Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom, or Corpse Bride. I will see Corpse Bride soon, though – I hope. Hope springs eternal. And the it bounces all over the place, trying to get the springs off its feet.
musicllover: I never read that one, but I have a feeling I wouldn't like it. Angst, angst, everything's about the angst, isn't it? Or perhaps about the Ankh. (Runs off and reads Terry Pratchett's Discworld books again.) Well, enough of the waiting, here's the next chapter!
Rikku Ree: I want this to be real; and so it isn't just about the main characters. The others characters have plenty of angst and problems; they're not just cardboard cut-outs that wear pretty costumes and masks when it comes to Masquerade. Since I am a Catholic, I believe that abortion is wrong, like you. Unfortunately I cannot tell you that, thank you very much Mominator124. Don't worry, Erik and Christine are back this chapter; otherwise it would kind of defeat the object of it being a POTO story, wouldn't it? XD to you, too.
SimplyElymas: Indeed. Controversiality (Is that a word? Hmmm…) is the key to get attention. Poor Celandine – I've not made life very easy for her, have I? But at least we now know why she was crying all over the place, and not just because she was annoyed at her husband being unfaithful. But she's human, nonetheless.
Willow Rose: Who knows what will come of this chapter, now? Well, we must see. Tee hee hee. Come out yet? That sounded very wrong. Blessings to you, loyal reviewer of the Scots.
Voldivoice: Maybe your Erik withdrawal will be cured with this chapter, my friend. It's true, the Irish should stick together. Which is why the book I'm writing is about how the Irish had a chance at power (in an alternate universe, of course) to challenge the powers of Europe with their own High Queen. But of course, it'll be hard for me to slag off the English. Between a rock and a high place, that's where I am!
Chantilly xx Lace: I hoped you'd like it! (Maybe you'll recognise the quotation below from the site.) Other people's stories are important as well – they help explain how people turn out the way they do. But there is Erik in this chapter, I promise!
Morianerulz: That's okay, I'm sure it's better than what Gevaisia offered to inform people of if they emailed – an abortion with lemons and vinegar. I wouldn't know, since I have not emailed for further information. But check out Dear Professor Xavier anyway, it's really good! I liked War and Peace, but it was a bit complicated. What am I saying? Very complicated. If it's any comfort, I'm a bit of a home girl as well. I mean, for example, until a few weeks ago, I had never travelled on my own on the tube or on a bus before. Who needs parties, when you can have books? I went to Washington! It's a very cool place! I certainly have heard of Seattle – both 'Sleepless in Seattle' and 'Fraiser'. I must check out that Wheel of Time series. Welcome aboard, my muse! Who needs Thalia when you've got Morianerulz. Lots of people don't like me because I either don't talk (not a good thing) or say exactly what I think (which is an even worse thing). But enough of slagging off me; I've got to get on to the next answer.
Lydiby: You'd be surprised how murderous squirrels can become – in cartoons, of course (sometimes the only way I can keep sane is when I watch imaginary characters getting squished) but I did once see a thing on an animal program about a squirrel who attacked the little girl who was feeding it, biting onto her face and holding on…ouch. Don't worry, she was fine ! I've never heard of paintings crying. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…Some people have said she should abort, others no. I of course, being Catholic, believe abortion is wrong, but I also believe other people should be free to have their own opinions. Yes, it sucked to be female; being regarded as a sex toy or being ignored, that was basically it for many of them. Politics – doesn't exactly confuse me, but I have to say that our 'dearly beloved' prime minister is a little bit of a squit. I'm glad to see you're on her side, but it's not as easy as that. If Louis found out she'd been unfaithful to him, he'd have a perfect excuse to divorce her so he could visit some sort of equivalent of the Moulin Rouge without any spanner in the works; and if dear old Grandpére found out she'd been unfaithful, she'd be cut off from the family and out on her ear, and the rest of the family forbidden to help her – no money, no property, no help from the family, nothing. Women simply couldn't do the things they can do today; it was either become a nun or be like Fantine in Les Miserables and become a prostitute to support the kid. Being disowned was not a good thing. I would love to say I made it up, but I didn't; I got it from Corpse Bride – appropriate, wouldn't you say? – and also the Chapter Twelve title, from 'there's been a grave misunderstanding'. That would be fun; but hopefully not quite like 'punks' – punk is another word, in Shakespeare, for a prostitute. These little facts are fascinating, aren't they? That last bit was what my mum said when I told her. This is going to be fun.
Ripper de la Blackstaff: Hi! That's certainly true about Erik. But, as Leroux's novel says, 'he respects me; he crawls, he moans, he weeps!'…or something like that. True that she stays with him – in theory – to save Raoul; but I thin it's rather noble of Christine, preparing to stay with a skeleton man who would quite readily blow her and a load of other people up if she said she wouldn't marry him, even if he was – eccentric. Then again, she should have been grateful to him for saving Raoul and Nadir, that is true. The thing is, my parents, although they're doctors, were/are special ones. My mum's a radiologist – that means she does x-rays – and so far the only ultrasound I can remember that she did wasn't even on a human, but on a pet dog one of the radiographers brought in – which had ten lovely Labrador puppies, and all survived! My dad, who is now retired since he is way over sixty-five, was a surgeon – I'm not sure what to call an 'all-rounder' surgeon, so I'll call him just that; an all-rounder surgeon – so although he presided over lots of births, I don't know if he's an expert on development of the foetus in the womb. Besides, I'm too busy trying to keep my dinner down when they start talking about past patients and haemorrhages and ruptured arteries and things like that to ask them about such stuff. I am aware I am exaggerating, but I must tell you, I was never so glad as when Lucie decided not to be a doctor – three doctors in the family would have finished me off, I swear it! I was being sarcastic about the throat cutting, but that you already know how to cut throats – that's just creepy. SimplyElymas, apparently, can barge right through a brick wall without being hurt, so I think you'd have your work cut out! I'll think about you helping with Raoul, I promise I will; and I will take you up on that promise about the French, I promise that as well. Indeed Pierre is the kid's father – I personally don't blame Celandine; living with a husband who's not interested in you but loves to go with other women can surely get you just a little down after a while. Erik and Christine are in the lair, where we left them. I believe that abortion is wrong; but I believe that everyone is free to have their own opinion on the subject. And just because a baby will be dirty and noisy doesn't mean you have to kill it. But, each to their own. My gosh, I do give you long replies, don't I?
I felt I had to write this chapter; otherwise Ripper de la Blackstaff – to whom, it would seem, I certainly write the longest replies – will keep on pestering me with suggestions of Erik drugging Christine with laudanum and having his 'wicked way' with her while she's out cold – or else keep saying 'Wedding night!' in the reviews until I go completely stark staring bonkers. So, enjoy. And, Ripper dahling – I dedicate this chapter to you. So be content!
The Maiden:
Go away! oh, go away!
Wild monster of bone!
I am still young - go, please!
And leave me alone.
Death:
Give me your hand, fair and lovely child!
I am a friend and you have nothing to fear.
Be of good cheer! I am not savage,
You shall sleep gently in my arms.
Translation of Matthias Claudius, Der Tod und das Mädchen (Death and the Maiden)
Franz Schubert: op. 7 no. 3, D. 531 (1817)
(Yes; I know I could have put this quotation at the start of Chapter Sixteen – after all, the title would suit – but it works better here. So sue me.)
Corpse Groom
Don't leave me!
Christine struggled up from her seat, trying to reach out to the strange, wounded man standing beyond him; though she feared him, he was the lesser of two evils – and the only one who could help her…
But then, when he spoke, the man was suddenly gone; vanished, as if he had simply been pinched out of existence – as if he had never even existed at all.
Where is this place, that people walk around with slit throats; that they vanish?
She sank back down onto the sofa, tears beading at the corners of her eyes. But she wouldn't cry; she wouldn't cry. She must be brave.
There must be some way to get away.
Her head was aching now. She rested it against the arm of the chaise lounge; closed her suddenly throbbing eyes. Perhaps if she pretended to be asleep, or unconscious, he would leave her alone, in peace?
The footsteps came echoing back, over towards her; they halted. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, breathed carefully; feigning sleep, she fervently hoped.
Then, they moved on again, past her; she breathed a deep sigh of relief, when she hoped he could not hear her.
The footsteps halted; and then a few chords came - beautiful ones at that, but also distinctive; perhaps an organ? – but soft as well; soft enough almost to come from a violin…
The music washed over her, like waves upon a shore. She let them flow into her mind…surely such beautiful music could not be evil…
And then they stopped. And, she realised in a panic, she now had no idea about where he was. He got have gotten up during the last few chords, and stepped away, making use of their fading sound to cover his footsteps.
She couldn't tell where he was now. Perhaps if he breathed, she might be able to tell; but as it was…
There was a smell. It was not unpleasant; not the smell of decay or death. It was simply…age; the smell of old, forgotten rooms, not looked into for years. The smell of years; centuries.
His voice poured into her ears. "I know you aren't asleep."
Go away, she thought, as loudly as she dared. Go away. Leave me alone.
"Because," that beautiful, cursed voice went on, quite calmly, "if you were asleep, I am sure your heart would not be beating quite so fast, or so loudly – though for what reason I could not possibly guess."
She made no reply, keeping her eyes tightly shut, bunching her fingers into her palms until the skin throbbed from the pressure of the nails.
Go away. Go away. Go away…
There was a sigh; it seemed right above her. "They say a single kiss woke up the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood. Do you think that would work here, with our current situation?"
She still said nothing; but a deep foreboding laced with fear was building within her.
A single kiss…
And suddenly the lightest, feather dry touch of something upon her lips – barely for a instant, and so light she could hardly feel them; but enough for her to gasp and open her eyes and scramble as far away as the furniture would allow her.
He sat back on his heels, and watched her with quiet, satisfied amusement; his eyes upon her face, even though she was perfectly willing to admit, even in this situation, that there was much more for him to look at than just her face. It occurred to her that, however dead he might be, he was certainly more courteous than many of the men she had encountered.
Except Raoul.
At the thought of Raoul, of dear, sweet, kind Raoul, she found the courage in her to look away from him. Poor Raoul – how long had she slept? How long had she been here; away from the world? What must he be thinking?
In thinking, her eyes turned to the spot where the other man had been standing; and, because she could not think of anything else to say with him watching her so intently, asked, trying to sound nonchalant, "Who was that man?"
His chuckle curdled within her ears. "That man, as you put it, was Nadir. A very old friend, you might say. I have known him for a very long time."
"How long?" I'm lying on a chaise lounge in an underground lair, having a conversation with a dead spirit inside his mortal body, about how long he's known another spirit.
"I really have no idea. Time in the Land of the Dead is very different from time on Earth."
Then for a time there was no noise, none at all; no echo of the water rippling against the sides of the cavern, since the lake, if that was what it was, was completely still; no however miniscule roaring of the candle flames – nothing except her own breathing, and nothing at all from her silent companion. At moments she wanted to speak, if only to remind herself that she was still alive in this silent, foreboding place; yet he spoke, and she knew that he was not alive by any means.
But she had to ask…
"Where are my clothes?"
"Somewhere safe."
"Why did you take them?" she asked tentatively, dreading the answer.
He chuckled again; such a dark and yet so soft sound! "I think perhaps you should be thanking me. Riding clothes and a tightly fastened corset are not the best items of clothing to sleep in."
"Perhaps…but I would prefer to be certain that-"
"In case you are worried that I may have seen anything I have never seen before," he cut in smoothly, "do not fret. I kept my eyes occupied on other things while my hands were…occupied in their turn. Rest assured I was not tempted to look."
"Oh…thank you." She was not entirely sure what to make of that. For all she knew, he might be having a quiet joke at her expense. She had only his word that he had done no more than loosen her corset and take off her stockings. God! The thought of him touching her bare skin with his skeletal hands was almost more than she could bear!
And yet…he had said, anything he had never seen before…did that mean, then, that even when he was alive, he had never…? For once he had been a man – still was a man, if you thought about it, and a very attractive one at that. But if the stories about what lay behind that mask were true…
There was another sigh from beside her; and now it seemed twisted from the very bottom of his soul. "No, I have never been with a woman. Quite a confession for a man, wouldn't you say?"
"I…I didn't say anything…" She found herself looking back, uncontrollably, at that terribly beautiful face; aware of what she was going to say and silently screaming at herself for sounding so immature. "Can…can you read thoughts?"
He smiled, almost gently. "No, but I can read faces. I became very good at it in life. The voice says one thing, the face another altogether, even if they think it doesn't. A whole new method of communication, you might say."
"Indeed." She looked away again.
"You hate me." And now his voice was sad; just as it was when he had stated, quite plainly, that she feared him.
And, once again, there was no malice or anger in his speech; only the acceptance of the truth.
But was this the truth? Do I hate him? Hate was such a powerful word. She feared him, certainly; but did she feel hate?
He had kidnapped her; dragged her down to the underworld; assumed to call himself her husband…but that might change, if she relied upon his remorse, now, while she had the chance.
Steeling herself for what might come, she turned back to look at him; to look at that beautiful, angelic face; those tawny golden eyes, gazing at her with such misery, and as they met with her own, such hope…
He has such hope in my turning to look at him…
But she could not turn back now. She had to tell him, if only for the sake of knowing that she had said it.
"Erik, if that is truly your name…I could only despise you if…if you did not give me my liberty."
The hope died from his eyes and from his face, leaving only an expression as blank as the mask on the other side of his face. Desperately, she went on, speaking more loudly.
"If you did not return me to the world above…to my friends and…and family, only then, only then would I hate you." She faltered, and her voice died away, as a new expression came to the face of him opposite her – she could recall it only too well from what she assumed was the night before.
"And if I did not return you to your precious fiancée as well; is that it?" He no longer spoke gently, sweetly; now his voice was a growl, filled with menace. "You throw me this little scrap of comfort, in exchange for my giving you up? Hardly an adequate bargain, mademoiselle." Abruptly he stood up, and paced away, to stand by the shore of the lake, staring out across the still waters.
But they were no longer so still – they were moving; bubbling; his dark figure, still clad in the white or yellow shirt, stood out against it…
"Why are you so eager to return to his arms?" he shot abruptly over his shoulder – or what remained of it at that precise moment. "What is it about him that so fascinates you?"
"He does not…fascinate me," she admitted, begrudgingly, "but he is kind, and generous, and he adores me." She lost herself for a moment, in the memory of Raoul's smile. "I would not inflict such suffering upon him, in losing me."
He snorted, without looking around. "The de Chagny family have always been very good at getting over heartbreak, I find."
"And how would you know? No, don't tell me, I don't want to know. All I want to do is go home. And if you won't take me – then I'll go myself."
She was up and halfway across the floor before she realised what she was doing, the dressing gown flapping loosely around her, her bare feet stumbling over the floor. But almost at once an arm encircled swiftly around her waist; and yanked her back against a solid if not warm wall; with a thrill of horror that shuddered through her like a blow the skeletal hand went and slightly rested upon her throat – not actually holding it, which she thanked God for, while silently raging at the one holding her. He could restrain her so easily; and she felt so weak and helpless.
"Let me go," she whispered, her voice choked by sudden tears.
"I could not do that." His whisper, seemingly fraught by tears of his own, touched more that just her ears.
"Why not?"
"Because I love you." And again the words were not just words, she felt the full force of the emotion behind them; the passion, the longing.
Gently, irresistibly, he turned her in his grip; pulling her carefully against him; not crushing her to him, but his hold firm enough that she would not be able to break free; she quivered at the feel of his arms around her, the skeleton hand resting in the small of her back...
He was very close now – his face, his lips, were much too close…some of her senses screamed in protest at this; others screamed at the way she was being held, at how close he was; screamed with joy. The world was whirling around her, and she felt blackness overtaking her again – and this time, she would not wake up; there was just too much despair in her, horror, exhilaration…
Too much blood in the earth…
His eyes were two stars in the darkness; one shining in the glory of the sun, the other in the brightness of the moon of his face.
"Could you not love me, Christine?"
Was he doing this intentionally? Somehow she did not think so; it was her own self causing this, and she knew that if she did not act in some way then she would fall prey to the intoxication, and never be sober again, or sane at that. She managed to focus on his face – or rather, the white side of his face-
And it occurred to her, in that instant – he held her firmly by the waist, but he had left her arms free.
She reached up and grasped the edge of the mask, and in the same action ripped it away-
At once the world became clear again, albeit whirling in a different way, as a harsh, animal cry wailed in her ear and as she was abruptly thrust back, away from that; and she landed hard on the floor; her head banged against the ground, stars winked before her eyes and a different sort of blackness threatened to consume her; but she gritted her teeth and shook her head and they went away again. She looked up, and that came at her again-
She screamed, and struck out with whatever she was holding in her hand; screaming and screaming, and hearing words come into the scream; words spilling out of her disordered, terrified, distraught mind, with no control over them.
"I will not marry you! I will not stay with you! You are dead! Dead! I will not marry Death!"
After a few moments she controlled herself, and the screams, and became aware that the thing was gone; panting she pushed herself up, at the same time becoming aware that what she had been lashing out with was the mask.
He crouched but a little way away from her, trembling violently, bent over; his hands clasped to and coveringhis face; and now he was almost totally corpse like, his arm and leg fully skeletal, as if he had lost control over himself. At first she thought that she had hurt him when she struck out at him; but then those eyes looked over his curled fingers at her, blazing with fury as they had before; and the rest of his face followed suit.
His face…
Never had she thought that such a face could exist; it was impossible, unheard of that God could be so cruel – but then again, it would seem that the Devil had more a hand in such a creation than God. It was worse than a wound inflicted in life; worse than any mortal disease or affliction; as if it had come before birth; as if while still in the mother's womb some evil, malignant presence, jealous of the beauty the unborn baby would one day bear, had seized part of the right side of the face and actually ripped it off the bones of the skull, taking part of the nose with it, leaving behind what little skin and flesh there was to moulder and fester upon the bone; creating all of death's glory to contrast alongside with the height of the flower of manhood.
But the true horror was not just the death's head, but the eye which glared out of the socket so unnaturally at her; the yellowed teeth under the ruined hole of the nose which now emerged as they were bared in a hideous snarl; and alongside all this was the insane fury which cruelly mangled what had once been beautiful, but was now in anger just as horrible as its macabre counterpart.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. But most of all, she wanted to close her eyes against that sight, forever. She jerked away, her hair falling across her face, her breath coming in sobs; her hands coming up to the face, the cold porcelain of the mask pressing against her face; curling into herself-
"Oh no!" That voice; so distorted by anger and ferocity; like a foul mockery of the sweet purity that had come before! "You must not give up now! You wanted to see; so you shall see!" Hands which were now like iron grasped her by her hair; pulled her head cruelly back to look at him who held her. All around them there was noise; like the inside of a volcano, an inferno. His fingers were entwined in her hair; his horrible dead fingers, the bone raking across her scalp! Her eyes were filled with that sight, that dreadful sight; the fury of his face, his true face, as he howled in the glory of his rage. She struggled and twisted, her legs kicking at his knees; the madness of her horror fuelling her.
Let me die. Let me die. There can be no horror greater than this…
To her further terrified dismay, he was no longer howling, like an animal in pain – no, no, he was laughing, laughing like a mad man! And there were words in his laughter! "Yes! Yes, it is true! See, Christine! I am a corpse!" And as quickly as the mirth had come, it was gone again; and in its place was despair, lamentation that threatened to drown her, that made her want to stop her ears, if she could, if only to escape from that wild, terrible grief! "Know, Christine; know that I am built up of death from head to foot and that it is a corpse who loves you and adores you, and will never, never leave you!" He pulled her close to him; so close that he might have kissed her, if he hadn't been more in the mood to perhaps kill her. He hissed; she thought she would choke on the death smell.
But his next words, when they came, were quieter; as if all the rage had been boiled out of him. "Oh, Christine. Why? Why did you do it? How could you…"
A sob suddenly escaped him, and abruptly he let go of her hair; she fell back and her head somehow came to rest against something soft - part of the chaise lounge - almost in a sitting position she shrank back, waiting for the next outburst.
But it did not come. It was as if something had broken within him; his golden eyes trembled with tears; and then suddenly he threw himself down, burying his face in the folds of her chemise and dressing gown; the side of his head coming to rest, quite by accident, in her lap.
In another world, another life time, she might have been outraged, terrified by the position she was in; but now…now, all she could do was slowly bring her right hand – the one not holding the mask – to rest upon the disordered hair of his head; feel its softness and the feel of the skin beneath the hairs; her arm lying across his shoulder, and the cloth beneath it, and the shoulder beneath that. Like a mother with a distraught child she simply lay there, half sprawled against the sofa; he in her almost embrace, his body lying half across hers – and yet she no longer felt afraid - her other arm lying almost uselessly by her side, still clutching the mask.
He had gathered the folds of her chemise and the dressing gown to him, and now he was kissing them, she could just see him doing it – simple little kisses, with all the swiftness of kissing farewell with a hand, and all the despair of a dreamer bidding farewell to his dream; and moaning between them. Distractedly she stroked his hair, carefully smoothing it back into its sleek mane, caring not that her fingers were greased with seeming pomade.
His great, strong, heavy frame was quivering in her grasp. She felt a dampness permeate her chemise, but this time it was not because of any involuntary action on her part – it would seem his moans were not moans at all.
Erik, it seemed, couldn't breathe; but it also seemed that he could cry.
Ahem. Don't throw rocks at her! Nice fluff – I think – to keep you happy at the end. Quite a lot of that is based on Leroux, mainly because I think that scene was simply so powerful – so much more than Erik singing 'Damn you, you little prying Pandora!' and all that stuff. Why sing at a girl when you can grab her by the hair and shake her? And he's kissing her skirts, like he did later on, after playing some of Don Juan – so sweet! And notice she hasn't closed her eyes now? Yippee! And, you might notice, no burns – just part of his face missing. Yes, this isa definite tribute to Leroux.
Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress. 'Nuff said.