Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them. Well, I guess I do own Jean-Paul, and Dr. Sablet, and a few other side characters, but they really aren't much fun without the characters I don't own….
Side Notes:
Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad (As long as you don't call me names. I don't like name-calling :) )
Hang in there…a good story needs a good set-up.
Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…you have no idea how helpful they are!
Faces
Christine raised a hand to block the glaring sun from her face, the chilly fresh air a welcome alternative to the dankness of the labyrinth. After ages of winding through the darkness of the opera house cellars, her sensitive eyes protested against the onslaught of light. "Why, it can't be more than three o'clock!" she marveled, amazed once again at the nonexistence of time in the depths of the Opera Populaire.
She walked along the busy Rue Scribe and up to the Place de l'Opera, stopping to observe the rumbling carriages, the bustle of pedestrians darting from shop to shop. Proprietors called out to the crowds, inviting them in to view their produce. Men stopped to greet one another, shake hands. Ladies with the latest plumed hats and fur muffs sauntered gracefully along the walkways, a few with obstinate little children trailing along, sticky hands reaching out to grab a pretty scarf or croissant. Horses whinnied, bells chimed…life above ground had not ceased to exist during those long hours in the dark of the labyrinth. It had gone on as usual, oblivious to the plight of the little diva and her unhappy Angel of Music.
Eyes now adjusted to the brightness of the afternoon, Christine stepped out in the road to hail a brougham. She had a task to carry out, and it did not require musing at the state of the street in front of her. Erik needed a doctor, and quickly; even in the few minutes it had taken to settle him in Mme. Giry's bed, he had slipped into the feverish world of delusion…
Christine had only sought to make him more comfortable by removing his shirt and pull the clean sheet up over his feverish, trembling body. But what she saw…heaven forgive her, she had not known! His chest and back were streaked in angry red scars, the eternal reminders of horrors long past. What had caused them…a whip or rod, perhaps? Eyes wide with disbelief, she turned to see that Mme. Giry was also observing the marks. The ballet mistress, however, showed no signs of shock at the lines crisscrossing Erik's torso; rather, a stoic gaze masked her emotions, betrayed only by a slight wince of sympathy for the man's suffering.
"Mme. Giry, how did this happen?" the girl whispered incredulously, still unable to trust the evidence of his mortality before her, often forgotten amidst the otherworldly nature of her Angel.
The older woman shook her head slightly and continued to watch the quaking form before her. "I know very little of his past. And I am afraid, Christine, that it is not my place to tell you even that. The prerogative to share his story lies with him; and I shall not go against it again."
Christine sighed in sadness, reverently kneeling next to her teacher. She cautiously raised a hand to his chest; hovering in a moment of indecision. Reaching out, she delicately traced her finger along a scar running the length of his rib cage. Erik shuddered slightly under her touch; a tear slid down her cheek and dripped onto his body. And then her wrist was caught up in a vice-like grip, strong fingers digging into her flesh. She let out a little yelp of pained shock, eyes flying to the face of the man before her.
His mouth was contorted with a controlled fury, gold eyes flashing with rage. He forcefully threw her hand away, scoffing in disgust. "Your curiosity has caused you much trouble in the past. Perhaps it would be wise to refrain from taking any liberties in the future, Comtesse," he hissed, spitting out her title as it were a filthy word. "Leave me – I do not want your pity."
Christine cowered like a scolded puppy under his ruthless gaze, fear and rejection evident in the slouch of her shoulders. He hates me, as he did in my dream…Silently, quickly, she brushed past Mme Giry, choked out a brief "I'll go for the doctor," and darted from the room before the sob of hurt that gathered in her throat could be released…
And now she stood at the corner, trying to flag down a brougham to fetch a doctor for the man who held nothing but resentment for her.
Christine bristled once more at his words. How she had wanted to show him that she was a stronger, wiser, woman! After all, she was no longer the naïve girl that had basked in the glow of his praise. So much had happened since then –she was a mother now, as well as a widow. She could stand as his equal, instead of looking up to him in captivated awe. But instead of rising against his temper as she had yearned to do, she had received his berating as she always had—slavishly and tearfully—as if three years had not passed at all.
Brushing away the angry drops spilling down her cheeks, she raised her hand again for another brougham. Though she waved her hand frantically, two, then three drivers failed to slow down. A passing carriage splattered a streak of mud along the hem of skirt, fresh dirt mingling with the old. Suddenly, the little Comtesse was painfully aware of her appearance. Torn, wrinkled dress, mud caked in her frizzy, wild hair and smeared across her face; it was no wonder that a brougham wouldn't stop for a creature straight from the gutter.
"Comtesse, allow me," said a gruff, masculine voice into her ear. Firmly taking her by the elbow, he steered her into the street, arm held high to hail a passing brougham. Christine spun around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the assister at her elbow, but he reached around her to open the carriage door, effectively blocking his face from view.
Something about the forceful way the man was handling her caused an uneasy sensation to stir in her breast. He had addressed her as 'Comtesse'…Panic quickly taking hold, she murmured politely, "Thank you, but I think I shall walk today." The man ignored the frazzled woman, grasped her around the waist and lifted her into the cab, climbing in behind her. Rapping on the roof to signal the driver, the brougham sprinted into motion, tearing down the road, weaving around the slower carriages.
Christine threw herself against the opposite door with all her might. Her attacker, chortling at her escape attempt, grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head back to his shoulder, her white neck exposed. She stared up at the frayed, torn roof of the cab, tears of pain and fright gathering in the corners of her eyes.
"Where are you taking me?" she questioned hysterically. Only silence answered her. "Please," she whispered hoarsely, "let me go! I must find a doctor –someone is dying..." Her words fell away as she felt the cold, hard steel pressed against her throat. Her entire being froze in terror; blood ceased to flow through her veins, then began pulsing again in rapid, jolting waves. Think—I can't think!
"Oh my dear," hissed the unseen man at her throat. "You shall be the dead one, if you do not give me what I want. A dead—little—mouse." His pungent breath was tepid in her ear, his fingers bruising at her ribs. Her mind in frenzy, she tried hopelessly to comprehend his words.
"I don't know what you want!" she sobbed, digging her shoulders back into man's cloak, away from the blade at her neck. He jerked her head back again, sending a clear warning of irritation at her actions. "Money?" she cried. "If that is what you want, I have plenty, in my satchel! Please…"
"You know what I am speaking of, and it is not money—do not play coy with me, Comtesse. Hand it over, now." He violently shoved her away, sending the frightened thing sprawling to the floor of the cab. She quickly fixed her eyes on the man over her shoulder, bracing for an attack. Her captor hunched over the bench, still brandishing the knife in his hand. A cape was draped over his head to shadow his face, save for thin pale lips, twisted in a malevolent smirk.
"There are much more important things in this world than money, Comtesse, things you know nothing of in your gaudy, superfluous existence. Things like justice, autonomy, and the ability to influence change, using whatever means necessary. Your foolish husband had a very difficult time understanding this, didn't he? He thought money alone could wield power and influence, but he was wrong, wasn't he?" The man snarled maliciously, as if remembering some cruel jest. "Instead, he spent the last days of his life in a pathetic, paranoid stupor, finding that he couldn't easily rid himself of his demons with his wretched, dirty money. And now he has left you a legacy of the same, hasn't he? Believe me, you and your son will not survive this. You have said nothing of any value to the Sûreté thus far, and that alone has kept you alive. But now I ask you again, return to me what is mine."
Christine turned back to her satchel, praying for a means of escape. The man would most definitely kill her if she didn't produce whatever it was he sought. And Jean-Paul…no, not her little boy! She must reach Norry and warn him before it was too late…My God, help me, save me, somehow…
She remembered Mme. Giry's words to her, just the night before. Something to protect herself with…her dagger, of course! It was there, tucked at her side behind the sash at her waist, under her cloak. Could she possibly?
Swallowing back her sobs, she cleared her throat. "Monsieur, excuse me, I am frightened, and did not understand your meaning before. Yes, I have it in my satchel. If I leave it with you, do I have your word that you will leave me and my family alone?" She sucked in her lip, hoping against hope that her eyes would not betray her, that he would not call her bluff.
"Oh course, my lady Comtesse. No more notes, you have my word," he lied smoothly, not even attempting to mask his deceit. It had been him, then, as suspected. He was "them." He is the one that has stalked me, threatened me, and murdered our little Perri. Now, at least, I have a person to put with my sinister hunter.
Rage against this man swelled in her breast, spilling into every fiber of her being. Reaching around to her satchel, she instead whipped her hand under her cloak, swiftly drawing the dagger. Striking blindly in anger, she sliced the back of her attacker's hand; in his shock, he dropped his knife, clutching at the wound.
Now was her chance! Again, she threw her shoulder against the door once, twice; the third it gave a little. The man scrambled on the floor for his knife, clutching at her ankle. Heaving, she sent her entire body crashing into the exit of the brougham; the door gave way, swinging open, her hand still clinging to the handle. The road swept dizzily underneath her, causing her insides to spin nauseously. Viciously kicking her captor's hands away, Christine tumbled out of the cab onto the cobblestone, rolling over to the side of the road. Wheezing as the wind left her body, she twisted to lay her face upon the cool stone, too stunned to move.
And then her attacker was on top of her, pushing her shoulders back, knife pressed into her throat. With everything that she had, she wrenched away from his grasp, clawing against him, kicking him away; a wild scream tore from her throat, echoing in the air. Then the weight lifted, and she looked up to see two men hauling him away, holding him to the ground, his face still shrouded. A little further down the road, a man was holding the frightened horses of the cab at bay; several more were in the process of apprehending the driver.
Gasping for air, she clasped someone's hand, and was pulled to her feet. She sagged, leaning against the person for support, great sobs racking her tiny frame.
"I say, Mademoiselle; that was a nasty scene. Are you quite alright?" questioned a baffled voice. Christine pressed her fingers to her throbbing collarbone, and a searing pain ripped through her shoulder. "Oh look, you are bleeding!" cried the man. "We must get you to a doctor…"
"I was just on my way…" she panted, letting herself be lead away by the gentleman at her side. He raised a hand, hailing a brougham. As the carriage rumbled to a halt, he reached around her to open the door. Assisting Christine in, he began to climb in behind her, but with a quick start, she pushed him away and swung the door shut, shutting the stunned man out.
"Thank you for your help, Monsieur, but I prefer to travel alone," she called out. "8 Rue Freumont, in the 16th Arrondissement, please." She leaned back in relieved exhaustion, pressing her shawl to the knife wound at her collarbone, wincing at the sting.
"I am sorry, I don't think I heard you correctly. Did you just say that he wears a mask?" The elderly doctor's hand paused above her shoulder, antiseptic from the cotton dribbling down his arm. Christine grasped the folds of her dirty skirt in her fingers, knuckles stiff and white.
"Yes," she hissed through clenched teeth, eyes tearing from the sting of her wound. "He has worn one since birth, to cover a deformity on the side of his face." Hesitating, she added, "I only mention this, Dr. Sablet, because he is rather…eccentric about it. It would be best to never brooch the subject." The doctor's carriage gave a slight lurch, slightly jarring Christine's shoulder; she sucked in her breath at the twinge in her collarbone. I suppose the wound could have been much worse – he could have missed my shoulder, and cut my throat instead, she thought grimly.
"My lady Comtesse, I am sorry for your pain, but you are the one that insisted I treat you in the carriage, as opposed to my home." The doctor, but minutes ago, had opened the door to a hysterical, bedraggled Christine, babbling about a man with pneumonia, and how he must come as quickly as possible. In his bafflement, it was all he could do to grab up his bag, and the supplies to treat her shoulder. Now that he had examined the wound more closely, his suspicions were confirmed.
Something, or someone, was troubling the young woman, of that he was sure. As he had been making the preparations to leave, he could not help but overhear her hurried words to his valet, begging him to take a message to her estate. "You must only speak directly with Norry – no one else. Tell him my son must be taken away from the Paris home as soon as possible, with no time to spare…he will understand my meaning… Have him send word to me of their location …yes, he knows how to reach me; you need not tell him…Urgency is imperative, please make that very clear…"
Sighing, he tried to think of how to word his concerns delicately, without upsetting the young woman.
"That is quite a scratch you have, Madame, but it should heal nicely, without any scarring. However, you may want to wear a shawl over the bandages the next few days or so, if you wish to avoid…unwelcome questions." He said nothing more as he finished cleaning and bandaging her shoulder, letting his words hang in the air. Turning to put his supplies away, his eyes swept over the widow in fatherly concern. She was too thin since he had last seen her, even more so than after the Comte's illness. Over the past month or two, she had lost at least half a stone, which was too much for a tiny frame like hers. Dark circles and the pallor of her skin betrayed many nights without slumber, and, most likely, a poor diet. "Christine, dear, I am anxious for you, not only as your doctor, but as a friend. Please tell me what has happened." The Comtesse made no move to answer, but instead looked intently out the window, thoughts far away.
"You know, I have been in private practice for a long time. Over those years, I have seen many wounds such as this, and have been paid quite a lot to pretend I never saw them," he chuckled. "But," he continued, now in grave earnest, "I have never seen one that has worried me so."
It would have been so easy to pour out the terror of the day to the elderly doctor. She knew she could trust him implicitly; he had been there when Jean-Paul was born. And all the long nights during Raoul's illness—Dr. Sablet had been the one to pull the sheet over her husband's beautiful face. In the aftermath, his family had been very good to her. She couldn't risk involving them in the chaos that was her life, bring hardship to their peaceful existence. And that was why she answered as she did, as briefly and firmly as possible. "A man tried to rob me – it is of no consequence."
Christine had evaded his true question. She was sure Dr. Sablet saw through the partial truth (her attacker had tried to rob her, of what was unclear) but said no more, too much of a gentleman to pry into her personal affairs. The subject was not brought up again through the remaining ride to the Opera Populaire, and upon arrival was forgotten entirely; all attention was diverted to the sick "Madame Giry" entrenched in the opera house chambers.
"I give you, the Devil's Child!" Colors swirl, light and darkness mingling, spinning…the faces. So many faces…old and shriveled, lovely and young, all beautiful, perfect and terrible…don't look at the faces! Scowling, snarling faces…livid faces. Laughing –mocking. Children are screaming, crying…crying because they are afraid, afraid of my face. Cover my face, I must cover it so they won't scream…The whip. Now the whip comes, because I covered my face…he raises it…CRACK…the fire! I am on fire, someone put out the fire!… take away the whip, to stop the fire…
"Has he coughed?" the old face asks. "He must cough."
More laughter, seductive and evil…"Yes, he must! We must put him in a cage where he belongs, with the animals"…the woman under the veil, at the balcony… "I have chosen to honor you today, Erik"…she flushes behind the lattice with shame…she will have me killed—I am a dead man. The skeletons dance, round the coffin…rise, from the coffin…Daroga is here, begging me to leave…I cannot leave, because of the weight. The blankets, so heavy…
"Drink this, Monsieur, it is quinine…" The old man again. Cool liquid, in my throat…tastes like poison…I have been poisoned…
My mother stands over me, gazing tenderly…tears run down her cheeks. Her hand massages my chest, circular, something hot and burning. No, it is not my mother, she would never touch me—it is Christine…beautiful, sad Christine…a horrible stench floods my nostrils… "a mustard poultice, Erik. It will help with the infection in your lungs…"
My mask! She has taken off my mask…oh Christine…"My mask, return it to me!" I cry. "You must—can you even bear to look?" Her soft voice…"No one else is in the room, Erik, except for me; you need not worry…face is so hot, the fever," she murmurs…
Christine, leave me… leave me to my demons, here in the dark…night…
Christine sat on the floor next to the bed, knees and ankles tucked under her skirts, feet tingling from several hours' stillness. One hand rested in her lap; the other lightly touching the wrist of her beloved Angel. Candles flickered dimly about the room, casting odd shadows upon the walls. It was night now; it had been so for several hours. This was their time to thrive, the tranquil hours before dawn when the entire world was silently dreaming, and they would make beautiful music together…
She laid her head against the downy mantle and gazed upon her maestro's face, now maskless after his raging fever. What nightmares he had suffered through. A few, she had been able to follow, see what he was seeing. Most, however, had been full of unspeakable horrors she had only guessed at before. The woman shuddered at the brutal cries that had risen from his fever-ravished body, piercing the quiet of the sickroom.
But now he was sleeping peacefully, thank God, the quinine having driven the fever from him only an hour ago. And he was finally coughing, the infection loosened by the mustard poultice she had diligently applied, according to Dr. Sablet's instruction, every fifteen minutes. She held her hand up to the light, studying its redness—the hot poultice had burned and blistered her palm in several places. The good doctor had applied a salve to it, but the heat still throbbed tenderly through her fingers. He had offered to take over the administration of the poultice, but she had stubbornly refused, insisting that she finish what she had started.
Christine gazed upon her maestro's face again. She was playing with fire, but like the proverbial moth to the flame, she could not pull away. Yes, it is horrible and beautiful, there is no denying that. Twisted and deformed, striking and dignified…Much like the man himself, she mused.
When was it that she had stopped fearing this face? Oh, his black moods frightened her, to be sure, but never his face. Even after three years, it still haunted her dreams… dreams full of fascination, longing, even passion, but never fear. And now his face was before her once more, gloriously naked for her eyes only. She had forgotten the grisly minute details; her memory had softened and distilled the distortions that made it so frightful to gaze upon.
It was a gruesome face.
And she loved this face, because it was his…
A slight coughing broke into her trance – her eyes flew up to meet the gold of his, open and alert. Embarrassment reddened her face, and she panicked at the thought that she had been caught staring.
Puzzlement at Christine's flush crossed Erik's face; then a moment later, it was wiped away as realization flooded into him. Cursing, his hand flew to cover his face. He leapt from his bed, grabbed his mask, and slipped it on again. Rounding on her, he took her roughly by the shoulders, shaking her heatedly. "How dare you—damn your—curious—little—" Erik gasped out, heavy coughs racking through his body. He let her go, falling weakly to his hands and knees as the spasms tore from his throat. Christine cried out in pain, her hand flying to the throbbing injury. She gingerly reached under her shawl to touch her shoulder, then glanced down at her fingers; it was bleeding again. Tremulously, she knelt next to Erik. Her hands hovered and waved about his person, never touching him, not knowing quite what to do to alleviate his suffering.
Dr. Sablet rushed through the door, and spotting the quaking man on the floor, grabbed a basin, and swiftly pushed it underneath him. Erik coughed and heaved the infection for several minutes. Finally spent, he collapsed to the floor, resting his head on his forearm.
The elderly doctor took a cloth and dipped it in the water-filled basin on the nightstand, twisted and rung it, then bent over and placed the wet cloth across the back of his neck. "Well," he said, righting again, "I think perhaps you shall recover, Monsieur. Now that your fever has broken and the lungs have somewhat cleared, I believe it is safe for me to take my leave. You have an excellent nurse in the Comtesse to attend to you." Christine breathed a shaky sigh of relief, her nerves tattered and raw.
"Yes," Erik acidly muttered on the floor, "very good indeed."
"I recommend at least a week's bed-rest," continued Dr. Sablet, pretending not to have heard the sardonic remark, "and no venturing out-of-doors, of course. You should only have broths for the next two days, then soft foods for the rest of the week," the doctor inclined his head slightly to Christine, making sure she understood his directions.
Dr. Sablet thought carefully for a moment, wanting somehow to make the sick man realize how close to death he had come. Had it not been for the Comtesse de Chagny's interference, he surely would be in his grave. But any mention of his indebtedness to Christine would most likely have the reverse effect than the one he sought; for some reason, he bristled at the mere mention of her name. So, not knowing what else to say to the bitter man, Dr. Sablet took his leave. "Goodbye, Monsieur," the doctor finished stiffly. Erik nodded slightly in response, noticeably glad to see the gentleman go.
After the doctor took leave of the Giry's in the next room, Christine walked her friend from the chambers and through the hallways to the opera foyer. She reticently bid him goodbye, well aware that this might be the last time they would meet for awhile.
"My dear Comtesse, please try to get some sleep. And remember to clean and change the dressings on that cut every day. I have left some of the antiseptic and bandages for you," sighed the old doctor, reluctant to leave her here with the strange man. "Please don't run yourself ragged, either. I don't know what is going on, Christine, but I am uneasy for your safety."
"Dear Dr. Sablet, how can I ever thank you for all of your kindnesses to my family and me?" She reached up and gave the gentleman a tiny peck on the cheek. "I promise to get take care of myself," she said rather sweetly, and had the doctor not known her better, he would have distinctly believed that she was patronizing him.
Sighing, Christine went to Erik's bed, straightened the sheets and replaced the quilt that had been dragged to the floor in his sudden outburst. She picked up the pillow, fluffed it up, then folded back the bedding, running a hand swiftly over the surface, smoothing the wrinkles from them. She then turned to Erik and awkwardly reached out her hands to offer assistance. He was still seething at her, barely contained rage seeping from every pore. "No, my dear," he hissed, "I believe I shall refrain from accepting any help from you. Your brand of 'help' seems to do me more harm than good."
Irritated, the little diva jerked away her hands and forcefully turned her back to the man on the floor. "Very well then, Erik—do as you please. I will not offer to assist you again, unless you want me to," she spat back. She felt his eyes boring holes into her, first with anger, then shock that she did not flee the room in tears. She supposed she was rather astonished herself.
Christine had never really boasted much of a spine when it came to her teacher, too fearful of his fits of temper. Over the past three years, however, she had been forced to hold her ground on several different occasions, especially after Raoul had died. She had felt the vultures of the French aristocracy swooping greedily around her little boy's estate, in the form of friendly loans, patronages, lucrative business offerings. It was in those circumstances that she had been strong for Jean-Paul, and had discovered how to say "no." But Erik has not witnessed this, knows nothing of my life from the moment that I left his side those years ago; of course he would be surprised to find that I can hold my own against him…somewhat…
Resigned, Erik fell back into the bed, too exhausted to be angry, too drained from sickness to clash with her. "Christine," he sighed wearily, "I am afraid you are still too much of a child to not take what I am about to say as anything but an insult, but you must understand this." Eyes slitting slightly, he waited for her nod to continue. "I am grateful to you for finding me in the cellars, and tending to me in my sickness, but I think it is time for you to leave," he said succinctly. For a moment he hesitated, almost relenting as he saw the tears gathering in the young woman's eyes. He shook the urge away, persisting. "You are like a poison to me, a drug," he whispered, "perhaps unintentionally, but just as toxic. Since the moment you left with that boy, I have painfully struggled to clean you from my system, rid myself of the need of you. To allow your poison back into my life would be my death sentence—" his last words choked from his throat as another fit of coughing rumbled through him.
Rising gracefully, Christine reached over to give him a cloth, the tears now streaming down her face. He took it from her proffered hand, lightly mingling his long, thin fingers with hers. A charge shot through his hand, up his arm at the slight touch, and as she began to pull away, he entwined his fingers in hers, firmly grasping her hand.
One last indulgence, just one, and then I shall let her go…Slowly, piercing eyes never leaving hers, he pulled her down to the side of the bed, level with his face. His hands gently cupped her head, fingers entangled in her hair. He pushed a few stray curls away from her wet cheeks and swept his thumbs under her eyes, wiping away the falling tears. Her eyes closed…a small sigh escaped her lips as she pressed her cheek into his palm, hand reaching up to cover his. He pulled her lovely, perfect face towards him, inch by inch, and tilted her head down, brushing his lips across her forehead in a feathery caress. He lingered there, reveling in the scent of her hair, the closeness of her skin…
Oh Christine, I shall breathe your name when I die…
And then Erik released her, forcefully pushing her away from him in self-loathing, twisting his passion-ridden face away. Inhaling deeply for several moments, then coughing slightly at the intake of air, he managed to compose his features, drop the figurative mask into place. Turning back to her, he fixed a frosty gaze on the trembling mess before him. She was as she had always been—weak, sobbing—nothing had changed.
"Go home to your husband, Comtesse," he stated flatly, removing his muted gold eyes from her face and fixing them on some far-away point across the room.
Christine froze at his words, shock coursing through her blood. Was it possible that he had not heard, despite the gossip that had flown about Paris? Of course he hadn't; he truly knew nothing of her life since that night…
"Erik," she whispered, her astonished pain palpable in the still-charged air. "Raoul is dead…almost five months ago."