I am so glad that you all are enjoying this story as much as I am! I appreciate each and every review, even if I do not find time to reply to them all. As far as Music of the Night, Christine will not be singing it verbatim. I put the implication of it's presence in the last chapter, and that is all we will see of it. I, for some reason, hate putting songs into my work. I will use a line or two here and there, but I get bored with other stories when I have to read the whole lyrics to any song. Even Phantom songs. Because I know the song! Therefore, my characters will never do a whole song. I'll just imply that they do. Like here, with Lakme.
I considered putting a lot of the lyrics for this duet in because it's so sad and all of that sappy stuff, but the best I could find was a french manuscript and even babelfish butchered it as they translated.
This is my first attempt at anything first person, toward the end of this chapter. Let me know what you think.
Also! I have a beta! Yea! She's awesome, too.
For hours Christine sat atop her piano bench, fingers caressing the ivories and creating a melody Erik would have never imagined possible. The music seemed to take life and inundate body and mind, until it wrapped around each emotion and brought it simmering to the surface. In the heavy, melancholy pieces Erik felt as though he could weep for hours at the pain and sorrow reflected. As if sensing his burden, Christine would then change the melody again. To something soothing and calm, until he felt at peace once more.
The most powerful, however, were the pieces that Christine played that were laced with eroticism. The music pulsed and writhed, a sensual play of notes that were tempting, provocative. Erik could only stare slack-jawed at her as she produced such glorious sounds, as though she were the goddess of love herself. Never had she appeared so beautiful, or desirable. Not even when, in his stupor, he had thought she was an angel.
Erik would have reached for her, touched her. Perhaps even kissed her, but the moment ended much too quickly and as she faced him again - the cold resign had returned to her features. His reverie was shattered, and inwardly he retreated again. This was the same woman who had captured him, somehow, from his room and now held him prisoner.
"Sing for me," she demanded in the same tone she had used so many times before, during their practices while she was still posing as an angel.
The command seemed innocent enough, and so Erik stepped up to her side.
"Lakmé and Gerald, their duet. From the beginning." Christine spoke simply, and then began to play without a word of affirmation. Lakmé began the song and on cue Christine began to sing the tale of the young Hindu girl who, considered a goddess, finds a young man from the British military in her fathers' gardens. Her first instinct is, of course, to send him away. She urges him to forget that he ever saw her.
In perfect timing Erik merged his voice with her own, so that Gerald cried out in complaint, expressing how impossible it would be to forget her. The song carried on until they both confessed a burning love in their hearts and at last, and the approach of her father, Lakmé sends Gerald away on his oath not to forget her.
Silence filled the cavern as the last few notes of the song resonated and then stilled. Christine did not move, her eyes closed. Erik stared openly at her, seeing only Lakmé through Geralds eyes.
"Angel," he finally murmured, his voice husky and deep. Christine lifted her gaze to him, and his breath was caught at the emotion reflected within her eyes. A lifetime of emotion seemed to churn within her, unrequited passion and love. Erik found himself wondering if anyone had ever bothered to love this brilliant woman, if she had never had the opportunity to share her genius.
"Christine," she stated sharply. The song had left her feeling vulnerable, as he stared into her eyes. She felt as though he easily picked through her mind and discovered every thought and desire she held. Always accustomed to control, she could not bear the sensation long and so she stood, brushing past him.
"Sleep," she instructed simply, her own voice thick with emotion. Erik was left staring after her as she disappeared through a door that had appeared within the wall itself. What a strange, strange woman.
There is remarkably little to entertain oneself with alone in a cavern. Erik felt as though he should not touch anything surrounding him, and so he did little more than she had commanded. He retreated to the odd bed, and after inspecting it for several moments he simply crawled into it's welcoming folds and found rest.
It felt like hours later that he awoke, but the candles seemed to be the same exact height as when he had closed his eyes. Either way, the woman was not present and he was again left to the uncomfortable loneliness this place offered.
"Christine," he mused aloud. It was so strange to have a label for his angel. It made her seem all the more human, and real. For a moment he wondered why he had never bothered to ask her name when she was masquerading as a heavenly being. Biblical angels all had names. Michael, Gabriel, even Lucifer. Such a thought could not entertain him long, however, and he arose from the bed to wander about her lair rather pointlessly.
He was bored. The eerie feeling that had kept him away from any of her belongings before his sleep had dissipated somewhat, and the lack of focus for his mind proved to be a greater force. He found a rather large bookshelf flanking one wall and began to sift through it's contents. Reading had always been a great passion of his, before Emma anyway.
Volumes of any kind of book he could have imagined were shelved here. Books on music, medicine, science, art, philosophy.. any subject Erik could imagine. What finally caught his interest, however, were the untitled books on the highest shelf. It took several minutes before he could procure one, and as several fell into his waiting hands dust filled the air. He could not help but cough at the sudden onslaught, and turned away with his treasure.
There was a chair placed conveniently before the dying fire, and after adding fuel to the flames, he settled there. The dust was so thick upon the covers of the books that he had to brush it off to see the intricate design pressed into the hard surface. Erik could not decipher it, the cryptic symbol holding no meaning to him. Instead, he opened the cover to find that the words inside were not printed at all. Instead, they were written in a very elegant penmanship. It was the same exact handwriting as he had found on that note beside the magnificent wine.
With a groan realization settled upon Erik. It had not been Annabel that had sent him the drink at all, but Christine. He had played easily into her hands, and she must have laced it with her poison. That is why he felt as though he were in another world last night, the reason he could not resist her.
But would he have at all? Though he would hate to admit it in the light of day, there was something dark and mysterious about Christine that compelled Erik. He felt drawn toward her, intrigued. As though she were a box and he could unlock every secret that lay within.
The top of the page was dated, and judging by the first few sentences Erik surmised that this was a journal. Initially he closed it, staring hard at the cover in silent contemplation. Never before had he considered invading a persons' private thoughts in such a perverse way. In any other situation he would not even entertain the notion, but now he found he could not resist. This woman had, after all, held him prisoner. He deserved to know if she was as dangerous as the ridiculous rumors circulating overhead claimed.
Again the book was opened and this time it would be hours before Erik would tear his gaze away.
The dreams come without end. Relentless, ruthless. As though living through my perilous life once was not enough punishment for the visage I was born with. I have to be reminded of the hate, the rejection, the pain, the sorrow. Again, and again until I feel as though my very mind will shatter from the sheer weight of it all.
Perhaps if I had someone to talk to. Freud, the ridiculous man, argues that dreams are significant and need to be interpreted. That they will shed light on our inner conflicts and problems. How laughable that concept is, when applied to my twisted thoughts. My problems are plainly written across my face, and it would not take a psychologist to tell me that being abandoned by my mother and beaten by my father have caused emotional scars.
I digress. I do not have a living soul I can trust. Julia is useful in the tasks I give her, but I can see the fear in her gaze even as she refuses to look at me. I can see how her hands tremble as she reaches for the coins with which I buy her services. No, I cannot trust Julia. I am alone on this god-forsaken earth and so I will simply have to express my dreams elsewhere. Perhaps here, in this empty book. I will fill the pages with sordid tales of a life that never should have been. Perhaps this will purge them from my thoughts and I will, at last, be free.
Erik found his heart constricting in pity before he could even begin the stories themselves. The heartache and aching resentment was tangible within her written words. He could feel the sorrow radiating from the pages and hesitated before going onward.
Tonight I dreamed the same as the last. I could see mother running. As fast as she could run, she did. Her feet were bare in my dream, though in reality I cannot recall those details as clearly. I was only five. She ran away and I was able to see her much further away than I ever could in my waking hours. It was almost as if I seen her stop and rebuild her life. Marry again, and give birth to new and perfect children. I stood for what seemed a lifetime in that doorway, watching her leave me.
"Mama!" I cried. "Please do not go! I will wear the mask, I will be good. I promise!"
The only thing that could tear me away was the rough clutches of my father. He grasped me by the hair and I could tell by the pungent smell upon his breath that he had been drinking. Even so young I knew that smell, and it never equated to good for me.
"Stupid child!" He hissed, panic lacing his own voice. If mother had left, then that meant I was alone with him. Or him with me? I am not sure which frightened him more. All I know that is in my dream I felt such fear. Now I feel disgusted to think I ever let a wretched man hold such power over me, but I was so small then. I could not control myself.
"Please, father!" I had cried, begging for the mercy he had never shown me. He released my hair as though burned, recoiling away from me. I lifted my tiny hand to cover my face. I had removed my mask, and I knew that my face frightened him. Perhaps if I were not so ugly he would not strike me.
"Get away!" He howled. "Can't you see? I am not your father! The devil himself spawned you, you little witch. And now you've caused her to leave me!" My father did not even seem to consider what implications he would send upon the very woman he mourned through his words.
A lamenting cry left his lips and he glanced upwards at the doorway. My mother had been the crutch to his weakness. Always an alcoholic, he was rarely coherent enough to care for himself, much less my mother or myself. My mother had told me repeatedly in my short life that he was not so before I was born. Before I came, they were happy. Father would bring her daisies and sing to her in the moonlight. They were in love, and wanted a perfect child to reflect that.
I must have made quite a debut, I imagine. After hours of painful labor they were met with the cry of death instead of the rosy flesh of a perfect child. I ruined their lives, and so they made it a point to ruin mine.
That night was the last night I would ever see my father. He collapsed not long after, and I ran. I was too small to be alone in the world. Too small to try to care for myself. I suppose I expected that the entire world could not be like them. Someone had to find compassion and pity for the wretched little girl with half a face.
How wrong could I be? I was completely ill-prepared to protect myself from the horrors to come.