little hands in his so she couldn't desperately reach for it. He didn't want her touching it. It was not hers to touch. It was her mothers, and would always be for Christine.
Sighing she leaned back into him and watched as the monkey softly played the symbols. He rested his face gently against the top of her head. She grabbed one of his long fingers and held onto it tightly as she watched the brightly dressed monkey softy bang the chimes.
Interesting, he thought, that cry was somewhat different from her usual. She's starting to change them for her needs.
He smiled happily proud of his keen sense of sound once more. Even if I am not her father, maybe having her around won't be so hard after all.