The Fury and the Mark of Cain
Disclaimer – I don't own Phantom nor am I making any form of profit from this story.
A/N – It's hot here. It's really really hot. And my room is full of mosquitoes. So while I'm being eaten alive, here's a chapter for you. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'm beginning to feel good about this story again, so hopefully that's a good sign. Not that I felt particularly bad about it, but things were getting slower than usual but now I feel pretty enthusiastic about writing again.
After the diagnosis of, well actually the doctor hadn't bothered to tell her what the diagnosis was; Erik had shut himself away again. It was already dark outside and yet another rainy spell rattled the windows. For all its attractive points the sea could be truly miserable in winter and the same could be said of the house they now lived in which must have been beautiful in the long balmy summers but was now poorly lit and impossible to warm. They might as well have been below ground if it weren't for the blustery beach outside which seemed so desolate in February that not even the sea could stand it and was only there for half the day.
She had soaked their linen in soda water before hiding in her room, her resent failure in the kitchen and her dark mood had left dinner out of the question. Erik certainly didn't seem to have any desire for food in his present condition. Did he ever have a desire for food? It was hard to imagine him taking meals below the opera house but he was flesh and blood and couldn't live on music alone. But he was so thin, much thinner than she remembered. If that wasn't enough to worry about she had to listen to him in the adjacent room making sounds so filled with pain they were almost unbearable to listen to. How many nights had she lain awake in this darkness while a dying man cried out next door?
The night was horrific, having to listen to him moan and retch and not be able to do anything. For Erik had learned his lesson and kept his bedroom door locked and only seemed to venture out once she fell asleep. She had dutifully washed his things making sure to boil the sickness away, imagining that the cloudy water was the sea as she made steaming whirlpools with the wooden paddle. She would sail away somewhere warm on one of the flat bottomed fishing boats that floated in the little harbour. The sheets looked like sails as she wrung them out and draped them around the kitchen to dry as it was still far too wet outdoors.
The next morning she noticed the music box she had seen in his lair had somehow found itself hanging from the branches of the tree in the garden. Why would he throw such a thing out the window when he clearly cared enough about the object to bring it all the way from Paris? So she had knocked it from the skeletal branches with a broom and brought it inside, leaving it on top of the piano.
She had left a music box in Paris, another one of her father's compositions set in steel and gears. She had smashed it to pieces when she and the Giry's had returned from the funeral and wept as she glued it back together. The mechanism had been broken beyond repair and the trinket would be forever silent, like she had almost been. It made no difference, without his violin the song was soulless. Without her angel, her voice was lost. Christine had not been one to open boxes that were forbidden. She hadn't been a Pandora and was much more like the doll she had thought was a mirror that lay by the lake. That girl hadn't stood a chance and it was the sting of Erik's lies that had forced her hand, sent the mirror girl into hiding and revived the destructive creature that wished only to lay waste to the world. So when she noticed the catch on the base of the monkey's stand, she felt that her hand had been forced once again.
The catch opened a small hidden drawer at the base of the barrel organ which opened to reveal a mini apothecary of herbs and poisons. A small bag that held one or two dried flowers that she didn't recognise, another bag of dried mushrooms, the kind that grew in the darker corners of the Bois that Madame always claimed were poisonous. And finally in a leather case lay a syringe and a bottle of clear liquid. The same liquid she had bought at the pharmacy all those years ago.
It felt as though she had been rattling the door for hours before he finally opened it. With only the bandages hastily wound around his face like some kind of shroud with only a single bloodshot eye peering out at her and his loose oriental night clothes intended to hide the cadaverous figure beneath but only making it painfully visible from the manner in which they hung.
She did not stop to ask permission. The monster, the Fury that her father had created and the Phantom had fed and nurtured was raging against the cage she had so carefully built for it. Without the hesitation she had felt by the lake, she grabbed his right arm knowing that he favoured the left in his writing like the sinner he was and tugged the sleeve of his shirt up to reveal the abused wrist it concealed. The familiar marks that her father had worn and that she herself had learned to inflict.
"Do you think I don't know what these are, Erik?" he only stared at her, his visible eye wide with shock. "Do you think me so simple that I would not understand your need for such a thing?" he did not answer and only stared at his own arm where she still gripped it, his clammy skin covered not only with the telltale red marks but crisscrossed with countless other scars that she could only speculate about.
He had skulked away into the darkness again, too much of a coward to even look at her and face what he had done. Meanwhile his body felt like it was about turn itself inside out. He felt like he was being sawn in half from skull to groin. The temptation to end the pain was so great that he flung the solution out of his window and the monkey with it or he might have gone too far and taken too much. Letting the next three days blur into a haze of poisoned dreams and waking agony. He could not even find the energy to change masks, staying curled into a shivering ball like a wounded rodent. He had been so fixated on getting it away from him as fast as possible that he hadn't even thought of her finding it. He was glad somehow. Glad that fate had forced him to tell the truth, he would never have the courage to do so himself.
Her grip on his arm hurt, but it was worth it just to have her touch him. He welcomed every blow that ensued in the hope that it would ease her tears. She couldn't do much to harm him as she attempted to strike, there was nothing to her. Her outburst contained the powerless frustration of a child and he was uncomfortably reminded of how young she was, still so young and afraid of the world. What had he been like at that age? He could barely remember such a time, or perhaps he didn't wish to remember. That was how he felt about the disaster that was his life.
"How long have you been like this?" she cried, her eyes large and shining with unshed tears. "I cannot have this happen, not again. I will not let it. You can't leave me again. Not again." She wasn't making any sense, weeping incoherently as she raised her hand to strike him again. He grabbed her wrist as she came dangerously close to grabbing the bandages about his face. Anyone else would already be dead by now, the instinct was to break her little arms and squeeze the life from her throat. Instead he held her still as she struggled, letting her scream and cry out her anger until she collapsed against him, sobbing quietly into the dark silk on his shoulder. He felt it more than he heard it.
"Christine, I'm not going anywhere." He whispered, realising that she was almost embracing him. But she was not in her right mind; she did not know what she was doing. He felt her weight against him as she fainted away, her body as delicate as a bird's. Knowing her, she hadn't eaten in over a day and she was exhausted. His Christine was far too fragile for his murderous hands, his criminal lies and his addict's desperation.
He carried her back to her room and rested her unconscious form upon her bed. Her dark hair and black dress stood out starkly against her pallid skin and the sea of white and powder blue that made up her bedroom. Her eyelids and mouth seemed all the redder because of it, her dark brows knotted into a grave frown and her lips trembled with the whisper of nightmares. He was unwilling to leave her but knew that she needed nourishment or she would make herself ill and so he darted to the larder and soon returned with a jar of apricot jam.
She had already begun to come round when he returned, her complexion was no longer so grey but her breathing was still slow and laboured and her tears were still flowing freely. He held a spoonful to her lips and felt his pulse rush as she took it in her mouth, the smallest glimpse of her pink tongue as she licked the amber preserve from her lip.
"I can explain." He tried to say but the week had left his throat dry and his voice was almost gone.
"You're dying aren't you? Father took morphine when he was dying. I gave it to him myself. And now so are you." She sobbed quietly, wiping her eyes, then her mouth with the back of her hand; he wanted to take it and lick away the salt and sugar.
"That's not why I take it Christine." He replied, moving from kneeling on the rug to take a seat on the edge of the bed. He felt frightened, too exposed to be confessing such a thing, too naked. The nightclothes were not enough to hide his damaged flesh.
"I don't understand."
"Did you father ever feel as though he could not live without it? Even though it might kill him?" she flinched away at his words, a fresh onslaught of tears threatening to fall as she nodded. "Well that is how it is for me. I was injured, a long time ago and needed it for the pain. I was travelling through places where opium was cheaper than other medicines; sometimes it was even cheaper than food. And before long it felt as though my own existence was a source of pain. Life held no joy but for the poppy's sleep until that too became pain. But I still was not able to stop. It began to control me; it allowed others to control me. People died by my hand because of it. What you've seen has been my recovery from this poison."
"Have you been this way all this time?"
"I managed to stop myself, once before." he didn't wish to elaborate but still felt he owed it to her to tell the truth if she asked for it.
"But you started again. That's why you changed so suddenly." It was too late she had already worked it out. She was already thinking of the incident with Joseph Bouquet. The girl had always been far too clever. "Was it because of me?"
"Yes, but it's not your fault. It was my own foolishness. But I assure you I am not dying, you can be certain of that much at least."
"Did you tell the doctor?"
"Yes, I asked him not to say anything. I don't know why. I was ashamed. If it were only the addiction I would have confessed, but two men are dead because of me and countless others before them. You must have already guessed that."
"Two men?" It didn't take long for the truth to dawn on her. "Erik, did you kill Senior Piangi?"
"It was an accident, I had no wish to end his life." He tried to say calmly, she would ask to be freed, he would have to let her go, and it would be the only decent thing to do.
"And what about Joseph? Was he an accident too?" She cried, she had that same expression she wore the night she saw his face. He could hardly bear to look at her as he stood to turn towards the window.
"No." He said simply. "Do you see now? Do you see how truly ugly I am. This face marks me like the mark of Cain. Like him I was forced to wander this world. But even my own cruelty would pale in comparison to the cruelty of man, and of fate. If you wish to leave this place I won't stop you. You have every right to condemn me. I am a monster." She said nothing for a long time.
The silence of the room suffocated him. She might as well have been preparing his death sentence. There would be no point in living after she left. After a while he imagined that she had simply gone without a word, he didn't blame her. He was so convinced that she had gone that he jumped with surprise when he felt her hand on his shoulder. He trembled at the gentle touch of her fingers, cool and moving with a painful slowness towards the back of his neck and into his hair. He still wasn't used to being touched; in fact he would have shied away from it if it had been anyone else. But he was more than willing to let Christine do whatever she wanted with him.
He squeezed his eye shut as he felt the bandages slipping and the cold and unfamiliar rush of air against his deformity. He realised her hands had been shaking, as though she was expecting him to lash out at her like before. He remained still, waiting as though he were anticipating a firing squad.
A number of things had happened in the few days following Christine Daae's disappearance. The first being the Funeral of Ubaldo Piangi, which had happened almost as soon as his body had been released and had been a private affair for his and La Carlotta's friends and supporters as a select few of the Opera cast members. Unsurprisingly, Meg and her mother were not invited and neither was the Vicomte. The gossip had painted all three of them as nothing less than co-conspirators in this bizarre affair. Not even the managers had been invited, probably because they had insisted on reopening Don Juan Triumphant where Piangi had met his unfortunate end. Shortly after that the police had closed the investigation as days of searching below the opera had brought no results. Meg also suspected that the DeChagny family had something to do with it as well, wanting to close the case as soon as possible in the hopes that the current scandal with their son would soon blow over.
When it became apparent that the murderer of her co-star could not be identified of traced, Carlotta had abruptly left the Opera company, and was rumoured to have retired from public life altogether but Meg doubted that would last for long. The entire opera house breathed a sigh of relief that day. But the soprano's sudden departure had not done much to ease the tension among the company and stage workers. Their superstitions began to run wild as the Managers made their plans to reopen thinking only of ticket sales. Some believed that the opera was cursed and that something terrible would befall whoever was cast in the two leading roles. Other's thought that the very name was bad luck and dared not say it, calling it only the Phantom's Opera. But the scandal surrounding the work and the surprising critical response had left all of Paris clamouring for a ticket. They would reopen that Friday with Paul Lherie as Don Juan and Blanche Deschamps as Aminta. Meg knew that no matter how well they sang they would never be able to recreate the passion of the opening performance.
The final and perhaps the most incredible thing that had happened that week was as soon as the police had cleared out and she had thought all was lost, her mother had returned home with a man named Patrice Mifroid. She trusted her mother without question, it had been why she had not explored the dark passageways she had found from time to time, why she had stopped getting frustrated with Christine every time she broke down into one of her dark melancholic moods and why until now she had not told the Vicomte to take a running jump and leave their family alone. She had been jealous of course, she couldn't really deny it, but not of Christine.
She had envied her when they were little because she had a father and because her voice was so beautiful while Meg sounded like a squawking parrot. But she figured that she could dance better and she had a mother so it all evened out, and if Monsieur Daae hadn't become so ill they could have all been one big happy family. That was what she had been hoping for, ever since her father had come home from the war infected and dying and she wanted so desperately to have a sister who was dark haired and shy and sang like an angel. And the bastards had broken her and taken her away. And she was jealous of them getting so much of her attention; after all they had been friends first. She knew it was childish, but they had made so many plans when they were little. They were going to be famous all over Europe and maybe move to America and become famous there too. And then her father had died, and Christine was never the same again. And while they lived in the same place and were a little closer to being a proper family, the weight of her grief had made them more alone than ever.
Monsieur Mifroid had been an odd little man with even odder facial hair, who had met with them in a nearby cafe brandishing a bundle of letters and a map of Paris.
"You will be very proud of me Madame for I have made some excellent progress." He said, seeming too excited to even notice her presence.
"That's wonderful news Monsieur and I am eager to hear it." Her mother replied, breathless with relief. "Allow me to introduce my daughter, Meg. She offered to help us."
"Good evening, Mademoiselle." The man nodded, and quickly unfolded the map. "I had a breakthrough with the code you gave me. It was a challenge since a lot of the location our friend specifies, don't exist anymore. I had a lot of cross referencing to do. Now the locations circled in red represent the entrances to the underground system that are currently in operation, the ones in black have all been blocked since the list was written. Now there is a chance that our friend might have discovered or built new ways in to the complex, and we'll have to check for that once we get down there."
"Get down there? You mean you actually want to go below the cellars again." Meg interrupted, shivering a little at the thought. The rumours about that place were pretty horrible.
"Don't worry, dear. The police have already cleared a safe way down." Her mother reassured. "And you don't have to go if you don't want to."
"As I was saying," Mifroid continued. "At first I convinced he had used this exit that comes out of a pipe that runs into the Seine just outside the city. However I soon realised that there was another way out under the Pont de L'Europe. Now this is only a gut feeling mind you, but feel that this is the route he took, under the bridge and out of Paris via St Lazare."
"But I thought the police ordered patrols at the stations, how could he have gotten past?" her mother questioned.
"There was a good four hours before that order was put into place, Madame. If he was taking a conventional route we would have caught him the next morning. But it's possible that he and Mlle Daae hid aboard one of the night freighters before the police even arrived. Now it isn't definite, but it seems like the most likely direction they would have gone. It would also be the fastest way to leave the city at that time of night."
"Then I suppose that's where we should look next." Madame Giry agreed. "But I must warn you, we are not the only one's taking things into our own hands. Several members of the corps de ballet saw the vicomte sneaking around the dormitories the other night. I suspect he was attempting to search Christine's room. We'll have to be careful from now on."
Meg understood her mother's reasons behind not wanting to involve Raoul deChagny. She didn't exactly agree with them, because as much as the man irked her, he still cared for Christine as much as they did and had as much of a right to know what was going on. But she also knew that if they did let the vicomte get involved things would not be resolved peacefully if they found the ghost, and mother still had an odd sense of protectiveness over the man. And in a sense, the Phantom had been good them. She and Christine had always been well taken care of, always able to afford new dance clothes and stockings, always having a few more underclothes than the other dancers, an extra pair of boots, a good coat for the winter. Her mother had been able to buy a few basic luxuries that her regular salary would not be able to provide. In short she had always felt safe under his protection, but from the incidents that were happening all around them she was greatly aware of what might happen if they didn't stay on his good side.
"Alright, I'll handle Monsieur deChagny." Meg suggested, "I'll find out what he knows and make sure he doesn't find out about what we're doing."
She was so relieved that Erik wasn't dying that it took a moment for the information to sink in. He had killed twice in the last six months, one was an accident according to him and one was not. Who had the others been? She could hardly cast stones, but the thought still frightened her as she remembered Joseph's lifeless body hanging like a marionette above the stage. She needed to see him then, needed to see the truth, and to see if he truly was as remorseful as he seemed. Before she reached for the gauze around his face she couldn't help but touch his shoulder reassuringly, as though he was a feral animal that needed to be calmed. He was still touched by the fever, that wasn't a fever at all, and his skin seemed to boil beneath the fabric of his shirt. She steeled herself as her fingers moved through the straight wisps of brown hair at the base of his neck, which despite being damp with sweat seemed impossibly soft.
The cloth fell from his face, she could only see the reflection of it in the window he faced, a transparent ghost against the maritime landscape outside. It certainly wasn't as terrible as she remembered. Perhaps the harsh shadows of the flickering candles and his fury had exaggerated the deformity into something demonic and terrifying. In the soft light of the sunset, his face seemed entirely different. It wasn't pleasant in any sense of the word, but without the mystery surrounding it, it was only a face, albeit a morbidly fascinating one. She couldn't help noticing his eyes were different colours as they opened slowly to gaze at her through decades of tears, the one that had been uncovered sat dead and unmoving, set back within a heavily scarred socket. It was hard to tell where the deformity ended and the scars began, leaving only an ambiguous mass of mottled tissue.
She thought of the needles stored within the music box and how it was possible that something as small as a pin prick could alter him as he had described. She couldn't believe that Erik would willingly kill someone if he was in his right mind, so that must have been it. But if he was altered, then perhaps father had also been altered, towards the end. What if he hadn't meant it? She had looked at the collection of chemicals with a familiar urge of annihilation. The same as the evening by her father's tomb, and the first time she heard him up on the rooftop, with the pigeons. And there were probably countless other times when his voice had brought her back from the edge of despondency. How could he have taken a life when he had saved hers so many times?
The last visit to the graveyard had been on impulse as she had ventured out in her cloak and mourning dress, one of the three that made up the entirety of her old wardrobe. Although her return to ordinary fashions was long overdue, the Worth meringues that Raoul had bought her felt inappropriate and garish in comparison. The sudden change irked her and outside of their dinners she never wore them. She glanced at the dress she was wearing now. It was black like the one she had worn that night, but while it was simple and meant for every day wear, it still probably cost twice as much as her best dress but less than half of what Raoul had spent. It felt strange suddenly having all those new clothes, far more than were necessary but each was beautiful and unique in its own right. Had Erik picked each design out personally, or had he simply ordered them from a catalogue. She had searched the wardrobe for the wedding dress she had seen that night by the underground lake only to find it missing and could only begin to wonder what that meant or why she felt disappointed by its absence.
She had gone out with the remainder of her chloral solution and a hastily written suicide note. It wasn't even a note, just a quotation from a novel she had read once. She hadn't really known why it sprung to mind, but felt it was appropriate. Madame would have understood what it meant even if no one else did.
"Erik, I cannot leave you like this." She whispered solemnly.
"I don't want your pity, Christine." He said, his voice sounded weak and broken and it frightened her. "And any sense of duty you might feel was gained through lies and deceit. You should ignore it entirely."
"I do not pity you. You are not marked, Erik. It such things were true then others would bear far worse. This face tells the story of everything you've been through. The only horror I feel is the horror of knowing of the things that have befallen you. And for that I can only admire and respect you."
"Yesterday, when you said it made no difference..."
"I meant it. It makes no difference at all." She reassured him, hesitantly reaching out to touch his disfigured cheek. For something so harsh and ragged, his skin was surprisingly soft and delicate. She felt him tense under her fingers; almost flinching away in the anticipation of violence and by the looks of things that face had seen plenty of it. He didn't move though, and she felt a swell of pride knowing that he would allow her to touch him. "And as for your past, I suppose the only important thing is its influence on you now." She noted the flash of panic in his eyes. "But for now you need to concentrate on your recovery, and then we shall discuss the matter further."
She felt him tremble, felt the warm tears fall and felt him slowly lean into her palm like a cat hungry for affection.
"Are you tired Erik? Yes I think perhaps we're both very tired." She said leading him to the brass bed that had carried her to minutes earlier, feeling the weight of exhaustion rest heavily upon her eyes from staying up all night worrying. "You can rest here for now while I fix up your room."
He awoke after what felt like an eternity and a moment in a strange place that he knew far too well. He had designed it entirely from scratch. There was no trace of his old life in this place, none of his old belongings. Everything was new and clean and white and contained only sweet things that she would enjoy. It was almost too brief to notice but this room had made her smile, if only for a moment. The pillow was already saturated with her scent, the feminine smell of roses and lavender and the unique scent of her hair which sparked such a strong reaction within him. It seemed stupid, but he was already beginning to feel better just by being near her. The thought of her allowing him to sleep in her bed like this made him breathless, and the idea that it could happen again only with her beside him. That would be more than enough, even if all she wanted to do was sleep he would hold her close and protect her in her dreams.
From the muddy colour of the sky, the sun had almost finished setting, making it around five o'clock or thereabouts. He had barely been asleep for an hour before the dreams returned. The first two were now growing murky in his memory, nothing of significance just irrational terror. The third dream however had involved her, floating lifelessly up through the water and colliding with a mirror of ice. And all at once he had felt as though he was watching her from both sides of it, seeing both her face and his own and not being sure which was real and which one was the reflection. That was when the ice cracked and he had awoken.
The crack in the ice turned out to be the turning of a latch and he watched silently as Christine returned, carrying a pitcher of water and a glass. He didn't move when she approached and placed them on the bedside table.
"Did I wake you?"
"No, I was already awake." He lied, but he was grateful that she had released him from the nightmare.
"I'm sorry I hit you, earlier."
"Don't worry, I deserved it. I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth."
"Thank you for telling me now." She said finally. "I put your sheets in to soak but the other set won't be dry for a while I'm afraid."
"Thank you, you didn't have to do that."
"It needed to be done, I haven't done a wash in years, and I'm a little out of practise." She must have been insane doing the laundry on her own; it was a two person job at least and even then it took up most of the day. No wonder she looked exhausted. However this left them with the dilemma of only having one useable bed. But this wouldn't be the first time he'd made do with a bare mattress.
"I should go; you look as though you need some sleep too."
"No, no. You're not feeling well; I'll just sleep on the sofa downstairs." She insisted.
"It's freeing down there. What sort of gentleman would I be if I let you do that?" Erik replied, getting up to leave. The awkward silence hung around them like a fog as the unasked question hung heavily on his mind. He had reached the doorway when she spoke up.
"Won't you stay?"
He looked around nervously, not quite believing what she had just said. But he was not virtuous enough to refuse a request like that even if it was only sleeping and nothing more. Without saying anything he slipped back under the blue and white quilt. Christine grabbed her nightclothes from where they hung over a chair left the room. For a horrible moment he thought that he had misunderstood her, but the sound of running water from the bathroom, made it clear that she was getting ready for bed. She seemed to take forever, and he imagined her slowly undoing every clasp, lace and button, the layers of petticoats and bruising stays. He should have ordered something more bohemian for her to wear, something that didn't involve suffocation. He was about to doze off again when he heard a click from the doorway and the rustle of linen as she climbed into bed next to him.
To be Continued