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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 31/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1968
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber. The lyrics quoted in this chapter do not belong to me.
Summary: The Point of No Return...
INTO THE FIRE
The moment the cloaked figure slipped out from behind the curtains of the set, Christine knew that it was not Piangi.
Never mind the fact that the form beneath the swirling black fabric was tall and lean; there was no mistaking the noble, erect carriage and the almost feline grace which accompanied him as he moved. And no other voice could start that tingle at the very base of her spine, could have her breathless and trembling within a few notes, as though it had the power to reach right through her and grasp hold of the very core of her being, the part that knew no words and responded only to instinct.
She found that she could not move as he walked slowly towards her, all thought of her character and the carefully practised blocking flown from her mind. The skin of the apple she had picked from the bowl on the richly-draped table felt strange and uneven in her hand, every imperfection sharp beneath her fingers like the rough unhewn surface of granite. Dimly she was aware of the audience, of the orchestra and Monsieur Reyer to one side with his libretto open in front of him, but she paid them little heed. There was nothing else in the world at that moment; no one else truly existed but the two of them, Don Juan and Aminta, Erik and Christine.
Barely aware even of the words he sang, she lost herself in the sound. He circled her, like a prowling lion, those long white fingers brushing across her shoulders, down her arm, teasing for a moment a curl of her hair before withdrawing just as swiftly as they had come. Their sudden absence awoke an ache within her that she had never experienced before but longed to feel again. Dear God, how many times had she rehearsed the scene? It had never felt like this!
And then, abruptly, the spell was broken. That beautiful, unearthly voice faded away and reality returned to Christine with all the shock of a slap in the face. The apple in her hand was just an apple again, and the man in front of her, shrouded in black, was in terrible danger. Fear replaced the desire which had briefly flared within her; those fingers which ran up and down her spine were now sparked by dread.
She somehow managed to recall her lines, suddenly acutely aware of the men surrounding the stage and of Raoul’s eyes on her as he watched from the managers’ private box. She glanced up to meet his gaze and he smiled, gesturing to her encouragingly. Had he seen through the deception? Did he have any idea that behind the disguise was not Ubaldo Piangi but the very man he wished to catch? She couldn’t tell, and she couldn’t take the chance that he might remain in ignorance, not if she wished to avert the impending disaster. Why, oh why had Erik not remained hidden?
Moving around the table, which groaned with food and wine, a suckling pig comically staring up at her with a look that suggested it had been surprised by its fate, she marshalled her courage, swished her skirts and launched into Aminta’s half of the duet. Erik was seated now, at one end of the bench, and she crossed to him, daring to lean against him from behind and initiate the closest contact they had yet shared.
“Past the point of no return – no going back now; our passion play has now at last begun... what are you doing here?” she hissed, her mouth inches from where she assumed his left ear must be.
Startled, he replied, just as softly, “There is no Don Juan - did you expect me to just let the performance fall apart?”
“Past all thought of right or wrong – one final question: how long should we too wait until we’re one...? Where is Signor Piangi?” Christine asked, not entirely sure she wanted to know the answer.
Erik’s hands moved as if to push her away and so she boldly stretched even further across his shoulders, taking his icy fingers in hers and holding them tightly. “Gone.”
“Gone? Gone where? When will the blood begin to race, the sleeping bud burst into bloom? When will the flames at last consume us?”
“Back to Italy, or possibly Outer Mongolia. It’s no concern of mine,” he muttered, trying to free himself from her grasp.
“And what will happen when Don Juan reveals himself?” Christine demanded under her breath as they both stood and she at last released his left hand. For a moment they stood at arms’ length, their voices mingling for the first time beyond the confines of her dressing room or the house by the lake. She felt the strange kick deep within her gut once more, her heart racing so fast she thought for only the second time in her life that she might truly faint.
“..the bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn... We’ve passed the point of no return...”
The words and music died away, replaced by nothing more than a peculiar hush and the occasional rustle from the auditorium. Christine’s fingers were still entwined with Erik’s; he made no move to free himself, or to move the scene onwards. The libretto dictated that he should kiss her and then lead her to the bed in the alcove as Passarino announced his return. All eyes were on them both; she could see Reyer gesticulating wildly from the corner of her eye, while Meg and the other ballet rats huddled in the wings watched in confusion. Through the sheer fabric of the cloak’s hood, she could make out the white of Erik’s mask and the paleness of the uncovered side of his face. He looked... he looked stymied, she realised. Bewilderment was written clearly across his visible features, and she could feel him trembling as though the new electrical current were being run straight up his arm. Though he himself had planned and written the scene, he clearly had no idea what he should do next.
Christine had spent most of her life taking direction from others. She had relied, as most girls were wont to do, on her father for guidance, trusting implicitly that he would steer her through the storms of life; when Papa was no longer there to provide the answers, she turned instead to her Angel of Music, needing the hand of a strong man to show her the correct path. In the beginning she even allowed Raoul to gently influence her decisions, still believing deep inside that she was too young and inexperienced to make them for herself.
Now, however, there was no one to show her the way; her guide and guardian had no clue himself. For the first time, he was looking to her to point him in the right direction.
There was a cough from somewhere behind; a covert glance to the box above told her that Andre and Firmin were muttering , and Raoul was staring down at the stage, eyes narrowed in suspicion. A second later, he vanished from her line of sight. Christine had no idea of the scale of the view from that box; her stomach was a leaden weight as she wondered desperately if Raoul could see as she did what was under the hood. Was he coming down? What was he planning? To try and apprehend the Phantom before all these people would be madness!
There was nothing else for it; she would have to move the drama on herself. Dropping his hand, Christine grabbed the folds of Erik’s cloak, pulling him towards her. Pushing back the cowl slightly, she caught hold of his head, standing on tiptoe to press her lips against his. Startled, he tried to back away, to tear himself from her grip, but she would not let him, moving her fingers to cup his masked cheek. His mouth felt strange, its bloated and twisted shape so different to Raoul’s, but the skin was surprisingly soft and it was not an unpleasant sensation. His mask bumped against her nose and she found she had to choke down an inappropriate giggle. She drew back slightly so that she could look into his eyes; he was gazing at her in shock and wonderment, and with an unsteady breath he whispered “Oh, Christine...”
A crash sounded from off-stage; it was the cue for Passarino’s arrival in the character of his master. Christine lowered her hand so that Erik could take it, hurrying her away to hide. Unfortunately, as she moved one of the bangles on her wrist snagged on the material of the Don Juan cloak. She fought to free herself, desperately trying not to tear the fabric, but it was no good; the cloak ripped and her struggles dragged the hood backwards and away from Erik’s face.
Christine froze.
The Phantom stood there, centre stage, gazing around him and blinking like a nocturnal creature making its first venture into the sun. Someone in the flies had the bright idea of turning the spotlight that had beamed all evening directly into Box Five so that it shone instead upon the box’s erstwhile occupant. The glare bounced from Erik’s mask as he turned, slowly, towards the audience.
“It’s him – the Phantom!” The cry came from nearby, but Christine couldn’t tell exactly where. In the stalls, someone screamed, a high-pitched shriek of terror, and all hell broke loose.
The men who had been standing silently around the stage moved forwards almost as one, mounting the stairs to surround Erik, and Christine too by default. Coming back to himself and recognising the danger, he turned this way and that, moving towards first one of his opponents and then another, the rope Christine recalled from the cemetery appearing as if by magic in his hand. Almost as though they had cornered a rabid dog, none of the men seemed to wish to approach him too closely; instinctively, she found herself moving in front of him, knowing that they would not hurt her, and she was right for they stayed back, the merest snarl from Erik enough to stop any attempt in its tracks. It almost seemed as though the two of them were once more the centre of the universe, with everything else happening in a strange blur around them, but it was a poor parody of the emotional connection she had felt earlier. Outside all was chaos. From their box, the managers were shouting, Firmin leaning almost all the way out in an effort to see what was happening, his wife apparently having palpitations that Andre was trying to calm. Meg called to Christine from the wings, beckoning to her desperately, Madame Giry a shadowy figure behind her. Someone was yelling that the police should be called. There was no sign of Raoul.
Amid the confusion, over the screams and running feet, somehow Christine heard her name.
From the orchestra pit she caught a flash of light glancing off a metallic object as though the midday sun was glinting from a noblewoman’s jewellery. Before she could even move there was the loudest bang she had ever heard, and she felt something whistle past her ear, the heat it carried with it nearly searing her cheek; temporarily deafened, she turned towards the sound and finally saw Raoul, his mouth moving soundlessly in a shout. She had not realised how close Erik was until he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him; the last sight she had before he kicked the stage floor, hard, and they were suddenly falling was that of her fiancé, and he was staring at her in horror with a smoking pistol in his hand.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1968
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber. The lyrics quoted in this chapter do not belong to me.
Summary: The Point of No Return...
INTO THE FIRE
The moment the cloaked figure slipped out from behind the curtains of the set, Christine knew that it was not Piangi.
Never mind the fact that the form beneath the swirling black fabric was tall and lean; there was no mistaking the noble, erect carriage and the almost feline grace which accompanied him as he moved. And no other voice could start that tingle at the very base of her spine, could have her breathless and trembling within a few notes, as though it had the power to reach right through her and grasp hold of the very core of her being, the part that knew no words and responded only to instinct.
She found that she could not move as he walked slowly towards her, all thought of her character and the carefully practised blocking flown from her mind. The skin of the apple she had picked from the bowl on the richly-draped table felt strange and uneven in her hand, every imperfection sharp beneath her fingers like the rough unhewn surface of granite. Dimly she was aware of the audience, of the orchestra and Monsieur Reyer to one side with his libretto open in front of him, but she paid them little heed. There was nothing else in the world at that moment; no one else truly existed but the two of them, Don Juan and Aminta, Erik and Christine.
Barely aware even of the words he sang, she lost herself in the sound. He circled her, like a prowling lion, those long white fingers brushing across her shoulders, down her arm, teasing for a moment a curl of her hair before withdrawing just as swiftly as they had come. Their sudden absence awoke an ache within her that she had never experienced before but longed to feel again. Dear God, how many times had she rehearsed the scene? It had never felt like this!
And then, abruptly, the spell was broken. That beautiful, unearthly voice faded away and reality returned to Christine with all the shock of a slap in the face. The apple in her hand was just an apple again, and the man in front of her, shrouded in black, was in terrible danger. Fear replaced the desire which had briefly flared within her; those fingers which ran up and down her spine were now sparked by dread.
She somehow managed to recall her lines, suddenly acutely aware of the men surrounding the stage and of Raoul’s eyes on her as he watched from the managers’ private box. She glanced up to meet his gaze and he smiled, gesturing to her encouragingly. Had he seen through the deception? Did he have any idea that behind the disguise was not Ubaldo Piangi but the very man he wished to catch? She couldn’t tell, and she couldn’t take the chance that he might remain in ignorance, not if she wished to avert the impending disaster. Why, oh why had Erik not remained hidden?
Moving around the table, which groaned with food and wine, a suckling pig comically staring up at her with a look that suggested it had been surprised by its fate, she marshalled her courage, swished her skirts and launched into Aminta’s half of the duet. Erik was seated now, at one end of the bench, and she crossed to him, daring to lean against him from behind and initiate the closest contact they had yet shared.
“Past the point of no return – no going back now; our passion play has now at last begun... what are you doing here?” she hissed, her mouth inches from where she assumed his left ear must be.
Startled, he replied, just as softly, “There is no Don Juan - did you expect me to just let the performance fall apart?”
“Past all thought of right or wrong – one final question: how long should we too wait until we’re one...? Where is Signor Piangi?” Christine asked, not entirely sure she wanted to know the answer.
Erik’s hands moved as if to push her away and so she boldly stretched even further across his shoulders, taking his icy fingers in hers and holding them tightly. “Gone.”
“Gone? Gone where? When will the blood begin to race, the sleeping bud burst into bloom? When will the flames at last consume us?”
“Back to Italy, or possibly Outer Mongolia. It’s no concern of mine,” he muttered, trying to free himself from her grasp.
“And what will happen when Don Juan reveals himself?” Christine demanded under her breath as they both stood and she at last released his left hand. For a moment they stood at arms’ length, their voices mingling for the first time beyond the confines of her dressing room or the house by the lake. She felt the strange kick deep within her gut once more, her heart racing so fast she thought for only the second time in her life that she might truly faint.
“..the bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn... We’ve passed the point of no return...”
The words and music died away, replaced by nothing more than a peculiar hush and the occasional rustle from the auditorium. Christine’s fingers were still entwined with Erik’s; he made no move to free himself, or to move the scene onwards. The libretto dictated that he should kiss her and then lead her to the bed in the alcove as Passarino announced his return. All eyes were on them both; she could see Reyer gesticulating wildly from the corner of her eye, while Meg and the other ballet rats huddled in the wings watched in confusion. Through the sheer fabric of the cloak’s hood, she could make out the white of Erik’s mask and the paleness of the uncovered side of his face. He looked... he looked stymied, she realised. Bewilderment was written clearly across his visible features, and she could feel him trembling as though the new electrical current were being run straight up his arm. Though he himself had planned and written the scene, he clearly had no idea what he should do next.
Christine had spent most of her life taking direction from others. She had relied, as most girls were wont to do, on her father for guidance, trusting implicitly that he would steer her through the storms of life; when Papa was no longer there to provide the answers, she turned instead to her Angel of Music, needing the hand of a strong man to show her the correct path. In the beginning she even allowed Raoul to gently influence her decisions, still believing deep inside that she was too young and inexperienced to make them for herself.
Now, however, there was no one to show her the way; her guide and guardian had no clue himself. For the first time, he was looking to her to point him in the right direction.
There was a cough from somewhere behind; a covert glance to the box above told her that Andre and Firmin were muttering , and Raoul was staring down at the stage, eyes narrowed in suspicion. A second later, he vanished from her line of sight. Christine had no idea of the scale of the view from that box; her stomach was a leaden weight as she wondered desperately if Raoul could see as she did what was under the hood. Was he coming down? What was he planning? To try and apprehend the Phantom before all these people would be madness!
There was nothing else for it; she would have to move the drama on herself. Dropping his hand, Christine grabbed the folds of Erik’s cloak, pulling him towards her. Pushing back the cowl slightly, she caught hold of his head, standing on tiptoe to press her lips against his. Startled, he tried to back away, to tear himself from her grip, but she would not let him, moving her fingers to cup his masked cheek. His mouth felt strange, its bloated and twisted shape so different to Raoul’s, but the skin was surprisingly soft and it was not an unpleasant sensation. His mask bumped against her nose and she found she had to choke down an inappropriate giggle. She drew back slightly so that she could look into his eyes; he was gazing at her in shock and wonderment, and with an unsteady breath he whispered “Oh, Christine...”
A crash sounded from off-stage; it was the cue for Passarino’s arrival in the character of his master. Christine lowered her hand so that Erik could take it, hurrying her away to hide. Unfortunately, as she moved one of the bangles on her wrist snagged on the material of the Don Juan cloak. She fought to free herself, desperately trying not to tear the fabric, but it was no good; the cloak ripped and her struggles dragged the hood backwards and away from Erik’s face.
Christine froze.
The Phantom stood there, centre stage, gazing around him and blinking like a nocturnal creature making its first venture into the sun. Someone in the flies had the bright idea of turning the spotlight that had beamed all evening directly into Box Five so that it shone instead upon the box’s erstwhile occupant. The glare bounced from Erik’s mask as he turned, slowly, towards the audience.
“It’s him – the Phantom!” The cry came from nearby, but Christine couldn’t tell exactly where. In the stalls, someone screamed, a high-pitched shriek of terror, and all hell broke loose.
The men who had been standing silently around the stage moved forwards almost as one, mounting the stairs to surround Erik, and Christine too by default. Coming back to himself and recognising the danger, he turned this way and that, moving towards first one of his opponents and then another, the rope Christine recalled from the cemetery appearing as if by magic in his hand. Almost as though they had cornered a rabid dog, none of the men seemed to wish to approach him too closely; instinctively, she found herself moving in front of him, knowing that they would not hurt her, and she was right for they stayed back, the merest snarl from Erik enough to stop any attempt in its tracks. It almost seemed as though the two of them were once more the centre of the universe, with everything else happening in a strange blur around them, but it was a poor parody of the emotional connection she had felt earlier. Outside all was chaos. From their box, the managers were shouting, Firmin leaning almost all the way out in an effort to see what was happening, his wife apparently having palpitations that Andre was trying to calm. Meg called to Christine from the wings, beckoning to her desperately, Madame Giry a shadowy figure behind her. Someone was yelling that the police should be called. There was no sign of Raoul.
Amid the confusion, over the screams and running feet, somehow Christine heard her name.
From the orchestra pit she caught a flash of light glancing off a metallic object as though the midday sun was glinting from a noblewoman’s jewellery. Before she could even move there was the loudest bang she had ever heard, and she felt something whistle past her ear, the heat it carried with it nearly searing her cheek; temporarily deafened, she turned towards the sound and finally saw Raoul, his mouth moving soundlessly in a shout. She had not realised how close Erik was until he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him; the last sight she had before he kicked the stage floor, hard, and they were suddenly falling was that of her fiancé, and he was staring at her in horror with a smoking pistol in his hand.
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Date: 2012-03-16 08:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-17 07:15 am (UTC)