Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and 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, except for the creepy boat. I own the creepy boat :)
Side Notes:
Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…my wonderful muse! Again, thank you for not caving to the pressures to reveal my most secret of plot secrets :)
To Breathe Again
A storm was rolling in.
The young girl sat upon a white, craggy rock overlooking the inlet. To either side of her, jagged brown cliffs stretched forth, then dropped away as they met the ocean. She could see layer upon layer of massive gray clouds pillaring up from the water into the steely sky, the light of day barely shining through their denseness. The white-capped waves beat upon the shoreline and delved through the dry hills of sand, whittling them into odd shapes as the water skimmed up, then down, the beach.
A gust of wind swept around her perch, thrashing through the golden reeds and whipping the dark curls about her head. She tucked her bare feet under her skirts and pulled her cape tightly about her, then lifted her face to feel the chill breeze upon her cheeks and throat. The salty sea air cooled her flesh and thrilled her senses, easing the desperate pain which had gripped her body just moments before.
Why had she been afraid? She could remember nothing of the events that had brought her to this peaceful place…only that she had been steeped in fear of something which no longer existed in this blissful plain of memories.
Yes, this is what this is…a memory…
A fishing boat skimmed along the silvery coastline, and she watched its progress with curiosity.
She had been to this place …
This was the Brittany coast of her youth—the green hills dotted with limestone boulders, the restless ebb and flow of the tide, the sea-kissed air. How many countless summer days had she played in those waves, dug her bare toes into the cold, wet sand?
Yet she had never stood here before. The tucked-away inlet had an unfamiliar, ageless aura about it that led her to believe it had existed since the beginning of the earth. And at the same time, it had never existed at all.
She reached down from her rocky perch and scooped up a handful of fine white sand, let it sift through her fingers, and watched as the wind swirled it about and scattered it across the beach. A few granules glinted in the soft gray light of day. There was no sun in the sky, though; no one source served to illuminate the panorama before her. The cliffs, rocks, reeds…even the tiniest grain of sand was alive with some source of pure light that came not from the sky, but within each object.
No, this is not a memory…for my feeble mind could never create a place so far beyond my understanding. This is something greater…
Time…
There was no such thing in this restful haven. The fishing boat again caught her attention, and she followed its movement as it skimmed along the shore. She strained to see the crew aboard the ship, watching for any movement of sailors hauling fish-laden nets up the sides and onto the deck, or a first mate at the helm, steadily steering his vessel through the choppy waters. There was nothing; not even the flash of a face or the wave of a hand. Then with a start, she realized the boat seemed to have no destination, no urgency to return to the harbor before the storm could overtake it.
The storm…
Even as the massive gray clouds churned just beyond the shore, somehow she knew that they would never reach land …that the rain-tinged breeze blowing about her would never strengthen to the full force of the gale hovering upon the choppy emerald waters. There was no sense of urgency about it, either.
Any anxiety she had felt in her strange surroundings flooded from her. What was time, after all, but a mere human invention, squelching the spirit with the heavy burden of responsibility? If time did not exist here, she would not mourn its absence. The girl leapt from her rock and flung her arms about in the air, her soft bare feet carrying her to the ocean's edge. Easing her toes into the wet sand, she carefully traced letters into the surface…C…H…R… With a final flourish, she stepped back to admire her handiwork.
CHRISTINE DAAÉ
The girl laughed with glee as the cold waves swept up the shore and swirled about her heels, gradually eroding her name. She ran along the shoreline, stumbling every now and again as an unexpectedly strong wave crashed into her legs, spraying salty water upon her arms and face. She chased it back into the ocean, then sprinted up the shore as the tide rolled in again.
Breathing heavily from her play, she meandered along the coastline until she reached her small inlet. Making her way up to her rock, she paused every now and then to wipe away the sand that was clumping upon her wet feet and legs. She plopped down on the cool stone and shook her wild dark curls about, running her fingers through the damp tangles to work out the sand that had found its way to her scalp. With a happy sigh, she leaned upon one elbow and waited for the fishing boat to again appear upon the horizon.
The rhythmic lapping of the waves, the whistling of the grass in the wind lent a rustic tone to her surroundings; an old Breton hanter dros her father had often played began to swirl about in her head. Without a second thought, she raised her chin and opened her mouth, letting the lilting dance melody spin forth and resonate in the air…
Quand j'étais jeune à dix-huit ans
J'étais belle et galante o-gué.
Quand j'étais jeune à dix-huit ans
J'étais belle et galante!
She sang verse after verse, smiling at the nonsensical lyrics as she drummed her fingers lightly upon the rock.
On fit venir un medécin
De Paris ou de Nantes o-gué,
On fit venir un medécin
De Paris ou de Nantes.
A movement just to the left drew her gaze down along the coastline. Her eyes fell upon the form of a young boy, no more than ten or eleven, with golden hair and a carefree gait. Her breath caught in her throat when the child made his way up the hill towards her rocky bend, his blue eyes catching hers; those clear, beautiful eyes that had smiled at her many times before, crinkling with familiar laughter.
Raoul…
The boy nodded in response…had she spoken his name aloud? He flicked a damp lock of hair from his forehead and smiled again, his eyes teasing…
His eyes…
As she again lost herself in the depths of them, she realized that they too possessed the same ageless, timeless quality that inspired her surroundings. His eyes…no longer tinged with the sorrows of the world, infused with a wisdom that she could not grasp.
"Christine Daaé," he laughed, "You sound like an angel!" Raoul pulled his hand from behind his back, revealing her lovely red scarf, ruined by the salty waters all those years ago. Standing before her, he gently laid the soft bit of material over her shoulders and stepped back to examine her.
"Had you forgotten this?" he smiled. Touching his finger lightly to her cheek, he seated himself next to her upon the craggy rock and joined her in wordless companionship.
She was content to be with him upon the cliff, watching the storm brewing on the horizon. The fishing boat skimmed across the silver waters again, this time in the opposite direction. They sat in silence—perhaps forever, perhaps for a moment—pleased to feel the breeze upon their faces, to listen to it whistle through the hollow golden reeds about them.
"Raoul," the girl whispered softly, "is this death?"
The boy smiled slightly, his gaze riveted upon the shore. "Perhaps, but not in the sense you refer to, Christine." He absently ran his fingers along the mossy surface of the rock, patiently thinking through his words.
"Death is not real, you know—it is merely an illusion, a transition. There is nothing to fear in it, for one never truly dies." His eyes turned to hers, reading the confusion in them. He waved his hand about, gesturing to their peaceful inlet. "All of this—this place—it is fleeting, just as life is. As much as you may wish to, you cannot remain here in this endless limbo…waiting for a storm that shall never arrive, a boat that shall never dock. You must choose either to go on, or return…"
Christine met his gaze, searching for answers to questions she did not even know how to voice. Somewhere beyond the hills, the familiar sound of a violin sounded upon the air, its sweet, sorrowful voice calling her home from her time at the coast. She closed her eyes; a wave of longing swept through her, her Father's song tugging at her senses. Her heart constricted within her chest. Was it possible that she could sit at his feet again as he told her beautiful stories of her homeland? Her voice would join his violin in song; Raoul would sit next to her, a warm fire crackling just beyond, casting shadows about the cozy room. Just beyond the hill, waiting for her…
"Little Lotte," the boy whispered softly, "come with me." He held out his hand to hers, his ageless eyes filled with love. She hesitated for a moment, staring down at the small fingers patiently waiting for her decision.
Christine!…
The voice suddenly tore through her mind, ripped to her very soul. Her angel's voice, twisted and contorted with agony, wretched with a despair she had never heard before, never knew could exist. The cry—such a disparity to the peaceful crash of the waves, the rustling of the tall grass—came to her from some place far beyond the inlet and burrowed into her psyche, reaching into the depths of her spirit. She put her hands to her ears to keep from hearing it. But no matter how she tried to shut it away, to keep it from drowning out the call of the violin, she heard him still… hopeless in his suffering.
And then all was clear. She knew she did not have to ask any questions, for the answers were irrelevant—all was irrelevant, save for the choice resting upon her shoulders.
The choice…
Even it no longer mattered, for there was no longer a decision to be made. For Christine, to go beyond the hill would be, in a sense, to return—return to her past, to a time when she was safe and protected, when her spirit was innocent and carefree.
But she found that the past was something she no longer ached for. She could cherish it, learn from it, but she was not ready to become a part of it. Not until Jean-Paul had grown into a man and had children of his own. Not until Erik rested peacefully in her arms, his demons purged from his soul. The siren of life called to her—it had not yet relinquished its claim upon her spirit.
Her child needed a mother; and her angel, forgiveness.
"Raoul," she whispered, the irrevocability of her decision weighing heavily upon her. "I love him."
Christine's eyes once again sought his, pleading with him for understanding. She found, to her surprise, that there was no disappointment within them, no sadness. The knowing wisdom within their depths shone through, glistening with approval. The boy took her hand, lightly squeezing it as he pulled her to her feet.
"Little Lotte, you are brave," he laughed. "Your road is not an easy one, but the sights and sounds along the way shall be magnificent." He ran a hand through his damp blonde hair; his wide, toothy grin spread across his face as he took in her serious expression. He delicately tapped the tip of her nose, drawing a wisp of a smile to her lips.
"Christine Daaé, do not forget—there is no sin so great, it cannot be forgiven." The smile suddenly drained from his face, and his eyes met hers with gravity. "That is not to say, however, there are no consequences for these offenses. If you truly desire to save him, you must help your angel to face himself; there is no other way."
The girl solemnly nodded, a cold gust of sea air sending a shiver up her back.
She watched as the boy brought her fingers to his lips, softly kissed them, then squeezed her hand and let it fall back to her side. He turned away and began to make his way down the hill. Christine reached out for his arm uncertainly and grasped his elbow, spinning him about before he could leave.
His eyes studied her anxious face, questions looming in the ageless blue.
"Raoul, she whispered, "I don't know what to do."
The boy's eyes crinkled again as he smiled, and he placed his palm to her heart. "You will know."
Her eyes held the intelligent depths of his for a moment, giving voice to all of the things she wanted to say, but could not. At last, she spoke.
"There is so much—" she murmured, her voice breaking with emotion. "Jean-Paul. I wish that you could be there, could know him—"
Raoul shook his head, silencing her. "I do, Christine."
The woman closed her eyes at his words. A single tear slid down her face, and she felt it cool in the stormy wind whipping about and blowing through her, bringing a sense of finality.
Christine!…And then the air became warm, filtering through her body, into her lungs. Ever so slowly, the pain from before snaked through her limbs, her torso, up into her throat, searing her with its hot touch. She felt a mouth upon hers, warm and damp as it breathed into her again, forcing hot air into her lungs. The voice spoke, still piercing her heart with its anguish.
"Christine! Oh God, do not leave me alone here on this earth, not without —"
She felt her angel brush his fingers over her face, through her hair, desperate to draw forth some sign of consciousness from her bruised body. His mouth covered hers again and he breathed precious life into her, giving the air that her aching lungs cried for.
The woman's mind began to reconnect with her body as she desperately commanded her lungs to work, her chest to rise. The strained muscles of her neck sprang to life and her burning, swollen windpipe opened, allowing the oxygen that had been denied for so long. She gasped when it filtered throughout her lungs, her limbs, into her brain, painfully freezing her dry throat with an icy rush.
Just above her, Christine heard her angel's cry of relief as her body came to life. A harsh cough rattled through her chest painfully, causing her to choke as her swollen throat constricted again; too weak to roll onto her side, she struggled to lift her head. Hands firmly pushed her back to the ground, and she felt his fingertips probe about her raw neck, feel along her spine. Then strong arms came about her shoulders and carefully turn her so she could breathe more easily. She coughed and coughed, desperately sucking in air between the spasms that raked through her. Eventually, the coughing gradually receded to a shrill wheezing, leaving her weak with the effort to breathe.
Long, comforting fingers gently brushed back the strands of hair clinging to her forehead, then traced along her hairline. The girl forced her eyes open; through a blurry haze of red, she saw Erik's tear-streaked face gazing down upon her, his golden eyes brimming with both joy and grief. His disheveled black hair hung wildly about his pale face and mask, so unlike his usually immaculate appearance. His lips, still bruised and swollen from the fight, parted slightly as if he was going to speak; instead, he shook his head and cupped her face in his hand, too overcome for words. Something just over her shoulder caught his attention and he glanced up, then nodded.
Too exhausted to keep her eyes open, her lids slid shut and darkness began to seep into her mind once more. In the distance, she could here her angel's voice, breaking with emotion.
"Yes, she will live," he murmured to someone, repeating the words to convince himself of it. "She will live."
The quiet of the room was a welcome relief to the frantic rushing about that had ensued throughout so much of the night. The clock upon the mantle chimed, startling the masked man from his dark thoughts.
Midnight…he mused with derision. It is now Noël, a day for celebration. He smirked at the idea of it.
Fury again welled up inside of him as he leaned forward in the cream-colored armchair, studying the sleeping form of his beloved angel. The dull firelight flickered upon her battered, beautiful face, darkening the already gruesome bruises. Erik's eyes roamed over the woman's features…the most obvious mark was upon her throat, now wrapped with white bandages. Underneath the material, a thick, purple line circled about her neck, the bruise raw in places where the rope had rubbed into her flesh. Bluish lines stretched up and down her soft skin, evidence of the muscles that had been strained when she had struggled for air.
Her face…
Her face was also bruised in some places. In others, it was scattered with red and blue spots; the same that appeared on all the victims of the punjab lasso. When he had found her, rope taut about her throat, lips and face blue from the lack of air, he had thought her dead. Small tracks of blood had streamed from under her eyelids where the delicate capillaries had burst from unremitting strain. He had pulled his noose from her neck in agony, loosing a howl of despair—the cry of a soul tormented by the fires of hell.
Leaning forward, he had placed a soft kiss upon her forehead, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair.
Lavender…lavender and blood.
And then he had felt the faint fluttering of a pulse under his fingertips, and his heart came alive with hope. He forced breath after breath into her, willing her to live again, until, at last, she had breathed—a great, gasping, shuddery breath. When she had opened her eyes, the whites of them turned red from the straining, they had been the most beautiful and horrific sight he had ever beheld.
Erik's fists clenched together tightly as the chaotic events of the evening flew through his mind. Mas, strangling his beloved angel just feet from his unconscious body. A gunshot ringing through the room and the sound of glass shattering, stirring him to life again…
He had opened his eyes just in time to see the uninjured valet drop Christine and dive for Papi, trying to wrestle the pistol from her fingers. The maid cried and screamed for help, yet Erik was unable to move, his brain still too foggy to command his body into motion.
And then Norry, toting his ancient rifle, barreled through the door, sending the valet sprinting across the floor and through the shattered second story window. The caretaker flew down the stairs and took up chase, but the younger Mas proved too quick for him, and fled into the dark London night. So the deadly valet escaped without so much as a scratch, and the old man returned to the room just as the Comtesse gasped for air, only to again be sent out into the cold night for Hale.
At that point, the masked man had heard a low groan from the corner, and saw that the foolish M. David was beginning to stir. When the lawyer took in Madame de Chagny's condition, he fell to his knees at the woman's side, pathetically wailing some jumbled mess about poisoning and being the one to blame.
How Erik had managed to resist the murderous singing of his blood was still beyond his understanding. Perhaps it was because he loved Christine more than he hated M. David that he was able to stay his hand when he saw the abhorrent lasso curled docilely at his knees, calling to his rage-filled senses to grasp it, wield it with his nimble fingers. However, to take up the rope—still bright red with the blood of his beloved angel—and place it around the neck of one so unworthy as the sniveling avocat, seemed to Erik, sacrilegious. Instead, he gritted his teeth and grabbed the weeping man by his hair and shirt collar, hauling him up from the ground. Dragging the flailing man down the stairs, through the foyer and kitchen, he ripped open the door to the wine cellar and roughly shoved him down the narrow staircase into the dark, musty room.
"Enjoy your black prison, Monsieur; you should find more than enough Burgundy to poison yourself into oblivion," the masked man growled, careless of whether the avocat had been rendered insensible by his tumble down the stairs. "Pray that in several days, if the Comtesse lives, I shall remember that you are here in this hole. For as of this moment, I'd just assume forget that you pollute this earth." And with his parting words, he slammed the cellar door shut, pulled a brass key from his waistcoat, and locked the traitor in the darkness…
Erik ran a hand over his drained features, his golden eyes straying to Jean-Paul's room. He leaned back in the armchair and closed his eyes, pondering over the sad little boy…
Anxiously making his way back to Christine's blue bedroom, he had desired nothing more than to wrap his arms around the unconscious woman and cradle her still form to his breast. However, the loud, frightened wail of a child had met his ears as he rounded the corner to the Comtesse's suite. Peering through the door of Jean-Paul's bedroom, he watched as the little boy, face red with anger and streaked with tears, squirmed and pushed against the maid who held him firmly in her arms. His cry of "Maman!" could be heard amidst the livid howling; with a sinking feeling, Erik knew that his angel's little son had witnessed something that no small child should ever have to see.
"Mademoiselle," the masked man shouted over the child's cries, "did he—?" The maid nodded briefly, ducking away from the flailing arms of her little charge.
"The commotion must have waked him. I ushered the little man out as quickly as possible, but as you can see…" Her words trailed away as she cooed into the boy's ear, desperately trying to soothe his distraught mind. She glanced about frantically for something, anything to silence the choked sobbing.
Erik followed her gaze and saw the plush white horse nestled in the disheveled blankets upon the boy's bed. He strode over to the toy and grabbed it up. Hesitating for a moment in front of the wailing child, he tucked the horse into the crook of Jean-Paul's arm and quickly turned to leave the room. He paused with his hand on the doorknob as the child's cries grew even shriller, weighing several options; then, with a great sigh, turned back to the maid.
"Give me five minutes to settle Madame de Chagny into her bed, then bring the boy back into the room. He has already seen her; there can be no harm in allowing him to stay with his mother until the doctor arrives."
Papi's face paled, and she began to protest. "But Monsieur—"
"Five minutes," the man repeated firmly, his eyes flashing with impatience. He closed the door soundly behind him, muffling the child's scared cries.
Kneeling next to his angel, Erik saw that Papi had already washed the blood from her deathlike face and neck, and had bound her hair away from the wounds. He tenderly ran two fingers along her jawline and closed his eyes, almost feeling her ghostlike touch upon his face.
He remained next to her for a minute longer, listening to the soft wheeze of her steady breathing. Then, as cautiously as possible, he eased his arms beneath her shoulders and knees, lifted her limp body from the cold wooden boards, and carried her to her bed. Pulling a counterpane from the cream chair, he spread it over her lifeless frame, careful to hide the gruesome bruises upon her neck from her son's eyes…
Erik strode over to the fireplace and stirred the burning logs to life. He glanced at the clock above the mantle…half past two. The entire household was now asleep, save for the Sûreté agent that kept vigilance in the downstairs library, listening for any sounds of mischief carried upon the night wind.
He slowly eased himself to the floor, careful not to pull the stitching in the knife wound at his side, and leveled his eyes upon the sleeping woman's face. The doctor had soundly chided him for letting the gash go so long without proper medical attention, but Erik had not heard a word of it; he had been too stunned by the man's prognosis for Christine to listen. Gently, his fingertips grazed along the white bandages about her throat, tracing the purple bruise just visible under the wrappings. She moaned softly in protest, the sound raspy and raw from the damage done to her voice.
Her voice…The man shut his eyes against the doctor's words, struggling to force them to the back of his mind. If Christine should happen to wake and see the dread upon his face, she would know…
Somehow, she would know. And he wasn't ready to face her…not yet.
Still, the unbidden words came…
"The extent of the damage caused by strangulation really depends on how long she went without air. She may suffer from memory loss, most definitely during the time period when she was deprived of oxygen—but that may be a blessing to her." Hale's discretionary doctor replaced the Comtesse's hand at her side, then turned to his black bag, pulling out supplies to stitch the masked man's side. "Expect some respiratory problems, at least for awhile. The muscles in her neck and shoulders have been strained extensively—that is why the blood vessels burst in her face and eyes—so keep her from moving about the next several days, as much as you can. Her voice will be raspy and harsh-sounding, also from vast strain to the vocal chords. Most of the hoarseness may disappear with time, but it is likely she will always retain some permanent damage to her voice. As for the markings in her eyes and about her face and neck—they should disappear with the other bruises…"
The rest of the doctor's words faded into the background as one phrase resonated over and over…
Permanent damage to her voice…
The voice of an angel…
Erik was not aware of removing his shirt to let the man stitch his side, no longer concerned with the scars streaking his torso…
He did not remember Papi ushering Jean-Paul back into the room…
Nor the doctor giving the child a smile and pat upon the back, reassuring him that his Maman would be get better…
"Now, young master; your Papa looks as though he could use a spot of cheer. Be sure to take good care of him while your Mama is resting." The doctor nodded towards the despondent masked man and held his hand out for the small child to shake.
"But he is not—" Papi stepped forward, intent on correcting the mistake. A firm hand at her elbow, however, silenced her explanation.
"Let it go, butterfly," old Norry whispered softly, his eyes riveted upon the unfolding scene with sadness.
The maid obeyed her father and closed her mouth, clearly unhappy with the situation.
The boy merely stared at the doctor's extended hand in confusion, then turned solemn blue eyes to his stunned music teacher…
Erik buried his face in the bedclothes, fighting back the blackness that threatened to spill forth from his mind. A familiar stanza came to him and ever so softly, he leaned forward, fervently breathing it into her ear.
"By thee, thee alone, Euridice,
Can all the sorrow from by stricken soul
Be banish'd…"
Such conflict tore through his stricken soul, ripping apart the calm control he had managed to piece together since the moment Christine had breathed again. He clasped the woman's hand and pressed it to his lips, murmuring softly into her fingers.
"Forgive me, my angel."
His tormented gold eyes skimmed along the dark floorboards of the bedroom until they came to rest upon the bloody lasso. He pounded his fist upon the bed in rage—rage against the valet, the avocat, the Narodnaya Volya. Rage against the vile world that had done this to her—had taken something as pure and lovely as her voice and perverted it with its cruelty. And most of all, he raged against himself for providing the means for it to happen.
Dear God, hadn't I selfishly wanted her to save me, to help me atone for my past crimes against humanity? But not like this…never at the expense of all that is dear to her…I would rather remain in the darkness than see this wretched lasso about her beautiful, innocent neck again; this weapon of death that has taken so many lives…
How sickeningly fitting that my angel of music should be its last victim…
The man bitterly smirked at the bitter irony of it.
To simply rot in hell, apparently, is not punishment enough.
Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet and stalked over to the lasso coiled upon the ground, as if ready to strike at his hand. He stooped to retrieve it, and reverently lowered the noose around his neck. Letting it hang there for a moment, he closed his eyes to memorize the weight of it, the feel of its roughness against his throat. Shuddering, he lifted it from his neck again and brought the bit of rope to his lips, bidding it a silent adieu as he would to a traitorous friend, an unfaithful mistress.
With a cry of fury, he flung the punjab lasso into the fire and watched as the bright flames swarmed up around it, quickly consuming its length until it was nothing more than a shriveled, black snake.
Erik stood with his hand to the mantle, gravely staring into the orange and gold flames, minute after minute, as the last of the rope burned away. Then, wearily, he slumped back to his angel's bedside and fell into the cream-colored armchair, at last letting exhaustion claim him. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, vaguely aware of the soft ticking of the mantle clock, the crackle of the fireplace. The quiet creak of a door…
He felt a small tug upon his pants leg, and his eyes barely slit open to behold Christine's little son staring up at him with wide, questioning eyes, his dark curls falling about his face. Clutching the white César horse to his chest, his lips parted slightly as if to speak, then closed again timidly when he received no encouragement from the man.
The child spun around to gaze at his sleeping mother. "Maman?" he murmured, his voice barely audible.
"Yes, Jean-Paul," the man quietly replied. "She will be better in a few days, and won't look like that anymore."
The boy stared at his mother for a moment longer, then toddled back to his teacher. Putting his tiny hands on the man's knee, he hoisted himself up into Erik's lap and buried his pale face in the soft folds of the man's rumpled linen shirt.
Erik stiffened in surprise, unsure of what to do. But as the mantle clock softly ticked on and the fireplace continued to crackle, the child was gently lulled to sleep, his breath slow and steady. And at last, the man closed his eyes as well, discovering that he didn't have to do a thing.
Note: 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.
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