WOOOOOOHOOOOOOOO On a happy note, I have phinished two PHysics papers and more and did so much studying and writing I decided to update this again because yeah yeah I wrote up to their wedding. I haven't written their wedding night though oAo I'm scared I can't make it classy smut l0l. I now have two documents totaling 72 pages, and about 36.6k words lol my longest story yet :'D And so it continues...
Chapter Nine
"The difference between my darkness and your darkness is that I can look at my own badness in the face and accept its existence while you are busy covering your mirror with a white linen sheet. The difference between my sins and your sins is that when I sin I know I'm sinning while you have actually fallen prey to your own fabricated illusions. I am a siren, a mermaid; I know that I am beautiful while basking on the ocean's waves and I know that I can eat flesh and bones at the bottom of the sea. You are a white witch, a wizard; your spells are manipulations and your cauldron from hell yet you wrap yourself in white and wear a silver wig."
― C. JoyBell C.
The mournful wails of a woman reached his trained ears, like the Siren that sang below the lake before he disposed of her simply. He still recalled the beast of legend, a spirit that haunted his lake. When he had broken her neck, she had cried, and he heard her last song and lived. As a child, barely eleven, he had destroyed her when he found that cavern finally and made it his home. And he had wept for the creature of beauty, but had been possessed by the Spirit of Song, but Dance had not been present. In her sad lullaby she had sang to him, she had told him of the future, of Christine, but she had never told him of the madness that possessed him indelibly, she had never told him of the price he must pay for the gift of song. Shoveling his scattered sheet music into a folder, he dashed out of the room to find this Siren that haunted these halls. He did not expect however, the cold, white fingers of Christine that hung off the ledge, her eyes fearful as she looked up to him. Why do you not trust people, they asked, this folly of your mistrust! Why do you not trust them and this trapdoor, this trapdoor that almost led to my death…When Erik pulled her up, she was shaking with fear, and she had all but caught a cold.
"Erik…" she muttered, nestled in his arms. "You don't trust anybody still. When will you learn…" On the verge of death, and she could still think about how Erik was to be a better person, to enter the world of the light and the living. He murmured an apology in reply, laying her on the chaise in his den. How or why he even had the chaise in the den he did not know, but as he watched her sleep, turned over her hands, was then he realized how much she had suffered for him. Properly watching her, he realized the scars on her face, the miniscule wrinkles, the way she had really blossomed into a woman, and her hands, red and raw from hanging on. How long would she have to hang on? On a precipice where she would fall, just because of him? As much as the fire had burned away the Siren curse he was bestowed, as much as the fire burned away the anger and the sadness, he would never cope with the world, and he would never fit. Like the last puzzle piece, a frustration and the indelible thorn in everyone's side he would be. And Christine's constant returning to him puzzled him, how could she ever hope to want such a horror, this terror? He stroked her hair gently; in her sleep he could see the way her face contorted with the cold and chills wracking her body. Stoking the fire to turn up the heat in the room, he ascended to the upper levels of the building, taking a few blankets from the laundry room. Wrapping Christine gently in them, he sat back down at his piano, the soft tinkering of a gentle music box-styled melody wafting through the air, almost the reminder of the wild lands of Scandinavian Östersund, before it had developed into the bustling city it was. There, Christine had spent the earliest years of her life, before she was to traverse the lands with her father. Erik had heard her singing this melody before, sometime before she was to fall asleep. As the ballet mistress, Madame Giry had shushed her on the request of the other girls, especially that vixen of a Vanille, who had been the loudest in her voicing of the dislike of Christine's little song. Vanille had become the stagehands' favorite soon after she turned fifteen, spreading her legs for all of them. How had he known? Well the godless chit had wandered about the hallways, often meeting with him by accident, although he would disappear into the passageways that dotted the Opera Populaire. He had watched Christine wandering in the backstage passageways also, and had directed her away from such indiscriminate mating that took place like animals, to preserve her virtue. She was his doll then, his lovely little marionette that he could train and condition to turn into a beautiful singer, the beautiful singer she was today. Remembering how unconditioned her voice had sounded on the journey to Austria, he frowned. Had the milksop prevented her from singing, for fear that he, Erik, the Phantom would rise again to capture and kidnap this lovely woman who was always his? Look who was the devil here, he wanted to scream. As the story of Hades and Persephone went, like Zeus, Daddy Daae had promised sweet Persephone, or in this case, Christine to Hades, the dark Overlord of the Underground Kingdom, where he would judge the souls of the dead.
Although Erik was never bestowed such a grand title, nor a grand name, he had often seen his time at the Opera Populaire to be a grand rule of his own, to be his own kingdom. He smiled softly at the memories, yet they coursed harsh and melancholic. His fallen kingdom, like fallen angels, like his face scoured by them. Why did he have to face such pain? The tears slowly flowed forth again, his impassioned and caged soul reaching out to the form on the chaise, which wheezed heavily. Donning his cloak and hat and speedily returning to ground level, he set out to find a doctor.
The wide brim of his fedora served as a second mask, although he wore his latex skin-tone mask. It itched terribly, but he could not risk rousing the fear of the doctor and put him on alert. Although Austria would remain neutral in this Franco-Prussian war as he was assured, he could never be so sure about their views of harboring the world's most deadly criminal. Although the damage to human life in terms of deaths when he had destroyed the Opera Populaire in his rage was but little, in fact singular, the only victim being the Italian tenor himself, there was still the other questions of him global crimes such as the murders in Persia, which were still a global topic for the older and younger set, those who were well informed enough to have a proper education, of which the good doctor surely had, to be of such a profession. Fearing that Christine would get pneumonia or some adverse side effect from the cold, he hurried on, turning down the alleys to find the nearest doctor. Finding one, he hammered hard on the door. A kindly face opened the door, a tall, dark-skinned man who introduced himself as Darius.
Darius. The name rung a bell. Was this not the Persian's aide? He had received news that the Daroga's aide had set up a practice somewhere in the English lands, in Europe, but the Daroga knew not where. Erik ventured a guess to see if Darius knew the Daroga by using the name Nadir. Finding that he was the Daroga's Darius, they made haste back to Erik's house, the man, the doctor himself already knowing of the strange tale of the Phantom of the Opera.
Christine tossed and turned in the bed, her chest tightening as she coughed violently. The freezing cold of her misadventure seeped into her bones. Slowly, she pulled herself up, searching the room wildly for Erik. Where was he? He wanted to find him, that was the exact reason she had come down, but he had left? He had left her alone? It hurt, as she painfully pulled herself over to the desk nearby. His sheet music lay in a file, and one could barely believe the hands of a murderer could write such beautiful sheet music. She hummed the melody softly, before coughs wracked her body again. She had been weak when she came here, and with the fact that she had not eaten much, she had yet to regain her strength. Her well-weakened body slowly sank into sleep again, noting the gentle script at the head of each piece of music.
"For Christine, my love."
Her head fell onto the table wearily, fever taking over her. When she awoke, she found Erik sponging her forehead gently, regret swimming in his lovely green eyes. In the dim light, the seemed almost crystalline green-blue, and the thought of being lost in them…she inadvertently shrunk back like the child she still had in her. He saw the fear, the shadow crossing her eyes, and it wrenched his heart to know she still feared him, and it still hurt to know that with the Vicomte almost murdering him, he could kill that boy without a doubt. A simple noose, that slipknot that will cease his breathing… He wrung the cloth with a fury, the veins in his hands becoming more visible, the spidery web of his age and his constant piano practice, writing and the like. Returning to Christine's side, he looked up at Darius.
"How is she?" he enquired, with the tone of a man broken and regretful of his own folly.
"She will live, but she is very weak. How did she ever end up in this state?"
He shook his head. No, he still could not tell of his own sins, which had brought Christine to this state. Looking up at the Persian man before him, he sadly cradled her close like a doll, not speaking at all. Darius continued, his eyes fixated on the strange man and his love before him, the way that the man stroked her cheek so gently, knowing she was in slumber, and a painful one at that. Leaving the medicine with instructions penciled onto a piece of paper on the table with Erik's sheet music, he tried to leave the den. It was locked.
"The aide of my Daroga. Can I trust your silence? Can I trust you will not speak of the strange tale of this Phantom? Or must I rid the world of you?" His gaze did not break from the sleeping form in front of him, but Darius felt a chill go down his spine at the man's words, slowly backing into the door. "Don't fear me, Daroga, for I am not threatening you. I am merely asking, for my safety and hers," he said, motioning to Christine, "that you please remain silent on this matter. Go to my bureau drawer, there is an envelope; in it are five hundred francs. If you were to convert it to Austrian dollars, I do believe that is payment enough for your services, Daroga. Tripping the switch to open the door, he watched as the man walked woodenly to the bureau in the den, thanking him with a strangled voice before leaving. Erik returned his attentions to Christine, feeling the blackness of his soul consuming him with his recent actions towards Darius. Slowly rising to see the instructions Darius had left, he set about to brew the medicine, making sure that Christine would be all right.
Christine, in the haze of her illness, could hear Erik's voice, laced with poison and Darius, scared and strangled. She frowned; he still cut such an imposingly dark and scary figure to everyone. When would he finally relinquish his Ghost persona? She saw him as a man, not a Ghost. She whined, but clearly he did not hear her at all, he had gotten up, to brew her medicine, she supposed. She was so weak, so fragile; her she was burdening everyone again. She had a power over Erik but what use was that in this situation? Tears leaked from her closed eyelids, and fighting the fever as much as she could, she thrashed wildly, falling off the chaise onto the carpeted floor. Crying to herself as she found herself awake, she writhed, trying to get back up onto the chaise, but she was too weak. Feeling like a caged bird, caged by her love and the changed Raoul and her own weakness, she slowly rolled over weakly, grabbing the blankets from the chaise and screaming, screaming the silent scream that only she could hear…
Erik was in the kitchen, waiting for the water to boil. He decided that some nourishment for Christine would be good as well, as such sliced some cheese and bread for her. The bread was easy to slice, but Erik, taking out his anger at his own weakness upon it, attacked the bread viciously. The knife slipped, grazing his hand merely, but it was sharp enough to draw blood. Cursing his momentary clumsiness, he searched for a bandage to deal with the troublesome cut, as he sucked thoughtfully on it, slicing more slices of bread than really necessary. Best to be done with it all, since he had already started, he reasoned. Yet he was afraid that the rest would turn stale, having been sliced. Scolding himself again, he wrapped it in damp cheesecloth and returned it to the refrigerator he had fashioned, based on the patents he had sneakily copied while moonlighting at the patent office. Throwing the herbs into the pot, which had begun to boil, he began the trek down to his den again, to check on Christine. As he knocked softly on the door, before opening it, he could never hope or expect to find Christine on the thinly carpeted floor, her hair spread out around her as she thrashed and cried. The combination of a long journey, in addition to her mourning and the fact she had not eaten much, led to the consequence of such. Erik wondered to himself how long she had been trapped down there, in the dark hole all by herself. Half an hour, he reckoned, by her white fingers when he first saw them. Picking the girl up from the ground, she struggled in his arms, lashing out and leaving a scratch on the unmarked side of his face. With whatever ropes or cloth he could procure, he managed somewhat to tie her to the chair, before he returned to the upper levels to fetch her medicine. Bringing it down the steps in a hamper, which he had also made to keep things warm, he placed it at Christine's side, before going to stoke the dying fire. The poor girl, now restrained by his strong ropes and cloth, had fallen into a deep sleep again. Gently shaking her to wake her, as much as he did not want to, he began to scoop the tonic spoon by spoon into her mouth. She gave a slight cough, almost throwing up the medicine as she tried to swallow the bittersweet tonic. Erik patted her back gently, hating to see her in this situation. Perhaps, if only he had not been so callous or had cared for her more, or if only he had not proposed to her, or given her such a shock…a multitude of things swirled in his mind, things he blamed himself for again and again. Christine was desperately ill now, and she had to recover soon before he could marry her. Looking at the haggard appearance of his bride to be, he attempted to swallow the lump in his throat, singing for her, singing as if his heart would break.
Around two hours would pass before Christine finally downed the last bit of tonic, in addition to her meager meal of bread, cheese and a rich, luxurious broth of mushroom-chicken soup Erik had ordered to chef to prepare. Tears welled up in the girl's eyes, as if apologizing for her weakness. Erik's glittering eyes in return had told her not to worry, for no matter the length of time, he had probably loved his queen forever, and would continue to do so. Ma bel ange, he managed, in a croak, his gaze never wavering, he croaked out a sorry, a soft sorry to her. Why was he so sentimental? Not now, not in front of Christine. She slowly slid her hand to his mask, and the air crackled with the passionate electricity as Erik let her remove it. He knew that if he touched her lips or got too close, he could probably get the cold from her too, but the tension and the want was too much to resist, as he lowered his lips to hers reverently in a silent kiss like their first in her bedroom. She blushed prettily, pulling back.
"Get some rest, Christine. I'll send this up for washing and I'll be back, " he promised in a silent whisper as she lay down again. "And in case you thrash…"he continued, tying her firmly to the chaise. She whimpered softly, as if in protest, but she knew it was for the best, so she lay down obediently and slept. Watching her sleep as he had done so many times before, Erik returned the used cutlery to the hamper, before sending it up for washing. The minute he had deposited the cutlery in the sink and the hamper in the storage, he dashed down to the den, hoping to find Christine still fast asleep, and no worse for the wear. He wanted to scream and tear out his hair then, when he found her head angled to the side, and she had thrown up. Not that he minded that the carpet was probably ruined, he had money to get more anyway, but to watch her suffer as such, under the grisly pain of pneumonia…He sighed and called for a bucket of water, stripping that section of the floor of its carpet before pulling out a replacement.
"My Christine, my poor Angel…"
Wahahaha. And in case you all didn't see that coming, lemme lay out the case for you okay? First, Christine has a few months long journey from PARIS, to AUSTRIA, through mountainous regions which even Erik finds treacherous. Then at the last part of her journey, she goes into depression from him and refuses to eat. And then she's been hanging there for about half an hour to an hour. With her weakened resistance, and everything that plagued her-including emotions. Well. I warned you I torture my characters.
/runs before the Punjabs fly, especially avoiding Erik and his deadly accuracy