Author's notes: Next chapter! Damn, I'm updating daily! Don't expect that to last, though – maybe I'll write one more chapter during the weekend, but then it's back to school for me on Monday, so expect a longer wait!
In other news, the architectural stuff in this chapter is pretty basic (it had to be, so you guys would understand what it is about) just one dialogue, but I had to add a few descriptions of things. I want to become an architect myself, so I thought it was pretty cool to have a little dialogue about these things.
Oh, and more Erik-Christine interactions! I see some serious relationship building up! Heh.
starnat – You can bet that it is! I hated Luciana in the book. She was such a brat! Heh, it was kinda obvious where I got the idea, huh?
SimplyElymas – too true. I haven't seen one fic where he's a teen… but I suppose there weren't enough plot-bunnies. All that jazz? Chicago fan? I loved the movie. Thanks and read on.
MagickAlianne– heh, thank you. A compliment from my managers is always pleasing. :-) Erik is 15, as he is in the book, which you probably haven't read. Many thanks & here you go!
Enrinye – hey, you know well how much I love Erik – writing him badly would be unacceptable! He'd Punjab me! Heh, you deem all my works masterpieces, Z. But I can't say I'm ungrateful. Read on!
longblacksatinlace – I actually need one pretty major male character in the storyline later on, for reasons I'm not allowed to tell! It could be Raoul… it would actually work pretty well… but I might add an original character there instead. I'll decide later! Oh, you can't being to imagine how complicated this is going to get! Here you go!
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Chapter IVX X X X
Over the next few days, Christine would often come to the site some more, if only to say hi to Giovanni and the few workers she had been introduced to. Her presence was somewhat relaxing, since she took care to be polite to everyone. The workers, young and old, never ceased to be amazed at how she could care about everyone's petty troubles and have a kind word at the ready whenever needed.
It was no surprise to anyone when the buyer was overjoyed at the final look of the marble statue and though Giovanni, knowing that it wouldn't be good to tell that a thirteen year old girl was the "genius" the man praised so much, refused to reveal the artist's identity, the client insisted that the rest of the decorations should match this one. And that required more sketches from the same artist.
Christine agreed to do it, if only to have a good reason to stay away from the house. Luciana was now either melancholic or furious, with no in-between moods, kind only when there was no one else in the house. Her despair and anguish was something Christine pitied, but after what Giovanni told her, she was determined not to get involved in this personal conflict between those two.
Giovanni watched them both carefully, even though they didn't notice. Erik insisted that if nothing would change, she was free to come. Yes, nothing changed… except for the atmosphere. In the presence of a girl, all seemed a bit quieter, a bit more organized. And the change of the atmosphere was also visible.
Though she was spending quite a lot of time at the site, she scarcely saw Erik, not that it bothered her. It would be a… distraction that would have terrible consequences, because she realized she found him intriguing in a way she didn't quite understand. And even when they met, they never talked, except for the very rare occasions when politeness demanded that they greet each other.
It was the day she was working on the tops of the pillars they were going to use that they really spoke for the first time. The Greek column designs she was holding in her hands – she was supposed to enhance them somehow, make them more unique – already seemed too decorated to her.
"Perhaps you should try the Ionic style instead. The Corinthian might be a bit too much, with all the statues around it." Erik noted from behind her. Everyone working on the site was getting used to these sudden appearances, so they tried to be on their guard… mostly unsuccessfully.
Christine didn't turn around – she scowled at the designs. "As much as I would like to choose simplicity, the person buying the house seems to be determined to bring baroque to a whole new level."
"The floral designs on the Corinthian are decorative enough. You might want to try adding something to the lower half of the column, distasteful as it sounds."
"Yes, but that won't be baroque anymore, it would be a complete mish-mash of styles. And you can't simply add what you want, where you want."
"Why? Because it is an architectural dogma that Greek columns must look like that?"
Finally, she turned around, lowering the papers in her hand. "Because the Greeks had a reason for not making the whole column decorated. It is a bit gothic, in a sense – the shaft is supposed to be slim and tall, giving you an illusion of heights. Only the top can be decorated, because it symbolizes the heavens… or Olymp, since we're talking about Ancient Greece." Most of the people who were close enough to hear the conversation were listening to every word.
"If you destroy that design with a new one, adding something where it's not supposed to be, it loses its meaning, its symbolism – you might as well even rename it, because it wouldn't be a Greek column anymore."
"I very much doubt someone who doesn't know about history or culture would recognize that. And how can you tell it's not supposed to be there or what it's meant to symbolize?" he challenged. "It could also mean that only the rich, the "top" of the society was allowed to live in beauty. Or it can be simply an image of the artist's fantasy. Or it could simply be just as it was – the capital of the column. It has to be decorative, because it would seem too dull and ordinary if it wasn't there."
"Liar." Now everyone stopped doing whatever they were pretending to be doing and listened intensely. There was probably no one within miles who would dare talk to Erik like that, much less a young girl. The only person who wasn't (or didn't seem) taken aback and surprised was Erik himself, who simply folded his arms and waited for her explanation.
"You know very well that the capital has its own geometrical design – it wouldn't work out otherwise. If anything, adding something would ruin the symmetry. It would be a disaster."
He smiled slightly – of course she was correct, even if she didn't know the exact wording of the books that wrote of how the columns were supposed to be decorated. But he was quick to educate her.
"The Corinthian Capital is composed of three rows of Acanthus leaves and foliage that sit directly below scrolls propelling out at forty-five degree angles. This added capital decoration has a tendency to make the Corinthian column look the most slender and most ornate of all classic Greek colonnade." Was his calm recitation.
"Many civilizations have attempted to duplicate the classic styles, such as the Romans with their Tuscan and Composite styles of columns, but the older and more decorative Greek pillars continue to prevail as the most popular style of architecture and design." Christine added, "And if they haven't succeeded in centuries of designing, I doubt I shall succeed in a day. All I can change is the type of leaves and even that will be difficult."
"You seem to know quite a lot of columns."
"This common rudimentary knowledge?" she laughed merrily, "All I am saying is that I cannot accept your suggestion, for these logical reasons. I am no architect, Erik, I have only my eyes and instinct to tell me what's right and what's wrong."
"Then be proud of your eyes, Christine." The classical graceful twirl of his cape and he was gone.
After this, only after this did Christine notice the silence that was surrounding her. Every pair of eyes within a hundred meters of her was watching her. And she was quite certain that if they would only dared to do so while Erik was nearby, they would have applauded her.
It became somewhat of a custom to go to her with any problems the workers had. They addressed her "miss Christine" with utter respect afterwards, and she knew whenever someone came with the now famous line:
"Miss Christine, could you please help me?"
It meant that there was something they needed to discuss with Erik, but, as everyone else except for Giovanni, they were too frightened to even approach him. And asking the master for help in such a matter was more than childish. Christine was sort of neutral ground – she was related to the master, so she had to know a fair bit about masonry and architecture, judging by the way she spoke and she had the confidence to stand up to Erik's temper, facing fire with the calmness of a diplomat.
Eventually, she was spending more time listening to pleas, searching for Erik and talking to him than she did sketching. It didn't bother her, though – the workers who entrusted her with negotiations seemed to be more relaxed when they knew there was someone who would deal with their problems effectively.
As for Erik, he was angered, at first, that the masons would use Christine as their errand girl and bother her with petty troubles, but realized that it was easier to converse with her than with anxious and nervous men who were shrinking underneath his gaze. Perhaps it was because she was ignorant to his brooding presence or simply viewed him differently, since she wasn't dependant on him that she talked to him as one would talk to an equal.
It was regrettable, however, that he never found out much about her – the concerns of others seemed to be her primary concern, then came her own troubles. He would occasionally watch her drawing in the middle of the controlled chaos around her, then one of the workers would approach her and he knew that he would have a chat with her very soon.
Again, it was nearing dark and the majority of the workers went for dinner. As always, Erik stayed at the site, double-checking the day's work. Trust was one of the things he lacked, since he knew that as much as he would want to, he wouldn't be able to be everywhere at once and therefore couldn't supervise all of the work.
The sound of footsteps on the wooden steps didn't startle him much, since Giovanni occasionally came upstairs to talk to him during his routine check of the work, but the sound of a gown swishing was surprising. He turned his head slightly to see that it was Christine who had arrived, looking around.
"Erik, are you here?" she called, since it was already quite dark in the windowless part of the building.
"What do I owe the honor of the visit?" was the reply from the shadows.
Christine turned her head to the direction of the voice, her face slightly concerned. "You won't be eating again?"
"I scarcely need food." Erik noted, finally putting away the tools and stepping out of the shadows. "Is that all you came to ask, Christine?"
"Always straight to the point." she sighed, "The truth is, yes. I am simply concerned for your well-being. It seems unusual that you don't seem to eat or sleep at all and yet you work so much."
"There are many 'unusual' things about me and I can assure you that this is probably the least important of them. But your concern is appreciated." Erik paused for a moment, then asked what had been on his mind for some time. "The workers have grown fond of you, it seems. But I still don't understand why you burden yourself with their troubles."
"I suppose I have been brought up to care. My father has always told me that I must be kind to people, if I want them to be kind to me. We were poor, so I suppose kindness is the only thing that kept us alive. Kindness and music."
"Music?"
"Oh, yes. My father was a violinist. They said he was the best in Europe. But he didn't play for fame or fortune. He played because he loved his music and wanted to be happy." It seemed that she cut herself off mid-thought when she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I'm wasting your time. I'll go find my uncle."
This didn't seem like a waste of time to him. "No, wait." She stopped and turned back to him. "Tell me about your father."
Surprised, Christine continued, "His name was Gustave Daaé and he was Swedish. I never knew my mother, so it was just the two of us traveling together – we didn't have a permanent home. He used to tell me all sorts of stories of the north when I was little."
"Fairytales?"
"You could say that. I believed in them, though. And most of all, in the Angel of Music."
"I didn't know music has an angel."
"It's a childish story, it would bore you."
"No, please continue."
"The Angel of Music is supposed to come to little children and guide their voices. There was the story of Little Lotte, who was fortunate enough to be visited by the Angel. And when she wondered what she liked best, she said that what she liked best was when she was asleep in her bed and the Angel of Music was singing songs in her head." Christine smiled, "Father promised he would send the Angel to me, as he lay dying."
"And has this angel of yours visited you yet?"
"Angels stay in Heaven, little girls who dream must return to earth. I live with my head in the clouds, but I'm old enough to see that there is no Angel of Music… and if there is, he hasn't visited me and never will."
"Why wouldn't he?"
"I'm too old now. And I don't believe in fairytales anymore. I promised father I would study voice, but my singing, just as my sketching, is sloppy."
"Others don't seem to think so."
"Others don't know what is right or wrong."
"Sing, then, and I shall tell you what is right and what is wrong about your voice. My mother… she used to be a singer. I sometimes showed her how certain things are to be sung." Erik answered the unasked question, moving from the subject of his mother as quickly as possible. Questions about her were not desirable. "I should be able to tell you what you sound like."
Uncertain, Christine searched her memory once again for a suitable song. The mention of angels and her father reminded her of the song she sang at his funeral… it was a sad song, but it was suitable and the memories brought back emotions that would be easily expressed with the lyrics.
An angelface smiles to me
Under a headline of tragedy
That smile used to give me warmth
Farewell - no words to say
beside the cross on your grave
and those forever burning candles
Needed elsewhere
to remind us of the shortness of our time
Tears laid for them
Tears of love, tears of fear
Bury my dreams, dig up my sorrows
Oh, Lord why
the angels fall first
Not relieved by thoughts of Shangri-La
Nor enlightened by lessons of Christ
I'll never understand the meaning of the right
Ignorance lead me into the light
Needed elsewhere
to remind us of the shortness of our time
Tears laid for them
Tears of love, tears of fear
Bury my dreams, dig up my sorrows
Oh, Lord why
the angels fall first
Sing me a song
of your beauty
of your kingdom
Let the melodies of your harps
caress those whom we still need
Yesterday we shook hands
My friend
Today a moonbeam lightens my path
My guardian
By the time she was finished, she was completely unaware of her surroundings, both mentally and physically, since she could scarcely see through the tears in her eyes. She remembered she was not alone and quickly wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her gown.
Erik was silent, simply looking at her, as he had for the whole time she kept singing. There was much talent in that girl, but also much pain. And pain was something he knew well. Pain he could identify with, understand it, see it. Healing was the only thing about pain he couldn't yet do.
"Your timbre and pitch are both acceptable, your range would need work. The emotion you put into it makes up for much of the imperfections. Your voice is good, Christine. But it could be much more than that."
Christine managed a smile, even though her eyes were slightly red now. "I would need the Angel of Music to fix my voice."
"Then since the original seems to be taking a vacation, we will have to get a substitute. If you are willing to work on it, I would be honored to help you with it, Christine."
She frowned. "I would like that, but why help me like this? You already do work that even three would find exhausting."
"This wouldn't be work. This would be a pleasure." Erik retorted, a gleam of a challenge in his eyes. Christine recognized it, nodding.
"As I said, I would like that." she then smiled, "Perhaps Papa wasn't wrong after all. Goodnight, my Angel." And, unwilling to allow him to protest, she turned on her heel and scurried away down the stairs.
Erik stared after her for a few seconds, even though she disappeared. An angel. She deemed him an angel. She knew next to nothing about him and yet decided to trust him. If she would ever find out… no. Like Giovanni, she would see only what she needed to see. Only what he would allow her to see. The loss of either of them wasn't something he would be able to accept, because one was tied to the other.
But while he clearly knew what Giovanni meant to him, Christine was something he couldn't place quite yet. To others, she was a friend. But to him, the fact that such a kind, pretty, talented, normal girl was treating him friendly, looking at him without fear, was something almost beyond comprehension.
It was a wonderful dream from which he didn't want to wake up. And if Giovanni and Christine – the merciful God and his kind archangel – would accept him with the masks, because he couldn't hope they would accept him without them, Hell could perhaps turn into Heaven once more.