charleygirl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
charleygirl) wrote2012-08-10 07:15 am
charleygirl) wrote2012-08-10 07:15 am
Entry tags:
Fic | Phantom of the Opera | The Garish Light of Day 8/?
Title: The Garish Light of Day 8/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2346
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.
Summary: You never really stop mourning.
ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE
“Thank you again for the roses, Erik; they’re beautiful.” Christine brought the bloom she held to her nose and inhaled the fragrance once again. “And thank you for agreeing to come with me.”
Erik’s smile was slightly uncomfortable, but he patted the hand that rested on his sleeve as she linked her arm through his. “After what happened on the previous occasion, I would have thought me the last person you would want to accompany you to your father’s grave.”
“I do not anticipate there being any problems this time. Raoul is at officer training college, and as long as you promise me that your Punjab lasso will not make an appearance we should do very well,” she told him lightly, glancing up to gauge his reaction. It was difficult, as his hat was tilted as far as possible over his face and he had wound a scarf around his neck to try and obscure the mask further, pulling the fabric right up to his chin. Christine wished that he didn’t feel the need to hide, but it was an achievement to have drawn him outside during the day, even if it was nearly dusk and the light was steadily fading. “I was angry at the time, but I have forgiven you. Jealousy makes people do stupid things.” She tried to catch a glimpse of his eyes in the shadows beneath the brim of his fedora. “It is much like love in that respect.”
“Love, it would seem, makes fools of us all,” he remarked, his tone even.
Christine leant her head on his shoulder as they walked, the gravel crunching beneath their shoes. “If that is the case, I am quite happy to be foolish.”
Erik chuckled. “As am I, my dear. I had thought, though, that you might wish to have these moments to yourself; I am aware of the significance of the date.”
“You remembered?” She stopped and looked up at him, surprised that he should recall something she had told him some years ago, back in the days when she thought he was no more than a disembodied voice sent from above.
“I remember everything you ever told me,” he assured her. “Every year on the twelfth of March I made sure that I was able to watch over you, in case you needed comfort.”
“Of course...” Memories rose to Christine’s mind’s eye. On the anniversary of her father’s death, while she was still nursing her grief and mourning his loss, her Angel had always been close at hand, ready to listen or wash away her pain with his song. “The first year... you were there when I returned from the cemetery and you sang me to sleep; you cared even though you hardly knew me. Why were you so kind to a near stranger?”
“Because...” Erik took hold of both her hands, holding them tightly as he tried to find the right words. “Because you were lonely, and I know more than anyone how it feels to be lonely. You needed a friend.”
She stared at him for a long moment before pulling free of his grasp and impulsively throwing her arms around him. Startled by the hug, he tensed for a moment before allowing himself to embrace her back, resting his unmasked cheek against the top of her head. “Thank you,” she whispered, and felt him nod in reply.
Gathering up the flowers she had dropped, they continued in a companionable silence, Christine leading them through the tall, looming headstones past weeping angels and crooked marble crosses. Her steps were practised, confident; had she been required to she knew that she could have found the way blindfold, so many times had she walked this path over the last six years. Here and there snowdrops peeped through the long grass and a few early crocuses, their purple and yellow brilliant against the remains of the winter foliage, poked their heads above ground. She was so relieved that spring was finally on its way; the winter seemed to have been longer and darker than any she could recall, shadowed by events that she would be glad to put behind her.
At last they reached the plain marble stone which marked the final resting place of Gustave Daae. Reverently, Christine crouched before the grave, tucking the two long-stemmed red roses she had brought from the bouquet with which Erik had surprised her into the little vase she had put there for such a purpose. Erik himself remained at a respectful distance, hat in hand after some hesitation over whether he should remove it, his black suit and cloak giving him the appearance of a perpetual mourner.
“Bon Soir, Papa,” she said quietly, brushing a few dead leaves from the ground before the headstone. “I’ve brought someone to see you.”
Erik’s eyes widened as she turned and held out a hand to him, encouraging him to step closer. “No, Christine, I’m sure he wouldn’t want me to - ”
“My father judged no one, Erik. He always saw the good in people, often to his own misfortune it is true, but he would not consider your past, or your face; he would see only the man who loves his daughter. Nothing else would matter.” Christine extended her hand again. “Please. I want him to meet you. I want him to know that I am safe and protected.”
Somewhat reluctantly, he moved to her side, folding his body in an elegant bow towards the grave. “Your servant, Monsieur.” If he found the idea of speaking to a dead man silly or distasteful, he kept his thoughts to himself and she was grateful.
“You would have much in common, I think,” she remarked, and from the corner of her eye she saw Erik’s eyebrow arch quizzically. “He lived for music just as you do, could feel it in his blood, hear it in his soul. When he became ill and could no longer play it crushed him. The loss of his music only hastened the end, I think.”
“I did hear him, you know, at the Opera,” he said after a pause. “I did not attend every concert that was given but I made a point of listening to this violinist of whom I had heard so much. Your father was a virtuoso; his skill did more than merely tug at my emotions, it reached into my chest and tore out my shrivelled excuse for a heart. It is no wonder his daughter has a voice to make the angels weep; they were already sobbing when he began to play.” He glanced at the almost-bare marble in front of them, at the small chiselled lettering which recorded the length of Gustave Daae’s stay upon the earth. Christine’s father had lived for just a little less than forty years. “He deserved more than this. You both did. He should have a grand mausoleum, a monument to his genius. With such a talent he should have been feted throughout Europe; you could have lived like a queen.”
“While Papa was with me I was happy, and that was enough. We are both simple people; we needed no bright lights or sycophantic friends.” Christine straightened, stepping back to stand beside the Phantom. “He was hopeless with money, but I wanted for nothing. Though we had little material wealth, he loved me and I loved him and that is what matters. If he had been as rich as Croesus he still would have got up early to lay the fire and polish my shoes.”
Erik was quiet for some time as they stood there, the darkness falling silently around them. It was impossible to tell exactly what he was thinking for his face was as expressionless as his mask and his eyes were too deep in shadow to read, but Christine had an idea: speaking of the love in her life could only throw the lack of such affection in his own into sharp relief. She gently squeezed his hand, and he glanced down at her.
“I’m sorry if I upset you,” she told him, and he shook his head, his gaze wandering off into the distance.
“You’ve nothing to apologise for. Your father gave you the unconditional love of a parent, something every child should be able to take for granted. Feeling safe and secure growing up should be a right, not a privilege.”
“It was a right that was denied to you, and for that I am truly sorry.” Christine tugged slightly on his hand and led him to a bench a little further down the path. As they sat, she asked hesitantly, “Did you really never wonder what became of your parents?”
A muscle twitched in the side of Erik’s jaw, but he did not deny her a response. “My father passed away many years ago; I do not know exactly when, but it was after I had left home.”
“When was that?” She could not help her curiosity, and the question was out of her mouth almost before she realised.
“I’m not entirely sure... I may have been nine or ten at the time. You must forgive me, my dear,” he added, turning a rueful smile to her, “Birthdays were not celebrated during my childhood and I am not completely certain how old I am now. I think I am forty-three, but... Once I ran away it became even harder to keep track.”
Christine’s fingers stole to her mouth to stifle the shocked gasp which escaped her. “Oh, Erik. Do you not even know on which day you were born?”
He shrugged. “I believe it to be sometime in February, for my mother used to shut herself up with her bible and rosary and pray loudly for our deliverance during that month, much to my father’s despair.” Seeing the tears that started in her eyes, he said quickly, “It does not bother me, Christine; it is only a date.”
“Your...” She tried to wipe at the tears with her sleeve, and he passed her a fine linen handkerchief which she accepted gratefully. “Your father – what kind of man was he?”
“Tall, handsome, well-read. I suppose I inherited some of his attributes, though they were not those he would have wished. Unfortunately he was also weak and easily dominated; he denied my mother nothing and was consequently completely under her thumb. In the end he turned to drink and that was when I decided the time had come for me to leave.” With a deep sigh, Erik leaned back on the bench and stared down at his feet. “They thought I couldn’t get out of the house, but I learned how to pick the locks at quite a young age and was across the garden and over the wall before they could catch me. I never looked back.”
“And yet you know that your father is dead?”
“I travelled far and wide over the years, both willingly and unwillingly,” he admitted. “On occasion the fairs and carnivals would make stops close to my childhood home and I would hear rumours and gossip; there had always been plenty of that about my family. One of the gypsies with whom it was my misfortune to be riding before I came to Paris took great delight in telling me, once he had managed to put two and two together and not make five, that my mother had gone mad and my father drank himself to death. The story of the cursed couple and their demon child had become common currency by then.”
Christine did not know what to say and so she said nothing, merely tightening her hand around his in unspoken sympathy.
“My father could have been a good man, but he lacked the strength of character. He tried to tutor me, school being out of the question under the circumstances, but when my intellect began to outstrip his own he became frightened and it was easier to try to beat the presumption out of me than to continue with our lessons. In an attempt to feed my growing hunger for knowledge I took to stealing books from his library, which only brought further punishments upon my head.” The fingers of Erik’s right hand clenched into a fist and he took a deep breath to try and calm his now wavering voice. He shook his head, sharply, as though the action might banish the unpleasant memories. “Forgive me; I should not be telling you all of this.”
“You can tell me anything, you know that,” Christine told him, reaching up to stroke the visible side of his face. Gently she touched his chin, turning his head so that she could look at him. The look in his eyes almost made her heart stop: they were desolate, unbearably sad. “Whatever happened in the past, I am here and you are here and we are together. These people cannot hurt you now.”
There was a pause, and then she was in his arms, being held so fiercely that the breath almost entirely left her body. She felt the cool surface of his mask against the curve of her neck as he crushed her to him, felt the air hitching in his chest as it rose and fell rapidly against her own. If she shifted her gaze slightly she could just make out the little gravestone and the red roses, their petals dark and dusky against the white of the marble. Music, the crying of a violin, faint at first but growing steadily stronger, touched her ears and she listened, recognising the masterful handling of the instrument. She could almost see him standing there, his fingers nimbly flying over the strings as the bow moved gracefully back and forth, his dark hair a halo of unruly curls and a beatific smile on his face as he played. A single tear fell onto the crown of her head and she wondered whether Erik could hear it too.
Thank you, Papa, she whispered silently, thank you for bringing him to me.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2346
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.
Summary: You never really stop mourning.
ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE
“Thank you again for the roses, Erik; they’re beautiful.” Christine brought the bloom she held to her nose and inhaled the fragrance once again. “And thank you for agreeing to come with me.”
Erik’s smile was slightly uncomfortable, but he patted the hand that rested on his sleeve as she linked her arm through his. “After what happened on the previous occasion, I would have thought me the last person you would want to accompany you to your father’s grave.”
“I do not anticipate there being any problems this time. Raoul is at officer training college, and as long as you promise me that your Punjab lasso will not make an appearance we should do very well,” she told him lightly, glancing up to gauge his reaction. It was difficult, as his hat was tilted as far as possible over his face and he had wound a scarf around his neck to try and obscure the mask further, pulling the fabric right up to his chin. Christine wished that he didn’t feel the need to hide, but it was an achievement to have drawn him outside during the day, even if it was nearly dusk and the light was steadily fading. “I was angry at the time, but I have forgiven you. Jealousy makes people do stupid things.” She tried to catch a glimpse of his eyes in the shadows beneath the brim of his fedora. “It is much like love in that respect.”
“Love, it would seem, makes fools of us all,” he remarked, his tone even.
Christine leant her head on his shoulder as they walked, the gravel crunching beneath their shoes. “If that is the case, I am quite happy to be foolish.”
Erik chuckled. “As am I, my dear. I had thought, though, that you might wish to have these moments to yourself; I am aware of the significance of the date.”
“You remembered?” She stopped and looked up at him, surprised that he should recall something she had told him some years ago, back in the days when she thought he was no more than a disembodied voice sent from above.
“I remember everything you ever told me,” he assured her. “Every year on the twelfth of March I made sure that I was able to watch over you, in case you needed comfort.”
“Of course...” Memories rose to Christine’s mind’s eye. On the anniversary of her father’s death, while she was still nursing her grief and mourning his loss, her Angel had always been close at hand, ready to listen or wash away her pain with his song. “The first year... you were there when I returned from the cemetery and you sang me to sleep; you cared even though you hardly knew me. Why were you so kind to a near stranger?”
“Because...” Erik took hold of both her hands, holding them tightly as he tried to find the right words. “Because you were lonely, and I know more than anyone how it feels to be lonely. You needed a friend.”
She stared at him for a long moment before pulling free of his grasp and impulsively throwing her arms around him. Startled by the hug, he tensed for a moment before allowing himself to embrace her back, resting his unmasked cheek against the top of her head. “Thank you,” she whispered, and felt him nod in reply.
Gathering up the flowers she had dropped, they continued in a companionable silence, Christine leading them through the tall, looming headstones past weeping angels and crooked marble crosses. Her steps were practised, confident; had she been required to she knew that she could have found the way blindfold, so many times had she walked this path over the last six years. Here and there snowdrops peeped through the long grass and a few early crocuses, their purple and yellow brilliant against the remains of the winter foliage, poked their heads above ground. She was so relieved that spring was finally on its way; the winter seemed to have been longer and darker than any she could recall, shadowed by events that she would be glad to put behind her.
At last they reached the plain marble stone which marked the final resting place of Gustave Daae. Reverently, Christine crouched before the grave, tucking the two long-stemmed red roses she had brought from the bouquet with which Erik had surprised her into the little vase she had put there for such a purpose. Erik himself remained at a respectful distance, hat in hand after some hesitation over whether he should remove it, his black suit and cloak giving him the appearance of a perpetual mourner.
“Bon Soir, Papa,” she said quietly, brushing a few dead leaves from the ground before the headstone. “I’ve brought someone to see you.”
Erik’s eyes widened as she turned and held out a hand to him, encouraging him to step closer. “No, Christine, I’m sure he wouldn’t want me to - ”
“My father judged no one, Erik. He always saw the good in people, often to his own misfortune it is true, but he would not consider your past, or your face; he would see only the man who loves his daughter. Nothing else would matter.” Christine extended her hand again. “Please. I want him to meet you. I want him to know that I am safe and protected.”
Somewhat reluctantly, he moved to her side, folding his body in an elegant bow towards the grave. “Your servant, Monsieur.” If he found the idea of speaking to a dead man silly or distasteful, he kept his thoughts to himself and she was grateful.
“You would have much in common, I think,” she remarked, and from the corner of her eye she saw Erik’s eyebrow arch quizzically. “He lived for music just as you do, could feel it in his blood, hear it in his soul. When he became ill and could no longer play it crushed him. The loss of his music only hastened the end, I think.”
“I did hear him, you know, at the Opera,” he said after a pause. “I did not attend every concert that was given but I made a point of listening to this violinist of whom I had heard so much. Your father was a virtuoso; his skill did more than merely tug at my emotions, it reached into my chest and tore out my shrivelled excuse for a heart. It is no wonder his daughter has a voice to make the angels weep; they were already sobbing when he began to play.” He glanced at the almost-bare marble in front of them, at the small chiselled lettering which recorded the length of Gustave Daae’s stay upon the earth. Christine’s father had lived for just a little less than forty years. “He deserved more than this. You both did. He should have a grand mausoleum, a monument to his genius. With such a talent he should have been feted throughout Europe; you could have lived like a queen.”
“While Papa was with me I was happy, and that was enough. We are both simple people; we needed no bright lights or sycophantic friends.” Christine straightened, stepping back to stand beside the Phantom. “He was hopeless with money, but I wanted for nothing. Though we had little material wealth, he loved me and I loved him and that is what matters. If he had been as rich as Croesus he still would have got up early to lay the fire and polish my shoes.”
Erik was quiet for some time as they stood there, the darkness falling silently around them. It was impossible to tell exactly what he was thinking for his face was as expressionless as his mask and his eyes were too deep in shadow to read, but Christine had an idea: speaking of the love in her life could only throw the lack of such affection in his own into sharp relief. She gently squeezed his hand, and he glanced down at her.
“I’m sorry if I upset you,” she told him, and he shook his head, his gaze wandering off into the distance.
“You’ve nothing to apologise for. Your father gave you the unconditional love of a parent, something every child should be able to take for granted. Feeling safe and secure growing up should be a right, not a privilege.”
“It was a right that was denied to you, and for that I am truly sorry.” Christine tugged slightly on his hand and led him to a bench a little further down the path. As they sat, she asked hesitantly, “Did you really never wonder what became of your parents?”
A muscle twitched in the side of Erik’s jaw, but he did not deny her a response. “My father passed away many years ago; I do not know exactly when, but it was after I had left home.”
“When was that?” She could not help her curiosity, and the question was out of her mouth almost before she realised.
“I’m not entirely sure... I may have been nine or ten at the time. You must forgive me, my dear,” he added, turning a rueful smile to her, “Birthdays were not celebrated during my childhood and I am not completely certain how old I am now. I think I am forty-three, but... Once I ran away it became even harder to keep track.”
Christine’s fingers stole to her mouth to stifle the shocked gasp which escaped her. “Oh, Erik. Do you not even know on which day you were born?”
He shrugged. “I believe it to be sometime in February, for my mother used to shut herself up with her bible and rosary and pray loudly for our deliverance during that month, much to my father’s despair.” Seeing the tears that started in her eyes, he said quickly, “It does not bother me, Christine; it is only a date.”
“Your...” She tried to wipe at the tears with her sleeve, and he passed her a fine linen handkerchief which she accepted gratefully. “Your father – what kind of man was he?”
“Tall, handsome, well-read. I suppose I inherited some of his attributes, though they were not those he would have wished. Unfortunately he was also weak and easily dominated; he denied my mother nothing and was consequently completely under her thumb. In the end he turned to drink and that was when I decided the time had come for me to leave.” With a deep sigh, Erik leaned back on the bench and stared down at his feet. “They thought I couldn’t get out of the house, but I learned how to pick the locks at quite a young age and was across the garden and over the wall before they could catch me. I never looked back.”
“And yet you know that your father is dead?”
“I travelled far and wide over the years, both willingly and unwillingly,” he admitted. “On occasion the fairs and carnivals would make stops close to my childhood home and I would hear rumours and gossip; there had always been plenty of that about my family. One of the gypsies with whom it was my misfortune to be riding before I came to Paris took great delight in telling me, once he had managed to put two and two together and not make five, that my mother had gone mad and my father drank himself to death. The story of the cursed couple and their demon child had become common currency by then.”
Christine did not know what to say and so she said nothing, merely tightening her hand around his in unspoken sympathy.
“My father could have been a good man, but he lacked the strength of character. He tried to tutor me, school being out of the question under the circumstances, but when my intellect began to outstrip his own he became frightened and it was easier to try to beat the presumption out of me than to continue with our lessons. In an attempt to feed my growing hunger for knowledge I took to stealing books from his library, which only brought further punishments upon my head.” The fingers of Erik’s right hand clenched into a fist and he took a deep breath to try and calm his now wavering voice. He shook his head, sharply, as though the action might banish the unpleasant memories. “Forgive me; I should not be telling you all of this.”
“You can tell me anything, you know that,” Christine told him, reaching up to stroke the visible side of his face. Gently she touched his chin, turning his head so that she could look at him. The look in his eyes almost made her heart stop: they were desolate, unbearably sad. “Whatever happened in the past, I am here and you are here and we are together. These people cannot hurt you now.”
There was a pause, and then she was in his arms, being held so fiercely that the breath almost entirely left her body. She felt the cool surface of his mask against the curve of her neck as he crushed her to him, felt the air hitching in his chest as it rose and fell rapidly against her own. If she shifted her gaze slightly she could just make out the little gravestone and the red roses, their petals dark and dusky against the white of the marble. Music, the crying of a violin, faint at first but growing steadily stronger, touched her ears and she listened, recognising the masterful handling of the instrument. She could almost see him standing there, his fingers nimbly flying over the strings as the bow moved gracefully back and forth, his dark hair a halo of unruly curls and a beatific smile on his face as he played. A single tear fell onto the crown of her head and she wondered whether Erik could hear it too.
Thank you, Papa, she whispered silently, thank you for bringing him to me.