Author's notes: Behold: "No one would listen"! I love the song. So it´s here! Okay, I was thinking of switching to Christine's POV again, but then decided to go with Erik again. I have no idea why he's so easy to write (for me, that is), since he's such a complex character. Z., if you're reading this, I guess you were right – I am becoming more and more like him each day. Stuck in my room, doing artistic stuff, architecture, singing, drawing, insomnia, my dislike of daylight… do I see similarities there? And I'm not counting my personality yet.
Oh, Leroux joke was "Poor, trusting Christine." (hint: "Poor Erik." Christine constantly keeps saying that in Leroux).
Enrinye – the resident critical cynic is fascinated? Wow, I must be getting good (laughs) Anyway, you got part of it right, I guess, but the joke was a quote. No criticism? (celebration begins)
lady kathrin – Thanks for reading, here you go!
Mini Nicka – Thanks!
ElfPrincess94 – (bows) Double review! Yay!
starnat – Well, that would have been the sane thing to do. Scratch that, the sane thing would have been: After seeing the mannequin, no faint, rather, a kiss. Now that would be the sane thing to do.
longblacksatinlace– Good eyes. Yep, it was a Kay quote, a bit adjusted. Leroux was the "Poor Christine" bit. Anyway, I'll consider Fop's POV… just not now.
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Chapter 8 – Hearing voicesX X X X
For all I know, the time I spent sitting at the organ, composing, could have been as much as a lifetime, or as little as a second. Yet while I played, time and space ceased to exist and I was at peace. There was only sound.
Inspiration flooded me from every direction now, but I couldn't bring myself to continue working on Don Juan Triumphant. The music was filled with the essence of myself, my emotions… a part of me I didn't wish to reveal to anyone, perhaps not even to myself, fully, yet. Even I was scared, at times, by the thoughts flowing through my mind.
But there was another reason as well. The music was loud and passionate, and was bound to wake Christine. Turning my thoughts to more sanity-protecting things, I simply began to play the first melody that crossed my mind.
My music always reflected my thoughts or emotions at a particular moment, sometimes concerning a particular topic. Composers have a tendency of detaching themselves from their work. Such a thing was unthinkable for me. Music was the very core of my being, my god and only master, the sanctuary that protected me better than even any of the traps constructed around my lair ever could.
It was music that formed my bond with Christine.
No one would listen
No one but her
Heard as the outcast hears…
I almost didn't realize that I actually sang the words, it sounded so… remote. Pity or ever self-pity were things I was long past. I learned to accept myself as I was, though I knew the world never would. Angel, demon… I would always be viewed as an extreme. Never as Erik.
Shamed into solitude
Shunned by the multitude
It was simply the truth, without unnecessary emotion behind it. My childish need for love and acceptance was long gone… at least when it came to demanding such things from the crowds.
I learned to listen
In my dark, my heart heard music
Perhaps it was because I had set out on a never-ending journey for perfection. Excellence was not enough for me and being outstanding would never suffice. Unless work was done flawlessly, I wouldn't rest. And so it was with music. I heard it, I was so close! But I failed to capture it the way it was supposed to be.
I longed to teach the world
Rise up and reach the world
If only through music. I could show them that deep down inside, underneath all the walls I had constructed over the years to shield myself from all the cruelty of the world, I wasn't a bad person. Evil is never born, you know. It's made. I didn't know exactly where the line between good and evil was, but I knew it had become very blurred for me… if it ever existed at all. I had never been taught the difference between the two extremes.
No one would listen
I alone could hear the music
I bowed my head and closed my eyes. Humans. I have observed them, studied them, immersed myself in them… I saw their hate, their fear, thus my view of them became rather wide, even if I never saw the positive sides of the human race. Sometimes I doubted there was a thing such as compassion, or, if it existed, if it could find its way into the fearful human soul. My opinion of the homo sapiens was very low.
They never understood me, but oh, how I understood them.
Then at last, a voice in the gloom
Seemed to cry "I hear you!
Again, it was but the truth. Before that, I knew no one with a love for music as great as mine. Strange that it took a praying child, while I liked to think myself as of an atheist, to show me that perhaps I was not completely alone in this world. And despite the many obvious differences between us, if I didn't know then, then I surely knew now that I had found a soul with equal love and pain within it, a broken child that had found a sanctuary in me, as I had in her.
I hear your fears,
Your torment and your tears."
To be completely honest, I rarely cried. Almost never. It took something really dreadful to reduce me to tears. Not even death managed it. Anger was my first shield from grief. Everyone who ever found themselves facing my temper can officially blame my mother. I remember her temper. And sometimes I saw quite a few similarities between us, if only psychological.
That would probably infuriate her, if she were still alive, but I suppose she knew that no matter how she tried to wipe the simple fact from her mind, she couldn't deny that I was her son and therefore inherited some of her characteristics.
But my mother wasn't a pleasant subject to think about, even if it wouldn't anger or sadden me anymore. There were other things that had the potential to awaken those emotions, however. Fortunately, they became scarce. I have seen far too many terrible things in my life to be remorseful or enraged too quickly. "Too" was the keyword. But… torment I knew well.
She saw my loneliness
Shared in my emptiness
Just as I had been lonely and broken, my angel was once also deserted in this world. With no family or friends, she came to this opera house to start a new life, with questionable success, had I not approached her, I suppose. And the routine of my existence would have remained the same even now, had it not been for her.
Thus, we were almost soulmates before we even knew each other. She unknowingly understood me just as I understood her.
No one would listen
No one but her
Heard as the outcast hears
Perhaps outcast wasn't the right word, but I didn't suppose there was a word long and meaningful enough to define me and my relationship with the human race. It would have to suffice.
No one would listen
No one but her
Heard as the outcast hears...
Absent-mindedly, I realized that I never wrote down the song. My only luck was that it kept ringing in my head and the words, painfully accurate, were hard to forget. I always had a wretchedly good memory and thus couldn't forget even things I would prefer not to be able to remember anymore.
From the years of deforming my handwriting to make sure that it would never bear any resemblance of the probably long-lost notes and sketches of one of the chief constructors of the Opera, my hand had adapted to the scribbling writing style, switching back only when I wrote music. A reflex, I suppose.
The song, while short, took a while to write down, simply because everything seemed so quiet now that even the scratching of a quill would sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. Besides, the acoustics were all-too-good.
I thought I heard music – another familiar tune – echoing very softly, even though I wasn't playing. That music box was a mystery even to me sometimes. It was a simple clockwork mechanism, the hardest part of creating it was the monkey figure. Every detail was completely authentic, even the moves of its arms when it played were fluid, as if the little player was indeed alive. And it was dressed in Persian robes, for various reasons.
In Persia, I believe I had seen once or twice a live monkey dressed up like that, if only for entertainment. This one was dressed up mainly because of my melancholic mood. Not that I missed the "rosy hours of Mazenderan", as Nadir would no doubt comment in his rare moments of sarcasm. But there was something to Persia that made it hard to forget, if only as a traveler.
Cultural-wise, the society had degraded considerably. But their past was glorious. And I had more than a fair share of… souvenirs, you might say, from my time there. Some were gifts, some were tokens I had purchased on my own, some were objects I liked and decided that they were largely wasted wherever I had found them and decided to take them for my own. Such as the diamond collar that Ayesha now wore.
And, thought I would probably never admit it out loud, it was also something that could remind me of the one friend I had made there, the ever-vigilant daroga. I missed his criticism on occasion – he never ceased to amuse me. And that was quite an achievement.
I returned my mind to the papers in front of me and frowned. Perhaps I could start working on Don Juan after all. I had no trouble imagining the music in my head… I could play it later, to see if it was right. But the sound of footsteps, quiet as they were, dismissed that idea.
When I turned to see what it was, I tensed. Christine was standing a few meters away, her face showing nothing short of curiosity and awe. While the moment of explanation was inevitable, I didn't guess it was so soon. I found myself turning back to the organ, almost anxious, waiting for her accusations and then the questions… or, at the very least, something I was prepared to face. Meeting a gentle gaze wasn't on the list.
The footsteps resumed and I knew that soon, there would be no avoiding the confrontation.
"Who are you, Angel of Music?" At last something that was moderately predictable. Yet I couldn't find the courage to face her now and shatter the remains of the illusion I had created.
And then, her touch! I could feel her hand on my cheek, just as the night before. Was it time to reverse our positions, then? Because if she had been entranced before, I doubt it could compare with what was happening to me now.
That was my doom.
Damn the curiosity that led her hand to snatch away the mask! Damn her for wanting to see the one thing I never intended to reveal to her! Could she not have realized that perhaps there was a logical reason as to why I chose to cover myself with it?
My eyes instantly darted open, the moment's bliss gone. It was too late, I knew. She saw… she saw… but my anger took over. She wanted to see! Then I would let her see! I grabbed her by the wrist, bringing her closer.
"Look, Christine! Look! You wanted to see, so look!" I practically threw her to the floor, unable to look at her any longer. The horror and pity in her eyes were almost sickening. I didn't want either of those. She still clutched the mask, however, so the only mercy I could grant her was covering my face with my hand.
"Damn you, you little prying Pandora! Is this what you wanted to see!" I ignored her sobs, her trembling form… I was too enraged. "You just had to look, didn't you, you little viper! Do you realize that you can never be free now! If you would still think I was handsome, you would return… but now, you would run away, Christine!"
She was crying, still kneeling on the floor, not daring or not able to look at me, even though what caused her fear was out of sight. My temper didn't help much, I knew, but what right did she have to do that!
"Christine…" I forced softness into my tone, but all that I heard was despair. "This… this is stranger than you dreamt it… you can't even look, can you now? You can't even bear to think of me… how could you? But even a loathsome gargoyle who burns in hell can secretly yearn for heaven, do you know that? If only secretly… secretly… but Christine…"
She stopped crying and managed to look at me with teary eyes, clearly expecting more furious screams. They never came. I couldn't bear to frighten her more. I didn't want to.
"Fear… even fear can turn to love… you will learn to see… to find the man beyond the monster… this repulsive carcass… who seems a beast but…secretly dreams of beauty… secretly, secretly... " My voice, once powerful, was a pained whisper, almost choked as I closed my eyes in anguish. This should never have transpired. "Oh, Christine..."
Though still frightened, she must have understood my silent plea to return me the mask and at least give me back some strength. She handed it back, her arm trembling, but I was careful not to touch her. I doubt she would appreciate it – it would probably only make her faint with disgust.
Turning away, I returned the mask to my face, feeling really as if strength had been returned to me. I was in control again and could do whatever I wanted to do. Glancing into space, I sighed. I would have to return her to those two fools that had the nerve to call themselves managers. Missing prima donnas were hard to explain… plus, I wasn't about to risk someone taking Christine's place.
I forced calm and formality into my voice. It was time to part with my angel, at least temporarily. She would have to overcome the shock she went through before I would be able to reach her again. And I was afraid of that time.
"Come, we must return, those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you."