We Have All Been Blind
xxxxxx
Madame Giry glared at the brown hand that had attached itself to her arm for the third time.
"For the last time, Monsieur, I do not have time to answer questions at the moment." Her tone flirted with the line between direct and rude. She followed the dark coat up the arm to the swarthy face of the Persian, a face of stern angles and gleaming intelligence. There was kindness in his dark eyes, she noted, even though he now frowned beneath the frame of his red velvet fez.
"Forgive my impertinence, Madame," he said in flawless French, marred only by a faint trace of accent, "but I would like to inquire about Josef Buquet."
He removed his hand and pulled a small black book from his coat. Licking the tip of the pencil he pulled from its place behind his ear, his thick eyebrows lowered over those brooding eyes in earnest question. A faint chill settled over her, remembering the shouts of 'Murderer!' echoing in her ears as she hauled Erik from that filthy Gypsy cage. Now he had done so again, in defense of her own daughter's honor. Her eyes narrowed to slits of suspicion. Surely the Persian wasn't in the service of the emperor?
"If you would like the official statement, take it up with the managers." She brushed past him, intent on making it up the small flight of stairs to the stage. The high-pitched lilt of girlish chatter and giggles of mes filles filtered from the stage. Ill Muto's choreography was more complex than marching rank and file in Hannibal, prompting Madame to schedule a short practice during the furlough.
"It is not a statement I seek, Madame, only . . . peace of mind, for the sake of a man I call my friend—our mutual friend, I believe. Erik?" Madame Giry stumbled, clasping the banister for support. This man knew Erik? She glanced back, scrutinized the tall, lean frame; clothed respectably in black, save for the crimson sash draped majestically across his chest. The Persian did not seem to be a con artist, or cruel, or mad.
"I have a prior commitment, Monsieur, but you are welcome to wait in my office," she said smartly. The Persian's dark eyes glinted with triumph and underneath the lush curve of his mustache she thought she saw the twitch of a grin.
"Of course, Madame. I completely understand. I will wait on your whim," he said with an extravagant bow. One of Madame's thin brows lifted. This time, she was sure of the twitch and found herself suppressing a smile as well.
"Right this way," she said.
XXX
Erik rose from the small cot on the floor of his storage room, scrubbing his naked face with both hands. While in many respects he did not consider himself a member of the human race, he was privy to the same weaknesses such as the need for food and sleep. His rest had been fitful at best. Christine, of course, starred in his dreams in erotic, explicit detail. Curse his fevered imagination and his fleshly appetites!
He shook away the dregs of his dreams, seeking the cool haven of control and focus where he was most comfortable. Long years of solitude had fortified his already stalwart mental defenses. He would not allow the sweet tendrils of Christine's beauty to make the mortar crumble. For her own good. For any hope of salvation. Erik and the God Christine and Minette worshipped were not on speaking terms, but . . . but if there was a Heaven, and that was where Christine would be, he wanted to keep the possibility alive that maybe, one day he could be there too.
Erik completed his ablutions as usual, though a chiding voice in his head noted how he lingered over the combing and shaving. Was he primping? It was too much to hope that Christine would find beauty in his unsightly carcass, but there was no harm in being neat and cleanly. He wore the guise of a gentleman well.
He settled at his organ bench, fingers stroking the ivory keys with a gentle familiarity. Don Juan intruded into his thoughts with all the pounding urgency of a racing heartbeat, but he resisted the lure. To insinuate tentacles of lust and animal hunger into Christine's mind while she slept would be the ultimate betrayal of her trust. The blessing and curse of free will, he thought. Perhaps it was his previous ruminations on Heaven, but Erik found himself wondering if God ever regretted the notion of free will.
Erik banished Don Juan, reaching back into the annals of his memory. The tenderness before the lust . . . his fingers danced over the keys, improvising new melodies, soft and gentle, like a lullaby. Or a kiss. Yes, he would shower her with kisses of music. A quiet patter alerted him to her presence. His fingers stilled on the keys and he took a fortifying breath. It was a good thing he did, for as soon as he turned to look at her, his breath whooshed out of him when confronted with the tousled vision standing two paces from him. Mental conditioning was nothing to the seductive potential of virginal innocence and the potent loveliness that was so clearly visible through the near-sheer fabric of her nightgown. The sleepy joy in her eyes made him want to grin like an idiot.
"That was beautiful, Maestro." she whispered. Erik jumped to his feet.
"You have risen early, my dear."
What was he to do with his hands? They refused to hang obediently at his sides, but plucked nervously at the silk of his robe, the same robe that Christine had worn so devastatingly last night. Christine nodded, tossing her mane of hair casually over her shoulder and stretching like a cat. Erik quickly diverted his gaze.
"A habit, I suppose. Madame likes to wake us early after the night of a performance. It's the perfect punishment for those who overindulged as she says."
"I would say so. But it would do little to help the janitorial staff if one of them made a mess on the stage." Christine grinned.
"No, it wouldn't."
The conversation stalled and Erik at last found a place for his wayward hands, folded firmly behind his back. Christine's small white teeth raked over her lower lip, a habit of hers when she was hesitant to speak.
"I didn't think you knew it," she said in a small voice. Erik frowned, mentally replaying the last exchange.
"Know what, my dear?"
"What you were playing just now. It was a part of the lullaby Papa would play for me when I was young. The notes were the same, but . . . the feel of it was different."
Perhaps because your father loved you as his daughter and I love you as a woman . . . as a wife.
"As much as I would like to claim so, I did not play it intentionally, Christine. I was simply . . . playing. I am pleased it was a comfort to you." he glanced down and saw her slender white feet peeking from the ruffled hem of her nightgown.
"The stone is very cold on bare feet. Why don't you dress, and then would you like breakfast?"
XXX
It was only once Christine sat at Erik's tall table and he set hard boiled eggs and a slab of toast in front of her that it struck her how privileged she was to see this side of him. She never imagined Erik, the devastating and rakish figure in her dreams to be so . . . domestic. She stared at the two lightly salted eggs, the precisely cut nine-grain bread sprinkled with cinnamon, and the sprig of parsley set in the center of her plate and felt tears clog her throat. He cared so much for her comfort.
"—I apologize for the sparse fare. If you are still hungry, I believe I have some soup leftover from supper, or I could—Christine?" Erik's voice sharpened with worry. She realized that she was staring teary-eyed at an egg and shook herself. His face filled her vision as he knelt beside her.
"Are you all right? Are you feeling ill?" one rebellious curl swung into her face and Erik's hand rose to brush it behind her ear. His hand hung, a breathless moment away from action . . . then fell to his side.
"Fine," she replied, grabbing the toast and taking a bite for demonstration.
The ensuing silence held all of the things that she wanted to say, but was too cowardly to manage. Erik did not need to hear the passionate declarations of a love struck girl. She wished desperately for him to do something! One did not act as Erik did, especially concerning Raoul, if one was merely concerned about a student's welfare, or a friend's. Erik heaved a sigh.
"I will gather your things," he said quietly. Christine, who had polished off the last of the eggs, sat up ramrod straight in her chair.
"What? Why?"
Erik's face was inscrutable as always, and Christine wondered if the white half mask he wore was the same one that had fallen in the lake or if he had a spare. Like a lady has gowns, she imagined a wardrobe full of masks for every occasion. Did he sleep in them?
"You needn't put on a brave face, Christine. I will take you back and-"
"No! I don't want to go!" Erik's eyes flashed. A dangerous energy gathered around him, blisteringly hot, anger and pain and . . . something else. He rose to his feet, towering over her.
"I will not have you crying at the breakfast table and staring off into space without acknowledging your own name! If you are so homesick, it would better if I simply took you back."
"Erik, I wasn't-"
"I understand your trepidation; of course, being trapped in close quarters with a monster would make anyone nervous, I daresay. And after my behavior last night, I would quite understand if you never-"
"Don't say that. Not ever! You are not a monster!" she said, rising from her chair. Erik softened, smiling gently.
"You poor child. How little you know of the world." Something snapped in Christine, like breaking glass. She slammed a palm flat on the table, barely feeling the sting.
"I am not a child!" she stood on her tiptoes to shout in his face. Another Christine looked in horror as she drilled a finger into Erik's chest.
"I am a woman, and you are a man." Her voice softened as she reached out to touch the smooth surface of the mask, "a scarred man, but still a man." Erik, who had watched this display dispassionately, seized Christine's wrist just as her finger grazed the pristine white leather.
"Stop this, Christine. Stop this at once," he hissed. Christine sank back on her heels, mildly bemused by her own conduct.
"Sit." Erik's tone, though as soft as velvet and as sweet as honey, had the same echoing finality of an absolute command. Christine obeyed, studying the delicate blue pattern rimming the edge of her plate.
"If you don't want me here, if you have work to do, then you should take me back." bitterness laced her tone. She dared to glance at Erik, who stood with his arms folded, leaning against the edge of the counter.
"I do want you here. Let us begin our practice. No more talk of leaving, hm?" he said gently. Christine brightened, relief loosening her limbs.
"Yes, Maestro!"
xxxx
After such a tumultuous morning, Christine was eager to bury her embarrassment. The roles of Maestro and pupil were comfortable ones for both of them, without all the pitfalls of emotion. The score of Ill Muto was simplicity itself, and Christine learned the notes and lyrics by rote as she was so accustomed to doing under her Angel's tutelage. The character of the Countess, however . . .
"No. No. No!" Erik's fist slammed on the organ's keys, which uttered a wheezing groan in protest. Christine exhaled through her nose, frustrated tears welling in her eyes. Tension rang through her. She sang the notes well, but lacked that elusive sparkle to make her performance real. Elissa, for all her selfishness and narcissism, was an innately tragic figure, passed between lovers against her will in Hannibal's absence. That tragedy and vulnerability had been easy to adopt. The Countess' aspirations eluded her. She and Erik had been at this particular aria for over an hour and patience on both sides was running thin.
"Christine . . ." he began, the visible side of his face tight with dissatisfaction.
"I know! I know! I can't get it right!" she snapped, kneading her pounding temples with her fingertips. To her ears, the air rang at her stunning audacity. She had never spoken so brashly against her Maestro, her Angel. What had possessed her?
"Perhaps we should take a break," Erik said. Christine nodded, too busy choking on shame to speak.
"Christine," he crooned and she gasped, taking an involuntary step back.
She hadn't heard him move and to have him looming there, exuding that irresistible mixture of tenderness and mystery unbalanced her. His scent and his heat rose up in soft clouds to embrace her and she longed to cradle her head against that little hollow in the center of his chest, the taut golden skin with its sparse dusting of hair visible through the loose lacings of his shirt. A muscle fired in the square angle of his jaw, but his voice was so incredibly gentle, like the lap of a tranquil lake against her toes.
"Forgive me. I shouldn't have snapped at you, my dear. You're doing wonderfully." Christine uttered a disbelieving snort, dropping her gaze to her folded hands. Erik's finger curled around her chin, lifting her head to meet his gaze. Her skin tingled with delight under such a small, simple touch.
"There is no shame in finding a selfish, conniving little twit like our Countess difficult to portray. In fact, I'm grateful the transition hasn't been an easy one." Christine giggled, marveling at the flash of his straight white teeth as he smiled, framed by that handsome groove in his cheek.
"There's a smile," he said, releasing her.
Christine flinched as a flat, irritating buzz shattered the peaceful moment.
"Damn," Erik muttered, glaring in the direction of the portcullis.
"What was that, Erik?" Christine asked, watching in fascination as he shed his robe and finished dressing in his dark garb with his usual poetry of movement. A waistcoat of a deep green, a black coat, gloves . . .
"It's an . . . an alarm, so to speak. Designed to alert me when someone enters my tunnels, or the Rue Scribe entrance."
"Is it Madame Giry?" His twitch of lip was wry.
"No. She knows the paths to take to avoid setting my alarms."
"Is that how you knew where I was a couple days ago?" He paused and studied her, his blue-grey eyes pensive.
"I found you then as I always have. I told you before, we are linked through music. I can sense your presence, just as you can sense mine." A warm rush of pleasure raced through her, a secret possessiveness delighting in the fact. The sensation rapidly chilled as another thought occurred to her.
"Maestro . . . when you warned me of dangers in the tunnels . . ."
"There are some . . . traps. None are lethal," Erik looked distinctly uncomfortable, tossing his hat between his hands.
"Well, some are," he amended. Christine gasped, her active imagination fabricating the worst possibility.
"Oh, I hope Raoul hasn't . . ."
If Christine hadn't had Erik's attention before, she had it now. She could have bitten off her tongue! His eyes seethed and boiled like a thunderous sky, his lean body deadly in an attitude of perfect stillness.
"What?" the word whipped out with a sharp bite and Christine shrank back in the face of his anger. Holy Virgin, how could he reach inside her and twist some vital part with one glance? Her hands gripped the edge of a nearby table for support.
"It would be a shame if your gallant lover was caught in the Phantom's traps in his daring rescue, would it not? Shall I go armed, Christine? Is your boy waiting for me with gendarmes above ground?" The thought of Erik fighting Raoul made her stomach pirouette inside her. She couldn't bear it if either one of them was injured.
"No, Erik! Of course not! It's just that with the way we left things the other night, he might-" Erik stalked toward her. Christine shrank back against the table. He halted suddenly, radiating conflict.
"What does he know about me?"
"Only that you are a composer and you are my teacher. I didn't tell him anything." Christine despised her sullen tone almost as much as Erik's suspicion. He held her gaze for an interminable length and she felt seared, stretched, pulled apart under the burning weight of his eyes. When he at last glanced away, she expelled the breath she didn't know she was holding.
"I must go." A new terror gripped her.
"Can I go with you?" she asked, standing awkwardly as Erik whirled around her, the cape and fedora completed the ensemble. He exhaled through his nose, and Christine was unsure where the source of his irritation lay. Was it with her for pestering him or whatever waited in the cellars?
"No, you may not. I will return shortly."
XXX
The lyric Persian cursing that reached his ears told him that it was the Daroga and not that miserable Vicomte who had tripped his alarm. Erik was unsure whether to be relieved or irritated at this development. He would greatly enjoy watching the boy muddle through his traps. It galled him to his very core that Christine would worry for his safety. Damn you, Raoul de Chagny! Damn your mother and father and your philandering brother as well! Erik seethed.
This particular trap in the third cellar was one of his cruder creations. A trap door dropped the hapless captive into a tangled web of ropes soaked in sticky adhesive—a particularly diabolical recipe of his own making. If the captive did not panic and did not mind ruining his suit, he could emerge perfectly unharmed, if exhausted, unkempt and emitting a foul odor. And, judging from the virulent cursing and noxious vapors emerging like a cloud of incense from the pit's depths, the Daroga was more irate than frightened. Erik's shoe crunched on glass and he hunkered down to find a gas lamp, presumably belonging to the Daroga, extinguished at the lip of the trap door. Despite the latent embers of rage for the bloody boy, despite his potent confusion and longing for Christine, amusement at the Daroga's expense flickered to life in Erik. Below, Nadir tapered into milder French.
"Goddamn bloody French bastard! I'll wring his skinny white neck for this!" Erik sank back on his heels, enjoying this performance far too much to interrupt.
Half-stifled grunts of effort muted struggling and the wet sucking and slapping sounds of the soaked ropes were telling. Erik could easily imagine the Daroga flailing helplessly like a fly in a spider's web.
"The little Daae can ruin her reputation all she wishes, I daresay she deserves it for stringing along the Vicomte de Chagny and our dear Phantom, but—Allah above that stinks!—but-" this little rant was cut off by a wordless exclamation and a wet squelch. The Daroga had mired himself even deeper. Erik's shoulders quivered with suppressed laughter. After another minute of futile struggling on the Daroga's part, Erik at last took pity on him. He shrugged the coil of rope off his shoulder, looping one end through a ring in the ceiling and fashioning a wide loop with the other end for the Daroga to slip his body through.
"Hello? Hello, is someone there?" Nadir shouted.
"Who do you think it is you bloody fool? I would have thought you knew better than to chase after me when I do not wish to be found!" Erik shouted back. Erik lowered the rope into the trap.
"Shall I schedule an audience then, O Shadow of God?" Nadir quipped in Persian, mocking one of the shah's favored monikers.
"If you had, you wouldn't be drenched in glue, now would you?" Erik replied in the same tongue. The rope went taut and Erik set about hauling Nadir's carcass from the pit.
"I spoke with Madame Giry. She explained the Buquet matter. In very succinct detail, I might add. A very curious woman, Madame Giry." The muscles of his arms and chest screamed at the burden of pulling up Nadir's dead weight. As such, he could only grunt in reply. Nadir needed little prodding.
"It was justice for what he did to little Meg Giry, but I don't want you to think you can go around killing people like some masked vigilante. Let the proper authorities attend these matters." Erik was very tempted to let go and have Nadir preach his sermons to an audience of rats and cockroaches. Hand over hand over hand . . .
"As to the little Daae-"
"Daroga, if you don't shut up, I will drop you!" Erik bellowed, the snarled words echoing off the close stone walls of the third cellar. The Daroga, who had spent many years managing Erik's temper, wisely shut up.
Erik forgave his meddling when he at last came into view. Erik made the mental note of adding feathers in the future for the proper effect. Erik manfully swallowed his laughter at the Daroga's general state of sticky dishabille, thinking the reality was humiliating enough. The Daroga attempted to loosen the knot around his middle, but his fingers stuck together. Erik drew a small dagger from his coat and cut the rope.
"Thank you," Nadir said, reaching into his coat for a handkerchief. He made an admirable attempt at wiping the adhesive from his face, but when the handkerchief stuck to his cheek, Erik finally released the laughter bottled up inside, letting it ring out and echo through the cramped corridor. Nadir, to his unending credit, laughed too, and soon they were both howling like loons at the absurdity of it. Some time later, Erik wiped tears from his eyes and said, "What in God's name brought you down here, Daroga? Surely the good Madame's explanation satisfied your perverse sense of morality."
"I am satisfied that your ah . . . your former pastimes have not found resurgence. But the little Daae . . . she left so suddenly after the performance, and I saw the Vicomte leaving her dressing room, so I thought . . ." the lingering high of laughter vanished.
"What? That I had kidnapped her?" Nadir shook his head.
"No. I also inquired after her to the Madame, and she was most adamant about the little Daae's desire to leave with you." there was a certain wryness in Nadir's tone that gave leave for Erik to imagine just what words Madame Giry had chosen to earn the title 'adamant.' Stubborn woman, he thought fondly.
"So? Why venture down into the Phantom's cellars?" Nadir's dark eyes were serious.
"To warn you. The Vicomte has a warrant issued for your arrest." Damn you, Raoul de Chagny! Erik thought, fists balled in impotent anger. Nadir's earlier blather about Christine made sense. Nadir had come to the erroneous conclusion that that Christine had somehow incited this, or that Erik had somehow snubbed the Vicomte to explain their present predicament.
"For what charges?"
"Insanity, it seems," Nadir said primly. Erik snorted.
"Well, I've never claimed to be sane," he heaved a sigh. That wretched boy was causing no end of trouble.
"Thank you for telling me, Daroga. Come, I'm sure I can find you some turpentine."
XXXX
A/N: A little Nadir-centric, but he's a meddler by nature! Hang with me, more E/C goodness to come! A big thank you to everyone who penned a review and all the favorites! Feed my review hunger! Please!