Fathering Gaze
Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera or any of its wonderful characters.
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Devil's Child . . . Angel of Doom . . . Opera Ghost . . . Phantom of the Opera . . . Angel of Music . . .
Of all of his titles, the last was the most precious. Christine, that sweet, shy child, had unwittingly become his muse. After singing to her that first time, the formless urge, the insatiable hunger to create was now given purpose and direction. Descending to his lair, he lost himself in music, each note utterly incandescent in its purity, its beatific innocence. Time ceased to have meaning as he lost himself in the joy of composing. When he emerged from his creative cocoon, he was exhausted, but exultant. Don Juan Triumphant would be unlike any opera the world had ever seen. Disgusted with his unshaven, ink-stained carcass, Erik bathed and dressed. No matter how eccentric he grew, he would not let his standards of hygiene lapse.
As he made his way toward the upper world, he wondered absently how much time had passed. Years ago, after collapsing after nearly three weeks without food, he made a point to eat at regular intervals. An otherworldly being though he claimed to be, his body was that of a man and suffered from such needs as food and drink. Now, something like hunger made itself known to him, a distant grumbling in his empty belly. He would eat. But not now. Now he had to find Christine.
He found his little muse tucked away in her narrow bed in the ballet dormitories, among a dozen more such beds, each adorned with their own sleeping cherub. Erik watched the rise and fall of Christine's small chest and was soothed by its even cadence. Moonlight bathed her in its pearly glow and as she rolled over, his keen eyes caught the silvery path of tears on her cheeks. It was a knife's blade to his heart. Pain ebbed, replaced by a fierce, unreasoning anger. Who had dared harm his precious child? He released the anger with a slow breath. The lilting melodies of Don Juan lingered in his inner ear.
No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy . . .
"Christine . . . Christine . . ." he sang tenderly, projecting his crooning voice into her ear. She woke with an audible gasp, her eyes darting wildly to and fro.
"Angel," her childish treble hushed with reverence and tragic joy.
"Why do you weep, my dear child?" he whispered. The most extraordinary expression of reproach touched her delicate features.
"You were gone, Angel. Why did you leave? Was it something I did?" she quavered, tears gathering like liquid diamonds on her graceful lashes.
Erik was taken aback. A muse, a talisman, he had named her, a pet. But she was a living, breathing girl. He, above all others, should know what it meant to be treated as less than human. Never in his life had he been responsible for another's wellbeing. Never had someone relied solely on him. As her Angel, it was his responsibility to safeguard her from the cruel world that would only crush this delicate flower beneath its boot heel. He contemplated this new duty and found a wellspring of protectiveness that almost frightened him in its scope and magnitude.
"Forgive me, child. I have no concept of mortal time. What was days to you was mere moments to me. I will be more diligent in the future," he soothed. Relief spread across her face.
"Oh thank you!" her effusive gratitude made him oddly abashed. He was, after all, manipulating this child's fantastical imaginings.
"Sleep now, Christine," he said, more sharply than he intended. Obediently, she snuggled beneath the covers. Erik began to depart, when her soft voice called him back.
"W—will you sing to me, Angel? I do love listening to you sing. Or would you like me to sing with you? Papa said I had a voice like an angel." Erik's heart tightened in a rush of tenderness so profound, he nearly swept her into his arms.
"Not tonight, darling Christine. Lay your head and sleep. I will sing to you."
XXX
The next night Christine stood, endearingly tousled in her shift with her small, pale hands folded demurely in front of her. The air of hushed significance gave Erik pause. Nebulous fear gnawed at his innards, as if he was swaying on the edge of a great precipice.
Stay away from the edge.
"What shall I sing for you?"
Memory swamped him of a similar scene in his own childhood, a stout, aging priest who found beauty in his voice where his mother only found misery, the promise of retribution livid in her dark eyes. In an absurd symmetry, he heard himself say, "The Kyrie, Christine. You know the lyrics?"
"Yes, Angel," she answered, eyes sparkling with joy even as her voice quavered with nervousness. The fear lingered, like the shadow of his Punjab lasso, the keening grate of a sharpening blade. He couldn't summon a word of encouragement, or so much as a bar of accompanying song. Christine began very softly, like the distant fragrance of roses borne by the wind.
"Kyrie eleison . . ."
The lasso tightened around his neck, the knife plunged into his chest. Those soft, trembling words sank into his mind with exquisite pain, brutal elation. Opium, hashish, morphine, none had the addictive power of Christine's angelic voice! Erik forced himself through the rude motions of breathing, thankful the moldering stucco hid the tears in his eyes. He found his voice in the last repetition of the chorus, and together they soared through the notes. Something burst into life even as their song died. Something as profound as the creation of music and as old as mankind.
XXX
In teaching Christine, Erik filled a void within himself that he hadn't even recognized. Watching her bloom with newfound confidence, to be gifted with that slow, shy smile . . . ah, it was perfection!
Her voice! By God, what beauty lurked under her strangling timidity, like a rare flower suffocated by choking vines. And he would be lying to himself if he didn't say that her childish worship didn't appease his deepest inward yearning for love.
Erik led her deep into the rich landscape of music and literature, painting a rainbow of beauty and knowledge. The hours between when he would teach her stretched on and on. With her, he saw the world through new eyes; he discovered again the simple splendor of ancient fables and poetry, the soaring beauty of the world's greatest composers, the quiet poignancy of a great artist's brush. Under her Angel's guiding hand, she flew.
The only obstacle to the perfect contentment that existed between master and pupil was, ironically, Minette Giry. His deception vexed her, and Christine's deferential, nearly slavish attitude toward her 'Angel' worried her. Erik understood, in an oblique fashion, acknowledging that Minette loved Christine as a daughter.
As if Erik would ever harm her! The thought of anyone causing her the slightest displeasure angered him beyond belief.
"You must acknowledge that she has a magnificent gift, Minette," he pointed out in exasperation. The tact to accept her revolting tea was beyond him today, his grew tepid in its saucer. Minette sipped hers delicately; her hazel eyes boring into him like an auger.
"Oui. I am aware that Christine is very talented. If you think she needs training, the Conservatoire could-"
"Bah! The Conservatoire would corrupt her, stifle her genius! I'm the only one who can give her the tutelage she needs. The world will be her stage, if she wishes it," he vowed passionately. The calculating glitter in Minette's eyes softened slightly.
"You truly want the best for her," she whispered. Erik swallowed an offended rejoinder and instead said, "Yes."
"Very well. Teach her."
Erik smirked. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he didn't need her permission, but he stopped himself. As Christine's warden, her surrogate mother, not to mention as his only friend left alive in the world, Minette deserved a say in her agenda. Minette lifted an admonishing finger.
"But there must be limits, Erik. Be reasonable. I'll not have Christine traipsing around the halls at all hours of the night in naught but her shift!"
"Of course," he replied, striving to be accommodating.
"Only an hour each night. She needs her rest," Minette ordered. Erik's eyes narrowed.
"Two."
"One and a half."
"Done."
"And no more practicing in the chapel. It's damp and cold down there, she could catch her death," Minette fussed. Erik's patience was rapidly wearing thin.
"Where then do you propose we practice, Madame?" Minette shrugged in an expressive Gallic gesture.
"The music room?" she offered.
"There are windows everywhere! We'll be seen!" Erik protested. Minette sipped her tea, a self-satisfied smile curving her bowed lips.
"You're the magician, Erik. I'm certain you can make it work."
Erik took Minette's sarcastic comment as a professional challenge. When Christine entered, now clad in a woolen nightgown and robe, he watched her wondering brown eyes wander over the empty room. Her humming awareness told him that she felt his presence. She had a knack for it, when he watched her from afar, even when tossing in her bed as she slept. More than once, he heard her murmur, 'Angel.' She could sense his presence just as he could sense hers.
Theirs was a rare bond.
"Good evening, Christine." Careful ventriloquism emanated his godlike Angel voice from the piano bench. Christine bowed her head in a solemn nod.
"Angel. I cannot stay long tonight."
"Why not?" he demanded harshly, slipping easily into the role of autocratic master. Christine shrank from the force of his anger that arched like a bolt of lightning through her and Erik regretted his mock irritation. Christine was such a delicate creature, possessing such a tender heart. In a profession notorious for its frivolity and scathing criticism, Christine was an incongruous fit.
"M—M—Madame Giry, my warden. She—she doesn't like me to sneak away. She's caught me sleeping in ballet practice. I try to stay awake, really I do. I'm so sorry, Angel . . ." The words tumbled out of her and Erik was horrified to see tears in her soulful brown eyes, threatening to fall.
"Oh, my darling child! Hush! Hush, now." His voice swooped down and grabbed her with gentle hands, softening to honey and silk.
"Forgive me, my child," he crooned, "You possess the voice of one of my brethren and I often forget that you are simply human. If you ever tire, or have need of anything, please tell me." A sigh of relief escaped her and she straightened up.
"Thank you, Angel. I will not fail you," she promised with such honest bravery that his heart melted into a puddle. Instead of replying, Erik made the keys of the piano begin a scale with a brisk flourish.
"Let us begin."
XXX
Years scrolled by in a comfortable rhythm. Under Erik's influence, the Populaire flourished. Instead of the same tired track of simpering tragedy and hackneyed comedy, Erik's selections brought depth and artistic expression. For flavor, he even sprinkled in a few of his own works, left with unnerving anonymity on Lefavre's desk. It gave him a wicked thrill to watch the manager change the locks and surreptitiously check his snuffbox where his wad of gambling francs was kept. And, true to Parisian form, nobles clamored for novelty, devouring the mystery of the enigmatic composer who signed his works Erik with greed reminiscent of a child for another sweetmeat.
In those halcyon years, Erik knew the first untroubled sleep of his life.
Christine flourished under his guidance; every note that fell from her lips was a tear from God's eye, exquisite in its beauty. When he did not teach her, he watched her, ever protecting, guided by a gentle, abiding emotion he at last realized was love. He loved Christine as his pupil, his protégé, as heir to his throne of music. In his mind's eye, he saw Christine as the prima donna of the Opera Populaire, his spirit soaring through her voice, in one combined . . .
Soon, the day would come when she would break free from the petty obscurity of the chorus line and take her rightful place in the limelight.
The only thing that tarnished his existence was Christine's soft-spoken pleas to see him. She did not ask often, but whenever she overcame her innate shyness long enough to ask him, confessing her simple longing for her beloved Angel's presence, it took every molecule of his will to refuse her. Erik would have gifted her with anything under the moon—what an infernal irony that she would ask for the one thing he could not give! When she asked for the third time, he snapped something sharp and cruel, and that had silenced any further requests. But without fail, after every lesson, Erik gifted her with a token of his praise and affection. A white rose, bound by a black ribbon; a symbol of her pure beauty.
Early in 1868, Erik paced in his hiding place behind the mirror in La Carlotta's old dressing room. The temperamental diva had complained that the room was too drafty and obscure for one of her talents, but not before painting the whole room with garish pink roses. With the spring production of Faust in full swing, and Christine dividing her efforts between ballet and her position in the chorus, Minette wrangled him into continuing her lessons in the afternoon. Erik agreed with an obligatory grumble, but without any heat. He and Minette were united in their desire for Christine's continued happiness and he wouldn't dare deny her rest to appease his selfish hunger for her presence.
But today, she was late.
As the minutes ticked by, his ire climbed. He heard the click of the door opening and whirled around to deliver a scathing tirade on the virtue of promptness. Upon seeing her, the words died stillborn. This time, it wasn't a noose, but a steel cord suffocating him, wrenching his neck at that impossible angle. It wasn't a knife, but a sword carving out his heart. Winded and flushed from the exertion of ballet and clothed in ridiculous scraps of cloth that passed for a costume, Erik was confronted with the knowledge that he had not purged himself of fleshly human longings as he hoped.
No, the latent hunger roared to screaming life, howling in his ears like a mad animal. Christine, his muse, his darling angel, had made that miraculous metamorphosis from a slender waif of a girl to the budding beauty of a woman. Terribly young and immature still, but her body was undoubtedly a woman's. Erik recognized the surge of primal emotion as a man's honest lust, indecent as it was.
"Forgive my tardiness, Angel, but-" she began.
On any other day, her lack of punctuality would have earned her a stern but gentle reprimand, or a bout of mild teasing. But now, filled with such utter disgust and self-loathing, Erik lashed out like the cruel, revolting animal he was.
"How dare you keep me waiting! If you have so little respect for my teachings, perhaps I should find someone else who is more worthy of them!" he snarled, thundering into the vulnerable chambers of her mind with his vicious rebuke.
The words boiled with all the seething, angry heat of a volcano, matching the throbbing agony now raging to life in him. With a soft cry of pain, Christine crumpled to her knees before the mirror, trembling hands clutching her head, her beautiful mane of brown curls surrounding her like a living veil. Like a lanced boil, the poison vomited forth from his mouth, spewing hateful words, "You would come before me dressed as a slattern? You defile my music! I tire of your mortal vices. Perhaps a time without my presence will teach you humility!"
"Master, please . . ." she sobbed.
She seemed to shrivel under the onslaught of his displeasure. His final words raced through her and she lunged for the mirror, lovely face contorted with raw pain, hands beating against the thick glass. Erik shrank back, ravaged by the sight of her so demented in grief.
He ran.
All of his grace and power deserted him—he stumbled and fell more than once, blinded by suspicious moisture. Shattered by Christine's pain that even now called out to him and sick with his disgusting cravings, Erik was soon lost, lost in the labyrinth of his own making, choked by the noose he'd made with his own hand. Had he not spent the last eight years molding her voice into one angels would envy? The Angel of Music loved her for her voice. But what of poor, unhappy Erik? His hands scrabbled against the inanimate stone, howling in frustration in the consuming darkness of the fourth level cellar.
It was only once the portcullis slammed closed that Erik was confronted with the macabre nature of his chosen existence. A lair carved out of a sewer. Was the portcullis to keep people out, or to lock him in? An unloved son, a sideshow freak, a magician, an assassin, an extortionist, a morphine addict . . . his sad, convoluted past rose up to swallow him. He yanked the sheet covering the mirror and ripped off the mask—scourging himself with his hideousness. A broken wail issued from his lips and he attacked the gruesome vision, slamming his fists into the glass, ignorant of pain, or the blood weeping from his knuckles.
Attacking the monsters in the magic mirror . . .
The faithful mirror reflected his twisted face into ever smaller pieces, peeking through smears of red. One tiny kernel of truth settled into the fevered tapestry of his thoughts: He was no angel, or even a man.
Oh Christine, he thought, it is a monster who loves you.
Erik turned from the shattered mirror, and yanked open the drawer containing the morphine. He hadn't touched it in weeks, preferring the high of Christine's voice. His bleeding hands shook, and he plunged the needle deep. The grunt of pain turned to a sigh of relief as a sweet, numbing euphoria enveloped him in silken arms. Here, the supple curves of Christine's nubile body could not torture him. As sanity slipped away, Erik swore a vow.
I won't go back.
I will never go back.
XXX
He was gone.
Her Angel of Music was gone, never to return.
Her copious tears, her sobbed pleas, the grief bleeding from the deepest parts of her soul were all in vain. Christine leaned her forehead against the cool surface of the mirror, exhausted. She wept until there were no more tears, pounded against the inanimate glass until her hands were bruised in a paroxysm of desperation. Sadness wrapped around her in a familiar cloak of wet, grey despair.
Her mortal hands could not hold him; he slipped from her grasp as he had recently begun to in her turbulent dreams, a bewildering impression of primal, possessive pleasure . . .
Oh, she was awake now. Awake for perhaps the first time since her father died.
The happy confection of her existence with her beloved Papa had swiftly collapsed on itself when he breathed his last. The world wasn't just sunshine and music, but darkness and loneliness. Madame Giry and Meg, they loved her, but still Christine yearned for the angel her father promised on his deathbed.
Then, he was there. Her miracle. Her Angel of Music.
His voice!
Oh, the voice of smoke and honey that surrounded her in such incandescent warmth! She had longed to clothe herself in it, hide in that voice forever. The simplest phrase sounded like poetry on his lips. Perhaps it was her desire to see him that pushed him away. Mortal vices, he'd said. Why was it such a crime that she wanted to look upon his beautiful face? In her deepest heart of hearts, she wished he was a man she could see and touch and adore.
Or was she being punished for loving him? Surely God would not allow one of His angels to usurp His rightful place in the heart of his followers! Her Angel was her Gabriel, bringing a forlorn child without a father tidings of joy. He was her Uriel, her fiery Angel of Music who taught her passion for their art. He was her Michael, fighting away the demons of loneliness and sorrow with his mere presence.
Christine saw her face in the mirror and winced. Eyes swollen and bloodshot from weeping and startlingly pale, it was no wonder someone like her Angel would shrink from her human excesses. The wild mane of curls that earned her such scorn fell around her face, defying the mess of pins that Madame Giry used to tame it.
He had said she was beautiful once . . .
"Angel of Music, you have shunned me . . ." she sang softly, the last notes that would ever pass her lips.
Without him, none of it mattered.
"Angel of Music . . ."
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A/N: I always thought that Erik would have a 'Holy crap!' moment when he realized that his feelings for Christine were more than platonic. Whatever will he do now?
Tell me what you think!