Why do people like making Erik a weak, sniveling baby? He is strong, man! Sorry for the wait. Luv and such…
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"What a lovely day, Mlle. Cartier! Don't you agree?"
Adrian nodded briefly, tieing her mistress's corset with the notion that maybe if it was too tight, the woman would die of suffocation.
The morning was cloudy and gray. Not at all what most would consider beautiful. The birds had all gone south, and the only sound outside was the wind and rain. But still, it was easier to agree than to say something that would draw them into a conversation. Adrian didn't know what possessed Mlle. DeFleaurette to talk to her maid. The hatred that radiated from the diva's eyes was almost palpable when they were alone.
"Mlle. Cartier, please open the window and see if it is raining harder!"
Adrian padded across the carpet (a garish shade of fuchsia) and to the large window in the corner of the room. That window was the only part of Mlle. DeFleaurette's apartments that Adrian liked at all. The simple design of the white wooden framework was a comfort to the eye after all that pink.
Leaning out of the window, Adrian looked at the city. From this angle, the buildings looked dingy and forsaken. Still, the sky was, in its own way, beautiful. Almost silver with the early sun peeping through it. And the air was clean smelling as it usually is before a storm. The sight somehow lulled Adrian into a state of calm lethargy. She was so deep in thought; she did not have time to react when a pair of hands pushed her out of the window.
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She was here. He had her in his home, under his roof, in his room. She was here. Her golden hair was spread around her head like a halo, and her pale skin contrasted sharply with the red satin bedding. Somehow, this room welcomed her and made her a part of it. She belonged here.
He sat down in a chair next to the bed. Asleep, Adrian looked much more fragile. Her face was calm and still. The only sign of life was the rise and fall of her chest. Otherwise, she could have been dead. She had almost died that morning.
It was foggy that day, the wet cold clinging to his cloak like death. The pavement was slick with rain from the night previous, and another storm was imminent.
A sudden chill not related to the weather had run up his spine, and on instinct, he looked up. What he saw stopped his heart.
There, clinging to the wet stonework of the Opera Populaire, was Adrian. The wind had picked up and she was plastered to the wall, her dark dress sticking to the wet stone. Her beautiful golden hair was soaked to a dull brown, and her pale face shone from beneath it.
Not wasting a moment to wonder how in God's name she had gotten herself into such a mess, Erik ran into one of his passageways as fast as a bat out of hell. It would be suicide to attempt climbing the entire height of the Opera House in the rain and then climb back down with hr in his arms. Physically fit beyond the scope of human ability or not, it would be impossible. Instead, he would go up to the floor nearest to Adrian's perch, climb out of one of the windows there, climb over to where Adrian hung and carry her back to the window. The plan was still suicidal, but no longer impossible.
Hurryhurryhurry. Fasterfasterfaster.
The thought that he might be to late made Erik's head spin, and quickened his feet to an almost inhuman pace. A vision of Adrian, falling through the air like a wingless angel was imprinted in his brain, and his heart skipped a beat every time she hit the ground. He could not let her die.
Erik reached the desired floor, and proceeded to look for an unoccupied room. He found one, and dexterously picking the lock, made his way inside and towards the window..
Throwing off his cloak and jacket, Erik opened the window. It was dark outside, and the storm was in full swing. The freezing rain had turned to sleet.
Wonderful. Just what I need to make a nearly impossible task even harder.
Trying desperately not to think of cold fingers and slippery handholds, Erik made his way across the wall. By some miracle, Adrian still clung to a carving in the stone, her eyes closed, her knuckles white from the strain. Her ankle was bent in a way that suggested it was broken, and her face was white and pinched with pain.
Hold on Adrian, please hold on.
Erik paused to regain a bit of his strength. The cold was making it hard to keep going, and he sorely missed his warm cloak, but he could not give up. She was but inches away.
Finally, after what might have been seconds but seemed like hours, he reached her.
Leaning toward her, he yelled through the storm, "Adrian, wake up."
No movement.
"Wake up, damn you!"
She did not open her eyes, but gave a groan that signified she was listening.
"Adrian, listen to me, I'm going to take you out of here, but I can only do that if you help."
Her eyelids fluttered, and she nodded slightly.
"You have to put your arms around my neck and hold on. Do you understand?"
Wordlessly, she reached out a hand, keeping the other locked in her handhold. Erik leaned as close as his position would permit, and she threw an arm around his neck. Soon, the other arm joined it, and Erik had her (relatively)safe in his arms.
The climb back was rather nerve wracking, since Adrian was almost unconscious and likely to slip off, but they both made it back to the window. There, Erik finally got a good look at her, and he did not like what he saw.
Her pale face had two spots of unnatural color high on her cheeks and her brow was feverish. Each breath was quick, painful and shallow, with an unhealthy rattle to it. Her ribs felt bruised and her ankle was broken. Apart from her brow, she was horribly cold, and she shivered uncontrollably.
Erik had briefly considered taking her back to her room, but the medical tools he needed to heal her were below in his home. She was easy to carry; much easier than Christine. She was much too thin, as if she had been starving herself.
When they reached his home, she was murmuring in her comatose state, her brow furrowed, her eyes darting spasmodically under her lids. All symptoms pointed to a fever, and he had acted quickly to prevent anything worse. Now, she was swathed in blankets, her foot propped on a pillow, bandages encircling her ribs. The fireplace crackled and hissed in its effort to keep the room warm.
Looking at his guest, Erik's face softened slightly. She looked much younger asleep, almost like Sleeping Beauty, waiting calmly for her prince to come, and bestow a magic kiss to awaken her. Her lips were chapped, cracked and bleeding, but full, and slightly parted. Erik leaned toward her ever so slightly…
He quickly banished the thought, and the feelings that accompanied it. No kiss would wake her, and he far from a prince in shining armor. She wasn't even awake ( he had given her a dose of laudanum earlier when she had thrashing in her sleep), and a kiss was not his to take without her express permission.
Looking at her hands now, Erik had no trouble seeing that she was perfectly capable of ripping out someone's throat. Her long fingers were flexible, and held the blankets in a death grip that exuded power as clearly as if she clenched at human flesh. The thought brought a chill to the warm room.
We are certainly a pair, Mlle. Cartier. An ex-murderer and a serial killer. France's Jack and Jill the Rippers.
He turned his attention back to her face. Such a beautiful face, really. As serene as a cat's, and twice as fair.
Just like Ayesha. Ayesha, his most loyal companion. The only woman to willingly come toward him and beg for his attentions. He had loved her as much as one could love a cat. She was his surrogate daughter, the child he never had. Love could be found in the oddest places. Sasha too, had loved him from birth, and had cared for him better than a mother.
But now they were both gone. One in death, the other in escape, without a trace. That night he had fled, he had abandoned Ayesha, and she had been gone on his return. He had mourned her loss like a father would his favorite child. Another unforgivable crime to add to his generous supply, his favorite lady, lost through neglect.
Adrian was all he had left to hang his hopes on. If she had died that night, he would have to die with her. She was his future. Befriending her was as important to him as music had once been. She was the light at the end of the tunnel.
Music had once accepted him into its sweet embrace; music was a living thing with its own passions, a master who only accepted a chosen few to rise above greatness and into a place apart from reality. He had always turned to music in times of need. When he was lonely, music kept him company. When he was lost in the depths of misery, music had wrapped an arm around him, lifted his chin and helped him go on. It took everything and gave everything; there was nothing that music could not express, could not soothe, and could not heal.
She would be his new music.
Slowly, Erik stood from his chair.
She would be his new music.
The walk to the piano was longer than he remembered. In days past, he would find himself in the chair before his instrument and not remember how he had gotten there. But now, every step was labored, and imprinted itself into his mind like a blow to the face.
Sitting before the keys now coated with dust, Erik closed his eyes.
God, if you exist at all, grant me this. Just once. Please.
Just this once.
The notes came almost unbidden to his mind. A familiar melody, his tribute to the greatest art ever in existence.
His fingers found the keys without effort, and pressed them.
A resounding, yet quiet chord, followed by three notes, crystalline and delicate.
Nighttime sharpens,
Heightens each sensation.
Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination.
Silently the senses
Abandon their defenses
Helpless to resist the notes I write.
For I compose the music of the night.
He stopped, moved beyond the capacity of thought.
She had given him this.
She had given him this gift he thought was lost forever, this gift that he had cherished above all things, his first love.
Feverishly, he continued the song, letting his memory supply the notes, letting his voice supply the words.
He was whole again, and she was his angel of music.
For the first time since he had spotted her, Erik knew; he loved Adrian Cartier.
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Red, swirling fog was deadening every sound and making it hard to see. It clouded the senses and fogged the brain. A heated, heavy pulse like a heartbeat beat a tattoo into the back of Adrian's head. And it was warm; far too warm to even think. Confusion pervaded the air like a noxious perfume. Madness was pulling Adrian apart, and the pain was so much that she gave a deep groan from the pit of her throat.
Too hot to think, too hot to breathe, too hot to live.
Where was she? Who was she?
And then, the music began.
A chord, followed by three notes, delicate and soft. Then came the voice. It was all she could do not to scream.
So beautiful, and yet so great and terrible, like a tempest swirling in the very depths of the sea. It called to her, with words simple, but sweeping and grand in their simplicity.
Nighttime sharpens,
Heightens each sensation.
Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination.
Silently the senses
Abandon their defenses
Helpless to resist the notes I write.
For I compose the music of the night.
She had never feared something so much. Why would it not stop? And yet if it ever stopped, she would die of grief.
Adrian opened her eyes.
She still could see nothing, but the music called her, and disobeying it would mean suicide. Fighting back the roaring in he ears, Adrian sat up, and moved her feet to find the floor.
Her ankle and ribcage hurt terribly, but the music demanded that she ignore it, and focus herself onto its subtle crescendos and simple base melody.
Adrian found the floor, and fell to her knees immediately upon standing up. The effort was too much, but that voice…
Gritting her teeth, Adrian pulled her self into a crawling position.
Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendor.
Grasp it, sense it tremulous and tender.
Hearing is believing, music is deceiving.
Hard as lightening, soft as candlelight.
Dare you trust the music of the night?
She was lost within it. Painfully, she dragged herself along the floor, barely noticing where she was, her eyes on the darkness that led towards the sound.
Close your eyes for your eyes will only tell the truth,
And the truth isn't what you want to see.
In the dark it is easy to pretend
That the truth is what it ought to be.
Crawling desperately now, Adrian fixed the words n her mind, determined not to forget them. Whoever had written those words had looked into her and seen the little girl crying in the dark, in fear of the truth. She valued nighttime for that reason. It soothed and forgave, and let her build a secret castle of dreams and comforting lies where no one could find her.
Softly, deftly music shall caress you.
Hear it, feel it secretly posses you.
Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind
In this darkness, which you know, you cannot fight:
The darkness of the music of the night.
She was in a dark hallway now, her hands pressed to a cold stone floor. The music had beaten back her throbbing hell, and now the cool of the dark was loosening the hysteria that had once been holding her in its clutches. She was so much closer now, close enough to taste it.
Close your eyes, start a journey through a strange new world,
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before.
Close your eyes, and let music set you free…
She had reached its source, a room lit by candles. Pain meant nothing now, but she had to stop at the doorway to catch her breath. Her defences gone, she stood naked and alone as the music forced its way into her veins. The song had grown in volume till it filled her thoughts with the sound.
Only then, can you belong to me.
She closed her eyes. She did belong to it, body and soul, and to rip her from it would break her into a million little pieces.
Floating, falling sweet intoxication.
Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation.
Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in
To the power of the music that I write:
The power of the music of the night.
As if pulled by an invisible string, Adrian stood, not feeling the throbbing in her foot and chest. She leaned against the doorframe, letting the music wash over her like an ocean wave, deep and blue.
Suddenly, she looked up, and saw the man sitting at the piano, beating furiously at the keys, crashing chords radiating from him like supernatural power surges.
The man looked up, his face reflected in a mirror on the piano top. The only thing she could see was his intensely green eyes, staring at her with emotion that frightened her, but would not let her look away.
You alone can make my song take flight;
Help me make the music of the
Night…
The last note was soft as the beginning with none of its quiet majesty. It was painful, and deeply sad. For the first time in years, Adrian felt a burning sensation in her throat and eyes; she wanted to weep like a child and never stop, and she wanted the singer to hold her, and tell her it would be fine, because that voice could make her believe anything.
He was everything. And then the world went black.
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I wrote this while I listened to Michael Crawford singing the song, and all the emotions Adrian attatched to it are my own.
