Chapter Four:
Such a pity!
'What's said is said…'
Someone was singing to her…no, not quite singing…half singing, and half humming…the tune that his voice intoned so sweetly was strangely familiar to her, as though she had heard it over and over again in times long past…or in a dream…which? She didn't know…but she heard…
There's such a sad love,
Deep in your eyes, a kind of pale jewel
Open and closed within your eyes…
I'll place the sky within your eyes…
Perhaps she was still dreaming.
It all seemed like a dream. She had never felt so utterly peaceful in life…and only in her dreams had she ever yearned to see the world around herself…and yet found herself completely unable to open her eyes…
The song continued: weaving the gossamer strands of their lilting spell around her, and she sighed, softly.
She didn't want to awaken from this dream…
There's such a fooled heart,
Beating so fast in search of new dreams—
A love that will last within your heart…
I'll place the moon within your heart…
She had never heard such a voice. It was not the smooth and perfectly inflected, impersonal tone of a classically trained tenor, nor the resounding vibrato rumble of the deepest bass…no…
This voice was baritone, and filled with passion, with raw, unchecked energy and power, with every emotion that a voice could convey. The lower notes of the song were sung with a dark, mellifluous rough edge, reminding her inexplicably of velvet sliding over the jagged broken edge of a mirror…the higher notes were touched with the most graceful ease, as the voice skimmed up to them in one effortless swoop, like a swallow taking flight into the twilight sky…
As the pain sweeps through,
Makes no sense for you…
Every thrill has gone,
Wasn't too much fun at all!
But I'll be there for you…
As the world falls down…
The song was a waltz. (1)
She had heard it before, in the childhood that had once been hers, and now seemed so very distant…She had gone to the carnivale with her Papa, who had held her hand tightly and let her see the wonders of that wondrously festive place…she remembered the colours now, whirling and bright…the sparkling showers of pure light that fell from the night sky with chaotic noise…costumed figures, arrayed in jewel tones, gold and silver, black and white, dancing to the melody on a smoothly rounded floor.
Once, she'd had a little musical box…
Her father had bought the delicate toy for her, after she had begged and wheedled at him for it, for hours…on its top, there had been a pair of dancers, a man and a woman who were dressed like those people on the dance floor, at the carnival…when the box's tiny golden key was turned, the pair would begin to turn, slowly, moving round and round together in a dance that never changed, to the music that was theirs…
I'll paint you mornings of gold,
I'll spin you Valentine evenings—
Though we're strangers 'till now,
We're choosing the path between the stars…
I'll leave my love between the stars…
As the pain sweeps through,
Makes no sense for you…
Every thrill has gone,
Wasn't too much fun at all!
But I'll be there for you…
As the world falls down…
But I'll be there for you…
As the world falls down…
The music faded, growing softer and softer, until she began to hear the echoes of its melody in the darkness: like wind-chimes made of glasses, gently ringing and filling the air with their shimmering silvery sound.
Like crystal breaking…
The illusion shattered, and alarm resounded in her head, like an explosion. Light split the darkness, lightning piercing into her clouded mind with horrifying reality—
Wait!
Christine's eyes snapped open in an instant, and she inhaled sharply, the breath strangling in her throat. With a faint cry that was half-smothered by panic, she moved hastily in a rash attempt to sit up. Her head spun, sending spiraling waves of sickening pain down into the pit of her stomach, and then back upon again into her skull, where they pealed with an agonizing ache.
She opened her eyes, in spite of it all.
All around her was dark: so dark, in fact, that she could only see the very vaguest outlines of her surroundings. She was somewhere within a shadowy room, and she was resting atop the softest mattress that she had ever felt, lying amidst a sea of cool satin sheets. Her heart pounding furiously in her chest, hammering as though it wished to escape its suddenly wearisome confinement there, Christine pushed her elbows against the bed, raising herself off the mattress.
But then…
Hands—warm, large, and powerful, with skin too smooth to be that of any normal human—caught her, and wound gently but inexorably around her upper arms. They pushed lightly against her shoulders, and then there was a palm, moving to rest against her forehead, just below the peak of her hairline. Christine closed her eyes…
"Shh…" a man's voice said.
It was the voice that had sung to her.
"It's all right, mon cheri…you are all right, have no fear, have no fear," it crooned, in the gentlest, most soothing tones that had ever graced her ears. Her heart's pounding subsided to a mere fluttering, yet still she could not catch her breath.
Oh! Let me breathe!
"Be still, pretty one...you have had a nasty shock," the voice continued, after a moment. Deft fingers skillfully threaded themselves into her tangled masses of hair, massaging against her scalp so that she felt almost lulled into calmness again. "You fell, and almost hurt yourself…you'll have a nasty headache now, with that bump on your head, but that is all. You must rest, petite cheri, ma belle princesse…lie still and be quiet for now…there is nothing to worry about…"
She did as she was commanded, and was silent.
Well, apparently, she'd fainted—somehow or another—and then they had managed to get into the attic, and retrieve her, she supposed. Now she was likely back in the dormitory again, in her own bed, and the man who was with her was, perhaps, a doctor. He had said that she had received a blow to her head when she had fallen…
No.
She wasn't in the dormitory. She wasn't in the opera house at all. Her bed in the opera house was narrow and hard, and her sheets were made of thin cotton that scratched against her tender skin and never kept her warm. This bed was huge, stretching out far beyond her arm's reach on either side…its sheets were made of satin…and the room was warm, and held a faint fragrance of fresh-bloomed roses, and springtime, with an undercurrent of far more exotic spices that were unknown to her…
And the fingers that were even now tangled in her hair certainly did not belong to the hands of any Parisian doctor.
Immediately, she came to life again.
Scrambling like a madwoman to get away from him…it…whoever, whatever it was that now held her captive, she found her traitorous eyes latched into the darkness, staring in both terror and panic.
Who could it be? She couldn't see anything! Was it Jacques and his cronies again? Had the cruel boys discovered her unconscious form in the attic and desired to continue their cruel game with her? Or—was it someone else entirely?
But no one she knew had a voice such as this!
No one she knew had such a touch—!
Her bare feet landed on a plush, velvety surface, and she desperately backed away from the edge of the bed, stumbling a bit as she trod upon the trailing hem of her gown. Trembling from head to foot in abject terror, she stared with wild dark eyes into the fathomless shadows. She could neither see her surroundings, nor her captor—whomever and whatever he was. Her vision was swirling and her mind was numb…
"Who are you?" she breathed.
But only a long, horrible moment of silence met her then, as her companion—rescuer or abductor, friend or murderer—faced her in the dark, and they somehow stared into one another's eyes, even through the impenetrable shadows.
"Don't be afraid…" came the voice, very soft and musical.
She took a lurching step away from him, again: her heart hammering within her breast, as the figure reached out his hand to her, moving very, very slowly. Her throat felt as if it was closing up, and her lungs were on fire. Suddenly, a surface brushed against her back—and this time, it wasn't the waist-high solidity of a table or the cool flatness of a wall. It was soft and flexible.
And it didn't hold her up at all as she mistakenly rested her weight against it.
She lost her balance, and found that she was falling past that dense softness, and onto something that was behind it. Pale orange light suddenly flooded the room, and she realized that she'd leaned against a set of curtains—and now her back was pressed against a veritable wall of many-paned windows.
Light.
There was a swift, blurred gesture from the man—if it was a man—who stood in the room before her, and then, suddenly, glowing orbs of warm amber light appeared, all around. She could see into the chamber, then; the hundred of tiny lights were flames atop tall, cream-coloured taper candles, which were set into several large, ornate golden candelabras. It was a beautiful room: lush and opulent, hung with velvet and silk and brocade, and she could see a number of alcove-like spaces within the walls. Perhaps these were doors that led out of the chamber.
All this she took note of in less than a moment.
Her eyes almost instantly riveted themselves on the other living occupant of the enormous bedchamber—
And then she gasped, as she recognized his face. (2)
It's impossible! flew through her mind.
But sight outweighed logic.
"You're him," she breathed. "You're the Goblin King!"
The man inclined his head to one side, in recognition of her words, and his eyes—which were bi-coloured, she realized, and looked at her from behind an ivory mask that strangely resembled a skull—met her own. A tiny, cold little smirk played about his handsomely-formed lips, and his eyes sparkled with some sort of dark mirth.
Then he bowed to her, with the reverence that a king might afford to a queen.
"Welcome to the Labyrinth, Mademoiselle Daae."
Suddenly everything started whirling around her again—
And Christine promptly swooned to the plush carpeted floor.
The Goblin King moved quickly, and caught her before she landed; then, gathering her into his arms, he cast a brief, wondering glance at the masses of shimmering mahogany curls that fell from the maiden's head over his shoulder. Well, apparently he wasn't so good at charming young ladies as he was at be-spelling goblins and unfortunately doomed trespassers into the Labyrinth…
That would have to be remedied.
As for now…
There was much to be done.
"Such a pity…" he murmured.
He'd had such grand hopes for the evening…
(1) "As the World Falls Down" is not really a waltz, as anyone who has seen the movie Labyrinth will very well know. Buuuuut…make a few alterations to the tempo, and play around with the rhythm of the beats and such…and you can alter it into a waltz, which is I've done here, for the sake of the purposes of the story.
(2) You might be asking how she can "recognize" him, if they've never met before. I'll explain how in the next chapter, but for now, let's just say that it's because she's read the Labyrinth story several times, and has become very familiar with the description of the infamous Goblin King. This man who is now facing her…looks like the Goblin King as she imagines him, down to the last detail. And her edition of the Labyrinth book was illustrated—something our Goblin King had a
hand in, too, so the illustrations and descriptions would look like him, then…
And speaking of our Phantom Prince/Goblin King's appearance…I really haven't described him yet, have I? All part of a purpose. Aren't you just dying to know what he looks like? As for now, though…he is NOT Gerard Butler wearing 80's clothing, let me just say that. But he's not David Bowie with spiky hair and eye makeup either. Perhaps the VOICE, though…
Anyhow, I'm inspired to write more of this now...perhaps I'll have time to continue, provided school and work don't get to me first. My one art history paper is almost out of the way right now--and that's one paper off a list of four! So...I think I'm getting along, finally...maybe...