Hello again, everyone. And now, the moment you've all been waiting for: Holly and Artemis meet! Apologies if Holly seems OOC; then again, how calm would you be if confronted by a person like Artemis? Thanks to AgiVega and Buchworm13 for their reviews. :)
Disclaimer: I do not own Artemis Fowl, as Eoin Colfer owns Artemis Fowl. I do not own the Phantom of the Opera, as Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Susan Kay, etc. own Phantom of the Opera. What part of my non-ownership isn't clear here?
Chapter Four: The Makings Of A Disaster
Oh, by God, he had never truly lived until that moment.
All the lust and agony of Don Juan Triumphant had all been for naught, compared to this.
The world had shifted. Everything Artemis had known or believed before this evening had been ended. There was nothing but a new beginning for him now, and he was afraid of it. Afraid of her.
They had not been able to find a suitable replacement for Carlotta. They had feared him – well, Andre had feared his anger, but Firmin had feared the absence of a great deal of money that would have been lost had they been forced to refund all of the tickets. So the performance had continued as planned, but not only had they included Carlotta in it, the second violin remained, slaughtering the perfectly good instrument, and they had given away his box. Box Five was for him and him alone, and they gave it away. Obviously, this could not be borne by any sane Opera Ghost… or even an insane one, for that matter.
But then he had seen her.
He had looked down from the very top of the catwalks, projecting his voice all around the auditorium, and there she had been, sitting amidst the chaos he had created with her face still. She was not bothered by the interruption, a little annoyed, perhaps. But not afraid. Artemis had seen her before during the performance, weeping at the beauty of the opera as it had played out before her eyes. Her love of the music had been reflected in the tears steadily streaming from her eyes. How often had he wept at music as she did, he wondered, how many times had he been reduced to tears at the same wonder that she had marvelled at?
She loved the music. And she was not afraid of him. She was a miracle; she was exquisite; she could not possibly be real. She was a living goddess in the form of a tiny, beautiful woman. Artemis had been affected by beauty before – being as hideous as he was, he appreciated loveliness in all its forms – but he had never seen his own love of music reflected in the eyes of another. He had not even dreamed it was possible, that anyone else could be affected by the loveliness of the music as he was. He had been alone for his whole life, after all, singular and separate from the human race. This woman, with her massive hazel eyes and lithe little body, could not possibly be human.
She was like him. She was different. Those plebeians down there could never understand her; understand the iridescent power of her warm eyes and the strength in the way she held her body upright, always on guard.
Artemis had not realised he had stopped laughing until her gaze once again fixed upon the stage; the show would, as inevitably as always, go on, and yet her lips were puckered with dismay and there was a frown upon her forehead. She could no longer capture the joy she had felt before. Was it because of him? Artemis frowned, the skin on his brow crinkling beneath the mask. Had he ruined this for her? Surely not.
He had been distracted, preoccupied, until the end of the performance. He was content to worship her from afar. He never needed to speak to her, hear her voice. The memory of her was more than enough to sustain him. At least, until he saw the men gather around her. She had not invited it; she tried to get rid of them nicely, but when they did not leave her alone she hit one in a painful area and while his friends gathered around him, took to her heels. He followed, sticking to the abandoned corridors and watched as they disappeared into the distance.
Ah, well. She was just a woman, just a beautiful woman, and he had seen plenty of those before. Even if she did meet him, she would just run away screaming. The hideousness of his face – and even the wretchedness of his body – would terrify her beyond all reasoning. Artemis suddenly could not bear the thought of that pretty face twisted in horror, did not want to envision her smiling cheeks go bloodless with fright. There were enough screams in his head without hers adding to them.
With a slight sigh, he turned to go. Striding down the passageways that only he knew, trying not to scurry down them like a rat, he passed along the one that led to the abandoned dressing room and stopped. He heard… something, but he did not know what. It was frighteningly beautiful, almost celestial, but he could tell there was so much work to be done on it. Why, if he could shape that voice, it would be one to match his own… but who was it? There was no one of that tone and clarity in the Opera, he would have heard them before. Perhaps it was just a hallucination brought on by stress. Certainly the managers would be enough to worry even the sanest of men, which he was definitely not. And yet… he looked down the passageway that led to his home. The darkness was calm and inviting, but the voice was so compelling, like that of some celestial being.
With a curious feeling as though he would live to regret it, Artemis set off in search of the voice. He arrived at the abandoned dressing room, peering through the massive pane of glass he knew appeared to be set in the wall as a mirror. What no one but he knew was that from one side – his side – it was a window and from the other it was a mirror. Oh, and it moved – swung forward. When he looked through it, he felt as though a lightning bolt had struck him, cleaving him into shards of himself that would only reassemble if he felt her touch on his skin.
It was her.
The beautiful woman, the tiny one, the one who had run away from those men who had wanted to do God knows what to her and who had evidently stumbled upon the abandoned dressing room. She was paler than before, clutching a sheet of aged music, tiny particles of dust surrounding her head like a halo. And she was singing, tentatively, carefully, as though she was not sure of the tune, or as though she thought that to raise her voice too loudly would shatter the illusion surrounding her.
Slowly, gently,
night unfurls its splendour…
Grasp it, sense it,
tremulous and tender…
Turn your face away
from the garish light of day
turn your thoughts away
from cold unfeeling light
and listen to
the music of the night…
She glowed. She was alight with the joy the music was giving her, and Artemis could only imagine how glorious she would be on a stage, in front as many people as Firmin and Andre could pack into the Opera House, triumphing over the world. And he would be the one to shape her. He would be the one who would show her how to use the genius in her throat, he would be the one that would give her to the world and she would reveal the beauty he could see in her to the world.
And she was so joyous, she was revelling in the beauty of what she was creating. He had never heard what she was singing before but then again, neither had she. He had forgotten how to be so lit up with joy at music, as she was. She had let go of the emotional veil he saw on so many other people and her happiness shone out of her eyes. He had to have that happiness, consume it, and drag it down into himself until the heat of that delight warmed his cold heart and cold bones from the inside out. She would be the one to redeem him, take away all the old hurts and the old agonies he still could not find the strength to weep over and she would heal the fragments of his soul.
"What is your name, child?" Artemis cut off her song in the middle of a note, mourning the loss of her voice, but intent upon her answer. He projected his voice to her, making it gentle and compelling – the voice that could make people do anything. Her reaction to his voice was instantaneous, her head whipping this way and that.
"Who are you? Where are you?"
"Shh," he soothed. "I am here because of your voice." Her eyes went wide, and her lips parted – her lovely, Cupid's bow lips, he wanted to take her and kiss her there – but no! no! what was he thinking, he didn't want to kiss her, he wanted to teach her!
"Are you the Angel of Music?" she asked, her own voice trembling in the dusty air. The Voice laughed, and it seemed an angel should not laugh like that, with that wicked note of irony. The Angel of Music, indeed. Well, he had been the Angel of Death for many men. Why could he not be the Angel of Music for her?
"Yes, my child, and I have answered your prayers." His voice was compelling; it ordered her to obey. Her eyes went even wider.
"He said you would come," she murmured breathlessly. "I didn't believe, because for so many years you didn't come, but he was right!" Her voice dropped. "Will you tell my father I am sorry for doubting him?"
"Yes, my child. I will tell him. What is your name?" Artemis asked gently, standing behind the mirror and drinking in the sight of her.
"H-Holly." Holly. It was beautiful, he thought. She matched it.
"I am here to teach you to sing, Holly. It is your father's wish that you succeed upon the stage of this Opera House." Her eyes, which had been steadily closing under the attraction of his voice, shot open.
"I can't!"
"Why not, Holly?" he boomed. "What is it that stops you from serving your master and fulfilling the wish of your father?" He watched as the tiny woman shrank down in on herself, already under his spell.
"I-I only have two weeks," she said. "My comma – my boss will be expecting me back." Artemis did not speak, instead contemplating. He had not expected that she did not live in Paris, that she was only here for a little while. Meanwhile, Holly grew frantic when he did not respond. "I could stretch it to four!" she said, panicking. "Please!"
Artemis sighed. Four weeks. It was hardly the amount of time he thought he would have. Months, he had thought they would have months together, for him to shape her into a masterpiece and for her to fall in love with him – no, he told himself, don't think of her that way. She is a singer and nothing more.
"Very well, Holly. Be here tomorrow evening at eight o'clock for your first lesson."
"But – "
"What?" he snapped, beginning to grow angry. He did not like the way she argued with him. She was supposed to be good and do as he said. This was not the way it was supposed to go. She was supposed to be in awe of him. Instead, she questioned his every decision!
"Perhaps-people-like-those-men-before-will-attack-me-again," she said all in one breath. He sighed.
"I will let no harm come to you," Artemis crooned. "They do not understand you, Holly. They do not understand your gift." His voice wound around her senses, drawing her in ever deeper. He knew her mind would be running through thousands of scenarios, imagining every possibility that could be causing the voice in her head… but from past experience with controlling people with his voice, he knew her heart believed only what his voice told her to.
He stood there long after she had left. He took off his mask and pressed his face against the mirror, letting the cool glass sooth his overheated skin. His heartbeat was too fast against his chest, clattering against his ribcage like there was a small bird inside, suffocating, thrashing in its death throes against the confines of his ribs that were its coffin.
She was perfect. And he was a monster. This charade could not be continued forever; he doubted it could be continued for long at all. Perhaps they would not last the four weeks. Although his voice had wrought its magic upon her, he could see that the fire of her personality would not be suppressed for long. Perhaps he would not even last a handful of days as her 'Angel of Music' without something happening between them that would cast doubt into her mind…
But he would not worry about that now.
He buried his head in his hands, hours later, deep beneath the Opera. The morphine kissed away the anguish in his head, leaving his thoughts crystal clear as he floated on an ocean of serenity. The way was becoming open to him. He would teach her and make her a star, and that would be enough for him. He could float out of her life as ethereally as the angel she believed him to be. For four weeks he would teach her, mould her, turn her into the star he knew she could be. That would be enough. After that there would be no more between them. He was content to leave it at that. But for the duration those four weeks…
He had to have her. She would be his. She could never be anything but his. No one would ever want her as much as he did.
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