Until We're Dead
Phantom of the Opera belongs solely to its creators.
"A very small degree of hope is sufficient to cause the birth of love."
-Henri B. Stendhal
xxxx
A woman's voice permeated the morphine-induced fog clouding his brain, shrill and decidedly incensed. Minette, curse her, rattling at the portcullis, barking in her stern ballet mistress' tone.
As if that could intimidate him!
Erik burrowed deeper into the plush comfort of his bed, lying inert as he had for the past three days—or was it four? He couldn't remember. Time slipped through his fingers like the fine clear sand used to make mortar that would last a thousand years. Phantasms spiraled in his inner eye, images of the past blurring in a grotesque carousel.
A broken mirror, a crumbling rail, a pair of manacles thrown to the ground . . .
"Christine," he rasped, using his angel's face as a talisman to ward off the painful memories of his mother, Luciana, and the Daroga.
No! He wouldn't think of her! He refused to dwell on this perversion of the sweet, tender love he felt for her. Christine was all that was good and pure in this wretched world!
The racket at his door had mercifully ended. Minette had given up.
"Erik."
With an explosion of bedclothes, Erik was on his feet, a naked knife glinting in his grasp. Minette stared at him, clutching the crucifix he'd given her, hazel eyes round.
"How did you get in here?" he rasped, swaying slightly. The morphine slowed his reflexes, dulled his senses, twisted and warped the world so that the ground undulated under his feet; the wavering golden light of the candle Minette held made the walls shiver. Had he still been in the habit of it, he would have made a very easy mark for an assassin.
"Y—you gave me a key, remember?" Minette whispered.
It was true; he had given her the key to the Rue Scribe entrance, damn it, wishing to be alerted if Christine needed him. What an infernal mistake that had been—Minette had taken the key as permission to invade his home whenever the fancy struck her, urging him to eat or tidying his lair with longsuffering silence. Erik tolerated her fussing, but resented it fiercely at the moment.
A cool kiss of air on the right side of his face told him he was without his mask. Erik mastered the impulse to hide, or even to cover it with his hand. Minette had seen him far worse. To her credit, she held his gaze without flinching, but her nostrils were pinched, her complexion ashen. She dropped his gaze. Not out of horror for his ugliness, he knew, having become a keen enough judge, but something else. The knife, he thought, sheathing it with such fluid ease and familiarity that Minette began to tremble. Why did she fear him now? She had watched him kill a man before her very eyes, and still she saved him. Didn't she know that he would forever be at war with the world because of his face? A string of corpses ten miles long stretched behind him, branded him as murderer, shackled him as a freak of nature.
"So I did. To what do I owe the honor?" he drawled sarcastically, leaning against the down-swept wing of his swan bed frame. Not a gesture of deliberate casualness; Erik took pride in his gentleman's manners. The truth of the matter was he did not want to disgrace himself by collapsing. Days with only morphine and misery as sustenance had worn away his strength.
Minette gasped, staring aghast at his arm. She reached out to touch him and he shrank back, tugging down his sleeve to hide the scabbed puncture marks and collapsed veins of an addict.
"Are . . . are you ill, Erik?" Minette said softly. The sound of his laugh was bleak and empty of an iota of true mirth.
"You could say that. It is a sickness, in a way."
Yes, lusting after an adolescent girl qualified as a gross morbidity of the mind.
"Should I call for a physician?" Erik waved off her concern, noting her avid glance on his scabbed knuckles.
"No, I'll attend to it myself, thank you. Now why have you come?"
"Christine," Minette said.
Her name penetrated the stone wall of cold civility he'd begun to build around his heart, and he flinched as if receiving a blow. He turned his back to Minette, hiding his ravaged expression. Appalling bad manners . . . he really was a boorish monster . . .
"She's been nearly out of her mind with misery. I haven't seen her like this since her father died. What did you say to her? She says she offended you."
"Is it not possible that she did?" he offered coolly, equally miserable at the picture she painted. The poor child! Demented with grief over her Angel. God, it was his greatest sin to pervert her innocence!
"Erik, for the past eight years, you've led me to believe that Christine is the center of your universe. Now, all of a sudden, she isn't worthy of your attention? What happened?"
She became a woman, he thought, and my wretched flesh yearns for her. His hand fisted and he struck the pockmarked wall impotently.
"I can no longer be her tutor." Erik spoke the words with deliberate care.
"What are you saying? I thought you wanted her to take the stage. Are you just going to aband-"
"Silence, Madame!" he shouted, rounding on her, watching her shrink against the wall under the distilled anguish in his voice. He could not tolerate the word 'abandon.'
He was doing this for her own good!
The only truly selfless act of his life!
"She will still take the stage. I will give her the heart of the world, if it is what she desires. But I can no longer be her tutor. I will remain so only long enough to find a replacement," he repeated, bleating the words over and over to make them true in his own fickle heart.
The thought of anyone else attempting to mold Christine's voice—his most prized possession—made his stomach turn, but it was necessary. If he even looked upon her again, he would not stop until she belonged to him—in soul . . . and in body. The impression of hurtling inertia loomed ominously over him, like an impending avalanche.
"I don't understand your motives, Erik. But you do realize that Christine loves you. You know how sensitive she is. If you leave her now, she will think it's her fault." The threat of Christine's anguish was nearly enough to make him capitulate.
"So be it," he snapped viciously, "Leave me, Minette. I fear I'm not in a proper mood for company."
It's for her own good, he told himself.
This time, Minette was wise enough to hear the note of wavering control in his voice and absconded. Erik was left in the darkness, alone.
Always alone.
XXX
Erik wandered across a strange landscape of barren loneliness, chained by the pathetic remnants of morality and scourged mercilessly by his baser longings. In his bitter arrogance, he considered himself an expert in the cruelties of love. But what did he truly know of it? He couldn't compare what he now felt for Christine to anything else in his life. Not the convoluted knot of love, fear and loathing he felt for his mother, nor his infatuation with Luciana, his boyish worship of Giovanni, nor the friendship he bore for Minette and the Daroga.
Erik blinked back from his listless contemplation of the wall and laughed bitterly to himself.
"How did it escape me? How could I not realize I was falling in love with her?" he whispered.
Ah, what a cosmic irony it was!
When he at last succumbed to the sting of love's dart, it was a tragic, impossible love—blighted from its conception. Had all things been simple and fair, more than twenty years separated them. It was obscene, revolting, this shameful yearning. Beyond the fact of age, there was the hideous truth of his face and such sundry flaws as his morphine addiction, his checkered past and murderous temper.
Erik raked a hand through his hair. Through the mire of misery that enveloped him, a faint prick of clarity reached for him, like the plunge of a syringe's needle. The walls of his lair were no longer a cold, comfortable barrier between him and the world that didn't want him. Now, they seemed to smother him, the crushing weight of the Populaire pressing on his naked limbs, the deformed Atlas.
Imprisoned, caged . . .
Erik relinquished his hold on sanity, however tenuous it had been.
His feet led him to César's stall; his hands saddled him with atypical brusqueness. The revolving wall offered him a portal of freedom, the glimmer of a world beyond the Underworld, the dark kingdom where he reigned, where Persephone tempted him with her siren's voice and her maidenly innocence . . .
César sensed his fractious mood and flew beneath the slight touch of heel, flew like bat from Hell into the velvet embrace of the night.
In the weeks that followed, Erik threw himself headlong into his opera. The organ groaned under his merciless playing, birthing strange and beautiful music, unheard of on a corporeal plane. But it was not the purity of heaven that flowed forth, but the unspeakable desires of hell. Within the staves of that manuscript, written in ink as red as blood, were all the most violent and tortured of emotions made audible, an assault of body and soul.
And when he stood swaying with exhaustion, he cried out in exquisite agony upon the realization that his pitiful longing was still there.
He could not escape it, not in morphine, not in madness, not even in music.
Especially not here, in this prison of his own making.
No, he must go up!
Perhaps, if he flung himself from Apollo's lyre, then his pain would die with him!
Bathing and dressing was a solemn ceremony, garbing himself in his own funeral clothes. His white half mask fit to the contours of his ravaged cheek, its expression stern and cold. He tucked a red rose into his breast pocket. The symbolism pleased him. The only red rose this nightingale would ever sire! He would carry this symbol of his passionate, undying love for her to his grave—such shameful, terrible love!
With the wild desperation of a frightened animal, Erik climbed. Some vague instinct urged him to evade detection—ridiculous when he would be dead within an hour! He would be Phantom and Ghost in fact very soon! But he heeded it after a lifetime of living on the fringes of humanity, never daring to show his face lest he be screamed at, hunted down, locked away.
Upon reaching the roof, he registered a slender figure standing near the edge of the roof. He cursed to himself, melting against a statue of Pegasus. Why would God dare impede his mad dash toward Death's embrace? Is that not what He had been goading him towards since the day he was born? Erik glared at the interloper, hating them impotently.
Then, his eyes adjusted to the clear, cool dimness of the night. His heart tore free from his chest in its haste to return to its young mistress. Paradoxically, she was both the source of his madness, and its cure. The balm of her presence calmed the fevered tempo of his thoughts and revealed his suicidal impulse as foolish.
He devoured her appearance hungrily, like a starving wolf. Ah, how had he forgotten that freckle on her jaw, the endearing point to her chin? His memories and feverish dreams did not do his angel justice! Christine stood as the wind caressed her as Erik would never dare—pressing her dress taut to the nubile curves of her body, brushing aside the crimson cape, running its fingers through her mane of hair. The delicate line of her shoulders shuddered and Erik though for a moment she was shivering under the wind's cold ministrations. It was only when that same taunting wind brought him her thin cry that he realized she was sobbing. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, a throbbing regret burning in his chest.
Oh my love, if only I had never sang to you. Better for you to believe that there are no angels than for your Angel to betray your sacred trust . . . he thought.
Christine began to speak softly in a different language and Erik mentally made the switch to Swedish. After singing to her that fateful first time, he had devoted himself to tackling the nuances of Christine's mother tongue. With his skill with languages, it took little effort and seemed to comfort her. A fleeting flower of amusement bloomed. How charming! She spoke Swedish with a French accent!
"I thought I would hear you here, if you chose to speak."
Her head tilted back, looking up at the glittering constellations of stars. The waterfall of her brown curls cascaded down her back, nearly to her waist, and Erik was seized by a potent desire to bury his fingers in the rich, silky bounty, to feel the warm weight of her skull cradled in his hands. . .
"So close to Heaven . . ." her broken voice murmured. Christine's slender shoulders hunched, like a wilting flower.
"It's no use, though. You are gone." Erik winced the stark loneliness in her words, a mirror image of his own despair.
Sing to her, you fool, whispered an insidious voice in his head, you want to. She wants you to. You want to make her happy, don't you?
Christine gave a bleak little laugh, colored with tones of cynicism he thought beyond her.
"I must be going mad," her small, pale hand floated up, resting over her heart like an alighting dove.
"I can feel you close. It must be wishful thinking."
Erik pressed his forehead against the stone of Pegasus' flank, worn featureless by the elements and cool in the small hours of the night.
Oh Christine . . .
Her soft gasp caught his attention. Her brown eyes, reddened and tearstained, vainly searched the darkness, her lips quivering.
"Angel?" she breathed, "Angel, are you here?"
Had he said it aloud? Or was she privy to the whispers within his mind?
He had to leave. But Erik couldn't bear to leave her waiting and wondering. He drew the rose from his pocket and laid it at the base of Apollo's lyre.
XXX
Christine fancied that she knew what it was for a criminal to receive pardon, how it was to have blind eyes opened to the beautiful light of day. All for the fragile token cradled in her hand. A red rose, bound by a black silk ribbon.
Even if she never heard his voice again, she knew he was with her.
He'll always be there, singing songs in my head . . .
She could think of no happier fate.
"Christine!" Meg called in a hoarse whisper.
Christine bit back a howl of frustration and paused at the door of the dormitories. Every night she stood vigil on the roof, clutching the rose to her chest like a talisman. If she proved herself faithful, her Angel would deem her worthy of his instruction—she knew it! Any rule he demanded, she would obey, if only he would lift this cruel ban. His voice had become a drug to her, vital to her existence.
She needed it.
"What is it, Meg?" she hissed as her lithe young friend crept past the sleeping forms of their fellow ballet rats to where she crouched by the door. A sliver of moonlight pierced the window and shone on Meg's round face, creased in concern. Christine's irritation faded. Meg had been nothing but the most steadfast of friends ever since Christine was brought here when she was seven.
"Where are you going at this time of night?"
"The roof. The Angel of Music is waiting for me," she blurted. Meg's hazel eyes flickered, fear was evident there, as well as . . . something else. Concern for her sanity? Was she going mad?
"Christine . . . come back to your bed. You were dreaming," Meg insisted, tugging at her captive hand.
She was very tired . . . had she dreamed of his voice on the roof, crooning her name with such reverent tenderness? She must have. Now she would forever be chasing phantoms in the mist, running after at voice in the wind . . .
Her limbs felt leaden, chills wracked her slender shoulders. Very gently, as if she would break, Meg coaxed her back to her narrow cot, and Christine obediently curled under the covers. The world was spinning around her, her breath felt tight in her chest. Darkness rose up and swallowed her, the tapestry of her dreams dark and turbulent without her Angel's calming presence.
XXX
"Erik!" Minette's voice shattered the fragile shell of music he had begun to construct, and Erik lowered the bow of his violin. By God, he would wring her slender neck for abusing the use of that damned key!
"I do not take kindly to interruptions, Madame. State your business and leave," he snapped, each syllable enunciated with scathing clarity.
Minette was unmoved, as stubborn as ever. In fact, her reserved mien was now edged with what Erik identified as sorrow mingled with anger.
"Forgive the intrusion, Maestro, but I thought you would like to know how your pupil fares." Erik laid his violin in its battered case with tender care. He snapped it shut and the small sound ricocheted off his lair's walls.
"I have no pupil, Madame. I told you that," he choked. Minette's growl of irritation sounded like an angry cat.
"Fine," she spat through clenched teeth, "but pupil or not, I thought you would like to know that Christine is ill."
Every muscle and sinew in his body wrenched taut like piano wire—threatening to snap. Erik found himself at the door by the portcullis, shaking Minette by her shoulders.
"What? What has happened to her? Have called a physician? How serious is it? Answer me!" he howled, shaking her emphatically. Minette's smiled mirthlessly.
"I thought you didn't care what happened to her," she sneered.
"Don't be glib with me, you wretched woman! Just tell me what happened to Christine!" he roared. The power of his voice rang through her and she flinched.
"Erik, calm down. You're hurting me," she said softly. Erik loosened his grasp, but did not release her, with his hands or the potent scrutiny of his gaze.
"You've succeeded in goading me, Madame. Tell me."
Minette glared at him, unimpressed by the battering force of his anger. She had endured far worse in the long years of their acquaintance. Her thick skin made her invaluable as a companion, he thought privately. She and the Daroga would have gotten on famously.
"Apparently, Christine has been going up to the roof in the wee hours of the morning for the past week. Even in the pouring rain."
Guilt flooded Erik, deep and hot. The demon inside him had tormented him with his longing, whispering that Christine missed him, that she wanted him. Erik fought tooth and nail against his seductive persuasion.
"It's just a simple cold. The physician said that with a few days' rest, she should be fine." Erik swept past Minette.
"Erik, where are you going?" she called, jogging to keep up.
"I want to see her myself," he answered tersely.
Erik steeled himself against the surge of lust he knew would churn through his blood upon seeing his innocent love. Instead, his heart tightened in a painful rush of tenderness. Lying there in Madame Giry's private chamber, her head elevated by pillows to ease her breathing, she look so pale and delicate—his white rose. His gloved hand hovered over the curve of her cheek, brushing away a damp tendril of hair. She didn't even stir. The old doctor had given her enough laudanum to sleep the clock round.
A gasp slipped past his lips at the sight of his rose in Christine's tender grip, tucked under her chin. The pale oval of her face, illuminated by the wavering light of a taper, blurred and Erik realized with horror that there were tears in his eyes. Struck by her beauty or abject at the thought the hopelessness of his love, it didn't matter. He was completely and irrevocably tied to her.
"I will prepare a decoction for her. Better than any the good doctor can prescribe," he whispered to Minette. She had the audacity to smile smugly at him.
"I have no doubt of it," she fisted her hands on her hips, "remind me again why you refuse to see her? What offense has that dear child said against you? She wouldn't harm a fly."
Words of confession trembled on his lips, but Erik clenched his jaw around them.
Don't be a coward! chided the remaining shreds of his honor. Erik memorized the sweep of her eyelashes, capturing every minute detail with an artist's keen eye.
"I love her," Erik whispered. Minette's reply was quick and light.
"Yes. You've loved her for some years now."
"No, Minette," he said, straightening to his full height, nearly knocking his head on the Japanese paper lantern he'd given her and looking her in the eye unflinchingly.
"I love her," he said again. He watched comprehension dawn on her face, a startled horror.
"Erik . . ." she said slowly, as if explaining something elementary, "She's only fifteen."
"Don't you think I know that?" he hissed in a fierce undertone. He glanced at Christine's sleeping form with naked yearning.
"This . . . affliction is a betrayal of her trust in me. But it remains true. We cannot chose where we love. You see now, Minette, why I cannot be her tutor, or even be near her? I cannot scourge this wretched longing from my flesh."
Minette made a terse motion toward her office and Erik left Christine reluctantly, pathetically basking in her closeness. The door closed and Minette ushered him into a chair, plying him with her tea. He threw back the tepid cup like whiskey.
"So that's why you broke with her. You realized you had . . . feelings for her," she said delicately.
"Lustful feelings. A deep, hungry passion to possess every bit of her: her heart, her soul, her body . . ." Erik corrected.
"I understand," Minette interjected sharply.
Erik eyed her, stiff and wary, ready for her to curse his very existence and order him to stay far away from her foster daughter. Silence reigned for innumerable minutes as Erik waited for his sentence. There was a morbid sort of relief in it, he supposed. Maybe if Minette took the decision from his hands, he could find the will to leave her.
"There is only one thing you can do."
He laughed bitterly to himself and spread his hands.
"I am open to suggestion, Madame! Please, by all means, share your miraculous solution!" Minette smiled, a token curving of lips, her eyes solemn and oddly sympathetic.
"You must reveal yourself to her, Erik." The words had the same effect as a douse of cold water, an electric shock. He had expected her to condemn him, revile him. Leaping to his feet, he paced the small room in restless turns.
"Are you mad?" he demanded. He raked a nervous hand through his hair, wayward ends defying his careful grooming and sticking at wild angles.
"She would despise me for deceiving her."
"Then that would be her choice. It would be criminal for you to use your influence on her to twist her affections. Perhaps this 'Angel of Music' illusion was necessary years ago, when she was a child coping with the loss of her father, but not now. Christine is a woman in the most basic of senses. But at the same time, she is still very, very innocent. Thanks, in large part, to you." Erik's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"What I did, I did to protect her." he snapped. Minette spread her hands in a placating gesture.
"I know. You had her best interests at heart. And only because your motives were pure did I allow the farce to continue. But no more, Erik."
A smart retort hovered on his tongue, but he bit it back. He stilled, expelling a massive sigh. Her logic was elegant and impregnable. Truth dashed him in the face. He was afraid. Deathly afraid of her choice. He could easily have remained in the role of her guardian and angel, forcing her to forswear anything that displeased him—parties, drinking, the attentions of admirers—and, in her childish devotion, she would have obeyed.
Erik whispered: "I know you are right, but . . . I'm afraid."
Minette's eyes softened and a moment of tender intimacy warmed the air between them.
"Don't be. Christine is stronger than you give her credit for. I will tell her that you wish to see her as soon as she is recovered."
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A/N: I for one think that Erik wouldn't, couldn't, stay away from Christine for very long. She's all twisted up in his heart and soul. And now that our wise Madame Giry has given him permission, whatever will he do?
So what do you think? Like it? Hate it? Tell me!
R&R