A/N: As always, when writing this particular story, at the same time I work on the next document of the scene summaries (for the hidden plot on Facebook), since I am in the same place with both that and this. For those who are part of that group and have been waiting, the next summary of Meg's discovery – STYDI is now up, replete with Youtube videos of major clues, screencaps, etc . :) ... For those who would prefer to just read what I can manage to put into novel form -
I give you the next chapter...
V
Meg Giry possessed a gift about which no one knew, and what oft times she believed to be more of a curse. She had not even told her mother, though at times Meg felt that Mère sensed the truth of her inherent ability.
Ever since she was a small girl, Meg could sense the approach of the Darkness and acted as a herald to warn others who seemed blind to its advent. But, beyond that, she suspected she could see what others could not – more than one set of yellow eyes in the shadows, burning and sinister …ghostly dark shapes that took on the form of a man, but were not truly mortal … and she had seen numerous times from a distance and always surrounded by darkness the cloaked figure of the one known as the Phantom of the Opera. Different from those ghostly shapes that lurked in the shadows, he would slip quietly into view or flee, depending on his actions or those of his subjects at the time.
Only one other theatre dweller claimed to witness his appearance, that of Monsieur Buquet, and she now grimaced to observe his stealthy trek toward the women's ballet dormitories, no doubt for a tête-à-tête with any dancer who would have him…
Only one other, that is, until this morning at practice, when Christine also noticed the Phantom's secretive exit from the flies above the stage and his furious disapproval of the proceedings, shortly before he dropped the tapestry and the note. Always told by Mère that their duty was to protect Christine, as well as keep her insulated from the truth concealed until the appointed time, Meg pretended not to notice him or her friend's awareness of his intimidating presence. It was best not to invite questions she could not answer, many of which she did not understand herself, the order of silence being a kingdom rule.
It was this appointment to duty and wealth of concern that now led Meg through dim, empty corridors to the opposite side of the opera house, long after most had taken to their beds.
She had felt the first inkling of worry after Christine's magnificent debut, when the search for her friend ended with locating Christine in the chapel and curiosity compelled Meg to inquire of her great teacher.
Her worry had heightened after hearing the alarming explanation of the Angel of Music, noting Christine's starry-eyed countenance as she spoke of him and sensing something deeper and darker lay hidden beyond the awed words. She recalled in their youth Christine spoke of an angel she had heard, in the chapel, but Meg assumed then that Christine played a pretense since she never brought it up a second time. She doubted her friend once more dreamed up fairy tales, if that was indeed the case when they were children.
Had she been given a repeated audience to the hidden king of opera house legend? Who, Meg knew from her mother's appointed task as his aide, was no legend…
Or had Christine's encounters with what she believed to be a hidden Angel derived from something far more sinister?
Meg had felt the strong need to drag Christine out of the seemingly peaceful chapel, no easy task, and had been proven that her disquieting intuition wasn't groundless when on their way to the dressing room Christine divulged her innermost fear. Once more, and not entirely due to her friend's sudden misgivings, Meg possessed an urgency to pull Christine away by her icy cold hand – but upon their arrival to the dressing room she had been given no chance to delve further in what she hoped would evolve into another private conversation between them. Mère had surprisingly ordered Meg to leave, clearly wishing to speak with Christine alone, and Meg had no choice but to submit.
Worry escalated to dread when Christine did not make an appearance in the dormitory room they shared, though more than an hour had elapsed, and Meg returned to the dressing room to find it locked. No amount of knocking or calling out for Christine awarded her a response.
She immediately sought out her mother and expressed concern. Mère flippantly waved aside her fears and told her to go to bed, certain that after her exhausting performance Christine had likely fallen asleep on the chaise longue within that chamber and not to bother her. Realizing she would get no aid from her evasive mother, who refused to discuss the matter further, Meg had waited until Mère was absent from her office to collect the skeleton key.
First looking both ways to ensure she went unseen, Meg now slipped the key into the lock of the rose-painted door and carefully opened it.
"Christine?" she whispered once she closed herself into the darkened room lit by a faint glow beyond the dressing screen. A quick glance in that direction showed no one there, the deep pink wallpaper with roses of a lighter hue now entirely in shadow in that corner alone - though with the light it should not be so - the darkness seeming to encroach over half of the oval portrait of the Empress Elisabeth, who wore the same gown and starbursts in her hair that Christine had earlier worn.
A trick of her mind, certainly, but what was not a deception was the rose that lay discarded in front of the full-length mirror against the far wall. Nor the distant music that seemed to come from inside it…
She walked past baskets overflowing with pink roses on either side and laid the key on the dressing table, quickly looking over her shoulder when she thought she heard a noise. Seeing nothing, she cast a glance down to the solitary rose beribboned in black that lay on the rug, three of its red petals withered with smudges of blackness.
And in her mind, a thought formed: it was as if the Darkness was trying to take over Christine.
With the fleeting hope that it was only a bit of fanciful imagining and the certain dread it was another wretched premonition, Meg drew close to the mirror, at once realizing why she could see the solitary flower so clearly –
A subtle glow highlighted the rose, and looking up to the mirror she noticed what she had not seen before - a thin crack of pale light ran along its scrolled edge. Startled, she put her hand there, jumping back a little when a shadow from the other side seemed to do the same.
She shook her head free of the thought of frightful spectres waiting to swoop down on her; though another swift glance over her shoulder told her the shadows in the far corner of the darkened room had seemed to move, even slowly approach, and her heart raced. Another illusion brought on by nerves? Or was she again seeing dangerous entities where no one else could?
Meg thought of Christine and her sworn duty to protect her and ventured forward into the unknown...
Pushing aside what proved to be a door, never having known the looking glass doubled as an entrance to a space in the wall beyond – never having known that secret areas of concealment even existed within this opera house – Meg stepped through into a narrow passageway, the flame of one open lamp all that lit the area where she stood. Immediately her gaze went toward the mirror, surprised and alarmed to realize it acted as a window to the dressing room beyond.
Of equal concern, on its transparent pane two faces had been painted – the profile of a white face – human – looking to the left. And superimposed upon it, the right side of a demonic black face – replete with horn and eye – seemed to stare straight at her! She suppressed a nervous shiver, feeling the wicked bit of artistry was not intended for private décor but as a sign, perhaps a warning to any who dared find their way inside this secret entrance.
Who would do such a thing, to paint such a frightful image in this hidden place, and who would disguise a door as a full-length mirror that acted also as window to the one concealed within these walls?
Joseph Buquet was a scoundrel and a voyeur, everyone knew it; but this was on a level of expertise beyond boring a peephole through a wall. This was… genius, disturbing in its nature.
She sensed that Christine was in trouble and knew she must find her, though Meg's blood ran cold to see the dismal corridor that stretched out as far as the eye could see. Dark, dank, and covered in cobwebs, it held a mystery she was not altogether certain she wished to unveil.
Thankful that her ballet slippers provided no sound, she cautiously began to traverse the ominous path. Before she could take no more than a short series of steps, she heard a squeak and sharply looked down to her right. Only inches away, two rats scampered in opposite directions and she shrieked, giving a little jump backward, the echo of her fear carrying far down the passageway, her attempt at stealth an unmitigated failure. She cast a quick glance down to her left. A third rat ran through a shallow puddle of water, coming near her slipper and she hopped back another step to avoid contact with it.
Certainly where three rats lurked, more must follow, and she wondered if the rat catcher who made his home hidden away in the cellars might also be lurking somewhere near. How many people knew about this lost place – but more importantly, why would Christine wander its dismal path, for Meg was sure that must be what happened. Perhaps, she too, heard the distant music and was drawn to investigate. Was Christine disoriented and unable to find the way back, though that seemed an impossibility, the corridor forming one long and continuous straight path… or worse, had she been hurt and was unable to return to the safety of her dressing chamber?
Bravely Meg walked onward, further into the darkness, having no need to backtrack to collect a candle or torch. Strangely, though the corridor was unlit by flame of any nature save for the lamp flickering far behind, a dull white light came from above each intermittent archway spaced an equal distance apart between dark stretches and enabled her to see the damp path laid out before her. The glow highlighted the ground a short distance beyond each arch, and though the corridor remained level, it gave the impression of a seemingly endless stairway that narrowed far ahead to a point … that appeared to be rimmed with red and gold curtains …
Another trick of her eyes?
More slowly, she walked, nervous of where her steps would lead her.
For Christine, she reminded her faltering spirit.
Her fingers touched the dainty gold cross she wore around her neck, tucked hidden in her corset, a contact to bolster courage, as she eyed the rows of unlit torches wrapped in cobwebs and bracketed to damp brick walls also shrouded with dense gray webbing that loomed on each side. She felt the shadows press in ever closer, with eyes that watched, so real, she could feel their burn …
A hand clapped over her right shoulder and she gasped in terror and whirled around, a scream frozen in her throat.
Relief engulfed quivering limbs to see it was only her mother – who did not look one bit happy to see Meg there.
She gave Meg that exasperated expression she always used when she had done something reckless and foolish. Grabbing her hand, she pulled her back into the dressing room and firmly slid the tall mirror shut.
Not until they exited the rose doors did Meg find her voice. From her mother's determined behavior, one thing was made clear.
"You knew about the secret corridor behind the looking glass, didn't you?"
Mère cast a curt glance to each side. "Not here, Meg. This isn't the place to hold this discussion."
The corridor was empty, the ever-present shadows the only witnesses to eavesdrop, but Meg could see her mother's patent anxiety beneath the stern displeasure.
"I was worried for Christine," Meg explained away her disobedience, going on the defensive. "I wouldn't have searched there otherwise. You often say it is our duty to protect her, but it goes deeper than that – she is like a sister to me. And I have been concerned about her ever since the conclusion of tonight's performance."
Mère grasped her above the elbow and steered her toward the dormitory room.
"Christine is safe."
"How can you know that?" Meg insisted. "Do you know where she is?"
"I know who she is with. You will see her soon." She halted and seemed about to say more but shook her head. "We will speak of this at a later time. You must go to bed; we have an early rehearsal tomorrow, and I have work to do."
Meg nodded in resignation, her fears hardly alleviated, but left her mother's company.
Yet upon arriving to the large dormitory room she shared with Christine and thirteen other girls, another unwelcome surprise awaited.
The troublemaker, Joseph Buquet, stood in the midst of the room, while the girls watched with eager expressions as he began to regale them with a story, no doubt one of horror. A few of the more prudent ballet girls sat in their nightdresses on their cots, brushing out each other's hair, but most had not yet changed into their nightwear or were in various stages of undress. All stared at him, entranced, as the tale began to unfold.
Meg took the opportunity to quickly walk past and to her cot. Once there, she turned to keep her eyes fixed on the proceedings.
Joseph, with a woolen blanket draped over his shoulders, made to act as a cloak, spun suddenly around with his arms spread wide.
"Yahhhh!" he growled in a fearsome voice.
The girls nearest him squealed, and a few tittered in nervous laughter. He took a few steps more and growled again. The girls he came close to shrieked. Twice more he repeated the threatening gesture, receiving more squeals and eager smiles.
"Like yellow parchment is his skin," Buquet sang in a sinister voice, "a great black hole serves as the nose that…never grew," he shook his head slightly and tossed the blanket from his shoulders in an intimidating gesture that sent the coverlet rapidly sliding to the planked floor behind him.
A few of the girls closest shied back. Some of the younger ones began to look worried, a few biting their nails.
"You must always be on your guard…" He warned, pointing all around the room at the dancers. The smiles and titters dissolved, blatant anxiety firming each mouth and widening each eye.
"Or he will catch you, with his magical lasso…" So saying, he held up a noose, running his hand along the loop and stretching it wide with an evil smile.
Jammes walked within his reach and tittered to the girls nearest her, "Oh, my…"
Suddenly, Buquet slipped the noose over her head and around her waist, using it to contain her. She evaded the kiss he tried to plant on her lips, but could not escape his mouth descending near her neck as he growled like a feral animal, rubbing his bearded face against her, and she nervously chuckled, straining to get away.
Meg's mother suddenly came onto the scene and moved forward, grabbing the noose from Buquet and freeing the young dancer. With a gentle hand to her shoulder, she pushed Jammes in the direction of her cot. The girl sheepishly complied.
Mère briefly glanced around at each anxious face as she stretched the rope in her hands near her skirts. "Those who speak of what they know, find too late that prudent silence is wise…"
Her irate gaze settled on Buquet as she pivoted to face him. "Joseph Buquet, hold your tongue!"
She slapped him hard enough to throw his head back, eliciting gasps from the girls and causing Meg to stare in shock. Mère was not simply upset. She was livid about something that Meg felt went much deeper than his intrusion into their dormitory room – her mother's actions a clear threat as she glared at the much taller, beefy man.
"Keep your hand," she warned, throwing the noose around his neck, "at the level of your eyes!" she finished the last in a menacing hiss, her eyes popping wide as she pulled the noose tight in a rapid movement as though she would truly strangle him. As the Opera Ghost of the song might do…
As Mère seemed to state he would do.
The girls gasped in stunned apprehension. Meg could only stare, open-mouthed, the violent gesture not seeming a caution to be wary – but a portent of the fate that would come for him: A decree of his execution.
And Mère should know, since she was a dutiful aide to both the Darkness and the unseen king, though she was often tight-lipped with any questions Meg had with regard to both monster and man.
Buquet was a menace, certainly, on occasion having been caught spying on the girls as they changed into or out of costume – also making unwanted advances toward some. His presence here tonight confirmed all that. Meg had even caught a glimpse of the scene shifter high above, in the flies, ogling her and Christine once they left the chapel, and had quickly herded her friend to the safety of the dressing room, (now she wondered just how safe that chamber truly was) – but surely Buquet had done nothing to warrant his death!
As if turned to living statue, the petite headmistress and the burly troublemaker remained fixed in that terrible position for unnerving seconds. Meg suddenly sensed a new, alarming presence and turned her head sharply to the right and a shadowed area of the room where the light did not reach. The others immediately did likewise.
And though she saw nothing this time, she sensed he or one of his minions stood there. Watching...
Buquet was the first to snap out of their frozen state. He forced Mère's hand away from his throat and removed the rope from around his neck, throwing it to the floor as if in challenge.
With a stiff bow to the room of wide-eyed girls and without apology for his defiance, he then made his abrupt exit.
XXxXX
Music called to her, gently coaxing her away from veils of deepest slumber…
Christine came to slow awareness to the tinkling sound of bells…like small cymbals…and turned her head on the velvet pillow where it rested, toward the sound. The sweet melody of a music box serenaded her with the kingdom song. Through a black gauze curtain flecked with what looked like minute spangles of starlight, she noticed a red and gold box with a monkey on top, dressed in royal robes of the same color and playing the cymbals.
She pushed herself up to sit, leaning toward a lever she spied and pulled, causing the airy curtain that enclosed the round bed to ascend in graceful scallops all around.
She felt…different. Changed, though she could not reason why. Could barely recall through the hazy remnants of sleep that filtered through her mind the events that brought her to what looked like a cavern, which contained statues of gold and trinkets of similar worth.
There had been a mirror that suddenly was there no longer and a candlelit journey through enchanted corridors with a cloaked man. No, not just any man - the king! He had worn a mask of ivory hue… the Phantom!
She inhaled swiftly at the remembrance of that startling revelation.
But who was he, truly? The menace he was purported by all in the theatre to be?
No. Her Angel had been strict at times, certainly, but had shown her nothing but kindness. He was not wicked, like the Phantom… though he was the Phantom. Her Angel, mortal, not celestial… a man. But why did he wear such a peculiar mask that partially covered his face, which if memory served her correctly, was quite handsome? He had seemed so …lost at moments, during his rousing and beautiful song to her. Behind his occasional smile she had sensed a sorrow so deep, barely concealed within his riveting eyes of golden-green that had caressed her to the core, yet brought pinpricks of uncertainty to trouble her soul.
Last night she had been awestruck to finally be with him, to meet with him face to face after nine long years of wishing it, and had attempted to grasp the mystifying secrets he disclosed, those mysteries of all he wished for them to share. She had been so enraptured once they arrived to his subterranean throne room that she had been unable to speak, even to sing, content to follow as a docile lamb and merely bask in his presence while he led her by the hand …enjoying every enthralling moment he spent with her, every tender touch he laid upon her body, every dulcet note he sang that whispered to her heart…
But now a new and unfamiliar strength winged through her spirit, a quiet determination to find him and give him the acceptance that Christine somehow knew he craved. To show him that he did not need to hide, especially from her, and, if she was honest, mingled in with those honorable intentions burned the hope to have curiosity satisfied, to fully see her Angel at last.
And then, she remembered.
Beyond where he stood, there had been shadows that lurked on the outskirts of the chamber – and within their dark veils, a shape she could not identify that brought a prickling sense of unease unconnected to her Angel – instead overshadowing him, as if …watching.
Her Angel, she trusted. The shadows she did not.
Christine shook her head free of such absurd flights of fancy. Yes, there had long been a Darkness in the theatre, a heaviness that attacked at the core of feeling and emotion. She could describe the pervasive sense of gloom no other way, and felt a stronger degree of it in this otherwise remarkable place to which he'd brought her –
But certainly it did not have eyes.
Swinging bare legs over the edge of the mattress, she stood and padded softly to the entrance of the chamber, the stones cold beneath her feet. Placing a hand to her head, to push at the disarray of wild curls, she struggled to make sense of things. She put scattered thoughts into words and softly sang of her lingering confusion and all that she remembered.
Coming to a stop beside the throne at the cliff's edge next to where a tier of lit candles stood, she sensed his presence and turned her head to see.
A man…her Angel …the Phantom of the Opera – sat at a pipe organ with his back to her as he made notations on a musical composition spread out before him. Gone was the formal wear he had worn to meet her and in its place he had opted for clothing of leisure, no less elegant, what appeared to be a velvet robe of ebony. Upon his broad back a crest made up of tiny gemstones glimmered and she could make out what appeared to be a fleur-de-lis – a French lily…
The sign of kings.
She could still barely conceive that he was the king of Opera House legend, those scattered stories told of him – a mythical being who chose to remain separate from humanity, forever unseen. And she deeply sympathized with his loneliness. For he must be very lonely indeed…
If only she could persuade him to come out of hiding and dwell in the light. With her.
Did she dare?
What splendid times they could have together, with him teaching her his music, his passion, and no thick walls of stone to separate or muffle sound…She recalled his beautiful song that expressed his desire for her to share that life with her, here, beneath the earth. But how could she leave the daylight to dwell in darkness? Surely, it would be better for him to forsake such a dismal existence and join her above…
Christine willed him to turn and look at her and was startled when he did, as if he'd heard the silent calling of her heart. Almost immediately he turned back to the organ and began to play the song shared between them, the song of the Angel of Music…and beyond that, she heard the distant strains of a violin. Impossible, since he could play only one instrument at a time, but distinctly she heard two …
Just as she'd heard the whisper behind his song at the mirror door.
At the somber thought and glimpse of his colorless mask, once more she felt that he must come out from under its guise, though she did not understand why the need should feel so urgent.
Softly she approached him, taking the short tier of steps downward and crossing the span where the mannequin of her image stood inside the alcove. She moved toward another set of stone stairs that held the impressive pipe organ at its summit - and sitting before it, the much more impressive man who had been to her Angel and teacher.
With all her heart, she wished to help him abandon the thick pall of darkness that seeped into every distant corner of the cavern, outside the perimeter of the broad scope of reassuring candlelight, and somehow felt it her vocation to do so. She did not think too highly of herself, she whom the majority of theatre management and staff regarded as an inferior member of the chorus, but her Angel treated her as a queen. And in that knowledge, Christine felt she was the only one who could reach him…
With gentle determination, she took the last few steps up to the dais, coming nearer as her eyes took in his lean form clad in black trousers and a white shirt with a ruffle-edged neckline that bared his throat and part of his chest, his skin so pale. She lifted her eyes from the dusting of hair where the neckline of his shirt gaped as he played their song and tentatively put one hand to his broad velvet-clothed shoulder, while her other palm lifted to cup the side of his face furthest from her.
Bare, with smooth temple, high cheekbone and a strong lean jaw, his face, what she could see of it, was as striking as she remembered. Her fingers trickled over what her eyes beheld, what proved him mortal. She delighted in the smooth warmth of his skin, the pads of her fingers tingling at the bare rasp from the faint shadow along his jaw. Beneath the straight sweep of his dark brow, his smoky green eye fell shut, dark lashes thick and bearing the slightest curl, and she traced her fingertips near then brought them back down low to cup his jaw. He leaned back into her touch, deeply moved, and her heart raced with its own ardent emotion…along with the fervent hope that he would understand what she was about to do, what she felt inept to put into words…
She lifted her other hand to softly run her fingertips along the seam of the strange mask where it ran down the middle of his face. He did not stop her and encouraged, almost like a lover removing a veil, she gently peeled the covering away from him.
She barely got a glimpse, when with a pained outcry, he clapped a hand over the side of his face she had just bared and whirled around, pushing her harshly from him. Jumping to his feet he swiftly moved away.
With a shocked whimper, Christine hit the ground on her hip, barely catching her fall with her hands.
"DAMN YOU!" He whirled to face her and crouched closer. "You little prying Pandora! You little demon!" Once more he turned his back to her and stalked toward a tall cloth-covered object that leaned against the wall. He pulled the shroud of material down with an angry snap and looked into a full length mirror, pulling his hand from his face. "Is this what you wanted to see?!"
Heartbroken by his volatile reaction, conversely she could not help the shakiest of smiles, the upward tic of her lips a result of nervous dread and nothing else. Her anxious gaze briefly lit upon what looked like a musical score propped up among the mess of them lying on the ground. "La Feria" her mind dully noted – a candlelight festival held in Seville she once overheard – but despite the myriad flames of candles that surrounded her and the blinding white light that now streamed into the lair through the portcullis, she felt suddenly plunged into darkness most vile.
"CURSE YOU!" He clapped his hand back over his face, crouching over in his pain like a wounded and enraged animal as he whirled again to face her. "You little lying Delilah!" He waved his arm viciously in his rage and drew even closer, snarling. Instinctively she cringed back, for the first time in their long association afraid of what he might do to her. "You little viper…! Now you cannot ever be free…"
With those last words, there was a sense of panicked desperation in his voice she did not fail to notice but could not understand.
"Damn you!"
He spun about, with his hand knocking a single lit candlestick nearest him to the ground as he angrily took the steps downward to the lower shelf of rock by the lake, where the white mass of light that streamed in past the gate was most intense.
"Curse you…" His voice came weaker with his rant ended, and he pumped his arm in a vexed and weary gesture as he came to a standstill with his back toward her.
Christine slowly pushed herself up to sit, her eyes never leaving him where he stood below…
Perhaps it was the tears glossing her eyes that presented the illusion of myriad lines of horizontal blue light that erratically slashed across his midsection like a music staff at the same time a row of what looked like bubbles of the same hue seemed to dance and close in on him from the right.
She blinked her eyes to dispel the tears and the vision, but it did not depart.
Slowly he pivoted, again clapping his hand over the right side of his face, and began to sing as he walked back in her direction –
"Stranger than you dreamt it, can you even dare to look?" he cocked a mocking brow. "Or bear to think of me, this loathsome gargoyle who burns in hell but secretly dreams of heaven, secretly, secretly… Christine."
He had come to a stop before the alcove with the mannequin and stared at it a moment before turning to her, his approach now desperate yet cautious, his entire manner changed as he began to plead with her in a beseeching tone -
"Fear can turn to love - you'll learn to see, to find the man, behind this monster, this…" He sank to the ground close by, nearly at a level with her, but turned in profile as if he could no longer bear for her to look at him. "…repulsive carcass who seems a beast but secretly dreams of beauty, secretly, secretly…oh, Christine." His last words came softer until they ended in a mere whisper…
In misery she watched him. With her brief glimpse of his face, she had witnessed a deformity there but did not think him a beast because of it. She had been shocked to see him thus, of course. Who wouldn't be? But the truth of his affliction did not startle or frighten her as much as his furious reaction aimed her way. That had been monstrous – and the horrid names he called her tore furrows of wounded despair through her tender young heart.
Now he was the one so vulnerable, near tears, as he slightly rocked with the enormity of raw emotion that still threatened to tear him asunder. It was in that moment all lingering trepidation dissolved and she realized how very much she had wounded him by taking his mask away, how foolish she had been. Yes, he had acted quite beastly…
But he was still her Angel.
Wasn't he?
Christine blinked, tears breaking from her lashes to roll down her cheeks, her gaze going to the white covering that protected him… that he clearly needed...
Why had she believed otherwise?
Taking what had caused such grief into the hand that so terribly wronged him, she tentatively reached across the yawning gulf of despair and disillusionment that separated them and offered him back his mask. Gingerly he took it, turning slowly away and slipping the shield back into position over his face as with fluid elegance he stood to his feet.
She watched his legs as he slowly took the stairs up toward her, his hand moving into her line of vision, outstretched to assist her in rising from the cold, hard ground…
With tears glossing her eyes and feeling drained from the entire ordeal, she lifted her head to stare soulfully up at him.
This time, for the first time since she'd heard his voice in the chapel as a small, trusting child, she did not accept his aid.
Abruptly he snatched his hand back to his side and pivoted away, his behavior changed – once again distant, brusque, and darkly assured, as it had been on their journey to his lair.
"Come," he said to her. "We must return. Those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you."
Christine had no true wish to go despite what conflict had arisen between them – but neither did she feel she had the right to ask to stay, even a little while longer, in an attempt to make amends. How could she even begin to do so? She had hoped that returning his mask to him would have been a start. But clearly he wanted to be rid of her. Did he now despise her for her reckless act? Did he think her childish and cruel?
Given his earlier tirade against her, he must. A viper, he had called her. A little demon. And it was with a heavy heart Christine blinked back tears that again welled in her eyes and pushed herself up off the ground, rising with trembling knees to stand. He stood in rigid profile, the side with his mask presented to her, as if he had closed the rest of himself away and would not again allow her to see him…
She feared the prospect and all that might entail.
Once she was on her feet, immediately he walked toward the gondola, clearly expecting her to follow. No longer did he lead her by the hand, and the contact with his touch she now allowed was depressingly brief as he helped her step into the boat – causing a jolt of awareness to tingle through Christine at the cool touch of his flesh no longer encased in a leather glove.
As if he too was made aware, he swiftly backtracked to a table to snap on gloves and don his cloak before taking up the pole to steer the boat.
The resounding silence offered an eerie accompaniment when sweet music had earlier been their companion. Each slosh of water against the hull, each hollow step through the hidden corridors echoed mercilessly through Christine's beleaguered mind.
XXxXX
The king, under the Phantom's protection, led his misguided queen back to the world above.
Their union was not sanctioned by the church or conducted through man-made laws – yet. But since the moment Gustave gave his blessing and later, once Christine became a woman - and in response to her heartfelt plea Erik gave to her of his spirit, the music that was his very nature - they were irrevocably bound. Despite her inevitable rejection, Christine was his.
Certainly, she sensed it; she could not fail to do so. Though she was still too innocent and unaware to understand the entirety of what that bond meant…
That must all change. And soon.
Though there were some things he could never tell her.
At present, he was too weary and disillusioned by all that had wretchedly transpired to attempt any sort of explanation, to offer even a morsel of conversation, and the helpless man hidden behind the monster withdrew further into the protective shadows, allowing his advisor to take over. The spirit had aided him as a boy, enabling his escape from those set out to kill him. And though he knew the Phantom was a fearsome entity composed of nothing but darkness and death, he had entrusted his life to his care, certain there was no other way for an outcast with half a face to continue to exist in this excuse for a life…
Until Christine.
She had brought a ray of light into his dreary existence, since the moment he first saw her kneeling in the chapel, outlined by the glow of the sun through the stained glass window, and pleading for the Angel of Music to come to her aid. He had hoped that, perhaps, she could help him as well, in finding a morsel of heaven - so long he had been trapped inside this hell…
His dark advisor whispered assurances that in order to gain all of what Erik sought, Christine must forever dwell beneath the earth with him now that she was of age to do so, to reign over their kingdom together and go above only to take the stage as needed and sing the arias Erik would compose with her as his inspiration.
The Phantom had never before been wrong with his unfaltering guidance, and Erik had erred in taking things too fast, as his spirit-advisor explicitly warned him not to do. She had fainted dead away into his arms at the prospect of a life with him and awoken with a queenly confidence that rendered Erik helpless under her calming touch, ultimately working against him. Almost as though she had altered into a different creature. Curious and cruel... no longer the subservient young woman of his lengthy acquaintance...
Nonetheless, he still wanted her. Still needed her.
He surfaced briefly, to glance over his shoulder to where she meekly followed, her eyes instantly lifting to meet his…
Swiftly the Phantom took over, grabbing her arm above the wrist, with his glove covering the sleeve, to hurry their progress along, and brought his attention back to the path before him. Not the golden-lit passageway through which they earlier traveled, this one shorter and steep, briefly cutting outdoors across the roof, to a second door and hidden corridor...
With grim understanding Erik knew he must refrain from his impatience to gain Christine as his eternal bride and give heed to what the Darkness advised -
And at present those otherworldly whispers told him that the next step toward their shared goal was to create a masterpiece of revenge against the foolish who defied his word.
XXxXX
A/N: I borrowed the line – "almost like a lover removing a veil" – when it came to her removal of his mask – using the way JS wrote it in screenplay of the companion book, since my story is a hidden plot story, using what they did/wrote, etc. And I love that analogy. : ) Here is exactly how that part is worded, so this must have been in the author's mindset – Christine's removal of it having nothing to do with cruelty or betrayal:
She lovingly caresses his face. He responds deeply to her touch. Almost like a lover removing a veil, CHRISTINE takes off the mask.
That's all for now – hope you guys are enjoying this so far – and thanks for the reviews! : )