Wooooohoooo! I have written until 20k words for this, and as a celebration, you guys get a fourth chapter! I'm really spoiling everyone, huh. Thank you to all the three that followed this story, and the three that reviewed so far! Please more people please review? I don't claim anything for this lyrics except my pathetic edits, and some lyrics from the previous chapter are the genius of the person who created Notre Dame de Paris the musical, and these are the blood and sweat of ALW lol. I don't own them, please don't sue me! I love you all. Please read~ here is a extra longish chappie as a celebration lol. /pops champagne/ :D
Chapter Four
"Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure."
― Stephen King, Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption: A Story from Different Seasons
The days passed uneventfully with Christine and Erik sharing little tidbits of their own past, although nothing was starling to either of them. Christine grew weary of the small talk, as a curious teenager on the cusp of womanhood; she perused to pry a bit more into this mysterious Angel's past.
"Angel, I was told you had a time spent in Persia! Surely it must have been a joy to be in the Shah's employment! Tell me, mon ange, tell me about it! I have almost exhausted all of my past ever, do tell me of yours!"
His eyebrows shot up at her seemingly innocent request. That exact time in his life had been his darkest, his worst, and he had never hoped to share it with her if he could. Perhaps, if he told her, she would leave and return to Paris to be a good opera singer, and marry some boy not worth her love, and continue singing. And yet, he knew in his heart that he would never let her go, not after this prolonged periods of travelling together.
"Do you really want to know, my little Prying Pandora? Why unleash the curse upon yourself? Do you really want to know of the darkest secrets of your Angel in Hell?" he hissed acerbically.
Still, she held his gaze innocently, with her large brown eyes that spelt yes out clearly for him.
"Would you really care for me if you knew that the blood of tens of thousands of men were on the hands of this person you love? Would you love me even in my sins, as you claim? Don't be so naïve, Christine Daae."
"Erik! Why don't you trust me? Are you afraid? Afraid that I would reject you? Even after all these weeks of travelling with you? I returned to you! No, I never needed to! I always belonged to you! Why can you never believe me?"
"Because of that boy! Because nobody sane would love a criminal like me."
"Look at me Erik! Do you see hatred in these eyes? Do you see hatred flow forth from these lips?"
With one fell swoop, she captured his lips, her tongue waltzing with his to an unspoken beat. When she broke the kiss, she was breathless, gazing still into disbelieving eyes. Slowly, as if in a dream, Erik began to speak.
"My time in Persia was the least pleasant. I was an assassin by trade by that point in time. Having honed my skills since young to fight for myself after being thrown into what was practically a den to mock me, I was ruthless and knew no bounds. The Shah delighted in my killing of all his enemies, and even had me construct a torture chamber of sorts for his viewing pleasure as I killed them one by one. I had disappeared from the Populaire then, due to the fact that I felt unwanted again when Madame Giry had taken temporary leave to be courted by some artist. In four years alone, I had killed more than enough for a lifetime. One day, a woman was thrown in, together with her lover. I was told to spare the woman, but let her watch the horrific death of her loved one. As usual, I did what I was told, but that night, as the heartrending cries of a virgin being raped rang through the palace walls, I wept for the sins, which were mine. Lowering a rope I had fashioned of my assassin paraphernalia, I escaped the palace. Instantly, the Shah sent a brigade of men after me. After I had heartlessly killed every single one of them, to make sure that nobody wept, I went and killed their families too, thinking it to be a form of mercy on their part. Only the Daroga was left, a Persian man by the name of Nadir. He was the first kind soul I had met since entering that heathen land! He was the one that assisted me in my escape to Paris, and I have kept in contact ever since, although now he resides in Nice."
Having spoken all that, he averted his eyes, not wanting to meet Christine's lest she be horrified or detest him. What he did not expect, were two porcelain perfect arms to creep around his neck and pull him close.
"Poor unhappy Erik!" she murmured. "What horrors you must have seen…"
And with those words, for the second time in his grown life, Erik felt at peace. And so, Erik wept.
The more he pondered on it, the more he doubted himself for bringing her on the journey. It was perilous, and who knew what could be lurking? They were but barely past halfway through these mountains, a treacherous set if he did say so himself from his travels alone in the past. Then, he had been but a young teenager on the cusp of becoming an adult, much like his charge now was. Looking over to her sleeping face, this goddess, he could barely breathe again. His chest tightened as he beheld her form for the billionth time in his whole life, since her youth to now, where she had blossomed into a willowy, beautiful young maiden, accentuated with the curves of a goddess.
Venus. Aphrodite. Hathor.
Three different names, speaking of the same goddess of love and fertility and a goddess endlessly beautiful, married to a deformed god such that she could pose no threat to the world. Perhaps, he could hope to have such a fairytale for himself in the marriage of himself to Christine. He had never spoken of it, but he suspected he knew that he was preparing for a life where they would live together. One day, they would return to the lair so ravaged, and he would salvage the dresses he made for her, the little trinkets he had fashioned since young, and the notes he had written. Knowing the crowd to be as dim witted as he presumed to be, he had returned to find the main part of his lair as he had presumed, ravished and ransacked. They had never found the hidden parts of it, the switches that hid the panels to his most precious items. His watercolor set and parchments still lay in the cabinet in the Louis-Philippe room, as his clarinet and flute in the cubbyholes hidden into the stone floor. The phoenix bed however, was beyond repair, and he intended to fashion another for them when they took up residence, hopefully, in Salzburg. Should fate not be on his side however, he had already made arrangements for his lair to be a hospitable place for Christine and him, and that Christine would take up a career again at the Opera Populaire if it was ever rebuilt…
If.
He could almost weep at the ease by which he had destroyed all his work by his own hand, when he had built it up from an exponentially dwindling subscriptions rate. First, he had forced them to premiere Faust, which drew in the crowds by the hundreds and thousands. And then Hannibal and Romeo and Juliet. By the time of Christine's debut, he had built up a respectable following for the Opera Populaire, almost making it worthy of the name Populaire. All he needed was Christine to sing. He would eventually marry her, he supposed, after all, she was already his, having received her father's blessing. And then that boy had showed up, inciting the anger and Phantom spirit in him to rise up and destroy everything, leaving everything in a worse state than when he had ever begun. Perhaps, he was a curse to his own self, his own follies his own downfall. Another night this night would be spent looking at a beautiful creature he did not deserve, and dreaming of a perfect life. He hummed a soft melody to himself, realizing that again, he was composing for Christine. Tracing his gloved hand over her jawline, he gathered her into his arms as gently as he could, as if to reassure himself that he was not dreaming, and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Chriiiiii-stiiiiiine…
The cold walls pressed onto Erik, threatening to cage him and drive him away from Christine. A lash from the gypsy man served to make him shrink back in fear. Outside, he could see the love of his life laughing and talking in opulent high society, dressed to the nines in the wedding gown he had designed for her. When she turned to face him, she was singing the most beautiful song ever. Taking slow, deliberate steps to him, he lunged forward to meet her, only to be driven back by the whip again, like an animal. And yet, as Christine walked closer and closer to him, she seemed to almost be the animal itself, baring sharp fangs, and laughing gaily, like bells tingling…A shiver ran down his spine involuntarily as she spat and hissed at him, like a snake about to strike…
"No! Christine!"
His eyes shot open, barely registering the dark surroundings. They had taken residence for the night in an overturned caravan this time; a bright red one like the tent Erik had been exhibited in. He sighed, mopping his brow. The dream was vivid like no other, him switching from child to grown up self and yet still fearing the whip, still almost childlike in a sense, waif thin and longing for Christine. And she had almost killed him in the dream…that Siren's song… Looking at the woman still in his arms, he let out a soft sigh of relief that she was still the way she was, and not awakened by his foolish nightmare.
Christine, I love…you…
Masquerade,
Paper faces on parade.
Hide your face so the world will never find you.
Anywhere you go let me go too…
Christine,
That's all I ask of you…
Taking off his mask so he could cry freely, he stroked her hair softly, never wanting to let go.
Christine awoke to the sight of Erik asleep and still holding her in his arms. Surprised, she snuggled in closer, realizing that he did not wear his mask. He must have somehow fallen asleep without it. She smiled to herself, slowly stroking his deformity lovingly, hoping that he would not wake.
"Christine," he murmured breathily.
Worried that he may have awoken, she hastily removed her hand, pretending to be fast asleep. When she realized that he was still fast asleep, she sat silently in the quiet of the morning, watching him sleep. What Raoul had been to her was forgotten in that eternal morning of time, in his resplendent darkness and imposing figure that lay before her like a prince in a fairytale. Often she had dreamed of her Angel becoming a man, and to love her as he had. Once, when she was eleven, she had pleaded with him to come in the flesh. Memories of that one time flooded her head as her hands curled around his cool leather clad ones, remembering their touch and feel on her cheeks.
Christine sat in the chapel, her messy chocolate ringlets falling around her hair. She had lost most of her baby fat by then, and yet she still had the innocence of a child as she approached her first cycle of twelve years. Today, she had just turned eleven, and she sought out her Angel to tell him of today.
"Mon ange! Today is my birthday! Where are you? I wished so long for a birthday where I could see you and feel you alive…monsieur Angel, please?"
Her innocent voice carried through the walls, to Erik's ears. Never had one asked to see him alive, instead, others would take to their heels and fled to the hills when they saw him approach. The Devil Incarnate, they had called him. The Devil's Child, he was titled. He could not resist.
"Close your eyes," he quietly instructed.
She nodded, complying. A soft gust of wind tickled her features as she felt a person enter the room. Erik was dressed in his Angel of Music clothes, in his dress clothes with a deep green vest and maroon cravat.
"Open your eyes, Christine…"
She opened them, and he stood before her, a man almost double her height. He was expecting her to scream or to cry at such a dark imposing figure, and yet this child merely stared at him through a pair of deep chocolate eyes before running to embrace him. His chest seemed to tighten and his heart skipped a beat, as he carried the child to sit on his lap in the alcove with the stained glass angel.
"Mon ange, please sing for me?"
He nodded slightly to her.
"But first, happy birthday, cherie."
Hugging her close as if to wish her happy birthday, she listened in rapt amazement and awe as he sang a French folksong she had heard when younger. Although she barely understood the lyrics, she in her innocence still understood it was about love. Although, it was never until the night which they had descended to his lair that she would ever understand why he had sung that for her.
Mon amant me delaisse
O gue vive la rose
Je ne sais pas pourquioi
Vive la rose et le lils
Il va-t-en voir une autre
O gue vive la rose
Ne sais s'il reviendra
Vive la rose et le lilas
On dit qu'elle est tres belle
O gue vive la rose
Bien plus belle que moi
Vive la rose et le lilas
On dit qu'elle est malade
O gue vive la rose
Peut-etre elle en mourra
Vive la rose et le lilas
Si elle meurt dimanche
O gue vive la rose
Lundi on l'enterrera
Vive la rose et le lilas
Mardi reviendra me voir
O gue vive la rose
Mais je n'en voudrai pas
Vive la rose et le lilas.
Long live the rose and the lilac…
How long could they hope to play at lovers before they reached Austria and life would overwhelm them again? How long more would they two wait before they were one? Continuing to watch this man, this enigma of a Phantom, she wanted nothing more than him to ravish her senseless as her fantasies had always told her was best, and for her to run her hands through that glorious blonde sable hair, and watch his grey green eyes and the love they beheld…
For her.
Merde. She had seen and seen again.
How was he to ever keep her from seeing the horrors that had caged him like a bird? His mask lay beside his head, and he barely remembered removing it. He had longed to wake before Christine did; unfortunately his body had betrayed him. He could hear Christine in the far end of the caravan, busying herself with something. He groaned inwardly, his brow creased in a frown. It was not that he minded his deformity; he detested the social stigma that came with it. He grumbled to himself before rolling onto his side to resume his mask and get up. Already the sun was fairly high in the sky, and he had hoped to be at the borders of Austria today.
"Good morning Erik," Christine called cheerfully, noticing him awake. Also noting the fact that he had resumed his mask, she frowned. "I like you better without that," she stated plainly, as if speaking to a child.
"Do you understand the social implications there would be if I did not have such a scrap of clothing, mademoiselle?" His voice was laced with cold sarcasm, snapping at an unwary Christine. She nodded meekly, reaching up to his jowl. Catching her outstretched arm gracefully, he shook his head slowly.
"No," he hissed. "The fact that you make THAT action shows you don't. I see nothing in your pursuits, my Prying Pandora, to unmask me."
"There is, Erik. I thought that with that kiss that you would understand! I thought, then, Erik, you had released all your demons inside, all that haunted you since birth! And yet, you still cling to that dratted mask, Erik, don't you realize that I thank God everyday for what you are, for if you were whole…Erik, you would have been perfect…and I would not have you. In any case, that mask was your darkness. Your phantom spirit that addressed me when I first entered the lair, but no, never will I want that, for when I left, all I could think of was you. You heard me on the rooftop, that I am sure. Erik, it is you, you and only you that makes me sing."
"As is you that leads me into song," he thought to himself, slowly letting her hand go. Finding her temporary manacles gone, she reached up to stroke the unmasked side of his face.
"This, dear Erik, is beautiful. It looks to be fashioned by the will of God and His angels."
"While the other looks to be fashioned by the most unholy of demons and Lucifer himself, dragged through hellfire that it melted like wax. Quite an enigma, and I beg to differ as to your perceptions of perfect."
"Why should you? Look at you, your perfect body, with your lovely hair. It is said that I am too flat chested, and my hair is an absolute mess."
"Lies, all of them. You are perfect, and your hair is the very silk of God," he countered effortlessly.
"Then you. Are perfect too."
He was silenced at the simple way which she had conceded, and finding that precious time had been ticking away, he led her out into the sunshine to be on their journey again.
YAY! I will continue to write more, but I cannot promise I will update so fast, school is beginning again and I have major exams in 2 weeks time :( Review pleeeeeeease? :D I love reviews, everytime I see them in my email I let out a squeal in my head lol