A/N: Another cliffie. Dear God in heaven above belonging to Christine Daae, the God of Christine and Erik in the future, please don't let the phangirls kill me for abusing Erik. He will live though. He is always the stronger man. Amen.
I have 666 views. Erik is happy. LOT 666 then, ladies and gentlemen, a chandelier, in pieces. We are told that this is the very chandelier that figures in the famous distaster. Our workshops have rewired it with the new electric light. Perhaps then, we could hope to scare away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination...
(I typed the above thing from memory, I swear. How I even did that must be my level of Phangirling. :D)
Chapter Six
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
-Poe, The Raven
How was Raoul alive? Christine's mind too was in endless shock, finding herself absolutely in denial. Had she not identified his body? Had she not seen him before her very eyes, dead as the grave marker on his grave? And yet it seemed he was alive, very much alive. Her hands grasped the air, finding no words at all to make Erik stay. But he had to! He must stay! He could not leave her like this! And already, she knew he had plans for her to be well cared for. Already he had provided everything for her, except the one thing she wanted, a full heart. For in her perfect self was a miniscule imperfection like Erik's whole self, marred by a single thing. And it was an empty heart and soul.
Not knowing what to do, watching Erik sweep out of the door coldly, she bent her head in prayer to cry to her God alone.
Erik had as usual, magically procured lodging in Salzburg for them, a sprawling mansion on the outskirts. He slept in different quarters from Christine, preferring to take to the western wing of the house, with strict instructions for her to be confined to the eastern side of the mansion. Christine was bitterly disappointed, and before many days had passed, she sat down to write a letter to Madame Giry.
Maman and Meg,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. I now live with Erik, but I am afraid calamitous news of the continued existence of my childhood friend has caused Erik to retreat away from me completely. I am at a loss of what to do. I miss you and Meg and the rest of the Populaire dearly, although not so much of our dear diva Carlotta, or the redhead dancer that used to spite me. Is Meg still dancing? Will the Populaire be up again soon? I do miss you all so much. Tell Meg to leave me some macaroons, she always ate them all before I could get one and we dancers had so few!
Of course, I am but joking, my dearest Meg.
Have you all ever been in love? I do believe it is the most beautiful thing a woman can experience, and I am very lucky to have the opportunity to experience it, but then again, I think the man whom I love is terribly cross with me, Maman. Somehow I must convince him! Also, my dearest Maman, I never knew Raoul was alive! To hear the news brings joy to my heart and I feel the guilt of the murder of him whatsoever was but just a misunderstanding. I feel the blood of him has been washed off my hands. The air here is just delicious, high up in the mountains. I do believe I am no longer the sickly child I had been in the past. I miss dancing and singing, but Erik has somehow expressly forbade me to even touch the piano in this house, since it is in the west wing and I must reside in the eastern side of his lodgings. Such a beautiful house it is, I only wish that I had one of those newfangled cameras that seemed to be popping up, so that you can see the splendor of this place. I do believe Erik could procure one, but I am too scared of him now to ask, he seems to be in terribly black temper.
I do wish you could drop by sometime. We are staying in the mountains, and I do not know the address of this house. I asked the housekeeper to write it out for me, and I can but barely read her handwriting. I asked her for a second copy for you, and it is enclosed in this letter. I do hope this reaches you, my dear friends; it is full of the greatest sentiment one can ever send in a letter! Ah, the sky grows dim; I must go for dinner alone again. I will post this on the morning.
Love always,
Christine Daae.
She put the pen back into the inkwell, sealing the letter in a white envelope with a black border, something she had sneaked from Erik on their earlier travels. Finding a stamp in the bureau, she put the stamp on with a bit of glue, intending to head out early the next morning to the post office to send her letter. Now, she would bravely face the chills of an empty dining table alone again.
The sheets of his house smelt like freshly pressed linen, and it evoked certain madness in him as he remembered how they had smelt when Christine was around, and sleeping in his guest rooms. Suddenly, he felt sure he would understand why Erik wanted Christine so, and the monster had chased her endlessly. The sheets before him were stretched perfectly over the bed, whitewashed and without any hint of the status he held. The status he held so long as that monster lived, he mused. Not only did he feel a wracking obsession that drove him insane to have such a repulsive creature in his family, he also felt the anger that surged in him as to this creature's possession of Christine. He was sure she was crying, alone, in some faraway land and pining for him. What he did not know was that he was not far from the truth. Christine was pining, pining for a different man altogether. Upon his arrival and the discovery that he was actually alive, the servants had flocked back to the mansion, and the police and gendarmes had sheepishly apologized for their mistake. They however, could not track down the to be Vicomtesse, and as such had put her on a list of suspects to a very mysterious case altogether. Was this woman a swindler, trying to rob the Vicomte? Stories began to surface of Christine and the Opera Ghost, a man of the Devil himself, the Devil incarnate. Some claimed the man possessed her, others claimed that she was in cahoots with him, and they were out to swindle the whole of Paris, and perhaps the world. As much as Madame Giry tried to quell these rumors and the chattering amongst the dancers for her disgraced Maestro, she could not. The dancers grew bold and unruly, and she was sure that in their days of unemployment, they were engaging in activities far worse than the murders Erik had committed. Already she had caught wind of a dancer, Lilibeth, breaking up the families of a few fairly respectable men in the Parisian society. With the impending, looming signs of a Franco-Prussian war, she was then very surprised to receive a letter from the woman Paris was abuzz with in scandal.
Christine Daae.
The elderly woman slit open the letter hastily, yet taking care not to slice her fingers in the process. She recognized Christine's hand, but also saw how sorrow had taken its toll on the poor girl. Clearly, Christine had not been eating well, judging by the way her hand shook as it traversed the flat, bleached plane of the paper. Clearly too, the instruments used to write this had been sneakily procured from Erik. She read, laughing at the moments where Christine tried to inject some of the sisterly humor she and Meg shared, and almost cried at the way Erik kept breaking this child's heart unknowingly. She clicked her tongue impatiently, mentally tsk-tsking Erik for his blind insensitivity to the girl's pure love for him. Handing the letter casually to Meg when the blonde returned from grocery shopping, she watched as her young daughter read the contents, blushing at the way that her sister and friend wanted Erik, and then exclaiming that they should pack up and go now, it was safer than Paris anyway. Madame Giry gave a quick nod, saying she would write to the Populaire that they may leave soon; perhaps she would find a job in Austria, as a ballet mistress. Trusting in the sly and cunning of her former Maestro in his provision for them should they appear at his doorstep, the woman swept out of the sitting room into the study regally, to begin writing the letter of withdrawal. And yet, there was that niggling thought that Erik knew naught about this, and the poor girl was suffering alone in silence for pride, a sin of both of theirs.
Christine had finally gathered the courage to head over to the west wing of the mansion, not having seen Erik for almost a month. She knew Madame Giry and Meg were coming, but as to when she did not know, having received their reply only yesterday. She blinked at the sight that befell her eyes. The whole west wing was but shambles, with scaffolding about. The house was slowly being rebuilt almost from scratch, and Erik was standing in the midst of it, talking to a foreman. Christine stifled a gasp, running back to the east wing. Was it for her, or did Erik no longer love her and was building this for another woman who had captured his heart? She would never know, but just retreated back to her room, silent as the heart all alone.
Erik had sensed her presence, but he did not turn, instead he preferred to keep his aloof air to talk with the foreman. He kept his distance from her, knowing she might misinterpret this to be building it for someone else, or perhaps her. He never knew, just heard her running footsteps. How he longed to live with her in these halls, these hallowed halls. How he longed to make her his wife in these luxurious bedrooms…but he was getting ahead of himself. Right now, he knew of Christine's pain through the letter Madame Giry had sent to him, and yet he could not say anything to Christine, not yet while their façade still stood. As much as he loved her, he could not let her see just yet. And yet he feared that she might run back to that insufferable fop, and make all his work but a lie. The words and the thoughts swelled in his head to a mighty crescendo of waves as he tried to quell it and continue with the project in front of him, and on what the foreman were saying.
The bell in the main hall rang with startling loudness, and Erik hurried to answer the door with startling alacrity, excusing himself with such haste, noted the foreman. Perhaps this guest to him was of utmost importance, and Erik was building this mansion for this girl perhaps. The foreman stuck his head around the corner, trying to peer into his mysterious customer's private affairs. He saw a young blonde, probably a ballet dancer, and a elderly woman. Perhaps, the elderly woman was Erik's lover and their daughter was as such, borne out of wedlock and illicit relations. Or the girl could be Erik's lover…either way, the arrangement seemed crass for a man of Erik's splendor, the way he instructed the house to be built. Shaking the ill thought off from his mind, he returned to the worksite, barking out orders to the workers under him.
"Antoinette," Erik greeted the woman warmly, she had been a guardian to him, as well as a mother to him in earlier days. "Don't trouble yourself with those bags. I have prepared a room in the eastern side of this mansion for you, the western side is now being upgraded for Christine."
The elder Giry could barely hide the faint hint of a smirk that crossed her face.
"I see my letter has had an effect on you. No longer will you be the cold, distant Phantom she once knew, nor the intangible Angel of Music, I see. And you certainly will cease this foolish masquerade of pretending to be her guardian, I certainly do hope? For she is alone in this world, Erik, like you are. She will need someone for the years to come, and I daresay she is of marriageable age, long past it in fact, for by her age I had already conceived my daughter."
Erik's eyes narrowed dangerously, countering the elderly woman. "And who is to say that she will love me and not that dreaded milksop and pathetic excuse of a boy? He but barely knows Christine's likes and dislikes, and weaves his head around the tales and fairy stories of the Christine he once knew. And yet she seems to care for him, to what extent I am not sure, but as long as that pathetic excuse for a man lives, I doubt my heart will be at peace as to Christine's loyalties, Antoinette."
"Then why don't you question her yourself? See how she stands there waiting for you," Antoinette said, pointing at Christine, who stood by the banister of the grand staircase, wanting to welcome Madame Giry but finding that Erik had gotten to her first. Her eyes were wide in fear and shock and a mix of other tragic emotions, and she reached out a hand as if in want to speak to them, but drawing it back. As if suddenly finding strength, she took a step forth to give the Girys a hug, shrinking back slightly when she came into contact with Erik.
"Was what you said true?" she said, her voice cracking and wavering dangerously. Days of malnourishment had left her frame bone thin and with barely any meat left on it. With her already slim waist, she seemed almost waif-like, as if the slightest wind would topple her. Erik's heart almost bled indelible tears at seeing the pathetic state of the one he loved. As much as she had blossomed into a woman, she still remained as a child, one that threw a terrible, worried tantrum when Erik himself had thrown a tantrum of his own and refused to speak to her. And the damage was evident on Christine, her sunken eyes, red from crying over her loneliness, and her hollow look as she looked up to him, hoping that he would take her back.
"Please don't send me away Erik…"
He nodded stiffly, patting her awkwardly. Madame Giry stepped forth to greet the young soprano, rummaging in her travelling bag. Out of it she pulled a leather bound book in the deepest hue of green. Erik turned his head, knowing what the contents of that book were. Christine as a young girl had kept a diary faithfully, but as her commitments to the corps de ballet grew, she had abandoned it to the care of Madame Giry, the only motherly figure she had and trusted at the Opera. And Erik knew of his sins, he had snuck into Madame Giry's room to read it when she was out before, and he had been but a man at the young age of twenty-five. He blushed still at the thought of Christine and her fantasies about her intangible angel, only having revealed himself to her proper when she was eighteen. The child had stopped writing when she turned twelve, preferring to make her Angel her diary instead. The Christine he knew now was wildly different from the one he had met, who was but then a ghostly remnant of the vivacious child he had met. Back then, she had been devastated by the loss of Professor Valerius, and Mamma Valerius, old as she was and with the striking blow of the death of her loving husband, declared she was no longer fit to care for the child, sending her instead to the corps de ballet that she may further her studies as a dancer and singer. When Christine had left the house, she felt empty as a ghost, with no substance or color in her life, having had all the lifeblood drain out of her with the loss of her loved ones like her father and Professor Valerius. Mamma Valerius had promised to visit, and to see her dance, but had passed away even before the spring of her tenth year of life had come to pass. When Christine received the news, she was shocked, and had thrown a tantrum and refused to dance for days. As the kindly soul she was, Madame Giry had made exceptions for her, leading to rumors in the ballet corps that she was a special favorite, and the child of the devil, associating with the Ghost of the Opera Populaire, seeing as this child seemed almost ghost like in her mannerisms and wanderings around the opera house, and was completely unlike them. This had led to a few unfortunate happenings of minor stature, such as missing hairbrushes and hairpins, and the girls who tortured the poor young Christine swore that they heard the Ghost laughing behind the walls when they found their items missing. Back then, in Christine's heartbreaking mourning, Giry decided to introduce Christine to Erik, and he had finally appeared to her as her Angel of Music in the chapel as she went down to pray for her father, a nightly voyage into the darkness that was his own domain. Their nighttime lessons had grown, and Christine showed marked improvement in her dancing and her attitude to life as she found her Angel. Slowly, she stopped writing in her diary, and instead confided in her strange Angel. How Erik had reveled in the whimsical thoughts she had, and he remembered once when she had presented him with a small valentine, but her hands had been covered in bandages. He had raged, and vowed to seek revenge on the person that had harmed her, but was calmed by her innocent admission that she was but careless in her production of his valentine. Begging her to close her eyes that he may descend to her, he watched as she obeyed, and her slowly crept into the darkened chapel after retrieving salve from his lair. Christine had been shocked to see that her angel had taken a manly form, and was as beautiful as she thought he would be. But by chance or luck, she had forgotten his form somewhat, although her fingers were much better by the next day, and she took the happenings to be but a dream. That night, Erik had read the tiny piece of pink heart-shaped paper again and again, holding the tiny cushion close to him. Although the sewing was crude and the cushion stuffed with paper and scraps, he felt it was the softest thing in the world, as he happily looked at the valentine again and again, reading the simple words of "I love you." Surely, Christine never loved him as a man then, but the sliver of hope he had for their future beyond friendships and a teacher-student relationship made his heart soar. It was strange, then that a twenty-one year old man should fall for a ten year old girl, but to him, one who had been somewhat been denied love all his childhood, it was nothing short of magical.
He watched Christine as she turned the book in her hands, her slim fingers gliding over the crude indents she made into the paper, her writing as a child. It had changed dramatically with age, and yet she still retained certain youthfulness in her grip of her pen. Erik turned to leave, to show the Girys to their room, but he stopped when Christine called his name, realizing that she had realized that he flipped through her innermost thoughts and feelings, and he knew almost everything about her. And then he realized why, for once she had given him an assortment of ribbons that she no longer needed, some red, some navy and some black. And he had bookmarked the pages he loved the most in those ribbons. He was pretty sure Madame Giry had noticed, but had never said anything to him about, so in his usual fashion, he had brushed it aside. But he had never realized that eventually Christine would pick up this book again, and she would perhaps finally realize what a creep he was, this monster that stalked her from the shadows and knew he inside out. And yet he could sense certain feelings in her eyes. She was touched? How could she, when she had the world's greatest stalker hot on her heels?
"I see how you knew what I loved, Erik. Although it was not the best way of finding out…thank you. I was the happiest child when you gave me that dress, Erik. All my life, I never properly owned a single dress at all. Unless you counted those hand me downs that were given to my father as dresses which were truly mine," she said quietly. Erik turned smartly on his heel, nodding at her as they proceeded up the stairs, and he showed the Girys into their room, before rushing down to reunite with Christine. He gave a wan smile.
"I suppose then, you know why the west wing is being renovated," he said tersely, a deep, amused rumble coming from within. She nodded, looking up to him with hope and happiness. Tearing his gaze away from hers as the doorbell rang furiously, he rushed to answer it, Christine following close behind, only to see him being punched violently in the stomach.
Help me. More punjabs. Dear God.
/runs runs runs runs
/angelic face
Erik is such a lovable stalker right. Right. EVERYONE PLEASE DON'T KILL MEEEEEEE!