Finally- the fourth story is here! Hopefully it will clear up any lingering confusion from the last tale. Before it begins, I want to just clarify a couple of things:
First, Roses was meant to be a series of disconnected one-shots. However, my personal need for a connected storyline is interfering with my original plans; so the stories are looking more and more like chapters. shrugs This most recent story is proof- it comes directly after and before the last story- they're tied together. (That's why they both have titles derived from Greek mythology).
I have never had the pleasure of seeing the opera Faust or touring the Palais Garnier- so if I make any glaring errors in regard to either, please tell me!
One last note- if you will all recall, my Christine and Erik have not been carrying on with lessons for several years. So the events that are described later in this chapter differ from the events recounted in the novel in that very important respect.
Please, I beg you, if you have a question, ask! Those readers who have already asked me something (thank you, by the way!) can affirm that I love to talk about my story. ;)
Enough author blathering! After much ado, I give you "The Cup of Mnemosyne".
…it was not until she was many minutes into the long, mysterious journey that Christine finally examined her thoughts, and nearly fainted as she realized who her dark escort must be…
Christine felt as though she was dreaming. The only thing that seemed even remotely real about this strange journey was the comforting texture of Cesar's mane threaded through her fingers, and his regular movements beneath her. Aside from these aspects of reality, the trip had every similarity to that of Persephone's fabled descent to the dark underworld of Hades. Her mind, still fogged and sluggish after her recent fainting spell, nonsensically focused on the thought of that myth- for countless moments in the long, confusing journey, Christine searched for Greek parallels for every object that she could discern in the darkness.
The flickering torch on the wall became the one that Demeter had held, searching for her stolen daughter. Christine imagined the music of Orpheus and the silvered ghost of his love Euridice echoing through the abandoned halls. The more time that she spent in this world, the more convinced she became that she was in Hades itself.
Immersed in these thoughts, she was startled when Cesar came to a sudden halt. Her fist tightened in his hair, and she looked with distantly questioning eyes for her escort. She watched him slowly approach her and stop at her side. He looked up, straight into her eyes, his molten, fiery gaze instantly reminding her weary mind of yet another god from her favorite myths; he who controlled fire. Without thinking, she murmured, "Hephaestus…".
The result was almost instantaneous. Her Hephaestus flinched and shut his eyes yet again. His shoulders hunched, and he seemed to draw into himself. Confused and embarrassed, Christine lowered her eyes. She didn't know what to say, how to apologize for an offense that she did not understand. She nervously wound her hands even deeper into Cesar's mane, cursing her foolish tongue and wishing that she had kept silent.
After a moment, her companion seemed to win the battle against whatever hurt that she had inflicted, and he looked at her once more. This time it was she who flinched, for she could easily read the pain glistening in his eyes. She opened her mouth to attempt to explain her comment, but before she could speak he beckoned for her to dismount. Christine snapped her jaw shut, fear creeping back into her thoughts. She had felt safe while riding on Cesar- she had no desire to leave him for the darkness and a mysterious man. She hesitated, wild doubts and warnings swirling in her head. The man sighed again, pulling at the recesses of her memory, and Christine allowed logic to overcome fear. She felt exhausted- her limbs were heavy, her mind sluggish. She could barely stand. There was no way that she would be able to find her way out of this labyrinthine underworld alone. This man was silent and mysterious, but he had made no attempt to hurt her…that she could immediately recall. How had she ended up here? Had he abducted…? She shook her head. It was too difficult to attempt to remember. She echoed his sigh with one of her own, and resigned herself to fate. She shakily lowered herself off of Cesar, feeling a cold draft brush her back, offering a sort of gentle support. Christine turned slowly and raised her eyes to his golden ones, waiting for his direction. He gracefully unfurled long, dark fingers, and beckoned for her to follow him as he moved forward. Christine nodded her understanding and, with one last glance at the gleaming shape of Cesar, she allowed herself to be led deeper into Hades.
He brought her, fittingly enough, to a small boat. It was delicate in construction, with beautifully wrought ornamentation along the sides and front. Christine climbed into the vessel, sinking down to a small bench and distantly watching the figure begin to pole them out onto the water. She leaned over the side, one hand curling around the metal curlicues there, and looked into the black waters. She thought of the river Styx, and of the boatman Charon. Gazing into the waters, a single lock of her disheveled hair trailing along its gloomy surface, she thought of the river Lethe- the river whose waters made all who drank of them forget their earthly existences. Now, with the prospect of a long voyage (how distant were the shores of death?), she focused on remembrance. She wanted to at least remember everything before she was forced to forget- a drink from Mnemosyne, as it were, to counteract the effects of Lethe. Christine furrowed her brow, trying to remember what had happened before she awoke in the underworld. She had been on stage…
Christine sang out the delicate part, her first solo in almost a year. True, she was only a minor character- and it was a 'trouser role'- but she was lost in the joy of being onstage and singing. She felt the electric energy and perfect bliss even when she was only in the chorus, but playing a real role, with an individual personality and her own songs, magnified the experience. Plus, Faust was one of her very favorite operas- she loved the story's powerful ending and message of redemption.
This evening, however, had been going quite strangely; the house had been filled with whispers before the show started- more than was usual. La Carlotta, the opera's resident Prima Donna, had been shooting Christine scathing looks all evening. Christine had no idea what she had done to so enrage the volatile singer, but rumour had it that Carlotta feared that her part was to be stolen by the young soprano. It was true that Christine did know the entire part of Marguerite as well, if not better, than her own role of Siebel, but this was simply because of her longtime interest in the opera. She was required to be at every rehearsal that Carlotta was, so she had easily learned the blocking of Carlotta's character. But these reasons alone should not have angered the diva- had not been upsetting her for weeks. Christine was utterly confused as to Carlotta's behaviour. The audience, however, seemed to enjoy their evening's Marguerite- Carlotta was given a full round of applause upon her entry onto the stage at the close of Act One.
Christine closed her eyes, pushing aside all worries as she allowed the music to flow through her. She caressed the petals of the bouquet in her hands, singing Siebel's sweet request to the blooms for aid in winning Marguerite's love. She felt the familiar swell of joy, peace, and even pride as she sang. There was only the music, there had only ever been the music.
The strange behaviour of the audience aside, everything seemed to be going well until Carlotta had worked her progressively flamboyant way through the garden scene. As she was singing the serenade duet with her Faust, however, Carlotta suddenly let out a sound that brought the entire opera to a screeching halt.
There was no other word for it- Carlotta, Prima Donna and, if the critics were to be believed, the 'lady with gilded vocal cords', croaked.
The entire audience released a collective gasp. Monsieur Fonta, playing Faust, was frozen with an expression that was almost comical- his heavily made-up eyebrows raised, his jaw dropped. Carlotta herself was frowning slightly, as though she could not believe that the horrid sound had come from her own throat. Determinedly shaking her bejeweled head, the diva began the phrase yet again, only to croak several more times. Whispers had broken out over the audience, and Carlotta looked close to tears. Her final croak was drowned out, however, by a sound the instantly brought silence to the inhabitants of the opera house.
It was a low, groaning sound; it filled the entire theatre, ominously echoing through the now hushed house. All eyes searched for the source of the sound. It came again- a groaning, followed this time by a sharp snap and a wild tinkling, as if of-
Christine hovering just offstage, fearfully raised her eyes to the opera's magnificent chandelier, just in time to see it swinging wildly. With one last, earsplitting snap, the massive structure snapped entirely free of its counterweights and, following the trajectory that its wild pendulumic swinging had set, the chandelier went crashing straight into the screaming audience.
It was utter chaos. In the mad dash to escape and the tumultuous aftermath of the crash, many were injured. Only one person died- a woman who had come to the opera for the very first time that night, and who had been hired by the new managers to replace one of the box keepers that had been recently fired. The stagehands were immediately set to the task of removing the hulking wreck of the once magnificent chandelier, and the members of the company were sent home or to their rooms with strict instructions to rest. Christine had walked back to her dressing room, remembering the screams of the audience and the pale, terrified faces of the managers as they met with their employees.
Sighing, she shut her door. Because she was awarded occasional roles apart from the chorus, she had been given her own dressing room and a small bedroom, and never had she been more grateful. She lit a few of the many candles that crowded every surface in the room, then changed out of her costume. She emerged in a soft white dressing gown, and set to the task of removing her stage makeup and combing out her tangled hair. But she had not made much progress in either of these endeavors before she lapsed into daydreams, sitting in the flickering light and staring into space- thinking of the evening's events. Carlotta had left in a flurry of Spanish curses and tears. The chandelier was destroyed. A woman had died. Christine shook her head, still in shock. It had all happened so quickly! She remembered the nightmare vision of the massive chandelier tumbling from Heaven to be shattered on Earth…and she thought, for the first time in months, of her angel. He had been so unsure, so afraid. In that little chapel where they had spent countless hours together, he had always been tentative in all but their vocal lessons. And in that last embrace…
Christine wrapped her arms around herself, remembering how he had cried, but had not returned her touch. She opened her eyes, and stared into her reflection. Her dressing room, for some reason, included an massive, ornate mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling. In the mirror, her eyes glistened with remembered tears.
"Oh, angel…" she whispered. "Erik…whatever has happened to you?" In a daze, she rose and approached the mirror, as if within the depths of her own eyes she would find the answer. She raised one hand to the cool glass, heating it with her fingertips. She pushed, and it seemed almost as if she could somehow reach the other side. Violin music gently wrapped around her, and Christine's eyelids fluttered closed- dreams of her father and her angel swirling around her mind. Her fingers slid through the glass to the cold world behind…to darkness and glowing eyes…
Christine was brought out of her memories by the soft splash of something in the distance. She blinked, readjusting to her surroundings. It was very dark; the only light came from a small candle housed within a lantern at the prow of the small vessel. It did little good, except to glow upon the black water beneath her and dimly reflect the light from her captor's golden eyes. She shakily looked into these, as they were fixed upon her. In their depths, she saw fear and a deep sadness…a longing.
It was then that she knew. The violin…the hidden world behind the walls…the pain and sadness in his eyes.
It was Erik- he had returned.