A/N:
Here is part two of six! Thank you to everyone who reviewed. Feedback is very important to me.
CHAPTER WARNING: Potential triggers involving assault. Descriptions brief and within rating parameters.
Disclaimer: I still own nothing...
The Fiddler's Daughter
By Catsitta
.2.
"NO, NO, NO! That is wrong, Christine! Have you forgotten how to breathe? Chin up. Oh save your theatrics for the stage, I have no time for weeping little girls."
"I hate you! You spiteful, horrible man!"
"Bah!"
Erik slammed his hands on the keys, filling the caverns with discordant noise. He was visibly seething, eyes flaring, hair wild and body tense. Christine watched the muscles in his jaw twitch as he ground his teeth to restrain from screaming like a madman. She crossed her arms and stuck her nose up defiantly. For six years she knew Erik and weathered his tempest of a temper. Yelling, pacing and throwing things had long since proved ineffective in cowing her, especially when she figured out he would never physically harm her, even while in a snit. The same could not be said for her possessions.
The last time she drove him into a sputtering fury, Erik smashed apart her favorite tea pot and flipped the dining table. Nadir had dropped by in the middle of that confrontation, setting off the siren purposefully a minute or so before he arrived on the lakeshore. Christine heard the alarm but Erik apparently hadn't, because he continued smashing things even when the Persian walked into the house.
"What is going on here?" Nadir exclaimed upon seeing the chaos.
Those golden stars burned wildly as they focused upon the intruding Persian. Like a jungle cat, Erik pounced, closing his hands around Nadir's throat. He shook the dark-skinned man, frightening Christine into a peal of screams. It was only her shrieks of terror that broke his fury and caused Erik to drop his prey.
Rubbing his throat, Nadir frowned at Erik and Christine, clearly peeved more by the broken pottery than his own state of abuse.
"Erik…"
"Daroga."
The evening ended with the Persian threatening to take Christine away and Erik yelling profanities at his retreating form. When Nadir disappeared from sight, the Angel of Music collapsed onto his knees and began to rock back-and-forth. Tears made his yellow eyes glassy beneath the shadows of the expressionless mask.
"No one will ever take Christine away from Erik!" he mewled. "Christine is Erik's masterpiece. She will sing on stage for him and him only. One day, all the world will hear Erik! Yes, yes. All the world has seen the beauty he can create, his buildings are without compare, but music is where Erik's soul lies. Beautiful, terrible music. How Erik burns!"
Christine knelt beside him, amongst the shattered remains of the table and teapot, and bid her angel to hush. She sang to him a soft lullaby and stroked his hands. Long ago she learned never to touch his neck or face, it seemed Erik had a fear of strangulation as well as unmasking. Christine never asked why he feared such things—she also never asked why he pretended to be an Angel. Oh yes, she knew he was a man, quite mortal and jaded, but he was also a genius. A lonely, broken genius who brightened every time she called him Angel and seemed to enjoy the game of pretending to be something bigger than life. She knew his tricks, how he could throw his voice and loved his trapdoors. Nadir had told her these things and more. But she allowed Erik to remain her supernatural guardian. No matter his flaws, no matter their fights, he was still her beloved Angel of Music.
"Christine, are you paying attention?"
Blinking away the memory, Christine turned her attention onto her glowering guardian. He was no longer pulsating rage and was absently plucking at his shirtsleeve. His tone was snappish, as it normally was during her lessons, and it was clear by his body language he wanted to forget their confrontation and lose himself in music.
She nodded.
Erik's fingers flew across the keys, and after four measures of masterful playing, Christine began to sing, her voice and his accompaniment fit to make even the real Angel of Music weep.
.
.
Standing at the tall doors of the Opera House, Christine prepared to enter the familiar marble halls. Six years ago she stayed here with her Papa and took ballet lessons with Madame Giry's daughter Meg. Six years ago, Gustav Daaé died in a small, vacant room in the company barracks. Six years ago, the Angel of Music stole her away in the night, and she had not spoken to the members of the Opera since. Of course she had seen them from afar, Erik was thorough in her education and hid her beside him in Box 5. She saw countless Operas, symphonies and ballets from behind the velvet curtains. When she was ten, Erik explained that they lived beneath the massive building, his house installed deep in the cellars when the Opera was built.
After all, he helped fund as well as construct the magnificent Palais Garnier, and due to that fact, he was also a majority owner of the Opera House. Haunting the halls as a "Ghost" was merely a form of amusement for him and allowed Erik to control the going ons of his Opera without revealing himself to the public.
Christine sighed at the thought. Was it fair for her to perform here if Erik owned the theater?
Knowing that she was dithering, Christine opened the grand doors and entered the lobby, feeling out of place surrounded by such ornate majesty. She was a simple Swedish soprano. Glitter and glamor were not in her blood nor desired. She felt rather plain even while garbed in the fine silks Erik provided. The managers would no doubt see a meek little girl with a mousy complexion.
She smoothed her skirts and whispered, "I have to do this, for Papa…for Erik…"
It did not take long to find where she needed to be. Following the signs and the sound of voices, Christine discovered the waiting room for those seeking auditions. Men and women filled the small space, most bedecked in fabulous gems and feathered finery. Some carried cases, others were rosining bows, some were stretching into impossible positions, and others were trilling like suffocating songbirds. Actors, dancers and musicians alike stood in wait for their number to be called.
Erik said he had arranged an audition for her earlier in the week and this morning, without warning, handed her sheet music with a number scrawled across the top.
Judging by the amount of people, the day was going to prove a long one.
.
.
When her number was hollered into the room, Christine shuffled from the corner she sequestered herself in and crept onto the stage. She could hear the snide comments and mocking snickers chasing her. What a pitiful child. What is she doing here? Watch, she is going to faint on stage, her face is already white.
Reaching the center of the stage, Christine stared at the three people sitting in the house. The manager, whose name she could not recall, the conductor, Monsieur Ryer, and the ballet mistress, Madame Giry. None of them seemed too interested in her until the manager read aloud her name and the song she would be singing. Suddenly, three pairs of eyes were focused on her.
"Daaé…any relation of the violinist, Gustav Daaé?" asked Monsieur Ryer.
"Yes, he was my father."
"How is he?"
"I…he passed away six years ago, monsieur."
Madame Giry frowned, "Is that why you both disappeared from the Opera House without a word?" She obviously remembered the little girl who was fast friends with her daughter.
"He was ill…his death was quite sudden." Christine heard her voice crack. She did not want to talk about this right now. The trio seemed to acknowledge her distress and bid her to begin her audition.
At first, her nervousness and grief intermingled to clog her throat. She could hardly breathe, much less sing. A quivering squeak escaped her lips and the manager shook his head. When he looked ready to wave her away, Christine saw two yellow stars glittering from Box 5, and heard his voice in her ear. 'Sing for me and me alone, Christine. Sing for your Angel of Music!'
Enraptured by his command, Christine stood tall and let her voice soar. Every fear, every pain, every desperate hour—she remembered her Papa's death, his cold, pale face, she remembered heated arguments with Erik, each shattered piece of furniture a victim of his want for perfection—Christine let it all fill her and take flight. Higher and higher her voice climbed. Louder and louder her Angel commanded for her to sing.
And then, there was silence.
Chest heaving, Christine gazed out over the house to find three gaping faces. Madame Giry composed herself first and cleared her throat. Monsieur Ryer and the manager regained the ability to blink shortly thereafter.
"Very good," the manager said. "We will contact you later. Yes? Yes. Now, uh, next performer!"
.
.
"Angel, why are my belongings packed in a trunk?"
"Members of the Opera often live in the barracks."
"You mean?"
"Congratulations Christine, you have made your Angel proud."
"Am I to live above now?"
"For the time being, yes. Do not fret, Christine, our lessons shall continue."
.
.
She was in the chorus. It was to be expected. Christine, for all her talents, was simply too young for a named role. Singing on stage at fourteen was a notable feat in itself; however, Erik did not seem to agree. During their above ground lessons in the small church adjoining the Opera, he took to complaining about the incompetence of his manager and how the man would not know a star if it fell from the heavens and landed upon his balding head.
Christine saw no reason to whine. She was seeing new things, meeting so many people! It was overwhelming at first, but now she felt at ease amongst the chaos. Not even Carlotta's diva antics could darken her spirits.
Come the evening before her first performance, the Opera being performed an Italian affair she could never pronounce the name of correctly, Erik at last silenced his grumblings to offer praise. Mere minutes before Christine needed to run off to costumes, she entered the chapel and soaked in the gentle tones of her angel.
"Can I see you?" she asked. "It would make me less nervous if I could see you again. It feels like forever since we last spoke face-to-face."
From the shadows, two yellow stars emerged. Christine grinned. They exchanged pointless pleasantries, a rarity given Erik's dislike of casual yammering, and right before she dashed off to prepare for the show, Erik grabbed her wrist.
"A token," he said as he slipped something cool around the middle finger of her left hand. "Wear this always, Christine, so that I will know you sing for me and that your heart is dedicated to music. Remember, as long as you swear yourself to music, all you need shall be provided, and all you desire shall one day come to fruition. Swear it, Christine. Swear that you belong to music."
"I swear, Angel."
Erik released her and stepped backwards into the shadows, leaving Christine alone in the chapel, surrounded by stained-glass and weeping stone angels, a simple gold ring adorning her hand. She stared at it. Why would he give her a ring?
Footsteps startled her and brought her attention to the door of the church.
"There you are Christine!" It was Meg Giry, her once again friend and companion. The dancer was a flurry of blonde curls as she bounced over to Christine. "Have you been here all this time? Oh, you are going to be late and mother is so temperamental when anyone is late." The petite girl began to push Christine towards the door with ease, her tiny frame nothing but muscle.
As they began to head towards the dressing rooms, Meg pursed her lips and glanced up. "Christine, who were you talking to?" she asked.
"The Angel of Music," Christine replied.
"Oh…" Meg's expression made it clear that she did not understand. "Everyone has their rituals before a show. If all you do is pray to the Angel of Music, then you are quite sane compare to some of the others. There are rumors—."
The pair lost themselves in gossip, Christine's odd behavior dismissed and the ring on her finger forgotten.
.
.
It was just a little kiss that started all the problems. The stagehands often flirted with the ballerinas, and on occasion, would dare each other to steal a kiss from one of the girls. Christine did not know of the game until too late. The ballet rats she was sitting with scampered off in a spatter of giggles, leaving poor Christine as the victim. She stood to follow, only to have someone tap on her shoulder and plant a kiss on her mouth when she turned around. It was the dry pressing of chapped lips, and no sooner did their mouths touch did the boy lean back and smile.
He was older than her by a couple years, tall but otherwise nondescript. His sleeves were pushed up to revealed muscled arms, and there was a streak of dirt on his left cheek. With a wink, he ruffled her hair and ambled back to his fellow stagehands, smug in his success. Meg hurried to her side afterwards and tugged a lock of Christine's long, riotous curls.
"At least it was Henry who kissed you instead of Burquet."
Christine frowned, "Isn't Burquet the fly man?" When Meg nodded, she shuddered. "The way he looks at us while we're in rehearsal make me nervous. He sometimes licks his lips and tries to grab girls when they walk past him."
The pair shivered together in agreement, then Meg grinned like a cat with a secret, "Was it nice?"
"Was what nice?"
"The kiss!"
"Oh…it was…odd. If kissing is always like that, then I don't think I'll like it very much." Christine sighed as she continued, "Good girls do not kiss men outside of marriage. Does Henry kissing me make me a…" She faltered and looked helplessly at her friend. The blonde shook her head.
"No, no. Kissing is very nice with the right man, and never wrong, even if that man isn't your husband. No matter what some of the stuffy ladies and men might say. All this proper etiquette nonsense does not apply here in the Opera." She thrust a bare leg in the air for emphasis. "Being a lady, all proper and shy will only hurt an actor's career. We show skin, act out scandals and of course, start a few scandals of our own. Speaking of which, you would not believe what, or I should say who, La Sorelli, is doing…"
With a gasp and a blush, Christine listened avidly as Meg shared some of the most lurid gossip she had ever heard. Women were doing what with who? Men put their what where? She knew she was as red as Erik's favorite ink by the time they parted ways. The last time she felt this flushed, she'd started her monthly for the first time and had gone running to Erik in tears. Her Angel had been playing the violin, a sprawl of handwritten music at his feet, when she leapt onto his lap screaming about how she was dying. An hour and a great deal of sputtering later, Erik had explained that the bleeding meant she was a woman and promptly pulled a book from a shelf to describe the biology of the phenomena.
Neither of them was able to look the other in the eye for a week.
Wandering idly through the Opera House, thinking about kisses and things, the last thing Christine expected was to be grabbed from behind, one hand clapped over her mouth. Instinctively, she began to scream and struggle, her feet lashing out as she tried to kick her attacker's knees or groin, just as Erik taught her to do before he released her to the world above. Her assailant seemed prepared for this and maneuvered her in such a way that she could not land a blow.
Suddenly, she was being thrust into a dark room, the door slamming shut with a bone-jarring BANG. Her attacker shoved her into a wall, causing Christine to cry out, but her screams were cut short by the hand returning to her mouth. Desperate, she bit down and tasted leather, only to have her head knocked back against the wall when he jerked his hand away. The blow dazed her and she went limp.
Who was doing this? Why was he doing this?
Frightened and confused, she glanced up, the taste of blood thick in her mouth. Two yellow stars pierced the darkness.
"W-what? Why are you hurting me?" Christine's voice was small, "You said you would never hurt me."
"Erik would never hurt Christine, but oh, Christine drove him to it. He loves Christine, but Erik is a monster, a poor, pitiful monster who believed Christine when she said she belonged to him and his music. Then Christine betrayed him!" His face drew closer with every word until she could see his bone-white mask despite the dark. He only referred to himself like a separate person when he was mindless with emotion. Erik's hands gripped her shoulders and he shook her roughly, like a child might a doll. "Why did Christine have to betray Erik by kissing that boy? She makes Erik want to do terrible things when she hurts him like this. Erik wants to wrap his hands around the boy's throat, to squeeze it until the whelp turns blue, then snap his insolent neck! Erik wants to wrap a noose around his neck and fling him from the catwalk, to watch him dangle as the audience screams. Erik wants to kill! Erik is a monster, but with Christine, he thought he was changed, that he could be gentle as a lamb for her. And he can, yes he can, but not when she acts like a harlot!"
It was a slap, his senseless words, and Christine could not help but cry. Why was he saying such horrible things? "You think I'm a h-harlot because a boy kissed me?" she closed her eyes and began to weep loudly. No matter what she did, Erik never said cruel things or touched her in violence. On occasion, he called her a stupid or impudent girl, but the venom behind those words faded over the years until they were said with almost begrudging affection.
"Shut up, Christine! Shut up and look at Erik," he demanded. When she continued to cry, Erik shook her more harshly, his voice rising higher in volume, "LOOK AT ERIK!" Her lids reluctantly peeled open and she met those yellow stars fearfully. She could feel his breath against her face, those strange, misshapen lips of his a hair span away from her chin as he stared wildly down at her. One of his hands lifted to stroke her cheek and his voice became eerily gentle as he said, "Good girl. Christine is a good girl. Even good girls make mistakes…Christine is only human. Yes. Christine belongs to music; she promised Erik that she would devote herself to him. Christine, is Erik still your Angel? Please say that this pitiful monster is still your Angel of Music. "
Christine nodded. What other answer could she offer? Erik had her pinned to a wall. He could hurt her far worse than a broken lip and a bump on the head if she upset him further. And, despite his actions, he was still her guardian, her Angel. She loved him. What child, stricken by grief and isolated from all other human contact, would not hold an attachment to their only companion? Thus she forgave his accusations and his abuse with a nod of her head and a mumbled, "You will always be my Angel."
"Good girl. Christine is a good girl."
She did not resist when Erik gathered her up in his arms and held her close. Physical affection was not common. Affection in general was rarely apparent when offered by her Angel. A pulled curl or stroked hand was as rare as curt praise about an aria well sung or a pot of tea well brewed. To be held by him, the embrace initiated by Erik, was a new thing. If only the moment was not overshadowed by his slip into insanity.
When he at last released her, Erik caught Christine's left hand and lifted it to his mouth. He kissed the ring resting on her third finger almost reverently before guiding her into the shadows. Trapdoors and darkened passageways led to his underground home, and there, he tended her wounds. Christine fell asleep in her childhood bed and woke in the barracks.
As she blinked away the last vestiges of sleep, Christine's heart ached with the knowledge that her relationship with the Angel of Music was forever changed by a kiss and a misunderstanding.
.
.
Life in the Opera left little time to mope and worry wounds until they festered. Christine embraced the colorful chaos of the stage. After the incident where Erik drew blood, Erik did not demand she attend lessons or visit her before shows; she was on her own for the first time, and it was…lonely. She was relieved by the lack of contact for a few weeks, but when her Angel's silence faded into months, Christine began to feel uneasy. Rehearsals kept her from investigating or even lingering on the fact, but as the season drew to a close, she found more time to miss her once constant companion.
Meg often commented on her state of distraction and Madame Giry had taken to staring at her with a furrowed brow. Twice she saw Nadir in passing, but the Persian man always disappeared before she could catch him. If only she knew how to enter and navigate the labyrinth on her own. Erik never allowed her to know the secrets behind his tricks and insisted that she never come or go from his house without his help because of the many traps he set for unwitting intruders.
It was during one of her long bouts of contemplation, Madame Giry walked up behind Christine, and proceeded to startle her back into reality with a rap of her cane against the wooden floorboards. Christine jerked her head around to look at the ballet mistress, and noticed that they were alone in the middle of the stage—when had the others left? She frowned with confusion. Madame Giry cleared her throat.
"Am I needed for something, Madame?"
The austere woman stared down her long nose like a hawk, her tightly bound hair and black clothing adding to the severity the look. She adjusted thin hands on the top of the cane and pinched thin lips together in an entirely disapproving manner. What had Christine done to upset her? She could not recall doing or saying anything offensive, even in the conservative perspective of Meg's strict mother.
"Do you know what you are meddling with, Christine? He is not the kind of man whose attention anyone, much less a girl of your…demeanor, would want upon her." Madame Giry reached into her sleeve and pulled a crisp envelope from within. A blood-red seal in the shape of a skull marked one side, and the other had Christine's name written upon it familiar, childish scrawl. "Why would the Opera Ghost send you a letter?"
"I do not know…"
"Ha! Do not think me a fool. I've been delivering letters for him almost twenty years. Never once has he sent a letter directly to one of the performers." Madame Giry's scowl faded into an expression that would almost qualify as maternal. "Please tell me what you know of him." When Christine began to shake her head, the ballet mistress strode forwards until she hovered a breath away, her eyes and voice filled with urgency. "I have heard your conversations and your rehearsals…I know they stopped after you received those bruises you refuse to speak about. Christine, he is dangerous. He is a…well, he is no angel."
Christine glanced away, determined not to say a word. She knew of the Opera Ghost's antics. Erik was the Angel of Music, the Phantom of the Opera and a mere mortal genius. He was a man with many names and many masks, and despite their falling out, she still cared deeply for him. Was he taking care of himself? Did he play terrible music all hours of the night? He often neglected his health, as if music and passion alone could sustain him. The poor man was all bones! Without her presence, Christine was certain he was in even worse shape.
"Christine?" She held out one hand, pointedly refusing to look at the ballet mistress. When the meager weight of the letter rested on her open palm, Christine heard Madame Giry murmur, "I wish you would tell me what you know. I cannot protect you if I do not know what I am facing."
"He won't hurt me, Madame. Despite what you think, he is a good man."
"Erik is a great man. A genius. But that makes him no less dangerous."
Surprised to hear her Angel's name, Christine turned, "You know his name?"
"I know a little about him. His name, his wit, his passion for the arts…as well as his temper. I have seen him on occasion Christine, earned a modicum of his respect and he…he saved my life once. If not for him, Meg would not be here today." Madame Giry shuddered, as if holding back tears. "I saw a very powerful and deadly man that day, and I learned that he is not a force to be trifled with nor mocked. He could easily bring the Opera House down around our ears if he willed it. This is why I need to know what your involvement with him is; what you know of him. Cross him wrong and you could easily end up…" She allowed her words to trail off before hesitatingly continuing, "Has he, has he tried to seduce you? Touched you?"
"Goodness no! He would never—."
"—strike you?" Christine touched her cheek. "He is a man of great and terrible passion."
"I know."
"What is your involvement with him? I need to know. Is he your teacher? Your friend?"
"That and so much more. He…he is my guardian, Madame. He took care of me when Papa passed away." Christine said, not sure what to think of the horrified pallor the ballet mistress wore. "I have said too much. Trust that he wishes me no harm, Madame. And if he does, then it is too late to save me."
As she scampered into the wings, Christine heard the ballet mistress's final, whispered words.
"God protect us all."
.
.
Meg found Christine in the barracks a few hours later, curled up and sobbing, shreds of paper surrounding her. The blonde picked up a few of the pieces, only to drop them with a gasp when she saw the thick, wax seal clinging to one.
"Did you receive a note from…from him?" Meg asked. She grew up in the Opera House, amongst the gossip and the torrid tales. The legendary ghost seemed to rile her naturally superstitious nature into a frenzy, and the normally cheerful girl turned into a fearful, mousy wreck. "Oh, did he threaten you? Goodness…"
Unable to speak, Christine merely shook her head and gulped in a few, shaky breaths. The letter was not a threat. It was a message promising that Christine would be safe. The Angel of Music would watch over and protect her as he promised, as long as she kept her own vow to be dedicated to music alone. She would never want for anything…but to protect her, Erik would no longer openly consort with her. No more music lessons. No more tea. No more anything! He would leave her lesson plans and books where she could find them, but he would not whisper in her ear any longer.
'It is time for the Angel of Music to return to heaven,' the letter proclaimed. 'Try not to forget your teacher.'
Meg wrapped her arms around Christine and the young soprano wept against the ballerina's shoulder long into the night.
-tbc-
A/N: ( Thank you for reading, please review! Feedback is crucial for a writer, even if it is a simple "I like" or "I dislike". )