A/N: A million thanks and a gazillion hugs (or Phantom plushies, which ever you want) to those who reviewed! This includes babymene17, MastersofNight and Arda Silverlace. I couldn't do it without you steadfast reviewers!
Please forgive me for the unforgivably long time it took for me to update. I have no reason, except for the fact that school starts today. So much for summertime.
Chapter Five: Bright Tonight
Erik's POV
The girl—Morgan—drank her tea slowly, staring into the fire. The flames flickered across her face, making lineaments glow. The shadows beneath her eyes and the bruises on her neck grew more prominent. I could not help but note that those bruises were of my own horrible doing.
Mentally, I chastised myself for my foolish strategy, or maybe lack thereof. If I wished for this girl to influence her brother into letting me build the new opera house with my own blueprints (because I was sure that this Charles Garnier would never allow me this honor unless I actually killed the man) I should be kinder to her. Or at the very least, not so unfriendly and unpleasant. All acts of anger and annoyance should cease. I've heard of tales where much can be accomplished with a bit of kindness and patience.
Yes, just tales. I wouldn't know in reality. My mother must have never been exposed to these aforementioned stories; otherwise my life would undoubtedly be completely different.
I frowned though, closing my eyes briefly. This would not be easy. I, Erik, who possess numerous characteristics, have yet to master tolerance. It is a worthy adversary for one who was prejudiced against and shunned all his life.
Opening my eyes, I glanced at Morgan. She had returned to her piece of parchment, truly sketching this time, tea abandoned. Earlier, I had been reluctant to disturb her. It is difficult to find inspiration, but all the easier to loose it. In all arts—music, poetry, song, even illustration—this is the case. So I did not speak to her, just listened to the melody of the forest night and watched her draw.
I decided that this was an honorable act of kindness.
With no desire for food, human company or many other things people normally crave, a thirst for knowledge and art were my only escapes from the cruelties of reality. Music is a form of life, a type of religion, I've discovered. Mere mundane mortals are not aware of this. But all things, living or not, have an aura, give off whispers. These auras blend together and fuse, producing sounds, melodies, and music. Air or water, when combined with something as precious as trees or stones, can harmonize as sweetly as any church choir.
At the moment, the trees above us rustled and murmured gently as a zephyr caressed their branches and leaves. All trees respond differently to wind, rain, sunshine, all elements. The leaves on a small ash tree shake quicker in the wind than that of an oak's. The thick leaves of a mahogany tree soak up sunlight swifter than the tiny leaves of an orange. And willow tree's leaves shudder so in the rain, giving it the echo of laughter, while a young sapling can hardly be seen in the rain, can hardly be heard above the murmurs of the others.
An owl hooted in the distance, by the sound of it's harsh call, a screech owl. Behind me, Rosetta and Shangri La swished their tails lazily. A moth buzzed near the flames. Ah, the symphony of animals. If I were as stupid as most, I'd say that Our Creator is extraordinarily magical; this God individual creates the most brilliant beings. But what merciful and magical deity would in his right mind create me? An angel up in heaven must have been shirking their duty when this fiend of a baby was born…
With a reasonable amount of surprise I become conscious of the fact that Morgan was staring at me. But not with the look of fright and contempt I was accustomed to seeing reflected in the eyes of ignorant men and naïve women. This look—her eyes—was different…filled with an emotion I couldn't recognize.
When she realized that I was staring right back at her, her gaze quickly fell to her parchment again and she hastily sipped her tea. The girl shifted on her place on the ground nervously.
Beneath my mask, I scowled. Still afraid of old Erik, I see. Well, you've given the girl no reason not to be afraid of you, the familiar voice muttered reasonably in my head. Bitterly, I could only agree.
But this will soon change.
"Um," Morgan began hesitantly, putting down her tea and glancing at me, "If you don't terribly mind me asking, monsieur, why do you wear that mask?"
Curiosity. How I loathe it in others. I refused to reply, glaring at an ant near my foot. The insect steadily crept onto a fallen leaf. I contemplated crushing it, wishing that crushing inquisitiveness were just as effortless.
Not so unfriendly and unpleasant, eh? the voice mocked, readily.
Sighing loudly, I raised my head up to face her. Upon seeing my dark look, the girl did nothing, but I could see that her mind was flooding with doubts. What sort of creature had she become aquatinted with? I forced out an answer to the question I've been asked repeatedly since leaving the gypsy circus. "It is more so for your protection than it is for my own, mademosille. People often cannot accept things they are not accustomed to." And who would ever grow accustomed to me? Even my mother took extra care not to touch or look at me.
The fact that I had not swiftly rebuked her in response, as my appearance had suggested, seemed to give Morgan some courage. She leaned forward and looked at me over the orange flames of the bonfire. "What do you mean, monsieur?"
"I mean exactly what I said, Mademoiselle Garnier. The world is a cruel place; those who walk it rarely believe that persons who are different from the masses in appearance can be alike in heart and mind."
Morgan pondered this as I went to put blankets on Shangri La and Rosetta—the night was indeed growing cold. When I returned and gave the girl two wool blankets, she wrapped one around her shoulders and then said meticulously, "So I take it that you didn't have a very cheerful childhood, due to this…your face?"
Pulling my cloak closer around me to block out the chill I gave a short gruff reply. "Correct."
"Ah," her face contorted with sadness, "I'm sorry."
I blinked. No one had ever said that to me. No one has ever apologized to me for the cards I was dealt. Ever. The fact that I could receive such warmth and compassion from a girl I'd only just met, while my mother wouldn't so much as embrace me, let alone comfort me, was both unsettling and touching.
For the first time in my life I was silent, not out of choice, but for lack of words. I focused on the cheerful chirps of the concealed crickets in the forest.
Clearly unaware of how her response had affected me, Morgan asked another question. She still sounded depressed, but must have thought speaking to me would cheer her up or at least distract her.
"What is your name, monsieur?"
Startled out of my thoughts, I whispered, "A name is a sacred thing, child."
"Yes, I know. That is why I am asking you for your's." She sounded impatient.
After a second, I answered, "When you give someone your name, you grant them a certain type of power over you, are you aware of that? With a name, you can spread lies and false truths, possibly even strike fear or foreboding in others. A name can be tossed about easily enough, but can mean the world to some people. There are those who would murder for a name, a petty title. And for those reasons and more, I find it much more pleasant for you to just call me 'monsieur,' while I politely address you as, "mademoiselle'."
Morgan gave me a puzzled look. "So you won't be telling me your name, then?"
The girl is agreeable enough, but terribly oblivious to the obvious.
"No, I will not. And if you have no further questions I suggest—"
"Do you have a profession, monsieur?" She asked swiftly before I could order her to sleep and leave me alone.
"Yes, many."
"Such as…?" she prompted.
A circus freak! The voice in my head laughed. I ignored it.
After a second's thought, I held out my hands, palms forward to the fire, so she could see that they were empty. I turned them over and then back and forth so she could be sure of this. Morgan watched me, unsure yet engrossed. Then, with a flourish of my left hand, a blue emerald appeared in its palm. A second elegant flourish and another jewel emerged. Morgan gasped appreciatively.
"Magician," I said in clarification. With a flick of my wrist, the two gems vanished. "Now look in your pocket."
She did so, and with an awed exclamation, held up the emeralds. "Good heavens! How did you do that?"
"Simple legerdemain tricks. Gypsies taught me." Not willingly, but they were too frightened to refuse me when I asked, fearing that I'd feed them to my mystical dragon.
"Oh my." Morgan moved to return the jewels, "You're really quite good."
I waved a hand at her to dissuade this action. "Keep them, I have no use for gemstones." I had only snatched them from the Shah's treasure box in Persia out of sheer boredom. The man should really have taken better care of his belongings. Nadir was a horrible sentinel for the Shah's prized possessions.
"Oh, no. I couldn't do that," she said hurriedly.
"Why ever not?" I said wearily. "You had no issue on taking Shangri La last evening."
In an instant, Morgan grew from polite to angry. "That is an entirely different matter, monsieur!"
I tilted my head to one side. "Is it, now?"
"Yes!" she shrieked, outraged. "When I attempted to take Shangri La, I had no idea she was yours and I felt dreadful for taking her without permission and for even trying to steal her, but I cannot accept this bequest because I feel so guilt about my past feat towards you and these are rightfully yours and I---what are you laughing at?"
I had jerked my head backwards and laughed loudly at Garnier's fury during her rant, her tone and each word simply encouraging me to continue. This girl thought that she could intimidate me through her feelings of remorse? Erik cannot be intimidated!
"I expect you are more upset about being caught in the act than you are about actually attempting it, yes, my dear?" I laughed in amusement once more.
Morgan uttered a frustrated sound in my direction and flung an emerald at me. Catching it smoothly, I tossed it back to her, careful not to hit her. I allowed the girl this small pretense of irritation, seeing as it was more comical than it was harmful.
"I advise you to sleep now, mademoiselle," I instructed, voice still light with humor. "At dawn we will be riding again. Paris is no more than a few days away."
Muttering in quite an unladylike fashion, Morgan grudgingly replaced the gems in her dress pocket and tucked her charcoal pencil and parchment up her sleeve. Laying out one blanket beneath her, and then covering herself with the other, she closed her eyes, casting one last look at me.
With an easy sigh, I glanced up at the stars, which were impossibly bright tonight.
A/N: Ah, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince was a FANTASTIC read! I laughed, I cried. Seriously. Or should I say 'Sirius-ly.' Go and read it, please. Or else I'll…I'll…er…throw you off the topmost tower of…uh…the Opera Populaire!
Phantom dreams,
Alda