A/N: Thank you for the reviews!
XXII
.
He was in hell.
The hell of her laughter. The hell of her touch. The hell of her smile …
God, why had she never once smiled?
He noticed it immediately upon her arrival the first day, with the effusive little Giry. Then, and as he watched her work, and throughout every damn day thereafter, she had exhibited nothing but immense sadness. Here, trapped with him, he understood. Above, free with the others, it made no sense. The most enthusiasm in response to their merriment had been a faint tilt to her lips, while her eyes had remained haunted, greatly shadowed within and absent of all sparkle...
What the hell had happened to her?
He stared without seeing at the unfinished score before him…
…as he had been doing for the past ten, damnable, wretched minutes.
Scowling, he snatched the paper from the organ and smashed it into a ball in his hand. He hurled the punished paper to the floor to join countless others. He could not concentrate and would not let her great misery or his petty weakness dampen his resolve. To do so would surely tear open the cold sutures that bound his heart. Sutures of hard indifference that long ago replaced the staples of stone fury. Soothing white hot hatred was the fiery balm that first helped him survive the agonizing emotion that once threatened to rip him asunder … until the dreams came in the darkest of night and the wound would burst open again to drench him in rivers of unquenchable pain.
Tears had also been in her terrified eyes. Muffled sobs of anguish that took her when she thought no one was near to hear them…
He could still hear them.
"Curse you - I will not yield! Do you hear? - I will not!"
He glared up at the ceiling of rock as if he could see past it into heaven. But the home of angels was utterly remote from him, always had been so, and it threatened to grow even farther. Even if he must burn eternally in pitiless flames of fierce memory and harsh regret, he would not be persuaded to relinquish his plan because of her damnable, frightened tears!
"M-maestro?"
Drawing his features into bland composure, he clung to what sanity he still possessed and turned on the bench, facing the girl. His attention dropped to the serving dish she held.
"You delivered her lunch?"
"Oui." She moved forward, trembling as she set the covered dish on one of many small tables that stood scattered about his lake chamber.
"Did she give you any difficulty?"
She stared at the stones, clearly upset. He sighed. She had been crying.
Impatient by her tears and lack of verbal response on the heel of his earlier tortured thoughts, he rose from the bench and moved down the steps to stand before her. Still, she did not look at him.
"Jolene ..."
At his soft, insistent query, her blue eyes snapped up to his. "She wanted me to help her escape. She threatened to take Jacques and me with her this time. But - but I don't want to go back up there! I want to stay here - with you!"
"Calm yourself," he ordered quietly. "I made a vow to you when I found you. I'll not go back on my word now."
Tears of gratitude filled her eyes, a smile breaking across her face. "Oh, merci, monsieur! Merci!"
She rushed forward, throwing her arms around his waist and pressing herself close, taking him by surprise. He could count on one hand the instances of such physical expressions since his tenure as the Phantom. She looked up in anxious uncertainty and pulled away. Her action had unsettled him, but he remained calm.
"Make your brother understand that he is not to unbar any more doors in the future."
She paled and nodded awkwardly. "He meant no harm. He doesn't like to see any living thing in pain – it's what brought us here that night ..."
"Yes." He gave a curt nod, loath to revisit that night's memory, and she continued.
"He saw her crying and unhappy through the hole in the wall before she knocked the candle out. He is too little to understand." She gave a faint shrug with her hands. "Even I do not understand why you want the woman here, since she does not wish it –"
"Enough of this," he quietly cut her off, turning on his heel toward the table with the covered dish. "It is not for you to understand, only to follow my instruction. Order him also not to peek through any more openings that lead into private chambers within the cave walls. I'll not tolerate such behavior."
"Oui, Maestro. Please do not be angry with him. Or me."
He sighed. "Where is the boy now?"
"Playing in the lake chamber near her room."
He frowned. It would be more difficult than he realized to keep such a curious child away from his prisoner. "Go now. Make certain he understands that he must remain distant from Mademoiselle Daaé. She is a danger - to herself. To us. She cannot be trusted."
Jolene gave an awkward little curtsy and hurried away.
Alone again, he blew out an unsteady breath and closed his eyes in brief recollection.
It was not the little French maid that upset him.
Lifting the silver dome, he took note of the untouched breakfast and narrowed his eyes in wry acknowledgement to see the utensil missing.
"Ah, little songbird. If you still think to escape me you are gravely mistaken. You will sing for me …" He set the dome back over the plate and looked up, his smile hard as he stared past the closed portcullis into the adjoining dark cavern, his main canal to visit the world forbidden to him.
"… And I will have my triumph."
.
xXx
.
Christine trudged through the never-ending passage, her stride sluggish. With her feet again wet – had they ever been dry since she'd been brought to this miserable place? – she wished the hundredth time for her shoes.
This time, she had taken the branch to the left of the corridor. It seemed as if she had walked forever, all without coming to any opening, stairs, or gap in the rock that might offer a way out. Her body slightly shook from exhaustion and the need for nourishment. She'd not eaten since the previous morning, and she rethought her stratagem to force his hand. It had been a mistake to refuse breakfast. She could hardly make a successful escape if she was too weak to run and had to crawl to get above.
Ahead, the corridor turned yet again. Wearily putting her hand to the wall she moved around the bend with it…
And came to a surprised halt.
The Phantom stood there, facing her, his arms crossed over his chest, his shoes planted a short distance apart on the stones. Again he wore only shirtsleeves and black trousers. His cloak barely rested atop his wide shoulders as if it had been an afterthought.
Christine stared up at him in anxious shock. Clearly, he had been waiting for her.
"Did you enjoy your pre-dinner stroll?" he asked casually.
She blinked. "I ..." Her breathing staggered, it was the only word she could get out for a moment as she studied him in wary confusion. "You're not angry?"
"As I presume you've gathered from your earlier jaunt through my cave, the corridors with torchlight contain no traps. They wend only through the inner chambers of my home. None of them offer passage to the world above. Pray continue, mademoiselle." He stepped aside and graciously motioned to the corridor behind him. "You are almost to your bedchamber."
"My ... what?"
His words compelled her to brush past, forgetting her temporary weariness and dread of having him catch her in a second failed escape attempt, and she soon let out a garbled cry of angry despair to see that he was correct. The corridor had taken her full circle, back to her prison cell!
Her stocking feet wet and cold, her plan of escape again brought to naught, she turned on him. "You are a horrid, horrid beast! And I demand that you let me go now!" She stamped her foot then winced at the feeling of needles prickling the numb appendage.
He regarded her with bored amusement at her childish display. But she was tired and hungry and filthy and didn't care how she behaved - not with him.
She struggled to pull herself together and thought of another tactic, information she never planned to share with anyone at the theatre. Not with the dreadful trouble she was in and wished never to pull her friends further into. But below the earth it wouldn't matter. And it might serve to intimidate.
"There is something I've not told you, something you should know. I have a close acquaintanceship with the patron of the opera house, the man in charge of running things. We are very good friends, the Vicomte de Chagny and I, and if you do not return me –"
He moved so swiftly she almost wasn't aware of his action until he'd backed her into the wall. With one hand on the rock by her head, he slipped his other hand around her throat.
"If you value his life and your own, you will never again speak that name to me." His words came out in a low silken growl, his golden eyes crackling with fire.
She blinked at his rapidly changed demeanor, unable to form a suitable response. His long, cool fingers exerted little pressure to do harm but she felt the rage he restrained in every contracted muscle pressed against her.
"Y-you know the Vicomte? But…h-how could you know the Vicomte?"
Beneath his hand, he could feel her swallow hard. With his face so close to hers, he could see every individual lash and swirl of lighter brown in her dark, dark eyes. His fingertips brushed the side of her neck, his thumb the hollow of her throat as he gradually loosened his hold...
Suddenly he pushed his other hand away from the wall, whirling from her.
Christine shivered a little from the strange, slow caress and remained with her shoulder blades pressed against the stones. He kept his back to her and looked slowly toward the ceiling while clenching his hands in tight fists at his sides. He remained unmoving, his stiff shoulders relaxing gradually as did his fingers until they again hung loosely beside him. He again brought his head to stare in front of him.
Christine watched open-mouthed, his slow transformation to composure almost as chilling to witness as his rise to instant fury.
It was a moment before he spoke.
"The de Chagnys have been a thorn in my side for years. First the fool Comte thought he could run the opera, filling the managers' heads with novice ideas, then he put his ignorant spawn in his place. If given the chance, he will ruin all I have worked so hard to build."
He turned back to her, his disposition, even his eyes now as inexpressive as his mask. "So you see why you must never again speak of that family to me."
She did not move, only stared.
His smile came slight and forced as he motioned to a second covered dish he had set on the table. "I brought you dinner."
She found her voice. "I don't want it."
"You must eat. You have taken no sustenance all day."
"I told you, I don't want it!"
"Are you feeling ill again?"
"No." She cursed her stupidity, realizing it would have been far better for him to suppose she still felt poorly so he would just go and leave her alone.
"If you think to starve yourself, mademoiselle, such a method would be to your detriment and most certainly not benefit your escape. I will not stand by and idly watch you allow yourself to grow ill, thus complicating my future plans for you. If I must, I am not beyond tying you to a chair and forcing you to eat."
"You wouldn't," she gasped, frustrated that he had guessed her intent.
"Would I not?" He smiled cruelly. "Granted, you scarcely know me but if you persist in such idiocy, you will soon discover your answer."
She looked away, knowing he would do just as he said.
"You have been told the conditions of your release. Trying to starve yourself to gain my sympathy and surrender to your wishes is pointless. I have no personal feelings where you are concerned, none whatsoever. You will find that I lack any morsel of compassion."
She pressed her lips together. "Will you please just go and leave me be?"
"As you wish." He turned back to the dishes, motioning to the new one. "I think you will find the meal to your liking: Succulent duckling drenched in a red wine sauce ..."
The aroma was making her stomach clench with hunger, and his description of what she refused to eat wasn't helping, as well he knew. She ground her teeth together at his obvious ploy.
He plucked up the dome of the dish and picked up the fork there. He held the utensil up for her to see, then tossed it to the table. "I noticed you collect these. An odd quirk, but if it helps to amuse yourself when you grow bored of staring at the walls or walking in circles I understand that the tines make fairly adequate chisels to scratch against stone. They are hardly worthy of anything else, save for the intention they were made."
God, he even had Erik's sarcastic bent! And she hated him for it. Hated him for all the traits he shared with her lost love. She narrowed her eyes at him. By his light tone and cutting words, he was letting her know that not only did he realize she had concealed the fork for a weapon, but that such an act was feeble and did not concern him in the slightest.
She wished she had the nerve to walk past him, grab her pillow and throw it at his condescending head! Better yet, the serving dish would give much more satisfactory results.
"And what would you suggest I do with my time since I am being held prisoner here?"
He looked at her fully, his golden eyes searing into her. "Sing for me."
"Never."
He gave a curt nod and disappeared out the door.
She stared after him in disbelief, slowly shaking her head, then gave a little laugh devoid of humor. She walked to the bed and sat on its edge.
So, that was it. He had given her a choice, but if she did not do as he wished, her situation promised to be ten times worse. She would live the rest of her days inside this cave with nothing to do. No one would even know to look for her or where to look for her.
Shutting her eyes, she reclined on her back, staring up at the canopy. She willed the time to pass then wondered why she should bother. A day, a week, a year – what did it matter? She was doomed to live in these caves for a lifetime.
Christine had always been taught that hell consisted of fire and brimstone as the minister and sexton warned. They were wrong. It was cold and damp and full of darkness and traps with deadly snakes. And the devil wore a black cloak and mask ... and possessed a haunting, stirring voice that could make the angels weep with envy.
As if her thoughts instigated his music, the organ's notes came to her through the corridor outside her open door.
Horrified that his possessive music reached all the way to her chamber and desperate to drown out the sound, she rushed to the door and closed it.
Still, the music reverberated around her, more distantly, but the chords still heard as if the rock acted like a sieve to allow the notes to filter into her room. She gave a helpless whimper, shutting her eyes and falling back with her shoulder blades against the door.
This time, his music was dark and full of despair, at the same time pleading, as if his heart bled through the notes ...
"No," she whispered and ran to the bed, burying her head beneath the pillow, desperate to block out the sound. "I will not listen to this!"
Futile words. His music not only lingered in her ears, it filled every part of what little soul she had regained. She felt his anguish in the notes he played. Suffering twisted her heart until it too bled and the tears she cried were for him, even as she cursed him for doing this to her. Not even Erik's beautiful music had affected her so powerfully. He had played with grace and passion, wrapping her in waves of sweet pleasure. The darkness of this music ravaged her soul, tearing into her, demanding and harsh … then tender and pleading …
God, what sorcery was this? How could he do this to her, to so invade every particle of her being and manipulate her feelings to share what must compose the depth of his spirit?
No monster could play like that … and no man could express such exquisite, haunting notes without possessing a heart and one that felt deeply.
NO! He was a beast and nothing else … nothing …
Nothing.
His voice – that cruel, magnificent voice – united with his music and began to melt what remained of her defenses. Her only relief was that he could not witness what he did to her. He sang of hopelessness and darkness. Of terrible loss. Of a life without love and light. She understood his song so well, because he sang of the tragedy that had become her dark fate.
She could stand no more. Somehow, she had to put an end to this torture!
Rising from bed, she exited her chamber and took the torch-lit corridor that led to where the beast dwelt within his private lair.
Trembling with the invasive emotions he instilled in her, she walked to the second corridor and noted the glow of candles ahead. She felt powerless to resist the compulsion to enter, not exactly certain what she would do once she got there. At the threshold of his massive chamber room, awash in candlelight, she stopped.
The Phantom sat at the organ, as she had seen him before, now absent of his cloak.
Clenching her teeth, she moved forward, the strident chords of his music masking her steady approach.
The strong light of many candles caught the flash of silver as she walked past a table, and she turned her head to look…
Absent of its sheath, a dagger lay atop a pile of books, its blade shining.
xXx