A/N: A long author's note follows. Feel free to skip, but I felt I needed to clear up some things about this story.
First of all, a thousand apologies for the delay. This chapter took me *forever* to write and is *still* not finished. Eventually it got so long that I was forced to split it into two parts. But this means that the next part will come much more quickly. I'm starting to understand how "Final lair" took the movie producers a week to film. And the name is a bit of a lie since this story is far from over. :D
And yet another reason for the delay is…*clears throat* I have seen the musical at last!!! Yes, the Valentine's Day excursion was a success, and oh my…words simply fail to describe the beauty of what I saw. If you follow the link from my author profile, you can read about my encounter with Hugh Panaro and the backstage tour.
I'm also glad that all of you like Clarice, she is my second favorite character next to Erik. For this chapter, Clarice's POV is in normal font, Christine's and Erik's are in italics.
Individual comments:
Midasgirl: Everything (or at least enough of it) Clarice/Hannibal related will be explained in, oh, about three chapters.
Cyranothe2nd: Ahhh, I've missed you, how have you been?? In response to your comments. 1) "Flashbulbs were invented in 1928," Eep, thanks for noticing that! 2) You're right, psychiatry wasn't officially recognized as a science, and I've made minor adjustments in Lecter's dialogue to fit that. However, he always has been unconventional , and time travel isn't going to change that. Yes, the story does take place in 1881. Lecter met Erik in the summertimes from 1864 till 1866 when he was captured. During that time he was practicing medicine in the US but taking summer vacations in his home in Florence and visiting Paris extensively. 3) Clarice and the FBI…ahhhh…all shall be explained later. 4) Glad you liked the fight! It was definitely one of the hardest chapters to write. Clarice and a certain phantomy lair dweller? I'm sure I don't know what you could be implying…*whistles*
Lastly, I *hate* ff.net's formatting! Can anyone tell me the html coding needed to have two lines between paragraph's rather than one? Coding that ff.net will actually accept?
Chapter 11
Twisted Every Way: Counterpoint I
Fear is the mind-killer.
--Frank Herbert
The sky on the day of the premiere of Don Juan Triumphant was filled with clusters of fluffy white clouds piled ever higher upon themselves. Their foundations were flat and dark, as if they had been neatly cleaved away from the tops of larger cloud formations and even now, the innocuous bodies of vapor appeared ready to dump their unforgiving coldness upon the world below.
Opening night of the Phantom's opera had sold out on the first day of rehearsal, when the official announcement had been made. A sea of carriages and prancing horses pressed against the lighted façade of the Opera House. Valets scrambled around frantically opening doors to disgorge the jeweled occupants.
Inside the horseshoe-shaped theater, the atmosphere was one of muted frenzy. The sound of the crowds waiting in the foyer for the doors to be opened could be heard through the gilded walls as stagehands and orchestra members rushed about making last minute preparations and snatching a bite to eat before the evening's performance.
In a corner of the orchestra pit, a different sort of performance was being prepared. Raoul could be seen speaking in low tones to a sallow-skinned man dressed in dark clothes holding a long-barreled black pistol.
Alone as always, Clarice made her way down the red-carpeted aisle to the edge of the pit. As she approached she caught several phrases of what Raoul was saying.
"Only if you have to…but shoot. To kill."
"How will I know, monsieur?" the sallow-skinned man was asking, polishing the grip of his pistol as he spoke.
"You'll know," Raoul said shortly.
Clarice had reached them and leaned against the side of the pit. "You have everything ready then, Raoul?"
The young man turned to face her, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "Yes, for my part. I trust you have done the same?"
Clarice laughed shortly. "Have no fear for the opera, Raoul. There has never been a performance so well rehearsed. You could almost say that cast and crew were…possessed." She smiled grimly. "Is there nothing I could say that would dissuade you from this foolishness?"
Raoul glared at her. "I will free her," he said resolutely
Clarice looked at his hard-set jaw and determined eyes and was reminded of herself nearly ten years ago. She knew that her younger self would have resented any advice she might have attempted to give from her current position. Still, that did not keep her from wishing that things had been different.
From within the hollow column of box 5, Erik observed the preparations being made for his capture. He might have laughed if he had not been seething with fury. Standing barely a foot away from him in the box entrance was the chief of firemen, his chest puffed out pompously to draw attention away from his shifting, nervous eyes. Erik toyed with the idea of giving him something to be truly nervous about but was distracted when he saw the Vicomte de Chagny lift a hand from the orchestra pit and shout an order. The chief saluted importantly.
"Secure the doors!"
That boy —he thought furiously as doors slammed all around the main theater—That hypocrite! That infuriating boy had been hanging upon Christine's arm ever since the first rehearsal, determined that no harm would come to her. And yet he had no qualms about using her as bait in this little scheme to capture him. He put her safety aside in order to take his own personal revenge. Did the vicomte place so much value on his shirt cuffs?
Killing him wouldn't be as difficult as he thought, no, not difficult at all…
Why had he not listened to the Duchess? The Duchess…Cassandra Fell…the woman who was proving to possess as many faces as the man she called husband. His gaze was drawn to her as she leaned over the edge of the pit to speak to the armed man.
"Cassandra, this is monsieur Malfois, the Sûreté's best marksman."
Clarice looked at him. The man had hooded eyelids and a shifty gaze. His lanky fingers, however, held the pistol calmly and assuredly as if it were an extension of his own body.
"Monsieur," Clarice said, inclining her head with minimal courtesy.
Malfois must have seen the hostility in her gaze because he nodded brusquely and then proceeded to ignore her, turning instead to polish and adjust his weapon.
Clarice saw her chance. She placed a hand on Raoul's arm and led him several feet away, out of earshot.
He was visibly irritated. "What is it, Cassandra? I'm busy right now."
"I examined Christine's dressing room."
"Yes?" Raoul said impatiently.
"And I found no sign of any damage from the fire. Not even to the carpet. In fact, your account is the only evidence we have that the Phantom ever attacked you."
His jaw twitched in annoyance. "What are you trying to imply, madam? It is not my job to know how that monster works his devilry. I saw it; it burned me."
So will this, Raoul . "I want to be sure that you are doing this for the correct reasons." She saw his confused expression. "Revenge is a dangerous game. You should be sure that, should things go ill, you will not regret your decision."
She saw the shifting emotions in his face. The initial annoyance that she should doubt his brilliant plan. Then the fear, followed by resentment. He turned away without answering her.
It was his pride that had begun the war, and, in the end, it was his pride that made him powerless to stop it.
Clarice felt the nails bite into the rough wood of the coffin lid.
Both of them had betrayed him in the end.
Christine…ah, he had watched her the entire night. Watched the rise and fall of her bosom through the liquid silver of the silken dress draped about her form. She had looked like a naiad, blissfully asleep atop the sparkling surface of her aquatic home. He had returned to stand behind the mirror, his limbs unaware of fatigue and the passing hours, content to watch her from a distance.
And when she had awakened, blinking the fairy dust of sleep from her eyes, how she had smiled when his voice had floated through the mirror again! His voice, tender and hypnotic as always, oblivious to the hours its owner had spent inside a damp underground tunnel. How her voice had soared as they began the lessons they had long ago abandoned: memories of a time when he had been the Angel of the Music and she his devoted pupil, before he had succumbed to his weakness and shattered her dreams in the darkness of the fifth cellar. Perhaps they were being given a second chance…
Then how the horror had seized her face when the boy had burst into the room. How she had clung to her knight in shining armor for safety even as her savior advanced towards the mirror, shouting heated words of vengeance. And the fire had leapt from his fingertips and maniacal laughter driven both of them from the room, leaving him alone with his grief.
Erik flexed the fingers of his right hand, resisting the urge to drive it into the wall in front of him. Christine was nowhere to be seen, so instead, he fixed his gaze upon the Duchess. She was dressed in her normal understated finery, bright eyes sweeping the theater, searching for him.
How she had fooled him, too. All her talk of peace and compromise had been merely stalling for time. He felt an emotion like regret rising within him and he drowned it under a rising tide of madness.
Both had betrayed him…how different they were yet how united in their hatred of him – the angel and the nightbird. Perhaps he had not been the only reveler at the masquerade ball who had gone as himself.
Death was returning to the Opera. He felt the madness overtaking him and he succumbed completely to its blissful numbness. Taking a deep breath, he prepared for his greatest performance.
"Monsieur."
Malfois looked up from his weapon, surprised to see Clarice standing before him. She held out her hand. "May I check your weapon? We don't want any accidents, after all."
"Madam, I assure you I am quite capable—" He trailed off at the look in her eyes. "If it will please you," he said, handing her the weapon with a shrug, glancing at Raoul and seeing the similar look of bewilderment.
Clarice hefted the pistol in her hands, testing its weight. "This is a fine weapon, monsieur. A Colt Lightning if I'm not mistaken, '77 model?"
"Yes." Malfois hid his surprise by narrowing his eyes in suspicion.
"Not usually the sort of weapon a policeman would use. This was the favored weapon of outlaws in the American frontier." She smiled disarmingly as she pointed the barrel at a random point in the air, holding the weapon firmly with both hands. "That is not to say that this is any less worthy. Its aim is true." Lowering the pistol, she opened the cylinder and spun it once, watching the golden casings of the bullets sparkle.
"Madam…if I may…" Malfois held his hand out.
Clarice smiled. "Of course." She snapped the cylinder shut and returned the weapon, grip-first. "My husband was a businessman in the ammunitions industry before becoming a doctor, monsieur," she said in reaction to Raoul's stunned face.
They were distracted when an almighty shout arose from the center of the pit.
"No, no, no!" The conductor dug his fingers into his hair and shook his head furiously. "For the last time, just play what is written! I don't care if you think it sounds ridiculous, just do it!" The young man threw his baton down upon his stand in frustration. "Lord, let this be the last piece of this kind I will have to conduct," he muttered.
Andre emerged onto the stage from the wings. "Monsieur Monteux, we simply must open the house within the next half hour. Is the orchestra ready?"
"Yes monsieur," the conductor sighed. "Although I doubt anyone would be able to tell the difference," he finished in a mutter. He turned his head and saw Raoul. "You!" He pointed his baton at the vicomte like a rapier. "Finish what you are doing. The show must begin."
"Yes it must, messieurs…"The theater fell silent as the disembodied voice filled the air, settling in their ears uncomfortably, like something clammy and smelling of death.
"Seal my fate tonight, monsieurs…let the audience in, let my opera BEGIN!"The last word shook the music stands in the orchestra pit with its reverberation and the players held their instruments close, trembling in fear.
Clarice grabbed Raoul's sleeve. "He knows, he's known all along…you must see that now, please Raoul, won't you—"
He shook free of her roughly. "No, don't try to stop this Cassandra. It is war between us after all." Spinning around to face box five he shouted a challenge into the empty theater. "Show yourself, monster!"
"I'm here," – Raoul whirled toward the stage – "I'm here" – Clarice twitched as the voice came from right behind her left ear – " I'm here!" All heads turned in the same direction at last as a flutter of black cloak appeared in the balcony of box five.
Malfois' arm came up, the gun held at ready – Clarice's eyes went wide – Raoul knocked the arm away before he could fire.
"Idiot!" he seethed, "You'll kill someone! Wait until the time is right."
Clarice glanced back at box 5 to find it deserted. She heard her sigh of relief as it escaped her lips.
"Ouch!"
Meg Giry sighed mightily. "If you would stop fidgeting like that, Christine, then these bobby pins wouldn't poke you." She returned to adjusting her friend's wig. "Goodness, I've never seen you this nervous before. Don't you have faith in your vicomte?" she asked teasingly.
Christine laughed. "Of course I do, silly. I would have never agreed to it if I didn't."
And she had agreed to it in the end. She was doing the right thing, by preventing more deaths. The Phantom would not leave the Opera alone as long as she was there. She had a duty.
And yet… she could not explain the horrible feeling of guilt that would not leave her soul. The feeling that none of this mattered, that the bond she had once forged with her Master transcended the bounds of common morality. The bond stuck to her mind, gluing her excuses together into an unsightly mass.
"Girls!"
Christine and Meg both jumped as the powerful voice of Madam Giry boomed through the door.
"Yes, maman?" Meg said timidly.
"Curtain in fifteen minutes. Meg, I want you out here now. Christine is quite capable of dressing herself."
"Yes maman," Meg muttered as her face fell. She gave Christine a quick hug. "Good luck!" she whispered as she moved quickly out the door, leaving Christine more alone than she had ever felt during her life. Adjusting the wig one last time, Christine rose from her chair and took a deep breath. She briefly glanced over at the still face of the mirror and shivered.
It didn't seem possible for time to move so slowly. Every aria seemed to take a lifetime, the scene changes several eternities, and as for the actual opera…Clarice folded her hands in her lap to prevent herself from tapping her fingers incessantly against her armrests.
Her eyes danced everywhere except the stage. She saw Andre's nervous face within his box, and once she saw him glance fearfully toward the chandelier. Raoul was somewhere backstage. She saw the erratic, frenzied movements of the conductor's hands as Monteux attempted to salvage the discordant majesty of the piece. She saw a finely dressed woman in the audience massage her left temple as the orchestra hit a particularly ugly chord.
The disaster beyond imagination could never be worse than the waiting for it to occur.
Sighing, Clarice looked back towards the stage. She almost allowed herself to smile as a familiar soprano voice floated from the stage. Christine had made her appearance at last, dressed in a flowing gown with a plunging neckline. The fear in her eyes was easy to see, but, ah…she was in as good voice as ever. That, and the assured, rehearsed gait of her character gave her the impression of meekness and sensuality at the same time.
Although she could not forget that it was a performance, Clarice could not help thinking what a dangerous game the young innocent was playing. She wondered if Christine was aware of it at all.
Her eyes darted to stage right as the curtains of a stage bed moved and Don Juan emerged, dressed in a loose black robe that masked Piangi's weight rather well. Why he almost looked thin…
Her hands went rigid in her lap. Piangi could never move like that, not unless he had lost half of his body weight in less than two hours. Something was terribly wrong. Then the cloaked figure began to sing and Christine's body froze and she knew.
She knew it was him; the voice was too deeply embedded in her mind for her to be mistaken and she began to tremble. No, this wasn't supposed to happen to her, they should have never made her do this. The Phantom was there before her, his face hidden beneath the black hood, his hands outstretched, his voice singing words that made her heart twist and race.
She was afraid now as she had been afraid when she broke the engagement with Raoul. For in the end, her hopelessly muddled feelings had not played in her decision. Fear had led her like a mindless puppet then and it was fear that made her tremble now beneath her borrowed finery.
Oh Papa, she thought, where are you?
Clarice gripped the arms of her chair so hard that she heard one of them crack. She let go almost immediately, chiding herself for giving into panic. Schooling herself to control her breathing, she reminded herself that nothing could possibly befall Christine while she remained onstage. The Phantom was not that foolish…
Instead she stared, her mind riveted by the passion play that was taking place before her. It was ironic justice in the end, that the Phantom's true desires should finally emerge under the pretense of an opera.
A quick glance into the orchestra pit told her that Malfois had noticed nothing amiss.
His voice was lancing her mind like hot coals burning their way through her muddled mind. She held a hand to her temple, massaging helplessly at the pain. As her character Aminta was supposed to be trembling from barely suppressed desire, the action did not look unnatural.
Oh, this foolish, stupid, senseless masquerade…
She started as his hand came up, caressing the air before her breast, brushing the edges of her dress, never quite touching her. The bright stage lights gleamed off the circlet of gold upon his ring finger.
Something stirred and came to life inside of her then, and she felt a rush through her veins like fire. The audience was waiting, the sea of smiles poised for her move…she took a deep breath and began to sing her half of the lover's duet.
A carefully timed gasp, a swish of the dress, a coy backward glance…it was simple, really, all of it. It was easy to imagine that the cloaked figure moving about her with the skeletal grace of a dancer was merely another player in this marvelous game. Her petrified mind would not have allowed her to function to otherwise.
She floated comfortably upon the rippling eddies of her illusion, drifting ever further from shore. It was beautiful out there, with sensuous notes entwining her in a grasp as delicate and powerful as the sea.
She felt a sensation like fire traveling up her arm and she leaned into the embrace. Resting her head against his face she could feel his rapid breaths upon her cheek, the cloth of his hood soft like spiderwebs on her skin…the bone-white mask visible through the sheer fabric.
The dream flew away on ragged wings of darkness and she jerked away from him with the force of sheer panic. He grabbed her and drew her roughly back towards him and the stark coldness of his touch made her gasp.
Everything happened so fast then – his voice was speaking in a tender plea that tore at her heart as she trembled with fear. Then he was holding out the golden ring to her, his hands clasped together in supplication as she put it on, and she couldn't think anything except that everything felt so wrong.
She would never know where she found the courage to do what she did next. Her hands were rising seemingly of their own volition and grasping the edges of the mask. His eyes widened in horror as he saw what she meant to do, but it was already too late. She had to see him…she had to prove to herself that she had the courage to resist.
The mask was in her hand and she heard the gasp arise from the audience.
See my angel of torment…
There was a sudden movement by her feet. She turned, as steadily as a body swinging from a noose, turned to look in that direction.
The marksman!
She had forgotten.
She saw the head rise from the orchestra pit like a tiger from the grass, the man's face contorted in fierce triumph…There was the pair of eyes looking down the length of a gun barrel pointed at him!…at her! And she grasped the edges of the Phantom's cloak trying to pull him away, felt his hands on her, trying to do the same, and she was mouthing the words "No…no…" with frozen lips but they were defenseless on the open stage and there was the cold, emotionless light in the man's eyes as he pulled the trigger.
The hammer clicked in an empty chamber.
She could hear Raoul's desperate, enraged cry as he ran from backstage. Christine got one glimpse of his face – frozen in a mask of horror – before he leaped into the orchestra pit, tackling the man and wrenching the weapon from his grasp. "Monsieur, what were you thinking ? If you had hurt her…"
And then the Phantom was standing before her, his tall form draped in black blocking her view. Raising her eyes to meet his, she reeled from the fury in his gaze. She opened her mouth soundlessly…what could she say? I'm sorry? Nothing came out and his cloak enveloped her, trapping her in suffocating darkness. She felt the floor fall out from under her and the shouts and screams faded away.
Clarice had stood from her seat the moment Christine had lifted the mask from the face of her erstwhile tutor. She saw the figure whirl, facing an audience that gasped at the horror revealed. A horror that, at her distance and angle to the stage, she could not see clearly.
But she clearly saw them disappear, the stage empty for a breathless moment, before the surge of panicked cast members and stagehands burst from the wings. She whirled and began clawing at the door to her box, her hands slippery from sweat as they twisted the handle ineffectually. Panic rose in her throat, shocking and uncontrolled, until she forced her shaking hands to still and wrenched the door open.
Piangi…she could well imagine the fate that must have befallen the unfortunate man when he had been replaced on stage. Carlotta's instantly recognizable scream only confirmed her suspicions and she ran faster.
She offered no resistance as he hurried her along the dark corridors, descending ever deeper into the bowels of the Opera House. Her eyes were glassy with shock and resigned hopelessness, and he was relieved. It would have been utterly inconvenient and tiresome to have to drag her struggling form down all those flights of stairs.
While he rowed across the lake she sat unmoving in the prow of the boat, trembling slightly, and then only from the cold. She stirred only when the boat pulled alongside the dock. Her head came up and when she saw the familiar recessed door set into stone, her eyes filled with fear.
He watched her with grim satisfaction. "Congratulations, Christine." He saw her start as he spoke, his harsh voice stripped of all beauty. "You see this place now for what it really is. Welcome to hell, my fallen angel." And he grasped her hand firmly in his and pulled her onto land.
"Raoul!"
Clarice shoved her way through the panicking crowds and ran behind the hastily dropped curtain in time to see Madame Giry climbing out of the staircase in the backstage area. It took her some time recognize the old ballet mistress. But when she did, she saw the mirrored recognition dawn in the woman's eyes and saw her hastily look away. She seized Mme Giry's arm as she tried to sidle away into the crowd.
"Where is he? Where did you send the vicomte?"
"I don't—"
"Madam, you are in no trouble now, but you will be if you do not tell me right away."
The old woman took one look at her face and set her lips into a grim line. "The fifth cellar, madam. That is where the Opera Ghost lives." She caught Clarice's hand as she was about to duck into the stairwell. "You would do best following the rest of the stagehands. He would not dare to attack them all."
Clarice shook free of the constraining hand roughly. "And I would suggest you do your best to keep those men from hunting him. For if they meet, there will be bloodshed tonight." She looked into Mme Giry's shocked face for a brief instant before descending into the labyrinthine cellars.
She heard a massive rumble shake the very foundations of the theater as she lifted a lantern from its hook on the damp rock wall. The clouds had split open and the storm of the century was pouring from the sky.
"Have you read Dante, my dear? If you had you would know that the deepest circle of the inferno is reserved for betrayers," Erik jeered, sweeping a great stack of music from the top of the piano to the floor. He opened the door to Christine's room and pushed her inside, letting go of her hand at last, watching as she lifted her free hands to her face, her eyes wide.
"Are you frightened, Christine?" he continued in a mocking voice, throwing open her wardrobe doors. "You have no right to be frightened, no right! I have never hurt you. It's you who has hurt me. It was you that unmasked me in front of an entire audience. Do you what it is like to be naked in front of hundreds of people that all despise you? No, of course you wouldn't…"
He turned, his shoulders rising and falling heavily with his breathing, his back to the open wardrobe. "But I've forgotten how easily you are frightened. You ran from me after the chandelier fell because you feared my wrath, and you found comfort in the arms of your childhood friend. Then you ran from him as well and you want to run from me now." He shook his head. "Childish, cruel Christine. Your vicomte accuses me of playing games with your mind, but my manipulations are nothing compared to yours. And you will pay, Christine, you've escaped your responsibility too long."
Then he reached inside the wardrobe and his hands emerged holding a wedding dress, the filmy gauze of the veil trailing from his fingers like a cobweb.
"Put it on, my dear." He advanced with glee toward her horrified face and dragged her back out into the main room. "You must look proper to greet the wedding guests."
"Gu-guests?"
"But of course. Your lover will come storming down here in no time at all."
"No…he can't. He doesn't know the way."
"I beg to differ. I'm sure that he had a very good guide. Madam Giry would only be too happy to reveal my location for fear of your safety."
"Madam Giry…knows you?"
"Feeling betrayed, Christine?" he drawled sarcastically. "How ironic. In this case, your admiration of your ballet mistress remains intact. She had no part in any of my actions. She merely remained silent for fear of my safety. A tragedy of misguided concern."
Erik fell silent as sounds from the lake drifted in through the open door. Splashes like that of a drowning man, faint at first and growing ever louder, could be heard with increasing clarity.
"Raoul!" Christine screamed in despair.
"Shhh." Erik's finger hovered over her lips. "We mustn't dissuade our guest. He is as eager to begin the ceremony as I."
They did not have long to wait. The vicomte ran into the room, disheveled, his torn white shirt dripping cold water onto the carpet. He stopped dead at the sight before him, his mouth opening in horror.
Erik stepped away from Christine with a mock bow. "Monsieur, I bid you welcome." Then with a single fluid motion, the Punjab lasso coiled about the young man's neck before twisting and suspending him in the middle of the room. "We had rather hoped that you would come. Do stay for awhile." His laughter rattled like bones in the air.
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A/N: 1) Pierre Monteux, the fictional conductor of Don Juan was the real-life conductor of Stravinsky's Rite of Spring, a piece that could have rivaled Erik's in discordance and innovation at the time. A riot broke out during the premiere and you couldn't hear the music for the people screaming and throwing things from the boxes. Prophetic, no? And, if the timeline was exact, he would have been about 7 years old for Don Juan, but we can stretch things a bit.
2) "Malfois" literally means "bad faith" in French.
3) The 1877 Colt Lightning was Billy the Kid's weapon of choice.