The Perfect Solution
An Alternate Universe – Phantom of the Opera Story
Nyasia A. Maire
© 2007
DISCLAIMER: I do not hold the rights nor did I create any characters found in The Phantom of the Opera or Phantom, nor have I received monetary compensation for writing this story.
At Last
At last, when all the summer shine
that warmed life's early hours is past,
your loving fingers seek for mine
and hold them close – at last – at last!
Not oft the robin comes to build
its nest upon the leafless bough
by autumn robbed, by winter chilled, –
but you, dear heart, you love me now.
Though there are shadows on my brow
And furrows on my cheek, in truth, –
the marks where Time's remorseless plough
broke up the blooming sward of Youth, –
though fled is every girlish grace
might win or hold a lover's vow,
despite my sad and faded face,
and darkened heart, you love me now!
I count no more my wasted tears;
they left no echo of their fall;
I mourn no more my lonesome years;
this blessed hour atones for all.
I fear not all that Time or Fate
may bring to burden heart or brow, –
strong in the love that came so late,
our souls shall keep it always now!
Elizabeth Akers Allen
Chapter Fifteen – You Love Me Now!
A bright smile spread across Christine's mouth and her eyes shone radiantly.
"Erik, yes. Oh! Yes!"
For a moment, the man sat unmoving, his mind unable to register the import of her words.
"Erik …."
Christine began hesitantly when he startled her with his joyous cry and held her even tighter than before. After a moment, he loosened his arms and set her back from him. He held up the small velvet box, opened it and withdrew one of the treasures it contained. The diamonds and yellow gold caught the sunlight and glistened so brilliantly that it almost, but not quite, rivaled the couples' blissful expressions. He solemnly slid the ring upon the third finger of Christine's left hand and then placed an exquisitely soft kiss upon her finger just below the ring.
"This was my mother's betrothal ring. She gave it to me before she passed and told me that I should give it to the woman I intend to make my wife. I hope you like it, Christine."
He spoke in a reverent tone and Christine looked at the ring on her hand in awe.
"It is the most beautiful ring I have ever seen, Erik. Truly, I adore it and I adore you! To think, only yesterday I felt so lost and alone. Now …. Well, from the moment I first saw you, I knew."
She paused, a serious expression clouding her happy face.
"Erik, do you feel the same? I know my question is hardly appropriate considering you just asked for my hand, but I have never been one to play coy games. Indeed, I am completely inexperienced in matters of the heart. You are the only man I have ever kissed. Nay, you are the only man I have ever wished to kiss."
She halted and turned away from him as she blushed a furious crimson.
He threw his head back and released a stream of musical laughter that sent a pleasant thrill down Christine's spine. He turned her face to his.
"Oh, Christine! You are truly a wonder! In all of my 30 years on this earth, never did I believe I would find love, much less find a lady as lovely as you, who would consent to be my wife. I shall tell you something that may assuage your fears; yours were the first lips I have ever kissed with passion. I have never kissed anyone before last night, well, I kissed my mother's cheek but as I am certain you kissed your parents, I believe we mean the same thing. Do we not?"
Overcome with the intensity of her emotions and unable to speak, Christine simply nodded her head. As Erik once again wrapped his arms around the woman who was now his fiancée, he felt overcome by his desire. His eyes darkened and he lowered his mouth to take Christine's in a passionate kiss. Lost in the heat of the moment, Erik raised his hand to caress Christine's cheek and was shocked as she suddenly broke their kiss and knocked his hand away from her face as if his touch burned. He gaped in silent shock for a moment and she turned away from him her cheeks aflame.
"Christine? What did I do? What is wrong?"
She placed her hand to her forehead and massaged it as if she were in pain.
"You did nothing. I apologize, Erik. You caught me unaware. I am unused to having my face touched affectionately. I have an aversion to being touched there. Too many years of taunting slaps from the ballet rats and chorus girls. Too many years of being alone."
Erik reached out his hand and tentatively placed it on Christine's shoulder, giving her a gentle squeeze to capture her attention. When she finally met his eyes, he saw a deep and abiding sadness in them. He sighed, amazed at how quickly their bliss had transformed into this tormented state of affairs.
"My God! What kind of life has she known?"
"Do you want to tell me about it? If you are not ready to speak of it, I understand. Just know that I am a willing ear when you are ready and a broad shoulder should you need one."
She found the sincerity she read in his eyes disturbing and she looked away from him once more. She lowered her eyes to the ring she wore on her hand and began to fiddle with it.
"What am I doing? I do not know this man, yet I have consented to be his wife. Worse yet, the poor man does not know what type of horror he has asked to be his bride! He is such a fine gentleman. He could have his pick of any woman, why on earth did he choose me? It does not make any sense. How can I love him? I only met him yesterday. Did I really see his face in the stained glass window of the chapel? Why am I beginning to doubt him now? Is it because he touched my face? How can he not see what everyone else sees when they look at me? He is the only one besides Madame, Meg and Raoul that sees me as something other than a freak. And, he loves me. That look in his eyes is not just lust. I have seen that many times in the eyes of the stage hands, but he has the same look in his eyes when he looks at me as Raoul and Meg have when they look at one another. Do I have that look in my eyes when I look upon him? Do I love him? Do I even know what love is? Of course, I do! My father loved me. Why am I suddenly so full of doubt? Must I destroy every good thing that life puts in my path? Why can I not simply accept this man's love and leave the past where it belongs … in the past. I need to try. Perhaps, in telling him, I can purge this torturous self-loathing from my psyche."
Feeling his eyes upon her, Christine looked up. She felt her doubts fall away, at least for the moment, as the love in his emerald green eyes swallowed her whole.
"I should at least warn him and allow him the chance to reconsider. I need to let him know that part of me feels broken and I do not understand why. He needs to hear the real story of the opera ghost."
She cleared her throat and he stilled, his eyes reading something disturbing in the depths of hers.
"Erik, you are the first person since my father died to make me feel something … something good, something beautiful. I … well … you …. Let me attempt this once again. However, I need to tell you of the things people say about me. It is only fair for me to allow you to be aware of the gossip that follows me. You are a successful man. Taking me as a wife may not be the most auspicious business decision you make. I simply need to allow you a chance to change your mind. I will tell you my tale and thank you, by the way, for offering to lend me your ear. You are so wonderful. I can only hope you still want me when you have learned all there is to know of the opera ghost."
She chuckled bitterly.
"Yes, Erik. I am the opera ghost …."
He surprised her greatly with his interruption.
"Hush now, Christine! Raoul told me of the opera ghost before you and I met. I do not need you to tell me if it distresses you to speak of it. Just know that I am here to listen if you want to talk. And, please no more talk of me reconsidering my proposal. There is nothing you can say that would make me change my mind. My dear, you are so amazing! You look at me and make me feel as if I was handsome and I know that I am not. You make me feel how I imagine other men must feel. You make me feel like I am an ordinary man."
It was her turn to cut off his words.
"I would never call you ordinary, Erik. After spending this time with you today and listening to all of the fascinating things you know, I believe you are quite extraordinary, as well as strikingly handsome. But, we digress. I do wish to speak with you. I need to tell you how I became the opera ghost."
"If that is what you feel you need to do, Christine, then, please tell me."
"Thank you. I do need to tell someone and I cannot think of anyone else I would be able to tell these things. I feel you are the only person that will understand."
She slowly and cautiously raised her hand to the marred flesh of Erik's face and when he did not pull away from her, she gently caressed his cheek. He moaned softly and leaned into the touch of her hand upon his flesh, his eyelids slipping closed. Christine listened to the sound of Erik's breathing deepening. It then became progressively more and more ragged, the more she ran her fingers across the ruined features of his face. She leaned into the man and placed her lips against his. She could tell she had startled him, but he did not pull away. He simply savored every moment fate allowed him to spend kissing this woman. She turned about and leaned back against his chest, wrapping his powerful arms about her.
♥ ♫ ♥ ♫ ♥
"Once upon a time, not so long ago, there lived a silly, little girl. This silly girl lived with her father. He loved her very much and she, of course, loved him very much in return. They traveled from town to town, he, playing his violin and she, accompanying him with her voice, they entertained people wherever they could, earning just enough to keep a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs and food in their stomachs. They did not need more than that for they had one another and they were happy. Sadly, as with most things in life, their happiness did not last. It did not vanish overnight, but simply and insidiously slipped away from them one day at a time. You see, the little girl's father had become consumptive. And, it is not without reason that people name consumption the wasting sickness. The silly child watched as the strong, laughing man she knew was her father became a frail, coughing stranger. All too soon, their traveling ceased. The man simply could no longer walk along the country roads. Fate did allow the pair one last lovely summer in a cottage by the sea before allowing the man's doom to come upon him. Early one morning, as the winter snows finally had begun to thaw, the little girl entered her father's room carrying his breakfast to him on a tray. She had gone outside and found crocus peeking out through the snow and had plucked one. It lay on the tray next to the bowl of broth and the cup of tea she had made for him to eat. She will always remember that flower. It was purple and so perfect, so lovely, so delicate. She entered her father's room and placed the tray on the chair next to his bed. Then went to the window and drew back the curtains to allow the weak winter sunlight into the room, so her father would be able to see his breakfast and she would not have to light one of their preciously few candles. The light from the window shone on his pallid face, but his eyes did not open as they usually did. He did not gaze upon her and smile. Slowly, she crept to his side and reached out her hand to touch his shoulder. She called to him, but he did not stir. Then, the silly, little girl climbed up onto the bed and placed her hand upon her father's cheek. It was cold. He was gone from her. Death had come like a thief in the night.¹ The silly, little girl died on that cold, late winter morn. She lay on the bed and wrapped her arms around the icy, stiff husk that once was her father and she sang to him and for him, one last time."
Erik sat enthralled by the woman's words. In his mind, he could see her as a girl living through the horror of discovering the only person in her life, dead. A single tear trickled down his cheek as he mourned for that long ago lost child. He felt her grief, her anguish, when she suddenly, but gently, removed his arms from her. Slowly, she stood with her back to him, straightened her shoulders, lifted her head and sang to the heavens.
"Hear my prayer, O God, incline Thine ear!
Thyself from my petition do not hide!
Take heed to me! Hear how in prayer I mourn to Thee!
Without Thee, all is dark, I have no guide.
The enemy shouteth. The godless come fast!
Iniquity, hatred upon me they cast!
The wicked oppress me, Ah, where shall I fly?
Perplexed and bewildered, O God, hear my cry!
My heart is sorely pained within my breast,
my soul with deathly terror is oppressed,
trembling and fearfulness upon me fall,
with horror overwhelmed, Lord, hear me call!
O for the wings of a dove!
Far away would I rove!
In the wilderness build me a nest,
and remain there for ever at rest."²
He simply sat there dumbfounded. Raoul had told him that she had the voice of an angel, but he never truly understood or believed, not until this moment.
"My God! Her voice! Why was she waiting for the Angel of Music? She is the Angel of Music!"
¹"And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night." "The Masque of the Red Death" by Edgar Allen Poe, 1842
²"Hear My Prayer (O For the Wings of a Dove)" by Felix Mendelssohn, 1844
Author's Note: I apologize for the delay in this chapter. Trystin's report on "Cheetahs" and the diorama we needed to construct was a priority over "The Perfect Solution." I thank each and every one of you that reviewed Chapter 14, and would like to welcome my newest reviewers: "phantomangelex," "mika," "JackieLu," "Ravenseye131," "Jenni," "Cadoiscool," and a HUGE HUG to my 100th Reviewer: "PhantomFan13!" Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! --ny