A thought for the chapter: Music is another kind of thought, Thought is another kind of music. Deep, ain't it? I stole that from the Literature portion of the Terra Novas. Who'da thunk it? R&R!
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"CONFOUND THIS BOAT!" The catlike figure on the bank of the subterranean lake gave the black hull a hearty kick. He had been on his way back from a meeting with Jules when the boat had struck a chunk of rock immersed in the water. Icy water had rushed in sending the boat's occupant into the black depths. He had had to drag the thing all the way back to the shore, and now he was soaking wet and freezing to boot. The severe temperature drop was held accountable for that.
He spent almost an hour yelling at the boat, threatening it to the point where a grown man would be in tears. When he was done, his ranting had restored the circulation to his hands and feet, which he had been aggressively been gesturing with, and leaving the boat with a glare of pure evil, he went to change.
He peeled off his wet jacket, cravat and shirt, and recombed his mussed hair. He sat in a large, red velvet armchair in front of the fire, brooding over his bad luck. Bad luck that seemed to follow him from birth.
" Damn that infernal woman"
Women had always failed him. His mother had shunned him, Madame Giry had betrayed him, and Mlle. Daae' had broken him. As far as he was concerned, the entire female population could go burn in hell. They were just a load of snakes in the grass.
Erik sighed. As good as it felt to say those things, he knew that they weren't true. He couldn't blame his mother for shunning a monster. If Madame Giry hadn't interfered, Christine would have just spent the rest of her time in his grasp lying to him. And he was too smart to fall for it for more than a few days. Then he would just let her go anyway. Just like he let her go that night.
Erik mulled over his mad flight from the mob. He had made his way through Paris' sewers for months till he reached the safe house he had built there. And there he finally had time to mourn his monumental loss. It had hurt. Several times he had contemplated killing himself, but soon discarded it as an option for the weak. The hurt ate him from the inside like a virus, turning his insides into a charred mess. She had done this to him. She, a sweet child, had killed him. And it only took a single kiss.
Then one day, he woke up from his comatose state, and discovered that while it still hurt to think of her, the pain was different. It was somehow impersonal and cold, as if he was out of his body and watching himself from leagues away. It was then that he could return to his home.
When he had gone back to his lair, after cleaning up after his pursuers, he had sat in front of his organ and pressed the keys…and got only a shrieking wail as a response. Perplexed, he had tried again, and got the same discordant sound. Again and again, he tried desperately to create something like music, but each time he failed. In frustration he beat the keys with savage fury, filling the stone halls with echoing screeches. Then he stopped and sat. He sat there for hours; his eyes closed as the candles burned lower, eventually enveloping him in darkness. It felt as if someone was slowly, methodically tearing out each of his veins and filling them with molten lead. He was sinking to the bottom, freezing there, a silent statue of ice. He got up and took an axe from its place on the wall. Walking towards the organ, he raised the axe in preparation to strike. But the weapon dropped from his hand.
He couldn't do it.
He could not kill this part of himself anymore than he could hurt Christine, for all the pain these things had caused him. With a sigh, he pulled a tarp over the instrument, hiding it from view. Music had rejected him from its sweet embrace. He was dead now, without the pale of humanity. Dead.
His soul: dead.
His brain: dead.
His heart: dead.
He would have to start over. He could never forget, but he could start over again. Try to live again.
Back to square one.
The flames' light danced across his mask, giving it a soft glow in the darkness. It had been a year since he had died, and in that year, he had healed more than he thought possible. Her face still haunted him, and her voice still echoed in his halls, but it didn't hurt anymore. Nothing hurt anymore. Life had slowed to a soft neutrality. The only things left were boredom and interest, and the second was rare. Mostly he walked through the darkness of the underground tunnels, fencing with shadows till his skill was inhuman. If anything, what he most desired was a worthy, human opponent. But of course, this was impossible, and he contented himself with imaginary foes.
And now he would have to fix his boat. It would take weeks if he were to do it properly. Maybe he would even make some changes for the better.
His mind began to whirl with new plans to perfect the structure for the boat; a new prow, maybe a different kind of varnish. Designs whirled through his head, his thoughts working like machinery; cold, silent and unfeeling.
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Well, that was just to explain where he's been all this time…I do hope you like it! Please review. Oh, and I thank my reviewers for doing such a goody job! You guys are phantastic! Get it? Phantastic? Like Phantom?…Whatever.
